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He shifted his arm a little—I didn’t know whether he meant it as a signal he would start in with the strap again, or he was only adjusting a bit, but it sent a thrill of fear through me that made me unfasten the button instantly. Then, biting my lip to keep from whimpering at the terribly ambiguous feeling, I started to lower my jeans.
CHAPTER 7
Jake
As Grace’s little bottom came into view, slightly pink from the strap, I couldn’t help but feel grateful for the New Modesty’s wisdom in sending her to Shelly and me. Once I’d managed to train the girl up a bit, and make certain she understood what it meant to submit to a man’s authority, I knew Shelly and I would have a fine time teaching her about the softer side of a girl’s obedience to her elders. Grace’s bottom, and the sweet virgin pussy whose bewitching lips I could spy just peeking out between her thighs, would become places both for discipline and for the sort of pleasure she had quite obviously never imagined she could receive in such an old-fashioned household.
Who knew how the administrators at the New Modesty program figured out that girls like Grace needed the very special kind of care Shelly and I could give? Grace herself had very clearly only just begun to realize that strict family discipline represented the best way for her to grow up properly into a responsible, happy young woman.
I could read the signs very clearly though: in her whimpering cries, in her alternating resistance and submission, and above all in the way her body moved under my arm when I whipped her adorable butt—in all of her responses to her first taste of real correction I sensed precisely what I had found in Shelly, back when I had courted my gorgeous bride, under the maiden name of Miss Michelle Walters. These days, as Mrs. Jacob Carpenter, she earned herself a whipping almost as often as she had done back when we were courting, fifteen years before, and neither of us minded.
Back then, I had asked her daddy’s permission to bare her eighteen-year-old bottom and correct her there, when she sassed me. His response had set us on the path that had led to our happy home.
“Be my guest,” he’d said. “Grounding her never seems to change her behavior.”
That night, over my knee, Shelly had learned the importance of submission. After a long, hard spanking she had come three times on my caressing fingers. We had gotten married three months later, and she had come to live with me, here on my family’s farm.
Grace wriggled her hips, getting her jeans to just an inch below the curve of her butt cheeks. She stopped, clearly thinking she had exposed herself enough.
“No, honey,” I told her. I took hold of the waistband of her jeans with my right hand. That made the doubled strap brush up against her bare butt, and she let out a little sob of fear. My ear, practiced in the art of interpreting a woman’s submissive sounds, could detect enough arousal in the sob to know things were developing properly. Grace’s training had begun to touch on the sexual elements that would soon enough make many more things clear to her.
I pulled her jeans much further down, to just above her knees. She let out a cry of dismay, and I felt certain it stemmed in large part from knowing that I could easily feel how damp she had gotten the gusset of the jeans. I took a deep breath through my nose, and I felt my cock jump against my thigh at the intoxicating, musky fragrance of our new ward’s virgin pussy.
I let go of my hold around her waist and stood up.
“Mrs. Carpenter and I are going to finish our supper,” I told her. “I want you to think about what’s coming to you, and why.”
Grace
I closed my eyes as tightly as I could, as if that could somehow hide me from my foster parents’ sight. To my distress, my ass didn’t really hurt; instead it felt warm, a little as if the cold hearth actually had a fire in it, warming my bare backside.
Even worse, something about the embarrassment of it, of having my pants down and my face in the cushion of Mr. Carpenter’s easy chair while he and Shelly quietly finished eating their chicken and dumplings, seemed to add to that warmth. Not in my butt, but further down and further forward, in my current humiliating upended position.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I supposed that I had felt tiny inklings of the experience before, when teachers had sent me to the principal’s office as they had done with pretty noticeable frequency in high school. I had pushed those thoughts and emotions away, of course—the way any sane person would.
I blinked at the mantelpiece, where Mr. Carpenter had re-hung the strap as if to make sure I could look at it while I waited. A new idea had just occurred to me. Did whatever the fuck the so-called ‘authorities’ meant to accomplish with this ‘program’ of sending young—but definitely adult—women to live with ‘foster families,’ I started to realize, have as much to do with that wayward, naughty feeling as with ‘reforming’ and ‘rehabilitating’ us.
Or was that supposed to be part of the reformation?
I blinked again, feeling my eyes widen with each blink. I remembered the terrible rush of need that had seemed to flood the whole of my body, centered and focused between my waist and my knees, when the horrid strap had brushed up against my bare ass. My heart started to pound in my chest.
I could hear Jake and Shelly talking quietly in the kitchen, the rhythm of their speech seeming easy. Shelly giggled, and I felt terribly sure that it had to have something to do with me—with my punishment or even with what Jake had felt inside my jeans when he had yanked them down to my knees.
I bit my lip hard, but I still couldn’t contain the whimper of arousal that emerged softly from my throat. I told myself it had definitely gotten lost in the cushioning of the chair, but the thought that they might have heard it brought another helpless surge of need down there. To my horror, I felt my hips move, just an inch but enough to make the old wood of the chair creak a little.
The sound wasn’t the worst part, though; the worst part lay in the way that tiny movement had brought my pussy—the neediest part of it, the little tingling nub at the top in its wrinkly hood—up against the arm of the chair. I managed to keep myself from whimpering again, but I also had to stop myself from screaming in frustration because of how light and teasing the friction to my clit was in my position.
I realized I’d clenched my hands into fists, next to my face on the chair cushion. I hadn’t ever done it—played with myself, touched my pussy to make myself feel good. I hadn’t ever really had the urge. I thought it was basically okay—for other people—but somehow the notion of it seemed… well, I guessed, just really embarrassing.
I had never, ever had the feeling I had then, with my bottom bared and warm from the family strap, waiting over the arm of a man’s easy chair to have my real whipping. The feeling that if I didn’t touch myself, soothe the raging heat between my thighs, I might explode.
They couldn’t see. I felt sure they couldn’t see me from the kitchen table. With my lip caught securely between my teeth, I relaxed my right fist and started to slide that hand backwards along the leather of the upholstery. I felt my forehead crease hard as conflicting thoughts and feelings roiled violently in my mind and my body.
I won’t move at all, really. I can just… put my middle fingers…
I felt my face go hot as my fingertips touched the sparse, wiry hair that thatched my privates. I pushed, and rubbed, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood, so that I didn’t let out a sob of mixed relief and need.
“Alright, Grace,” Jake said, and I heard his chair scrape across the kitchen linoleum.
