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I flailed with my arms, even struck her shoulder, but it became terribly clear that my mistress had great skill in “caring for” the concubines she trained: with what seemed utter ease, she plucked each wrist out of the air and secured it in one of the leather cuffs that I felt certain hadn’t even been there an instant ago.
Mistress Franla stepped back and regarded me from a meter away. I had frozen for a moment, once she had gotten all the restraints into place, understanding that I could not get free from the chair. That acknowledgment of defeat and the possibility it presented of obedience and acquiescence flew away when I saw the look in the older woman’s eyes. It certainly didn’t lookexactlylike the expression of cruel satisfaction I remembered from Agent Delvik’s face, but it bore enough of a resemblance to trigger my flight reflex with irresistible urgency.
Suddenly, despite the futility of the struggle, I couldn’t hold still in the face of Mistress Franla’s obvious intention to do horrible, humiliating things to my body. I writhed in the leather restraints, trying to twist my wrists from the cuffs, my waist from the belt. My tummy churned as I recalled the one clear specification the baron had given for my preparation—the baring of the places my master meant to clothe in the mortifying panties he had pointed out in the shop window. My mind reeled at the crystalline understanding that flashed in, of how that change would further my involuntary transformation from a free, independent young woman to a submissive, compliant concubine, an obedient bed girl for a Vionian nobleman.
“Yes, Wetquim,” she said, her voice superior, like that of a teacher congratulating a slow student who has just figured out an answer at last, “you’re beginning to grasp it, aren’t you?”
She turned away and walked to a cabinet set into the wall of the room. She opened it and took something out—a handheld device of some sort, though not at all like the little screens all Vionians seemed to carry about with them, with which they controlled the technology that enabled their civilization. This one had what looked like a sort of straight edge on the end that stuck out of Mistress Franla’s hand. It didn’t look dangerous, but neither had the lock on the cage that had tormented me so terribly. I stared at it with wide eyes as my mistress approached, extending the device a little in front of her, as if to let me see it.
“This is the depilator,” she said. “Don’t worry: it won’t hurt you. It will only remove those wooly curls of yours and make you more attractive down there.”
CHAPTER 17
Chalondra
My mistress took another step towards me. Again my limbs struggled in vain to free themselves from the chair’s restraints.
It won’t hurt you.I believed her, and yet I still writhed against my bonds so forcefully that the stout leather chafed painfully against my skin and I thought I might give myself bruises from my resistance.
Mistress Franla stood over me, with a little smile on her face, her eyes moving from my own, downward to the place towards which she reached the depilator thing, slowly, as if she meant me to think deeply about what would happen when she brought the edge of the device into contact with my body.
I cried out, trying to push myself back into the chair. The soreness from Agent Delvik’s horrible paddle had faded considerably, but my struggle to withdraw from my mistress’ humiliating attention, to move my pussy as far from the depilator as I could get it, reawakened the pain. My cry became awhimper as I felt that glow, and I sensed how it seemed, contrary to all reason, to awaken the exact opposite feelings in me to those it should.
No, it won’t hurt me, I thought.I believe that. But it will do something worse than cause pain.
“Hush, Chalondra,” Mistress Franla said, her voice soft but flinty, commanding. “This is for your own good.”
“Oh, Great Vion,” I sobbed, at the sensation as the thing made contact with my skin, just above the top edge of my furry triangle, the dark blue thatch that had progressively covered my private parts since I had started to grow up. It had seemed like a secret mark of adulthood and independence, and under the smooth, warm edge of the depilator, it began to fall away. I felt a slight tingle, but just as my mistress had promised, no discomfort.
What did she mean, for my own good? Again I had the urgent impression that the older woman expected me to learn something from this degrading process. What could I learn, besides the knowledge I already had, that these Vionians would do whatever they pleased with me, no matter how humiliating—that I had become nothing more than a plaything?
I bit my lip as I watched the curls fall, as if the device in my mistress’ hand were the sharpest, most precise of razors. She proceeded deliberately, clearing the hair from above the pale pink cleft of my pussy. The warmth from the device, to my dismay, seemed to spread downward and inward. I realized that I had begun to long for it to travel further down, to do its embarrassing work on the place at the top that I could barely see, the wrinkly hood of what I thought of as the tiniest part of me, the naughtiest part of me.
The smooth, warm edge moved downward, and its warm tingle moved with it.
“Oh, no,” I whispered, and then it happened: my hips bucked and my pussy clenched. I closed my eyes and shook my head, and my body began to struggle again, not to escape but rather as if to make sure that the straps really did make it impossible for me to escape—and, I realized, simply to feel them holding me down, restraining me, making certain that my preparation at the hands of Mistress Franla would take place whether I liked it or not.
My preparation as a bed girl. A girl for fucking, whatever that proved to be.
The depilator moved up and down, lingering each time at the top, where my mistress pressed a little more firmly. I bucked again, and I felt how my pussy, my quim, my wet quim, tried to push against the warm, tormenting thing.
My lesson. This was my lesson: that somehow my shameful service was indeed for my own good.
“No, no, no,” I breathed, my words coming out in a pathetic, whining tone as I kept shaking my head, feeling how disarranged my head’s curls had gotten from the ponytail Mistress Franla had put there after my bath. “No… please, mistress… please…”
And those words, too—my own words, pleading for mercy from the terrible pleasure my mistress forced on my body—seemed like a betrayal of my free spirit, because the dark part of me, the part the horrid agent had namedWetquimwith such dreadful accuracy, knew that I spoke them only as a way of making the pleasure greater. Somehow, against every logical expectation,it made me feelgoodto know my master would make every decision about my fate from this moment hence.
And the certainty that many of those decisions would involve punishing me harshly, when I disobeyed him or misbehaved, or using my body for his pleasure with no regard for my opinion on the matter… that knowledge only made my backside squirm in more urgent search of the warmth in front and the soreness behind, desperate to place that wayward part of my body as firmly in my mistress’ control as I possibly could.
A sort of chiding sound came from Mistress Franla, and my eyes opened as I felt my cheeks get even hotter, so hot that I thought they must have turned a very dark red. She had her eyes fixed downward, and she tsked again as she moved the depilator against the lower part of my pussy, where though I couldn’t see it, even with my legs raised and spread in the stirrups, I knew my private lips concealed the virgin opening of my vagina.
My mistress raised her eyes and smiled when she saw me looking back at her. That expression seemed kinder and more sympathetic than the one she had worn before, but her words proved no less confusing and yet shameful despite my not really understanding them.
“The agent really did name you well, my dear,” she said. “You’re dripping, down here. I know it’s very embarrassing, but I promise it will make tonight easier for you. I’m afraid your master will have to buy several pairs of those expensive panties, though, if he wants you to wear them frequently, since they’ll need hand-cleaning and then old-fashioned line-drying after you’ve worn them for a little while.”
Heat flashed into my face—in part because I didn’t understand what she meant, about the wetness making tonight “easier”for me, and in part because Ididunderstand, to my distress, about how a delicate garment like the underwear the baron had pointed out to me might well require special care after I had worn it. I couldn’t hold back the sob that pulled itself from my chest as my bottom squirmed on the thin padding that covered the seat and back of the awful chair.
Mistress Franla lowered her gaze again, and I had to furrow my brow deeply and bite my lip to keep another piteous whimper inside me as the depilator began to move again, baring me even further down.
