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The expression on Chalondra’s face, though, when her mistress led her to my library to present her to me, formally, in the traditional way, was worth every one of the five thousand creditssupplement I had paid, on top of the girl’s purchase price—and, I couldn’t help thinking, much more.
Even better, the two thousand I had spent on the panties, plus two hundred for expedited delivery, seemed an absolutely paltry sum in comparison to how they looked on my beautiful Kamnian concubine—how gorgeous the delicate, narrow strip of lace that covered the cleft of her cunt in so scanty a fashion looked on its own, and much more enticingly, how self-conscious the garment obviously made Chalondra.
I surveyed her in silence from my imposing leather-covered armchair by the fire. Chalondra shifted her weight furtively from foot to foot, as if attempting to get used to the feeling of the tight underwear over her newly bare quim.
“Turn around, Wetquim,” Franla said, her voice stern, every syllable as clear and authoritative as a mistress of concubines should sound when commanding a reluctant virgin whose cunny she has recently had to whip.
Trembling, Chalondra complied, and for the first time I got to see the back of the lovely panties I had dressed the girl in. Their slender back, a mere ribbon of white silk, had nestled snugly into the bewitching valley of her little bottom. Her sweet, pert cheeks still bore hints of the cruel paddling she had received on Kamnos, but the company agents knew their business: the marks had faded enough that I knew if I wished, I could correct the girl as I pleased without fear of lasting damage.
It took a good deal of restraint not to reach out and fondle the lovely rondures of the girl’s arse, run my finger between them, find with a fingertip the tiny place Franla had to my satisfaction already begun to train for me. Many a nobleman would simply have done so, I supposed, beginning his full possession of hisnew bed girl without delay. I intended, however, to make my first enjoyment of Chalondra last a very long while. She had felt my touch between her thighs in the car: I meant to make her wait to feel it again, until she needed it so badly she would beg for her master’s firm hand, tender or brutal, as he pleased to bestow it.
“Keep turning, Wetquim,” Franla ordered.
Chalondra completed the revolution her mistress had commanded. My eyes rose with some reluctance from the seductive glimpse of her smooth cunny, visible through the white lace, to ascend past her adorable, creamy, wonderfully bare breasts, and then to see again her gorgeous face, blushing pink with violated modesty. Again I had the delight of taking in her terribly conflicted expression once: the furrow in her brow, the blush in her cheeks, the way she chewed on the inside of her cheek as she stared at the carpet, so clearly knowing how my eyes roamed with absolute freedom over her gorgeous form.
My cock felt like a bar of iron against my thigh. I would, I reflected, probably have paid the entire fortune of House Gravamir at that moment, for the prospect of deflowering Chalondra. I noted with a little leap of my manhood that after showing herself to me at her mistress’ command, her little hands had balled themselves into fists, as if she had to keep them that way in order to stop herself from trying to cover up her maiden charms and deny them to her master’s eyes.
“My Lord of Gravamir,” Franla said, beginning the ancient formula Vionian nobles had used to claim their sexual servants since the foundation of our world almost five hundred standard years before, “I present to you Wetquim, a bonded servant of your house, a virgin prepared for your pleasure.”
Chalondra
Bonded. Prepared.
I stared at the piece of woven fabric that covered the floor. It must, I realized, be a carpet. I had never seen one before. Floors on Kamnos, except in the village house, were packed dirt, swept every evening as clean as a broom could make them. The ornate pattern of red and green on my master’s carpet had clearly faded with age, but it seemed to me all the more splendid for that sign of continuity and evident value.
The wooden floors elsewhere in Gravamir House had matched the platform on which the company had displayed me in my cage, and the block on which they had sold me to my master. They had matched the wooden floor in the village house, too.
Only as I looked at the carpet—a tiny detail in the romantic stories of imperial glory I had read as a young girl and yet one that had stuck firmly in my mind—did I realize that I had walked across the boards of the village house’s floor all my life without realizing what the wooden floor really meant: that underneath it lay the basement room that belonged not to my village but to the company. The secret place where they caged the bed girls they requisitioned and whipped them as necessary to ensure their readiness for purchase, for bonding, for training.
Somehow the sight of my master’s carpet, the only place I dared look in his splendid, book-lined study for fear of another whipping, represented for me the full weight of Vionian power and Vionian luxury. That power had taken me from my home tomake me a plaything for my master’s desires—it had made me, myself, my trembling body and my conflicted mind, into a bit of that luxury.
I shifted my weight, foot to foot, and I felt anew how the tiny panties claimed me, between my thighs and between my bottom cheeks. I bit my lip at the sensation of their tightness over the tender cleft from which my mistress had taken away the curls that had concealed the secrets there. I could almost feel the baron’s eyes on me, all over me, like a soft pressure, an almost-caress. To my distress, my body had begun to respond as if he had touched me already: as I shifted again, I sensed that I had begun to dampen the little pad of softer fabric that covered the lace where it went beneath the opening of my vagina.
“Thank you, Mistress Franla,” my master said, his voice so deep it seemed to travel through the floor and the carpet into my body. “You’ve done a lovely job with her.” Then, as if he could read my mind, my master said, “Is your quim very wet, Wetquim? Must I take you straight to my bedchamber to keep you from making a mess here in my study?”
My face blazed like the core of a new-made star. It vexed me, and heated my cheeks even further, that I didn’t even understandwhy. Why should I feel any modesty about how my master and my mistress could make my body respond, by stripping me naked and then dressing me in a garment that had no purpose other than to demonstrate my bondage? I myself had done nothing immodest, nothing even the slightest bit embarrassing, had I?
But the idea that they could read in the involuntary, outward signs of my physiology, the thoughts in my head… that they could divine, from the heat and the wetness between my thighs, how empty my rebellion and defiance truly were… was that it? Ishook my head slowly back and forth, tears prickling the corners of my eyes.
So many of those thoughts represented the complete opposite of what a spirited young woman, taken from her home and sold to a Vionian nobleman, should feel. My shame arose not from what my master could make my body do, but what it made methink, when he touched me, and even when he spoke to me about my new life of bondage and service to his pleasure.
The awful realization made not just my face but my whole upper body go searingly hot with mortification. And, much worse, down between my thighs, inside the lovely, lacy, tiny panties, I felt how I had indeed started to make a mess of the present my master had given me. He had dressed me in this expensive underwear, and my pussy’s dark, irresistible need had already begun to seep into it, like a liquid confirmation of my wayward imagination.
“I have a towel in my pocket, my lord,” Mistress Franla said, from behind me. “Wetquim’s panties will need hand washing, of course, but you needn’t fear for the carpet: I will wipe away her lubrication as necessary, if you wish to begin training her mouth here in your study.”
I closed my eyes. I felt as if I had gotten on another spaceship—one where this time I could feel the acceleration of the stardrive, propelling me faster and faster across the galaxy. I heard my mistress’ words, and though I didn’t understand them, I knew somehow they meant I would learn very soon what the terrifying secret was. My master was about to teach me about fucking.
“That’s very kind of you, Franla,” the baron said. I thought I could tell from the sound of his voice that he had a smile on his face, and knowing that he found my humiliating plightpleasant to behold sent a shudder through all my limbs, and a new wave of helpless warmth to my pussy. “As you can imagine, I’m quite hard just at the sight of her in her pretty lingerie, and I’d certainly like to get her used to pleasing me here in front of the hearth. But she hasn’t answered my question, has she? Wetquim, my dear, are you very wet down there?”
I shook my head, waves of hot shame coming and going in my face again and again as I tried to find the will to answer my master with a lie.
“No, master,” I whispered.
“Nonsense,” he replied, his tone not stern but rather amused. “I can see the spot on the panties myself. You’re as wet as a bed girl can be, even though you don’t know what your little cunny is getting you ready for.”
I tried to keep back the sob of humiliation and fear, but it came out anyway. I squeezed my eyes shut even tighter, so that the tears trickled onto my hot cheeks. I started to sway, my balance faltering without the sight of the room around me to help me keep it.
“Come here,” my master said abruptly, his voice turning strict and slightly impatient.
