Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 75898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
“Be my guest,” he’d said. “Grounding her never seems to change her behavior.”
That night, over my knee, Shelly had learned the importance of submission. After a long, hard spanking she had come three times on my caressing fingers. We had gotten married three months later, and she had come to live with me, here on my family’s farm.
Grace wriggled her hips, getting her jeans to just an inch below the curve of her butt cheeks. She stopped, clearly thinking she had exposed herself enough.
“No, honey,” I told her. I took hold of the waistband of her jeans with my right hand. That made the doubled strap brush up against her bare butt, and she let out a little sob of fear. My ear, practiced in the art of interpreting a woman’s submissive sounds, could detect enough arousal in the sob to know things were developing properly. Grace’s training had begun to touch on the sexual elements that would soon enough make many more things clear to her.
I pulled her jeans much further down, to just above her knees. She let out a cry of dismay, and I felt certain it stemmed in large part from knowing that I could easily feel how damp she had gotten the gusset of the jeans. I took a deep breath through my nose, and I felt my cock jump against my thigh at the intoxicating, musky fragrance of our new ward’s virgin pussy.
I let go of my hold around her waist and stood up.
“Mrs. Carpenter and I are going to finish our supper,” I told her. “I want you to think about what’s coming to you, and why.”
Grace
I closed my eyes as tightly as I could, as if that could somehow hide me from my foster parents’ sight. To my distress, my ass didn’t really hurt; instead it felt warm, a little as if the cold hearth actually had a fire in it, warming my bare backside.
Even worse, something about the embarrassment of it, of having my pants down and my face in the cushion of Mr. Carpenter’s easy chair while he and Shelly quietly finished eating their chicken and dumplings, seemed to add to that warmth. Not in my butt, but further down and further forward, in my current humiliating upended position.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I supposed that I had felt tiny inklings of the experience before, when teachers had sent me to the principal’s office as they had done with pretty noticeable frequency in high school. I had pushed those thoughts and emotions away, of course—the way any sane person would.
I blinked at the mantelpiece, where Mr. Carpenter had re-hung the strap as if to make sure I could look at it while I waited. A new idea had just occurred to me. Did whatever the fuck the so-called ‘authorities’ meant to accomplish with this ‘program’ of sending young—but definitely adult—women to live with ‘foster families,’ I started to realize, have as much to do with that wayward, naughty feeling as with ‘reforming’ and ‘rehabilitating’ us.
Or was that supposed to be part of the reformation?
I blinked again, feeling my eyes widen with each blink. I remembered the terrible rush of need that had seemed to flood the whole of my body, centered and focused between my waist and my knees, when the horrid strap had brushed up against my bare ass. My heart started to pound in my chest.
I could hear Jake and Shelly talking quietly in the kitchen, the rhythm of their speech seeming easy. Shelly giggled, and I felt terribly sure that it had to have something to do with me—with my punishment or even with what Jake had felt inside my jeans when he had yanked them down to my knees.
I bit my lip hard, but I still couldn’t contain the whimper of arousal that emerged softly from my throat. I told myself it had definitely gotten lost in the cushioning of the chair, but the thought that they might have heard it brought another helpless surge of need down there. To my horror, I felt my hips move, just an inch but enough to make the old wood of the chair creak a little.
The sound wasn’t the worst part, though; the worst part lay in the way that tiny movement had brought my pussy—the neediest part of it, the little tingling nub at the top in its wrinkly hood—up against the arm of the chair. I managed to keep myself from whimpering again, but I also had to stop myself from screaming in frustration because of how light and teasing the friction to my clit was in my position.
I realized I’d clenched my hands into fists, next to my face on the chair cushion. I hadn’t ever done it—played with myself, touched my pussy to make myself feel good. I hadn’t ever really had the urge. I thought it was basically okay—for other people—but somehow the notion of it seemed… well, I guessed, just really embarrassing.