Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“What kind of panties?”
“My… the… the polka-dot ones.”
Penelope’s eyes opened. She looked at me with an expression that combined amusement and hunger in proportions I couldn’t parse.
“The same ones I paddled you in,” she said. “Oh, Anne. You sweet thing.”
Her hand moved faster beneath the silk. I could hear it now—a faint, wet sound that brought a flush so violent it felt like a sunburn.
“How many?” Penelope asked.
“Ten. He said ten, and if I agreed to undress after ten, he’d stop.”
“And his hand,” Penelope said, her voice thickening. “Not a paddle. His bare hand.”
“Yes. It was… it was different from the paddle. Deeper. It went into the muscle. It—”
“Come here.” Penelope’s voice had gone rough at the edges, stripped of its professional polish. Her free hand gestured—a beckoning motion, fingers curling toward her palm. “Come here and kneel. In front of me.”
CHAPTER 16
Paul
My eyes narrowed as I watched Anne’s face over the surveillance feed from Penelope’s office. I had a truly extraordinary suite of biometric analytic algorithms I could have called up if I wanted to, detailing precisely how aroused my new girl had just gotten at the idea of going down on her boss. I didn’t have any intention of evoking them, though: I preferred to judge what was happening between Anne’s lovely thighs, not to mention in her heart and mind, the old-fashioned way.
The picture on the screen was high-definition: Selecta didn’t skimp on its internal monitoring systems. The camera angle gave me a clear view of the scene from a position roughly equivalent to standing in the corner behind Penelope’s desk. I could see Penelope’s face in three-quarter profile, her head tilted back against the chair, her lips parted, her hand still working beneath the burgundy silk of her naughty panties.
I could see Anne kneeling on the carpet in front of her, that cream blouse buttoned to the collar, her shoulders hunched in the posture of a girl who understood what was about to be asked of her and was losing the battle against her bashfulness about it.
Penelope’s free hand found the side of Anne’s face. She cupped it—tenderly, almost maternally—and then her fingers slid back into Anne’s hair, gathering a fistful of it almost the same way I had an hour earlier on the bedroom set. Penelope Gallagher had done this before, and the ease with which she handled the girl told me she’d done it many times.
“Keep telling me,” Penelope said, and her voice came through the surveillance audio with crystalline fidelity. The microphones in her office were military grade—another Selecta indulgence. “You were over his knee. He’d bared your bottom. He was spanking you with his hand. What happened next?”
Anne’s voice, thin and wavering: “He counted. Each one. And by the sixth I was… I was crying. Really crying. Not just tears but—”
“Sobbing,” Penelope supplied. Her hand withdrew from beneath the silk of her panties and moved downward. She hooked her thumb under the burgundy fabric over the cleft of her pussy and pulled it to the side, tugging the gusset away from her center and holding it there with a casual expertise that exposed her to the girl kneeling between her thighs. I watched Penelope’s other hand tighten in Anne’s hair and guide her head forward. “Don’t stop talking. Tell me about the sobbing. But you’re going to make my cunt feel good while you do it.”
I leaned back in my chair in the control room and studied the feed. The biometric overlay pulsed in my peripheral vision—heart rate, galvanic skin response, core temperature—but I kept my focus on what my eyes could tell me without technological assistance. Anne’s shoulders had gone rigid, her spine stiff with the particular tension of a girl confronting something that her upbringing had given her no framework for. Her hands, which had been clasped in her lap, now hovered uncertainly in the air on either side of Penelope’s thighs, fingers spread, as if she were about to touch a surface she’d been warned was electrified.
But her head moved forward. Penelope’s hand guided it, yes, the fist in Anne’s hair providing direction. I’d spent enough years reading the difference between a girl being forced and a girl being given permission to know which one I was watching. Anne’s resistance lived in her shoulders and her spine. Her compliance lived lower, in the way her knees shifted on the carpet, settling into a wider stance, and in the almost imperceptible forward tilt of her hips that told me her body had already begun to respond to the proximity of Penelope’s arousal.
“Good girl,” I murmured, as if Anne were there with me. The decision to delay the bathroom scene until tomorrow had obviously been a good one; Anne had a little more to learn about herself today and tonight before she became truly ready for the next step that my shaving her pussy would represent.