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My mouth opened, my jaw going slack. The man had just spoken in nearly flawless Russian—though not quite as flawless, part of me realized, as my own.
I had thought maybe he meant something else about birching me. Or maybe one part of my brain had at least managed to persuade another that he couldn’t mean by it the horrible thing toward which my mind had leapt… the mortifying image in the dark, forbidden place where I shoved things not worth thinking about.
Of course I had never seen one before. Even the concept had been vague, probably because it didn’t make sense to me on reading about it that a singular word,birch, could refer to something made of a lot of separate pieces of the thing to which it referred—twigs that would traditionally, I supposed, come from a birch tree.
Russia. My grandmother’s old books, some of them about young women’s experiences in school.
I almost managed to form my lips into a W shape. I mean, I had the impression I had almost started the movement of my face muscles that would round my lips that way. It took a moment to understand that the impression had no truth to it, that the man’s commandQuietsimply prevented me from doing anything even related to speaking aloud.
My furrowed brow and my pleading eyes tried to ask the question without words, though I couldn’t even tell if he was looking at my face or my exposed pussy. Cheeks blazing, I thrust my hands in front of the little nest of curls and the untried cleft it concealed badly enough that I blushed every time I got a glimpse of myself nude in the mirror.
“Nyet,” said the man, simply and calmly, then kept speaking in Russian. “It’s forbidden to cover yourself. Use those naughty hands to strip down the comforter and the top sheet. Put the pillow in the middle of the bed, then get over it. I want your bottom nice and high for your first punishment.”
Punishment.Why?What had I done? It didn’t make any sense, for of course he couldn’t be intending to whip me for covering myself, could he? That had only happened because he had already broken into my home, already meaning to do it.
Feeling completely foolish for even buying into this home-invader’s idea a little, I nevertheless couldn’t stop racking my brainfor some misdeed. I had graduated from my educational facility with perfect marks just after my eighteenth birthday, three months ago. I had to my surprise earned employee of the month at my shitty job in the laundromat.
First. What didthatmean? Yes, of course, I’d never received corporal punishment even in a world where it seemed to be making some sort of horrid comeback, at least for women. I worked, at the tippy-top level, for Selecta, the megacorp that seemed largely responsible for urging the return of such ‘traditional values.’ But I had put all that—even the paddle that hung symbolically on the wall of my supervisor’s office—into that same dark region of things not worth considering.
My first punishment. To my horror, my body had already started to obey. I watched myself pull the comforter and the top sheet off the bed. I felt my hands taking the pillow into them as if some other girl were telling me about the sensation of softness.
Whimpering, I got onto my bed. I tried not to. I tried to stop my muscles from moving my limbs as he had commanded, but despite the shouting in my mind I lay down over the pillow. A tiny whining sound emerged from my nose at the feeling of having my bottom raised that way, presented for a man’s attention with the frightening rod in his hand.
At last he spoke again, though the words confused me even further.
“I’m going to punish you for your own good, Heather,” he said. “To introduce you to your new life and to teach you obedience.”
I twisted my head to the side—apparently the influence of the wand allowed that. I saw his mask turned toward my backside. I saw the birch raised high above my bare, offered bottom.
He started to whip me. The sound of it, and the feeling of the impact on my bare rear end, deceived me terribly, at least at first. The twigs, traveling through the air, made only a soft whooshing sort of noise—not at all like any of the whistling, whipping sort of sound effects I had heard in shows or movies—and when it hit me it only sounded like a sort of crackling.
The sensation took me by surprise dreadfully as well. The man—my trainer, whom I would soon learn to callsir, though he would never give me any other name by which to refer to him—struck me three times in a slow rhythm, before he spoke again. The first stroke of the birch forced a sharp puff of breath out through my nostrils, and made my body tense up, though that mostly happened out of simple fear that it would hurt.
It didn’treallyhurt though, at first. For half a second I even wondered why girls in old books seemed to fear the birch so much—maybe, I thought, it just had to do with the way their teachers raised their skirts and took down their drawers to give them their awful lessons for misbehavior or bad grades.
I yelped at the second cut of the rod. My hands, at either side of my face, curled into fists, taking some of the sheet into their grasp. The man had struck harder with that stroke, but the increased force wasn’t responsible for the little cry anywhere near as much as the way the discomfort had built into pain with horrible rapidity.
At the third stroke, I whined pitifully, prevented by my trainer’s command from making the much louder shriek I wanted to let out at the pain. My head came up from the mattress and my back arched. The warmth in my bottom and my upper thighs became a blazing agony. It seemed like the half-dozen twigs that constituted the terrible device could reach my whole rear end with each awful cut.
CHAPTER3
Heather
“Heather,” he said, “listen carefully. I am your trainer. You will call me sir.”
The birch came down again. I felt the puff of air from its downward flight toward my burning bottom and my muscles tensed. I realized immediately that the tightness made the pain worse. A sob burst from my chest and I found myself squirming to try to soothe some of the awful sensation away, my bottom and thighs clenching and unclenching in what I felt certain must appear to my trainer a lewd display.
“Do you understand me?”
For a millisecond my mind traveled in a circle: he had told me to be quiet, hadn’t he? And that command, thanks to the wand thing, seemed one that I couldn’t disobey. How could I answer? Then, without any premeditation I could grasp, I answered the question.
“Yes, sir,” I whimpered.
“As you’ve just found out, my compliance wand ensures your obedience to me even when my commands conflict with one another. Your body, and the part of your mind most closely linked with your basic urges, simply obeys my latest command.”
I felt the tiny breeze again. I let out another little whine of fear even before the birch struck, and then a sob of agony. My tears flowed freely onto the sheet beneath me; I could feel their dampness under the cheek I had turned to the mattress.
My trainer. My basic urges.I felt my face go hot.
