“Ten. He said ten, and if I agreed to undress after ten, he’d stop.”
“And his hand,” Penelope said, her voice thickening. “Not a paddle. His bare hand.”
“Yes. It was… it was different from the paddle. Deeper. It went into the muscle. It?—”
“Come here.” Penelope’s voice had gone rough at the edges, stripped of its professional polish. Her free hand gestured—a beckoning motion, fingers curling toward her palm. “Come here and kneel. In front of me.”
CHAPTER 16
Paul
My eyes narrowed as I watched Anne’s face over the surveillance feed from Penelope’s office. I had a truly extraordinary suite of biometric analytic algorithms I could have called up if I wanted to, detailing precisely how aroused my new girl had just gotten at the idea of going down on her boss. I didn’t have any intention of evoking them, though: I preferred to judge what was happening between Anne’s lovely thighs, not to mention in her heart and mind, the old-fashioned way.
The picture on the screen was high-definition: Selecta didn’t skimp on its internal monitoring systems. The camera angle gave me a clear view of the scene from a position roughly equivalent to standing in the corner behind Penelope’s desk. I could see Penelope’s face in three-quarter profile, her head tilted back against the chair, her lips parted, her hand still working beneath the burgundy silk of her naughty panties.
I could see Anne kneeling on the carpet in front of her, that cream blouse buttoned to the collar, her shoulders hunched inthe posture of a girl who understood what was about to be asked of her and was losing the battle against her bashfulness about it.
Penelope’s free hand found the side of Anne’s face. She cupped it—tenderly, almost maternally—and then her fingers slid back into Anne’s hair, gathering a fistful of it almost the same way I had an hour earlier on the bedroom set. Penelope Gallagher had done this before, and the ease with which she handled the girl told me she’d done it many times.
“Keep telling me,” Penelope said, and her voice came through the surveillance audio with crystalline fidelity. The microphones in her office were military grade—another Selecta indulgence. “You were over his knee. He’d bared your bottom. He was spanking you with his hand. What happened next?”
Anne’s voice, thin and wavering: “He counted. Each one. And by the sixth I was… I was crying. Really crying. Not just tears but?—”
“Sobbing,” Penelope supplied. Her hand withdrew from beneath the silk of her panties and moved downward. She hooked her thumb under the burgundy fabric over the cleft of her pussy and pulled it to the side, tugging the gusset away from her center and holding it there with a casual expertise that exposed her to the girl kneeling between her thighs. I watched Penelope’s other hand tighten in Anne’s hair and guide her head forward. “Don’t stop talking. Tell me about the sobbing. But you’re going to make my cunt feel good while you do it.”
I leaned back in my chair in the control room and studied the feed. The biometric overlay pulsed in my peripheral vision—heart rate, galvanic skin response, core temperature—but I kept my focus on what my eyes could tell me without technological assistance. Anne’s shoulders had gone rigid, her spine stiff with the particular tension of a girl confronting something that herupbringing had given her no framework for. Her hands, which had been clasped in her lap, now hovered uncertainly in the air on either side of Penelope’s thighs, fingers spread, as if she were about to touch a surface she’d been warned was electrified.
But her head moved forward. Penelope’s hand guided it, yes, the fist in Anne’s hair providing direction. I’d spent enough years reading the difference between a girl being forced and a girl being given permission to know which one I was watching. Anne’s resistance lived in her shoulders and her spine. Her compliance lived lower, in the way her knees shifted on the carpet, settling into a wider stance, and in the almost imperceptible forward tilt of her hips that told me her body had already begun to respond to the proximity of Penelope’s arousal.
“Good girl,” I murmured, as if Anne were there with me. The decision to delay the bathroom scene until tomorrow had obviously been a good one; Anne had a little more to learn about herself today and tonight before she became truly ready for the next step that my shaving her pussy would represent.
* * *
Anne
I heard a tiny whimper emerge from my throat as my lips made contact with Penelope’s fragrant pussy. The taste of her was different from what I’d expected—though I hadn’t expected anything, not really, because I’d never imagined myself here, kneeling between a woman’s thighs with my mouth on her most intimate place. She tasted warm and faintly salt-sweet and alive, a musk that was nothing like Master Paul’s but carried its own particular intensity, its own demand. The trimmed hair brushedagainst my upper lip and nose, soft and surprisingly intimate, and beneath it her flesh was swollen and slick and hot against my tongue.
“There,” Penelope breathed, her hand tightening in my hair. “Just like that. Flatten your tongue. Broader strokes. Don’t dart—lick. Long and slow, from the bottom up. You’re not trying to find anything yet. You’re just… tasting.”
I obeyed. My tongue moved in a slow, broad stroke upward through her musky folds, and Penelope’s hips shifted in the chair—a small, clearly involuntary motion that told me I’d done something right. The wet sound my mouth made against her was obscene in the quiet of the office, and I felt my face burn hotter.
“Good,” she murmured. “Now keep going. And keep talking.”
A little whine came from the vicinity of my nose. I sounded like a naughty little girl trying to get out of a difficult task on a technicality. My words, muffled by her sex, came out in a matching petulant tone.
“I… I… can’t talk while I’m?—”
Her hand pulled my head back, just far enough that my lips separated from her with a soft, wet sound. Her eyes looked down at me—heavy-lidded, cheeks flushed, mouth curved in that particular smile that seemed both that of a mentor and of a predator.
“Yes, you can,” she said. “You talk, and then you lick. You give me a sentence of the story, and then you put your mouth back on me. Think of it as practice—a girl needs to learn to multitask when she’s pleasing her boss. Now. You were telling me about the spanking. He finished at ten. What happened next?”
She guided my head back down. My lips found her again, and I gave her three long, slow strokes of my tongue before pulling back just enough to speak, my breath panting against her wetness.
“He… he helped me up. Off his lap. And he told me to strip.”
“Back on me,” Penelope instructed. I pressed my mouth to her and licked, tasting her more deeply now. I felt like I was watching another girl, one who found performing cunnilingus an ordinary part of office life. Penelope let out a low, approving hum. “Mmm. You’re a quick study. Did you strip?”
I pulled back. “Yes. I turned away from him and unbuttoned my blouse. And my bra. And then I… I kept rubbing my bottom. I couldn’t stop touching where he’d spanked me, and Melissa?—”
