Page 18 of His to Enjoy
By seven o’clock, I couldn’t postpone it any longer. I carried the tablet to the bedroom with the solemnity of someone approaching their own execution. The blue lingerie I still wore felt damp and uncomfortable after the long day, Scott’s earlier exploration having left me in a state of frustrated arousal that had never quite subsided.
I sat on the edge of the bed and powered on the tablet. The NMB logo filled the screen, that familiar blue that made my insides lurch. A folder labeledAssignment 1—Foster Daughterscontained three video files:Debbie’s Arrival, Morning Corrections, andRuth’s Punishment.
My finger hovered over the first video. Once I started this, there would be no going back. I would become complicit in my own degradation, actively participating in the creation of content designed to arouse subscribers. Worse, I would have to analyze my own arousal, document it, package it for Scott’s review.
With a blush I remembered that I had forgotten an essential part of his instructions:Just your lingerie. Nothing else.
I stood and removed my dress with shaking hands, hanging it carefully in the closet. The mirror reflected a woman I wished I didn’t recognize, from my own time as a subject of NMB video, rather than a reluctant critic—flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, chest rising and falling with quickened breaths. The blue lingerie transformed me into something from a catalog, my curves enhanced, my pale skin accentuated.
Settling back on the bed, I propped myself against the pillows and started the first video.
The production quality was immediately apparent—soft lighting, multiple camera angles, the kind of careful attention to detail that made everything feel both intimate and performed. A young woman with honey-blonde hair stood at the doorway of a suburban home, a small suitcase at her feet. This had to be Debbie.
“Welcome, sweetheart,” a woman’s voice said warmly as the door opened. The foster mother, Ruth, was perhaps forty-five, with kind eyes and an apron that suggested domestic perfection. “Come in, come in. Abe is so looking forward to meeting you.”
I watched as Ruth ushered Debbie inside, the camera following them through a spotless living room decorated with old family portraits. Everything about the scene felt calculated to evoke traditional domesticity, a wholesome facade that I knew would soon give way to something else entirely.
“Abe,” Ruth called toward the kitchen. “She’s here.”
The man who emerged made my breath catch involuntarily. Not because he was particularly handsome—though he was attractive in a paternal, authoritative way—but because of how he carried himself. That same casual dominance I’d seen in Scott, the unquestioned assumption that his word would be obeyed.
“Hello, Debbie,” he said, his voice deep and measured. “Turn around, let me look at you.”
The girl obeyed immediately, rotating slowly as his eyes conducted a thorough examination. The camera captured her nervous fidgeting, the way her hands smoothed her modestskirt repeatedly. I recognized that gesture—I’d done it myself countless times.
“Very pretty,” Abe pronounced. “Ruth, take her upstairs and help her change into something more appropriate. The white dress we selected.”
My hand had somehow found its way between my legs without conscious thought. Through the damp lace of my panties, I pressed against my clit as I watched Ruth lead Debbie upstairs. The camera followed, showing a bedroom decorated in soft pinks and whites—a little girl’s room, despite Debbie clearly being in her early twenties.
“Take everything off, sweetheart,” Ruth instructed gently. “We need to make sure you’re properly presented for your first inspection.”
I bit my lip as Debbie undressed with trembling hands, revealing a body that could have been mine a few years ago—soft curves, modest breasts, the slight tremor that betrayed her nervousness. Ruth helped her into the white dress, which was shorter than anything the New Modesty program would typically allow, hitting mid-thigh. The material was thin enough to hint at everything beneath.
“Now then,” Ruth said, leading Debbie back downstairs where Abe waited in what appeared to be a study. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”
What followed made my fingers move faster against the already soaked blue lace that covered my bare pussy. Debbie was made to bend over the back of the living room couch, her face in the cushions and her backside raised and offered. Abe had Ruth lift Debbie’s dress. Debbie whimpered as her new foster fatherdrew her white cotton panties down to her knees, then she cried out while he conducted what he called a ‘purity check,’ his fingers exploring between her legs with clinical precision while Ruth held the girl’s hands, murmuring encouragement. The cuts between the close-ups of Debbie’s brimming eyes and her quickly moistening vagina made me bite my own lip and whimper as I watched and worked the fabric of my much naughtier panties up and down against my own soaking slit.
“Still intact,” Abe announced with satisfaction, though his fingers continued their investigation. “But very responsive. Feel how wet she’s getting, Ruth.”
I gasped as Ruth’s hand joined her husband’s, both of them touching Debbie while she whimpered and squirmed. The camera captured everything—the girl’s flushed face, her grip on the cushion’s edges, the way her hips moved involuntarily despite her obvious embarrassment.
My own hips had begun moving in rhythm with their touches, small circles against the damp lace as I watched Abe’s fingers slip inside Debbie, testing her tightness while explaining to the camera about the importance of proper preparation for eventual marital duties.
“Please,” Debbie whimpered on screen, “oh… please…” The ambiguity of the word made my breath catch, my fingers pressing harder through the thoroughly soaked fabric.
“Good girls learn to accept inspection gracefully,” Ruth said, stroking Debbie’s hair while Abe added a second finger, stretching her carefully. “This is for your own good, sweetheart. Your future husband will expect you to be properly trained.”
The camera angle shifted, showing Abe’s face—that expression of detached concentration that reminded me so viscerally of Scott examining me in his office. My back arched off the bed as the memory merged with what I watched, as Abe’s fingers pumped steadily in and out of Debbie’s virgin pussy while she sobbed into the couch cushions.
“She’s close,” Abe observed clinically. “Her vaginal walls are beginning to flutter. Should we allow it, Ruth?”
“Not yet,” Ruth replied, and both sets of hands withdrew, leaving Debbie gasping and trembling. “She needs to learn that her pleasure comes only when permitted.”
The scene cut to later that evening. Debbie knelt in the corner of what appeared to be the master bedroom, still in the white dress but now with her hands clasped behind her back. She faced the bed where her foster parents were beginning their nightly routine, Abe reading while Ruth brushed her hair at the vanity.
“Are you watching, Debbie?” Abe asked without looking up from his book. “You need to understand what’s expected in a marriage.”
What followed was almost too much. Ruth moved to the bed, removing her robe to reveal a mature but well-maintained body. She positioned herself on all fours while Abe set aside his book with deliberate calm. The camera captured Debbie’s face—the flush spreading down her neck, the way she bit her lip, the unmistakable arousal in her dilated pupils as she watched her foster father mount his wife.
