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“When… you… stop… resisting… your… punishment,” Agent Delvik said, each word ending in a terrible blow from the paddle, now in a frightful variation on the left-right-center pattern. He had added my upper thighs, and the strokes of the leather blade there made me scream and sob even more loudly. “We… can… proceed.”
I couldn’t stop, though. My body was so desperate to escape from the agony that no attempt at logical persuasion could keep my limbs from reaching, pushing against the table, seeking wildly for some purchase I could use to twist myself, or just my bottom, away, if only for a moment.
“Bad… girls… like… you,” he continued, still remorselessly bringing the paddle down with each accusing word, “need… to… be… broken.”
I let out a shriek of agony that I knew absolutely must be audible above, and then, like a soap bubble popped by a stick, my spirit and my defiance simply vanished. I couldn’t bear any more of the pain and the shame. My body lay limp over the table. My hands grasped its far edge, and I sobbed from the depths of my chest.
Broken.He had done it. I wept at how easily he had bent me to his horrid will.
I felt the pressure of the agent’s left hand ease a little. The terrible rhythm of the paddle slowed. The next few swats, though, struck so hard that my whole body bucked as their force became an addition to the fiery torment in my bottom and thighs. I didn’t scream, though: I heard myself let out only a low, keening noise that sounded like a profession of repentance. It rose with each sharp, ringing stroke of the leather against my bare, burning backside, and subsided as I breathed and prepared myself for the next swat.
Finally, after four or five more blows from the paddle, Agent Delvik lifted his hand from my back. I sobbed with redoubled strength at the hope that rushed into me, and the horribly unwelcome gratitude, that the ordeal had ended. Then I remembered his dreadful words, about this only representing the beginning of my punishment—let alone my… mytraining.
An even deeper sob wrenched itself from my chest. I moved my hips slightly—very slightly, to make certain he didn’t think I meant to try to get up. I cried out at how much it hurt. My whole backside had become an excruciating mass of burning pain.
The agent’s left hand returned, but not to my back. I yelped at the touch of his fingers, there, on my poor punished bottom. Then the yelp became a sound that made my cheeks flame so hot that for a moment it seemed the heat in my face might rival the sting in my backside.
I moaned as he ran his fingertips gently over my right cheek, and then my left.
“Hmm,” Agent Delvik said, or hummed, as if my helpless reaction to his degrading, too-intimate touch interested him. As if he wished to assess just how deeply he could humiliate me.
He took the whole right half of my bottom into his big hand. I whimpered and swallowed hard. I didn’t understand how or why it could feel so good. He squeezed gently, and I gave a soft cry of helpless… something.
My hips jerked. The terrible pain in my bottom and my thighs… something about the way the agent had touched the places he had punished, the way he kept touching them… caressing, and fondling… holding, as if they belonged to him…
“Oh… oh, no, please…” I sobbed. “Sir… sir, please…”
I pushed back, arching my back a little. I simply couldn’t help myself. I knew I should be ashamed of myself, but it didn’t matter. Everything my mother and my aunts had told me about feminine modesty seemed to urge me to keep still: I held onto the edge of the table for dear life, and I tried to concentrate on the discomfort of that too-tight grip. When Agent Delvik moved his hand to my left cheek and squeezed gently, though, I couldn’t stop myself: my whole body bucked, and something happened there, much too close to his hand, there between my thighs, inside my pussy, that made me bite my lip and furrow my brow.
“Did your little quim just clench, my dear?” the agent asked. “That’s promising.”
I opened my mouth, and my breath came in little pants, in and out between my lips. I realized that my fingers had relaxed on the table edge, and I tried to tighten them again, desperate to recover some shred of resistance. Somewhere off in mental space, the rational part of me noticed that at least the idea ofrebellion had returned, and approved of the development, but that didn’t change the hot wave of shame Agent Delvik’s words had sent through my body.
I didn’t know what they meant—I had never heardclenchused that way, and I had never heard the wordquimbefore. Yet Ididknow, and with that degrading knowledge came an equally unwelcome idea. The horrid company agent had what must be a sort of special vocabulary for talking about my pussy, using words I instantly realized must be meant to humiliate me.
Her little quimmustrepresent an obscene way for a Vionian to talk about a concubine’s private part.Clenchmust refer to the thing that had just happened to me, down there: it had definitely felt like some sort of shameful, involuntary spasm—like a clench of some kind.
“Are you wet, girl?” he asked, in the same sort of interested, evaluative voice. “Let’s see.”
CHAPTER 7
Baron Gravamir
“The issue, my lord,” said Franla, the Breslian woman I was interviewing to serve as my mistress of concubines, “is whether you are willing to share my services with another patron. Are you certain you won’t wish to keep more than the one girl? Even if you only take one to your bed regularly, most of my wealthier clients regard the variety provided by having at least two concubines as essential for keeping their appetite sated. As I told you, I do have room in my schedule for a single girl, but you would have to find another mistress should you wish to acquire a second.”
I frowned as I considered her words, searching for a moment for the best way to allay the woman’s concerns. I glanced around the study where we sat, the smaller and more intimate of my two libraries, but the room that held my favorite furnishings. My eye rested, as it often did, on the portrait of my great-great-grandfather, the first Baron Gravamir, and underneath it, the glass cabinet that held the side-arm he had worn from the timeof his ennoblement, a specially made laser pistol, its grip chased with platinum.
Next to the pistol lay a paper print-out of a letter whose key sentences I knew by heart.
For extraordinary service in enriching and enlarging the Empire of Great Vion, Quarren Gravamir is made Baron Gravamir of Berstolin. Please accept this side-arm as a token of the emperor’s regard, and retain it in the imperial presence.
He had sold Berstolin to the Tri-System Mercantile Company, as had been the intention behind the gift, and I lived the life of a Vionian noble here in his palace, as a result. From the rough-hewn roots of a disreputable miner, Quarren, Baron Gravamir had become a courtier and a financier. The barons after him, down to me, had followed suit, building the family fortune and adding on to the palace at roughly equivalent rates.
When I looked back at Franla, I found that her eyes had followed mine, just as I had intended. I smiled when she returned her attention to me.
“Certainly my establishment does bespeak that sort of prosperity,” I said. “My grandfather had, I believe, six concubines.”
Franla’s eyes went suitably wide at this news. I felt reasonably sure she feigned her surprise, though. I personally had two acquaintances at court who each had seven girls, one for each day of the old standard week that for some reason every human world had kept as the basis for its calendar.
