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He brought the rod down and I felt my hips buck over the pillow. My poor bottom, a fiery torment, surged shamefully.
“Just six strokes for now, Heather,” my trainer said. “Put your hands behind you and rub those pretty little cheeks for me.”
I couldn’t figure out how to marshal the welter of sensation and emotion in my head, my chest, my belly, and—worst of all—further down. My hands, thanks to the wand, simply obeyed this latest command despite the mortification it brought. As my fingers took gentle hold of the hot globes of my rear end, though, and I felt for the first time the strange, almost lacy, pattern of the welts left by a birch rod on a girl’s backside, I had a very different impression of my body’s response.
Deep down, I understood to my distress, I had actually started to rub my whipped bottom because I desperately wanted to. I wanted to know what a birched backside felt like. I wanted to soothe away the smart while the man who had punished me for no apparent reason watched me rub my bare hind-cheeks.
That unwelcome realization gave way almost instantly to another one—even more unwelcome in one way but, in another, dismayingly gratifying… and, worse, terribly seductive.
I bit my lip as a whimpering moan emerged from my throat. It felt good. Much, much too good. I wanted to stop gently kneading my smarting, overheated ass, to take away my hands. I believed I would have stopped, without the influence of the wand, but the worst part of this revelatory moment lay in how very unsure I was of that—how strong a suspicion I had that in fact I would have kept cherishing my poor little bottom-cheeks on my fingertips even if my trainer had simply birched me and then told me he would permit me to rub the tender place he had just punished.
“That’s it, Heather,” he said. “Good girl.”
Another whining sound made its way out of my mouth. The words had an effect on me that seemed to shake the foundations of the person I had thought myself. The wand… I told myself the wand had done that, even as I moved my hips to work my bottom in my hands and move myself rhythmically against the pillow in search of release from some dreadfully delicious need that the birching had awakened in me.
Good girl.My forehead creased hard. How could those words have made me thrust my hips this way? To… well, to behave myself like the opposite of a good girl. To move my virgin pussy that shameful way in search of forbidden pleasure, in a manner I had always refused even to try because of the dark thoughts that rose when I did so much as consider it.
Basic urges. Oh, no.
“Take your hands away, now,” said my trainer very sternly.
I gasped, and let out a tiny, sighing cry, all theQuietcommand would allow me. My hands released my whipped bottom-cheeks and lay to the sides of the pillow, clenching and unclenching into fists of frustration.
The birch touched my back, but without force. I emitted a questioning whine through my nose, unsure for a moment what he meant to do, and then I understood as I felt the full length of it laid along my bare back.
“A reminder,” my trainer said. “Of your punishment. Spread your knees.”
Oh, no.My body did it, and the feeling that I might have obeyed him even without the influence of the compliance wand grew distressingly strong. I felt the air moving against my pussy, and I bit my lip.
Then my head arched back, and I moaned quietly, though part of me wanted to cry out with the greatest force. The man who had invaded my home had thrust his hand between my thighs and taken hold of me…allof me, it felt like… two fingers on my clit and his thumb up against the tiny ring between the rear cheeks he had birched. The rod, my reminder, rolled back and forth on my back with the tensing of my muscles.
“I’m recruiting you as a concubine to be sold on the black market,” he said, bending over me to place his lips against my ear. “You’re going to be a warlord’s little slut.”
His fingers worked me, down there. My whimpers came with each outward breath, one after the other. Part of me—I would have sworn it—tried to stop myself, but my hips moved now even more urgently than they had when I had rubbed my bottom-cheeks. I needed my trainer’s hand… I needed everything it could give me, everything he could give me.
I needed to hear more about this fate so terrible it seemed like he must merely have decided to spin a filthy, degrading lie to exercise his own dominance over me.
“That’s not the most important part, though,” said the man in the black hood. His fingers moved up and down my private lips, spreading the wanton wetness I could feel practically gushing from the untried sheath that opened at their base, so close to the wrinkled dimple of my anus, where his thumb pressed so firmly.
“The most important part,” he said as he brought me to my very first climax, “is that you’re going to be a spy.”
He hadn’t revealed any more about the true nature of my kidnapping until an hour or so later. He had made me get dressed in my old sweats and led me downstairs, my bottom smarting with each step. A van had awaited us, in front of my building. My trainer had helped me into it, and he had sat down next to me.
Between the passenger compartment and the driver’s seat had risen an opaque divider; when I had felt the van begin to move I hadn’t even been able to tell whether a human driver sat up front or the van had some remote guidance system. The thought had occurred to me because the world of stunning technological marvels—wonders that at the same time also somehow seemed both ominous and crappy—the new fake-magical era that Selecta and the other megacorps had brought us all into had clearly reached much deeper into my individual existence than I had ever expected or desired. A little wand that made me do whatever shameful thing my ‘trainer’ told me to do… why not a van that drove itself at the telepathic command of the same horrible, hooded man.
As he told me more about my mission, my brow furrowing more deeply with each word, I had squirmed almost uncontrollably on the faux-leather upholstery of the seat. My bottom had felt… well, it had stoppedhurting, really, but my birched cheeks had beensore… but sore in a way that to my dismay had seemed terribly connected to the new, funny feeling in the pussy my trainer had toyed with… hadmasturbated… with such careless efficiency and made me feel things I hadn’t wanted to feel, and yet at the same time had known Ineededso badly.
I had hardly been able to concentrate on his words, as strange and portentous as they had been.
Here and now, though, with the five thugs—no, four thugs and one undercover agent of the Pretorian Guard—to whom my owner had loaned me for the night, for discipline and pleasure, my trainer’s words the night of my ‘recruitment’ came back to me clearly. In the three days that had followed that night, my crash course in the unique methods of the Order of Ostia, I had after all been made—with the help of the compliance wand—to repeat them over and over.
“You need this, Heather.
“You need this for two reasons. First, the organization you’re going to infiltrate, the one currently headed by Ivan Antonov, destroyed your family.”
Despite the soreness in my backside and the highly unwelcome consequences of that sensation in nearby regions of my body, I suddenly sat still. I knew this story, though I hadn’t thought of it for years. How my grandmother and her brother, both of them still in their teens, had been driven from their homes when the warlord had come to the lawless border region. How their father had tried to stand up to the warlord’s thugs. How the warlord himself had shot my great-grandfather in front of his children, and told them to remember, always, and never to come back.
I remembered my grandmother saying, in her musical voice, in her wonderfully expressive native tongue, “We will go back, my dear. Maybe not me, and maybe not even you. But our family. They are still there, and they must pay.”
