Page 43 of Innocence Tamed
Pierre’s question took me completely aback. I blinked, momentarily forgetting my physical state as my mind engaged with the problem. A new surge of heat came to my cheeks as the notion that this wealthy man—the sponsor who had bought my virginity, had whipped me, used me roughly, trained me for his pleasure in the most humiliating possible way—had just expressed real interest in my professional opinion. The thought broke through any attempt I might have made to guard my words, and I answered without really thinking through what I intended to say.
“To my dismay,” I began, feeling a furrow crease my forehead, “I suppose I have to say that I think Selecta may have the right approach with the New Modesty. The behavioral interventions I was working on at International Energy Partners were so small-scale compared to what’s needed.” I took a sip of wine to steady my nerves, surprised at how easily the words flowed, my physical discomfort notwithstanding. “We need widespread cultural change in how people approach energy consumption, and traditional policy interventions just aren’t effective enough.”
I watched Pierre’s face carefully, trying to gauge his reaction. His expression remained thoughtfully neutral, though I thought I detected a hint of pleased surprise in his hazel eyes.
“But,” I continued, emboldened by his apparent interest, “I don’t think the patriarchal structure is necessary for the model to work. The surveillance and accountability aspects could be implemented in more egalitarian ways.”
Pierre’s eyebrow arched slightly. “Yet you respond so beautifully to the hierarchy,” he observed, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that made my insides quiver. “Your body seems to crave the very structure your mind resists.”
The plug shifted inside me as I squirmed under his penetrating gaze. I couldn’t deny the truth of his words—my body’s response to his dominance had been undeniable, humiliatingly so.
“That’s… personal,” I whispered, dropping my eyes to my half-eaten lunch. “It doesn’t mean the same approach would work for everyone.”
“Perhaps not,” Pierre conceded, taking another sip of his wine. “But Selecta’s research suggests that a significant percentage of the population responds positively to clear hierarchical structures. The New Modesty simply acknowledges what humans have known for millennia—that order brings comfort, and submission can bring freedom.”
I looked up at him, startled by the philosophical turn. “Freedom? How can giving up control possibly create freedom?”
Pierre smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that made my heart race. “You tell me, Audrey. How did you feel last night, when all choices were taken from you? When you were simply required to obey?”
The memory flooded back—the relief that had washed over me when I stopped fighting, when I surrendered to his will. The way my mind had quieted, my anxieties silenced by the clarity of his commands. I had felt… liberated, in the most perverse way imaginable.
“I felt…” I struggled to find words that wouldn’t reveal too much. “I felt different.”
“You felt present,” Pierre supplied, his eyes never leaving mine. “Fully in your body, perhaps for the first time. No worrying about your career, your finances, the energy crisis. Just sensation and response.”
I stared at him, unsettled by the accuracy of his observation. Again I had the feeling, as I had that morning in the bathroom, that he knew me better than he should—that he could articulate feelings I barely understood myself.
“Finish your lunch,” he instructed gently. “Then we’ll continue your education.”
I obeyed automatically, my fork moving seemingly of its own accord. In the back of my mind, though, I found a simmering rebellion. I remembered my thoughts from the bathroom that morning: not to tell Pierre how thoroughly his dominance had met my mortifying needs. The humiliating truth was that I craved his control, his discipline, his ownership. But I couldn’t bring myself to admit it—not to him, not even fully to myself.
“No,” I said softly, setting down my fork with deliberate care. “I’m sure, for myself: the New Modesty doesn’t suit me, however many other women it may suit.”
Pierre’s eyebrows rose slightly, his expression one of mild surprise. He took a slow sip of his wine, studying me over the rim of his glass.
“Is that so?” he asked, his voice deceptively gentle.
I nodded, gathering my courage. “I know I have to let you… fuck me in the ass,” I forced myself to say, the crude words burning my lips. “But I don’t want it.”
I swallowed hard as I saw fire flash in Pierre’s eyes. My heart skipped a beat as I saw him smile, rather than becoming angry. The smile wasn’t kind or understanding—it was predatory, almost triumphant.
“Perhaps you didn’t mean that as a challenge,ma petite,” he said, “but I take it as one.”
He rose from his chair with fluid grace, gathering our plates. The domesticity of the gesture seemed incongruous with the heat in his gaze, with the promise of what was to come.
“Get the lube and take off all your clothes while I do the dishes,” he instructed, his voice casual as if he were asking me to fetch the mail. “You are to be on your bed, presenting your plugged anus to me, when I finish cleaning up.”
I stared at him, my mouth suddenly dry. The challenge in his voice, the expectation in his eyes—they sent contradictory shivers of dread and excitement through me. I knew I should protest, should stand up for myself, should refuse to be treated like an object for his pleasure, even if I had just acknowledged that I understood the necessity I had fallen under. Yet my body had already begun to respond to his command, my nipples hardening beneath my blouse, wetness gathering between my thighs despite my mind’s objections.
“Now, Audrey,” Pierre said, his voice hardening when I hesitated too long. “Unless you want another session with the martinet before I claim your ass.”
I rose from my chair on trembling legs, the plug shifting inside me with the movement. Each step toward the bedroom felt like walking through molasses—my body heavy with reluctance, yet propelled forward by some deeper need I couldn’t name or resist.
In the bathroom, I found the lubricant where I’d left it on the counter. I clutched it in my hand, staring at the bottle as if the rational words of its instructions might offer some escape fromwhat was coming. The sound of water running in the kitchen reminded me that Pierre would soon finish the dishes. I didn’t have much time.
My fingers fumbled with the buttons of my blouse, each one a small surrender. The fabric parted to reveal my modest cotton bra, which I unhooked with shaking hands. My breasts felt heavy and sensitive as they spilled free, the cool air of the apartment hardening my nipples further. I slipped the blouse from my shoulders and let it fall to the floor.
Next came my skirt. I unzipped it slowly, delaying the inevitable moment when I would stand completely naked, waiting for a man to take the final virginity I possessed. The fabric pooled around my ankles and the feeling of complete exposure took hold, already, I thought, much too familiar. I knew, now, exactly what Pierre was capable of doing to my body; how very vulnerable he could render me.
