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His arm came around my waist, holding me tightly against him, and he started to drag me towards the table as if I weighed nothing at all.
“No…” I sobbed. “No, please… sir, please…”
“That was very disappointing, my dear,” he said, his voice devoid of any strain from the effort of hauling me around and marchingme on unwilling feet across the basement. “I’ll have to punish you for that foolishness before your inspection, and then punish you again afterwards for your conduct in your cage.”
CHAPTER 6
Chalondra
Agent Delvik manhandled me around the chair and over to the edge of the table. He flung me across it, facing the horrid cage. I tried to stand up, more out of sheer reflex than from any intention of defiance, but I felt his hand press down on my back, so firmly that I felt fixed there—pinned, like a fish skewered by a fishing spear.
Then I felt his other hand. I sensed him shifting his weight, though at first I had no idea why. I felt a strange puff of air against my bottom, and I heard a noise like the cracking of a tree branch.
Only at that point did the nerves in my backside catch up. I felt the sting of the spank at the same time I understood what he had done—and continued to do, because as my body began to react, way ahead of my brain, Agent Delvik kept spanking me, hard and fast.
I knew about it—about corporal punishment. The books we read in school, about the exploits of imperial officers, containedreferences to it, from time to time, as the sort of penalty officers occasionally had to mete out, in order to keep their men in line. Every time I had come across one of those passages, for reasons I had never understood and never wanted to understand, my face had gotten hot, and I had turned the page as quickly as I could.
I even knew that girls, in the old days, had received corporal punishment just as boys had. One ancient novel I had been allowed to read in my final year in school had a heroine who had feared the possibility she might be whipped or spanked for her misdeeds. Blushing furiously, I had looked the words up, and then slammed the dictionary shut when I understood.
“Stop!” I yelled. “Please… sir!”
It hadn’t felt as painful at first as I had supposed it would. As the agent kept bringing his hand down, very hard, in groups of three spanks, on my right bottom cheek then my left, then in the middle, though, the burning in my rear end started to make me frantic. I flailed with my arms, trying to reach back and grab him, somehow. I tried to kick with my legs but I found that he had thrust his right leg forward so that I only drove my chest harder into the hard plastic surface of the table.
After what might have been half a minute of this horrible, mortifying punishment, Agent Delvik began to speak over the continual crack of his palm against my bottom and my increasingly pitiful wails of pain. He had to raise his voice to make himself heard, but his tone remained very casual, as if spanking a young woman represented nothing unusual in the course of his work.
“As you’ve learned, my dear, I can cause you much more intense pain than this with the punisher, and you will of course be trained by means of the punisher from time to time. Butthe empire and the company are nothing if not respectful of tradition.”
The agony in my backside had reached such a height that I wondered if in fact the bursts of pain in my pussy from what the agent calledthe punisheractually could compare. I sobbed and screamed, my limbs still struggling despite the obvious futility of it. The hand on my back only pressed harder, keeping my bottom just where he wanted it so that he could deliver his terrible lesson.
“I’m sorry!” I screamed.
“One aspect of traditional discipline that you’ll observe quickly, I imagine, is the way it lingers and builds. That’s something the punisher can’t do.”
He stopped. I drew in a gasping breath, sure he would bring his hand down again in just a moment, and then I sobbed in mingled relief and pain, because he had spoken nothing less than the truth: my bottom still hurt so much that to my dismay I felt my cheeks clench and unclench in a vain search for some way to soothe the burning there.
“I’m afraid that’s not even the end of the beginning, my dear,” Agent Delvik said as if he were informing me he would soon offer me a cool drink. He kept his left hand on my back and his right leg across my calves, but I thought I could tell that he had reached for something with his right hand, perhaps inside a pocket of his uniform.
Then I felt him lean across the table, and he showed me what he had fetched. In front of my eyes he held something that seemed to have been made of several thick layers of red leather, stitched together into a shape about fifteen centimeters long andfive wide, except that one half of it was narrowed, so that Agent Delvik could brandish the other half. That half, I knew instantly though I had never seen anything like it, was the part that mattered: about the size of a man’s open hand, flat, and stout.
My heart raced. The thing, really, looked like nothing so much as…
“This is my paddle, Chalondra,” said the agent’s horrible voice from behind and above me.
Paddle.Yes, like a sort of miniature leather version of the wooden paddles kayakers used on Kamnos’ rivers and lakes.
Paddle.My cheeks blazed with heat, and I felt my hips jerk against the restraint of the agent’s other hand. I remembered, from one of the pages I had turned most quickly in that novel. The heroine had feared gettingpaddledat her school. I hadn’t had any idea what it meant, except that it must be humiliating in some way, and it must hurt.
Agent Delvik pulled it away. Fear twisted in my belly, like a dark, fluttering bird that had somehow worked its way inside me.
“No…” I begged, feeling my limbs start to struggle again, feeling my upper body try to rise from the table.
“And this is what it feels like,” the voice said, in a tone of grim satisfaction.
The puff of air felt a little more forceful, as he brought the awful thing down on my upturned bottom. The crack of the leather on my right cheek sounded much louder—so loud I wondered if the village elders doing their business on the ground floor above this terrible basement could hear my punishment.
I screamed at the thought, and I kept screaming as I received my first paddling. My thought about the humiliating possibility that the elders could hear the company agent teaching me an old-fashioned lesson gave way to another: the agony in my backside suddenly turned me against my village and my world. I screamed louder because I wanted them to hear what they—their terrible system—had done to me.
I writhed over the table, becoming something like a wild animal, desperate and irrational, trying to flee but easily prevented from flight by a man’s strong hand.
