Page 29 of Innocence Tamed
Terror gripped me, my legs suddenly weak beneath me. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. I’d planned to negotiate, to establish boundaries before anything happened.
“Please,” I stammered. “I wanted to talk first—about boundaries and what I’m comfortable with?—”
“Take. Off. The. Dress,” Pierre repeated, each word like a chip of ice. “Now.”
I backed away, bumping into the wall behind me. “I’ll yell for security if you try anything,” I threatened weakly, my voice betraying my fear. “You said… and the app… it said… there are safety protocols?—”
“I’m happy to pay for the dress if I have to rip it off you,” Pierre replied calmly, taking a step toward me. “But you broke the one rule I gave you, and you’re going to have a whipping in the nude, one way or another. Selecta approves of that, as you already know.”
My breath caught in my throat. He was right—I had agreed to the terms, had read the consent forms explaining thatphysical correctionwas a standard element of SA relationships. The perineal sensor would have recorded my arousal duringTheodore’s spanking, would have noted how wet I’d become afterward. Selecta knew exactly what my body wanted, even when my mind protested.
“Please,” I whispered, but my hands were already moving to the zipper at the back of my dress. I already loved this dress… how could I let this… this brutal man ruin it? The sound of the fabric sliding down my body seemed impossibly loud in the silence between us.
Pierre stood watching, his expression now unreadable as I slipped the dress off my shoulders. It fell to the floor in a pool of green fabric, leaving me standing in nothing but the white thong, my breasts bare and vulnerable under his steady gaze. My nipples hardened instantly, betraying me once again.
“Well, my dear,” he said, the left side of his mouth curving into a teasing half-smile. “At least your panties are appropriate. That adorableconof yours looks ravishing in the pretty lace. I can’t wait to open you up on my cock.”
CHAPTER 13
Audrey
His casual lewdness transfixed me with shame. Paralyzed by humiliation, I stood frozen in the center of the living room as Pierre’s words hung in the air between us. My virginity clearly represented something he had bought and paid for. My body flushed hot, then cold at the thought. The abstract idea that the special premium for my defloration lay within my grasp didn’t seem to have anything to do with the electric tension of the here and now.
Pierre reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his phone. With casual authority, he tapped the screen several times, his eyes never leaving mine. To my astonishment, a panel in the entertainment center across the room slid open silently, revealing a hidden compartment I hadn’t known existed.
“Selecta provides for a sponsor’s convenience in amazing ways,” Pierre informed me, his tone conversational, as if we were discussing something as mundane as the weather. “Look in the compartment and bring me what you find there.”
I hesitated, my feet seemingly rooted to the floor. What horrors might be concealed in that secret space? Some instrument of torture? Some humiliating sexual device? My imagination ran wild, conjuring images that made my stomach clench with dread—and, shamefully, with that persistent, unwanted arousal.
“Now, Audrey,” Pierre commanded, his voice hardening. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
My legs trembled as I forced myself to move toward the entertainment center. Each step felt like wading through molasses, my nearly naked body hyper-aware of Pierre’s gaze following my movements. I felt the cool air against my bare breasts, the snug fit of the thong between my buttocks, the wetness gathering embarrassingly between my thighs.
When I reached the compartment, I peered inside cautiously. What I saw made my blood run cold.
A whip—no, not exactly a whip, but something similar—lay nestled against black velvet. It had a polished wooden handle about ten inches long, from which emerged multiple slender leather strands, perhaps a dozen in all. The leather was supple looking, well oiled, the color of dark honey.
“It’s called a martinet,” Pierre explained from behind me, as if sensing my confusion. “A traditional French implement of discipline. Quite effective for correcting willful behavior.”
I recoiled instinctively, taking a step back. My breathing had become shallow, my pulse racing wildly. This couldn’t be happening. This elegant, sophisticated man couldn’t possibly intend to whip me with that cruel-looking instrument.
“I think I’ll begin to whip you in the panties,” Pierre continued calmly. “They give such easy access to your naughty bottom.”
I felt like I might faint. The room seemed to tilt slightly, the edges of my vision darkening. I’d never been whipped before—spanked, yes, over Theodore’s knee during that mortifying photo session, but that had been different. His hand had been firm, but warm, human. This implement looked cold, impersonal, designed specifically to inflict pain.
“Bring me the martinet, Audrey,” Pierre repeated, his voice deceptively gentle now. “The longer you delay, the more severe your punishment will become.”
I shook my head wordlessly, still staring at the implement. My fingers twitched at my sides, but I couldn’t make them reach for the martinet. The leather strands seemed to shimmer in the apartment’s soft lighting, promising pain I wasn’t ready to accept.
“Very well,” Pierre sighed behind me. “Since you insist on disobedience, I’ll have to whip you harder and longer than I had initially planned. This is your choice, Audrey.”
I continued to stare at the martinet, unable to look away from it yet equally unable to touch it. My heart hammered against my ribs like a caged animal seeking escape.
“This resistance of yours,” Pierre continued, his voice taking on a lecturing tone, “it’s precisely what I want to address tonight. This is the essence of the New Modesty, what I wanted to teach you about yourself.”
I finally managed to tear my gaze away from the martinet to look over my shoulder at him. His expression was calm, almost tender, in spite of the threat of punishment in his words.
“You may not be a traditional midwestern farm girl—you came to Paris after all, and I can tell that you’re brilliant—but you stillhave the needs of an old-fashioned bride on her wedding night,” he explained. His hazel eyes seemed to see right through me, past my defenses to something I’d kept hidden even from myself.
