Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 68525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
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… my training.
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 of rebellion 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 heard clench used that way, and I had never heard the word quim before. Yet I did know, 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 quim must represent an obscene way for a Vionian to talk about a concubine’s private part. Clench must 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 time of his ennoblement, a specially made laser pistol, its grip chased with platinum.