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“Oh… oh, Great…” I couldn’t add theVion. It came clear to me in that moment that I had been taught, growing up, to swear by the name of the world that had predetermined my destiny as a bed girl, a pleasure girl, bought by a nobleman who apparently wanted me only for the satisfaction of his shameful whims.
I squeezed my eyes more tightly closed.
“Do I need to spank you, Wetquim?” his deep voice became much more gentle, much more intimate.
I shook my head, but I didn’t open my eyes.
“Yes,” he mused. “Yes, I do. Let’s get these pretty panties down. Not all the way, of course. I like a girl with her underwear around her thighs when she kneels before me.”
I started to struggle as my master’s words brought image after degrading image to my mind’s eye. Mistress Franla held me tighter, bent my arms further to keep me precisely in place, and I sobbed with the discomfort of her strong hold.
The fingertip that had invaded my bottom hole withdrew. The fingers that had found my wetness and lingered inside the aching hole of my pussy pulled away, drawing a whimper of mortifying frustration from my throat. I felt those fingers take firm hold of the panties’ lace-decorated waistband and pull them down, over my hips, away from my pussy, out of my bottom’s shadowy cleft.
He dressed me in them, so he could pull them down.No one had ever taken down my underwear, whether with my consent or without it. I could hardly have said why, but the idea of a man—the man whoownedme—pulling down my panties and leaving them halfway down my thighs in a tangle that covered nothing,that only served to remind me my master had bared me… it had a terrible power.
The bondage of my legs that the beautiful lacy panties exercised bore no real resemblance to the restraints Mistress Franla had bound me in, when I sat in the training chair. I guessed I could have ripped the delicate garment to shreds simply by moving my legs with enough vigor. But the whisper of the snow-white fabric over my thighs as I shifted in my vain resistance sent an electric thrill of irresistible, shameful need through my whole body.
Then everything seemed to shift and move around, my body above all. I had to open my eyes because it seemed like otherwise I might fall into an abyss or soar off into outer space. I felt my master’s hand on my back pulling me towards him and bending me downwards. I saw the carpet rushing towards me as Mistress Franla bent my arms again, this time at the elbows, so that she could cross my wrists and then transfer control of them from her two hands to the baron’s big, single, left hand.
I thought for a moment that I would fall all the way to the ground, but then my brain seemed to orient me properly, and I realized what my master meant to do just as I felt my waist press against the silken fabric of his trousers. The strength of his massive thigh underneath me supported me while also forcing me to bend. At the same time, the right hand that had pulled me and then pushed me over the baron’s left leg moved to my backside. My master took hold of my whole bottom, moving me that way, positioning me over his knee, prostrate.
I struggled feebly at first, out of sheer instinct rather than from any true spirit, but when the baron put his right leg across the backs of my knees, restraining me completely, my writhing grew desperate. I cried out for mercy as I felt how tightly he held me: my hands bent behind my back made each rebellious movementpainful but the sheer terror of that position, of my bottom’s elevation, its availability for whatever my master chose to do, made my body move despite the knowledge that it would only make things worse for me.
“Shall I put a towel under her quim, my lord?” Mistress Franla asked. “I’m afraid you’ll have to have those trousers cleaned, otherwise.”
A sob burst from my chest. My hips bucked over the baron’s thigh. I felt the light friction of the smooth, luxurious fabric. I remembered their color, the deep red-purple of Vionian wine. I thought of the wet spot I would leave on them, if my master did the same sorts of things with his fingers as he had so effectively and degradingly demonstrated he could do, of the stain that would display my pussy’s waywardness until the trousers’ next cleaning.
“Wetquim will clean them herself, as she will clean her panties,” the baron said. “You wish her to confront her whorish nature, am I correct? How better than to give her the task of cleaning up her own mess?”
“Oh, an excellent idea, my lord,” my mistress replied, and I could hear her smile of approval. Their little exchange had made my breath come in rough pants, in and out of my open lips, the utter humiliation working together with the exertion of my fruitless struggle to raise my heart rate and make my lungs work for air.
Worse, I could feel how my liquid need had already seeped from my pussy to dampen the fabric beneath me. My cheeks felt like a fiery furnace.
That blazing heat spread to the roots of my hair as my master put his hand there, forcing his fingers between my thighs, shiftinghis leg slightly to allow my knees to spread sufficiently, so that he could possess my pussy and my bottom completely in his firm grasp.
“This is a very special moment, Chalondra,” I heard him murmur, his voice seeming to come from far, far above. “I know your mistress paddled your poor little cunny, but a concubine’s first spanking from her master is much more than a correction.”
CHAPTER 21
Chalondra
His fingers worked me quietly for a few moments, the only sounds the mortifying wet noises from between my thighs and my soft whimpers at the pleasure—and even more at the awful conflict it raised in my heart and mind. The internal struggle I already knew, the one between body and spirit, seemed to acquire a new, even more troubling dimension: suddenly I wanted something else—something awful.
Please… master… please…
Notplease stop. Just, stop. Not that.
My spirit would have been in that desperate request, praying to be spared the terrible trial. No.
Please, master.Yes, definitely that.Please stop making me feel good. Please stop teaching me how gently you can treat my pussy, my cunny, my wet little quim.
Please stop that, and… and…
Spank me.
I wanted my master to teach me a very different lesson from the one his skillful fingers were currently teaching me, there in his study, upended over his knee with my panties down.
I heard him make a soft clucking sound with his tongue. Somehow I knew that it didn’t represent actual disapproval: no, the baron didn’t really mind in the slightest that my wetness flowed into his hand like water flowing through an irrigated field.
