Page 30 of Innocence Tamed
“I don’t understand,” I whispered, though some deep, secret part of me feared that I did. I heard myself whimper as Pierre’s words penetrated the fog of fear surrounding me. Old-fashioned bride on her wedding night? The crude yet somehow romantic image made my stomach flutter. Even in my terror, I felt a rush of wetness between my legs.
“You need guidance, Audrey,” Pierre said softly. “Above all, you need guidance in learning to give pleasure to a man who has taken you in hand and wants to support you.”
His words resonated within me, stirring something primal and long-denied. My rational, feminist mind hated how he made me feel—exposed, vulnerable, seen. Yet another part of me, a part I’d spent years suppressing, thrilled to his assessment.
I realized with a shock that I was falling for him—not just physically responding to his dominance, but emotionally drawn to his confidence, his perceptiveness, his unwavering certainty. The thought terrified me even more than the martinet.
“You should go,” I said abruptly, turning to face him fully despite my near-nakedness. I crossed my arms over my chest, and I divided my attention between his too-handsome face and a scan of the floor to figure out where the dress had ended up. “You can take your money back if you want. Maybe we can talk about this tomorrow.”
Pierre’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened.
“That’s not how this works,” he said, his voice suddenly hard as steel. He stepped toward me with a fluid grace that reminded me of a predator closing in on its prey.
I froze, unable to move as he approached. My legs wouldn’t obey the frantic commands from my brain to run, to escape, to do anything but stand there trembling like a frightened doe.
Pierre grabbed my elbow with his left hand, his grip firm but not painful. With his right, he reached into the compartment and retrieved the martinet, the leather strands swinging ominously as he lifted it.
“No, please,” I whispered, but my protest was weak, my voice barely audible even to my own ears.
Without responding, Pierre marched me to the couch, his steps purposeful and unhurried. I stumbled alongside him, my bare feet unsteady on the deep carpet. When we reached the sofa, he bent me over its arm in one smooth motion, pressing me down until my breasts were flattened against the cool fabric, my bottom raised and vulnerable in the tiny white thong.
The first strike came without warning, the leather strands of the martinet landing across both cheeks of my backside with a sound like distant thunder. The pain followed a split second later—sharp, stinging, radiating outward from the point of impact. I gasped, my body jerking reflexively.
“One,” Pierre counted calmly, as if we were engaged in some ordinary, innocuous activity rather than this surreal punishment.
Before I could recover, the second stroke fell, slightly lower than the first. The leather strips connected with my sensitive skin,some of them curling around to flick against the tender flesh where thigh met buttock.
“Two.”
A cry escaped me then, a strangled sound that seemed to come from someone else. The pain was unlike anything I’d experienced before—not just the physical sensation, which was intense enough, but the emotional impact of being disciplined this way, bent over and helpless while a man I barely knew administered punishment to my nearly naked body.
Somehow the spanking from Theodore, the photographer, didn’t compare. To my distress, I had enough room in my thoughts to figure out why: because I liked Pierre, admired him… and because I knew he intended to claim me with the rigid manhood I suddenly felt desperate to see, so that I could make certain—crazy as it made me feel to long for it—that his cock had gotten hard as he punished me.
“Three.”
The third stroke landed directly across the thin strip of fabric covering my most intimate parts. The leather strands somehow found their way beneath the thong, striking my tender flesh with precise cruelty. I yelped, my hips bucking involuntarily.
“Four.”
By the fifth stroke, tears had sprung to my eyes, blurring my vision. I gripped the couch cushions desperately, my knuckles white with tension. Each impact of the martinet sent surges of heat radiating through my body, pain transforming into something more complex with every passing second.
“Five.” Pierre’s voice remained steady, controlled.
The sixth stroke fell directly on the upper thighs, where the skin was more sensitive than my bottom. I cried out loudly, my legs trembling as they struggled to support me.
“Six.”
I sobbed uncontrollably now, my tears dampening the couch beneath me. The pain from the martinet had built into a fiery blaze across my bottom and thighs, each new stroke layering over the previous until my entire lower body felt aflame.
“I’m going to take your panties down, now,” Pierre announced. “I want to see your prettycon.”
Panic surged through me.
“No!” I cried, flinging my hand back in a desperate attempt to protect myself from this final humiliation. “Please, don’t!”
Pierre caught my wrist easily, bending it behind my back in a firm hold that wasn’t painful, but left me completely helpless. I felt his other hand at the waistband of my thong, his fingers sliding beneath the delicate lace.
“This is happening, Audrey,” he said, his voice low and determined. “You need to understand this new life of yours.”
