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“You’d like me to tell you what I mean, about it being easier for you tonight, since your vagina produces so much lubrication, I know,” she said, slowly and conversationally. “You’d like that very much, wouldn’t you, Chalondra?”
I couldn’t open my mouth to answer, because the feeling of the warm tingle against the most shameful place of all made it impossible to do anything but emit a soft, keening noise that emerged into the quiet of the training room like the sound of a small, furry, frightened animal.
My mistress pressed a little harder. My back arched against the chair, and I balled my bound hands into tight fists.
“Hmm,” Mistress Franla said. She stepped back and went over to the cabinet again. My eyes followed her, wide and staring, fear filling my belly of what would happen next.
Anxiety turned to hot mortification as she fetched a towel out and brought it over.
“Excessive moisture can interfere with the depilator’s operation,” she said matter-of-factly, without looking up at me—instead, she wiped between my thighs, then draped the towelover my right knee. “There,” she said with evident satisfaction. “Now I’d like you to reach your fingers down and spread your bottom open for me. I need to bare you there, too. I’m going to tilt the chair back for you, so I can do a thorough job.”
I watched in horror as she reached her left hand to work something underneath the chair’s seat. With a soft whir, I felt the surface against my back begin to recede, tilting me, lowering my upper body as the stirrups moved the same way. I could feel much too well how completely it exposed my most private place.
My hands seemed to have developed a mind of their own, somehow. They had begun to open and close, as if responding alternately to two urgent yet utterly conflicting impulses.
Mistress Franla raised her eyes again, to fix them on mine.
“It’s difficult, I know, my dear,” she said, the sympathetic smile returning. “But remember what I said earlier. Everything your master wishes will happen to you, now, whether you like it or not. That’s what I can tell you about your wet vagina making tonight easier, too: if you let me prepare you, and you obey your master when the time comes, you will soon wonder why you made such a fuss. Indeed, you may even begin to enjoy your life as his concubine.”
I stared at her, blinking, trying desperately to understand. Her final words, though, brought back my defiance, despite the obvious truth of what she had said, the plain fact that I could not escape. The impulse that tightened my hands against her humiliating instruction to spread my bruised bottom cheeks rebelled forcefully against the very notion that I couldenjoythe life of a bed girl.
“Never,” I said with all the bravado I could find in my heart. “You… maybe you can… can make my body do… or… or feel… things.” I felt the heat surge and recede from my face, my whole body seeming to alternate between hot and cold as I tried to piece together what to say, to find a way to talk about the terrible, shameful ordeal of my servitude. I refused to use their words—even the clinical terms and the vague allusions Mistress Franla seemed to employ—to talk about my body and its wayward, dismaying reactions to the way the Vionians treated it.
“But you’ll never make me enjoy it,” I spat out, suddenly filled with the wild joy of resistance. “You’ll never… you’ll never…” I knew the word I wanted to say, but the thought of it made the dread in my belly heavier, counteracting the joy. I felt I might lose my reason entirely if I remained in the split, the conflict, between my defiant will and my cowering fear, and I gritted my teeth and chose rebellion. “You’ll never break me.”
My mistress sighed. The compassionate smile on her lips grew lopsided and wry.
“That may be true, Chalondra,” she said, her gentle tone surprising me. “But that won’t change a single thing about what’s going to happen to you. Your wet vagina can make one part of your service easier, but this resistance is going to make the rest of it very difficult, I’m afraid. I’m sorry to have to correct you so soon after you’ve arrived in your master’s house, but it seems there’s no way around it.”
She turned and walked back to the cabinet. My lips parted, and my breath panted through them as I saw what she took from it this time. My mistress had put the depilator back on its shelf, and had in her right hand a paddle with a leather face and a wooden handle. It looked about the same size as Agent Delvik’s,but it had a different shape: a narrow triangle, opening out from the handle to the width of a man’s hand.
“This is a Trestrimarian cunt paddle, Chalondra,” Mistress Franla said. “I apologize for my coarse language, but that is its proper name. The Trestrimar barbarians tend to use plain words, and indeed it’s difficult to imagine a better way to inform a naughty girl how she’ll be corrected in this case than to tell her the implement’s name. I’m going to whip your vulva, now, my dear, to make clear the importance of obedience in your master’s house.”
CHAPTER 18
Chalondra
My head started to shake before I even realized it. I had to bite my lip to keep from instantly giving in, and my hands opened and closed over and over as the struggle inside me, between mind and body, grew more and more desperate. Tears sprang from the corners of my eyes at the distressing truth I couldn’t escape—that reason and logic lay on the side of submission, of giving in simply to spare myself the pain that would represent only a token of futility.
I thought my mistress would give me a moment to reconsider. I thought she would ask me a final time to do as she had instructed and commit the terribly shameful act she required. My fingertips itched, even within the tight balls of my fists, and I didn’t know, really, whether when Mistress Franla demanded my obedience a final time I would find the will to continue defying her. How dreadful a thing was it, after all, simply to spread the globes of my backside for the warm tingle of her device?
But my mistress didn’t ask again. Her eyes went from my face downward. She put her left hand on the belt that stretched across my belly, holding me down to the horrid training chair. She raised the terrifying paddle high, and she brought it down swiftly and with very evident skill.
When the agent had paddled my bottom in the basement of the village house of my village on Kamnos—and even when he had whipped me on my thighs, where I had a good deal less padding than I did on my hind cheeks—the pain had taken a moment to reach me. If any gap of time intervened, between the slap of the leather blade of that barbarian instrument on my newly smooth pussy and the blinding agony that shot through my entire nervous system, I had no awareness of it. Nor could I discern even an instant between the awful torment between my thighs and the full-throated scream I let out in response.
Somewhere, in the far-off sector to which my brain had fled, I understood that as far as a sheer quantity of pain went, the Trestrimarian cunt paddle didn’t hurt as much as the electronic effect the Vionians called the punisher did. The punisher didn’t leave any room for detachment. The instantaneous, unrelenting pain of it overwhelmed my body so completely that even when it went on for seconds, as Agent Delvik had made it do, I couldn’t find the breath to scream.
But from the first lash of the cunt paddle on my pussy, I understood that this agony was, in its own terrible, special way, much worse. Above all, it seemed supremely dreadful because my mistress delivered it to that most sensitive part of my body—the part that to my distress I found myself thinkingdeservedcorrection andneededchastisement. That part of me—my pussy, my quim, my cunt—had over and over shown its terrible waywardness, when touched by the fondling hands of those intowhose power I had come. Even after, indeedespeciallyafter, those hands had punished me, my pussy responded not with defiance but with humiliating, melting submission.
I screamed, and I writhed against the restraints. I had hoped, as I watched Mistress Franla approach with the cunt paddle, that I could demonstrate the strength of my will by holding still. The leather straps binding me to the training chair meant that no struggle would save me from my punishment, and I had supposed, and even felt a bit of confidence, that I would have the fortitude simply to endure the torture, gazing defiantly into my mistress’ eyes when she deigned to turn her gaze on me.
That foolish resolve vanished the moment she brought the paddle down on my pussy the first time. I screamed and sobbed and writhed, tears flowing down my cheeks in continuous rivulets. My first scream became a howl when I saw Mistress Franla raise her arm again, without any pause at all, and bring it down.
I lost all control. I had just peed in the nice bathroom, but I felt my bladder let go after the second lash. I heard a wetness in the slap of the third one that would have heated my cheeks if my body hadn’t already felt feverishly hot from the shame that went along with the agony.
My fists uncurled, and I took desperate hold of the halves of my bottom. The pain from my pussy meant that I barely even noticed the different discomfort that came from my bruised rear cheeks. I pulled them apart, and I felt how shamefully the act exposed me. Mistress Franla looked up, into my eyes. I felt relief rush into my chest. My mistress raised the paddle again, tightened her grip on the belt, and returned her attention to my pussy.
“No!” I cried.
