Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 76329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
My face blazed with heat as I nodded, remembering the humiliating photoshoot that seemed so very long ago. “Yes, I know,” I said quietly.
Aimee helped me into the lingerie with the efficiency of someone accustomed to dressing and undressing others. First came the nylons, rolling up my legs with whisper-soft caresses. The basque required more effort, Aimee working behind me to fasten the long row of hooks that ran up my spine. I gasped as she pulled it tight, the garment cinching my waist and pushing my breasts upward. Quickly she snapped the dangling suspenders to the tops of the stockings.
“There,” she said, stepping back to assess her work. “Now the panties.” She handed me the scrap of black lace, and I stepped into them, pulling them up over the suspender straps as instructed.
Finally, Aimee helped me into the blue dress, zipping it carefully over my newly corseted form. The silky fabric slid over the lace underneath, creating a sensual friction against my skin. When I stepped into the high heels, I felt like a stranger to myself; not Audrey Campbell, but a young woman prepared for discipline, for surrender.
I looked at Madame Dubois, puzzled by one aspect of this elaborate preparation. “I thought I would be punished in the nude,” I said, looking down at all the beautiful clothing Madame Dubois had just helped me into.
“Eventually, of course, you will be nude,” Madame Dubois replied as she smoothed an invisible wrinkle from my dress. “But I find there is a certain wisdom in including the gradual stripping of a girl’s clothes away as part of her punishment. It heightens the anticipation, for both the one administering discipline and the one receiving it, as well as helping to make the young lady feel as ashamed of her misconduct as she should.”
The way she spoke—with such quiet authority and personal knowledge—made me wonder again about her own experiences. Had she once (or often?) stood where I now stood, dressed beautifully only to be systematically undressed for correction?
Madame Dubois checked her watch. “It’s time. Monsieur is waiting in the library.”
My stomach clenched as she opened the door and gestured for me to precede her into the hallway. Each step in the high heels echoed against the polished floor, marking my inevitable progress toward punishment. The lingerie beneath my dress felt like a secret, shameful reminder of what was to come—layers that would be revealed one by one before my final humiliation.
“The cane,” I whispered as we descended the grand staircase. “Will it… hurt very much?”
Madame Dubois’ expression remained professional, though I thought I detected a flash of sympathy in her eyes. “Yes, Mademoiselle. The cane is designed to hurt. But Monsieur knows exactly how much pain to administer—enough to teach the lesson, but never more than necessary.”
We reached the bottom of the stairs and turned down the corridor I remembered led to the library, though my feelings about the room had undergone a sea change in the intervening time. Massive oak doors loomed at the end, slightly ajar, warm light spilling from within. My steps faltered as we approached.
“Courage, Mademoiselle,” the housekeeper murmured, her hand coming to rest briefly, reassuringly, on my lower back.
I took a deep breath and pushed the door open wider. The library was magnificent—two stories of leather-bound books lining the walls, a massive fireplace with a crackling fire, comfortable leather armchairs arranged in conversational groupings. When Pierre had shown it to me the previous afternoon, I had delighted in exploring a bit, running my fingers along the spines of ancient volumes and breathing in the comforting scent of old paper and leather.
But today my attention went immediately to the center of the room, where a curious piece of furniture had been placed—a padded leather bench with sturdy legs, its surface sloping slightly, down from the middle of the Persian carpet on which it stood. The whipping block, I realized with a jolt. Precisely positioned for maximum visibility from anywhere in the room.
Pierre stood nearby, a slender rattan cane in his hand. He wore a dinner jacket and crisp white shirt, as if preparing to host a formal gathering rather than discipline his disobedient American girl. Beside him, Monsieur Dubois watched us approach, clearly as much a guest tonight as a servant, at least for the terrible ceremony of my lesson: both men had glasses of amber liquid in their hands.
The men watched as Madame Dubois guided me to the block and helped me kneel on the little ledge, low down at the thing’s front, then bend my upper body down along the surface of the bench. My heart hammered so violently I thought it might burst from my chest. The leather surface felt cool against my knees as I positioned myself according to the housekeeper’s gentle directions.
“Like this, Mademoiselle,” she murmured, helping me find the proper position—knees spread slightly, back arched, head down, hands gripping the bench’s far corners. The posture forced my bottom into prominence, presenting it perfectly for the punishment to come.