Page 49 of Innocence Tamed
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, tears filling my eyes. “I won’t say no again.”
Pierre’s left hand rose to cup my cheek, his thumb gently wiping away a tear that had escaped. The tenderness of the gesture contrasted sharply with the martinet still held in his other hand.
“Audrey,” he said, his voice taking on a more formal tone, “the New Modesty program has very specific recommendations for young brides in training. Did you know that?”
I shook my head, confused by this change in direction.
“It recommends that a young bride be thoroughly disciplined early and often, in a relatively formal way,” he continued, his eyes never leaving mine. “This establishes clear boundaries and expectations. You will receive that kind of discipline from now on.”
My heart seemed to stop for a moment. “Bride?” I whispered, the word barely audible.
Pierre didn’t acknowledge my question. Instead, his hand dropped from my face to grip my upper arm firmly. “From now on, when you defy me, the consequence will be significant and precise. You will learn that submission brings comfort, while rebellion brings only pain.”
Without further discussion, he marched me toward the bedroom, his stride purposeful and unhurried. I stumbled along beside him, my mind whirling with the implication of what he’d just said.
I felt like I was watching from a million miles away as Pierre, still holding my arm with one hand, put the martinet on the comforter, then took two pillows and piled them in the middle of the bed. I whimpered, but couldn’t find any strength in my limbs as he simply guided me up onto the mattress, on my knees. He pushed me down, laying me over the pillows, so that my backside rose in the air, readying me for what I understood with a hot blush must be the kind of bedroom whipping a New Modesty bride got.
Then Pierre flipped up my skirt and pulled my panties down to mid-thigh, all of it seeming to happen in an instant. Terror filled me, and at last I tried to get up and run away. Pierre merely held me down with one hand on the small of my back as he began to whip me with the other.
I wept from the beginning, sobbing that I was sorry, begging Pierre to let me wear the anal plug, to let me suck his beautiful penis, to fuck my bottom with his huge cock. To my astonishment, I felt like the weeping and begging was cleansing me somehow, letting me say things I could never say otherwise.
“Please,Monsieur,” I sobbed as the martinet descended again, the leather tails biting into my tender flesh. “I’ll be good! I need it! I need the plug! I need your… your cock in my… in my ass!”
The words poured from me without conscious thought, flowing from some deep wellspring of submission I’d never acknowledged until Pierre had unlocked it. Each strike of the martinet seemed to strip away another layer of pretense, leaving me raw and exposed in ways that went far beyond my bared bottom.
“You need discipline,” Pierre replied, his voice steady even as he whipped me with what seemed the utmost vigor. “You need to understand that misbehavior will not be tolerated from a little whore like you.”
The martinet fell again, the tails landing precisely where thigh met buttock, a particularly sensitive spot that made me howl with pain. I clutched desperately at the bedspread, my knuckles white as I tried to anchor myself against the storm of sensation.
“Yes!” I cried, tears streaming down my face. “I was naughty! I want… I want to be good!”
Another stroke landed, harder than the last, making me arch my back and scream. The rational part of my mind—the independent, ambitious farm girl who had come to Paris to make a difference in the world—watched in horror as I surrendered completely to this man’s dominance. Yet beneath that horror lay a profound relief, as if I’d been fighting against my true nature my entire life and could finally stop struggling.
“Tell me what you are,” Pierre demanded, pausing in his discipline. His hand rested on my burning bottom, the gentle touch somehow more threatening than the martinet itself.
“I’m yours,” I sobbed, my face pressed into the bedspread, voice muffled by fabric and tears. “I’m your… your little whore.”
“Good girl,” Pierre murmured, his hand caressing my punished flesh with surprising tenderness. “Now you may fetch the plug and the lubricant.”
He stepped back, allowing me to slide off the pillows and stand on wobbly legs.
“Everything off, first of all,” he told me. “You’re going to have nothing under your dress but the plug when we leave here.”
Whimpering at the soreness in my backside from the horrid martinet, I drew my pink cotton panties down until they fell at my feet. I lifted the hem of the sundress over my head, then put it on the bed. Again I was naked with my fully clothed sponsor, the visible sign of my new life as his… what?
Fuck toy. Salope. Little whore.
Bride?
CHAPTER 24
Audrey
Bride.
Pierre had said it, as if he thought of me that way. At the very least he clearly meant to train me the way one of Selecta’s New Modesty brides got trained by her new husband: shamefully, thoroughly, dominantly.
Bride… a bride who’s also a little whore.
