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)
Suddenly, despite the futility of the struggle, I couldn’t hold still in the face of Mistress Franla’s obvious intention to do horrible, humiliating things to my body. I writhed in the leather restraints, trying to twist my wrists from the cuffs, my waist from the belt. My tummy churned as I recalled the one clear specification the baron had given for my preparation—the baring of the places my master meant to clothe in the mortifying panties he had pointed out in the shop window. My mind reeled at the crystalline understanding that flashed in, of how that change would further my involuntary transformation from a free, independent young woman to a submissive, compliant concubine, an obedient bed girl for a Vionian nobleman.
“Yes, Wetquim,” she said, her voice superior, like that of a teacher congratulating a slow student who has just figured out an answer at last, “you’re beginning to grasp it, aren’t you?”
She turned away and walked to a cabinet set into the wall of the room. She opened it and took something out—a handheld device of some sort, though not at all like the little screens all Vionians seemed to carry about with them, with which they controlled the technology that enabled their civilization. This one had what looked like a sort of straight edge on the end that stuck out of Mistress Franla’s hand. It didn’t look dangerous, but neither had the lock on the cage that had tormented me so terribly. I stared at it with wide eyes as my mistress approached, extending the device a little in front of her, as if to let me see it.
“This is the depilator,” she said. “Don’t worry: it won’t hurt you. It will only remove those wooly curls of yours and make you more attractive down there.”
CHAPTER 17
Chalondra
My mistress took another step towards me. Again my limbs struggled in vain to free themselves from the chair’s restraints.
It won’t hurt you. I believed her, and yet I still writhed against my bonds so forcefully that the stout leather chafed painfully against my skin and I thought I might give myself bruises from my resistance.
Mistress Franla stood over me, with a little smile on her face, her eyes moving from my own, downward to the place towards which she reached the depilator thing, slowly, as if she meant me to think deeply about what would happen when she brought the edge of the device into contact with my body.
I cried out, trying to push myself back into the chair. The soreness from Agent Delvik’s horrible paddle had faded considerably, but my struggle to withdraw from my mistress’ humiliating attention, to move my pussy as far from the depilator as I could get it, reawakened the pain. My cry became a whimper as I felt that glow, and I sensed how it seemed, contrary to all reason, to awaken the exact opposite feelings in me to those it should.
No, it won’t hurt me, I thought. I believe that. But it will do something worse than cause pain.
“Hush, Chalondra,” Mistress Franla said, her voice soft but flinty, commanding. “This is for your own good.”
“Oh, Great Vion,” I sobbed, at the sensation as the thing made contact with my skin, just above the top edge of my furry triangle, the dark blue thatch that had progressively covered my private parts since I had started to grow up. It had seemed like a secret mark of adulthood and independence, and under the smooth, warm edge of the depilator, it began to fall away. I felt a slight tingle, but just as my mistress had promised, no discomfort.
What did she mean, for my own good? Again I had the urgent impression that the older woman expected me to learn something from this degrading process. What could I learn, besides the knowledge I already had, that these Vionians would do whatever they pleased with me, no matter how humiliating—that I had become nothing more than a plaything?
I bit my lip as I watched the curls fall, as if the device in my mistress’ hand were the sharpest, most precise of razors. She proceeded deliberately, clearing the hair from above the pale pink cleft of my pussy. The warmth from the device, to my dismay, seemed to spread downward and inward. I realized that I had begun to long for it to travel further down, to do its embarrassing work on the place at the top that I could barely see, the wrinkly hood of what I thought of as the tiniest part of me, the naughtiest part of me.
The smooth, warm edge moved downward, and its warm tingle moved with it.
“Oh, no,” I whispered, and then it happened: my hips bucked and my pussy clenched. I closed my eyes and shook my head, and my body began to struggle again, not to escape but rather as if to make sure that the straps really did make it impossible for me to escape—and, I realized, simply to feel them holding me down, restraining me, making certain that my preparation at the hands of Mistress Franla would take place whether I liked it or not.