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)
With practiced efficiency, Madame Dubois lifted my blue dress, carefully arranging the fabric so it draped over my upper back. She took small pins from her pocket and secured the material in place, ensuring it wouldn’t fall during my correction. The cool air of the library caressed my exposed lower half, clad only in the sheer black panties that did nothing to preserve my modesty.
“Monsieur,” Madame Dubois said, her voice formal yet somehow intimate, “shall I lower Mademoiselle’s panties, or would you prefer to do it yourself?”
I held my breath, my face burning with shame as they discussed my underwear as casually as if talking about the weather. The silence stretched for several heartbeats before Pierre responded.
“I’ll do it,” he said, his voice rich with anticipation.
I heard his footsteps approach, felt his presence behind me. His fingers traced the waistband of my panties, making me shiver. Then, with excruciating slowness, he began to draw them down. The lace scraped gently over the curve of my buttocks, gradually revealing my most intimate places to the watchful eyes of the Duboises.
A sob escaped me—part shame, part fear, and part unmistakable need. The wetness between my thighs betrayed my body’s response to this humiliation, and I knew Pierre would feel it on the delicate fabric as he continued to lower my panties to mid-thigh.
“You’ll stay like this for a while,” Pierre said, his voice stern yet somehow gentle. “To think about your behavior.”
I whimpered as his hand came to rest on my bare bottom, the warmth of his palm a stark contrast to the cool air. The position—kneeling, dress pinned up, panties at mid-thigh—left me feeling much more revealed than even complete nudity would have. I thought of what Madame Dubois had said, about the shame of being undressed, and felt the truth of it much too strongly.
“Monsieur Dubois,” Pierre said conversationally, “would you say our young lady seems properly contrite?”
I heard the older man clear his throat. “She appears to be feeling the appropriate shame, Monsieur,” he replied, his voice formal, but not unkind. “Though obviously she may require a thorough lesson to fully understand her place.”
“I agree,” Pierre said, his hand still resting on my bottom. “Audrey, would you like to explain to us why you’re being punished this evening?”
The question caught me off guard. Having to speak aloud, to articulate my sins while in this humiliating position, seemed almost worse than the coming strokes of the cane. I swallowed hard, trying to find my voice.
“I… I disobeyed you,” I whispered, my face pressed against the leather of the whipping block. “In the paddock. I told you to stop the lesson when you didn’t want to.”
“And why was that disobedient?” Pierre prompted, his fingers tracing small circles on my exposed bottom.
“Because…” I faltered, then forced myself to continue. “Because my body belongs to you. Because you decide what happens to me, not me.”
“Precisely,” Pierre agreed, his voice warming with approval. “You presumed to countermand my wishes regarding your training. That requires correction.” His hand lifted from my bottom, and I heard him step back slightly. “Six strokes with the cane, as I promised. You will count each one and thank me for it.”
I trembled, my entire body taut with anticipation and dread. The silence in the library seemed to stretch endlessly, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire and my own shallow breathing.
“Are you ready, Audrey?” Pierre asked, his voice somehow gentle despite the circumstances.
“Yes, Monsieur,” I whispered, though in truth I wasn’t ready at all. How could anyone ever be ready for such a thing?
I heard the whistle of the cane cutting through the air before I felt it—a sound that made my blood run cold. Then came the impact—a line of fire across the center of my bottom that made me cry out in shock and pain.
“One!” I gasped when I could catch my breath. “Thank you, Monsieur.”
The pain was unlike anything I’d experienced before—far worse than the martinet, more precise and penetrating. It seemed to sink deep into my flesh before blooming outward in waves of burning agony.
The second stroke fell just below the first, another perfect line of fire that made me jerk against the whipping block, my body instinctively trying to escape the pain.
“Two! Thank you, Monsieur,” I cried, tears already gathering in my eyes.
Pierre placed the third stroke with surgical precision, laying it exactly where my bottom met my thighs—that sensitive crease that made me howl with pain. My tears flowed freely now, dripping onto the leather beneath my face.
“Three! Thank you, Monsieur,” I sobbed, my voice breaking.
The fourth and fifth strokes came in quick succession, crossing the earlier welts and intensifying the burning pain until I thought I might pass out. I counted them through my tears, my body shaking with the effort of maintaining position.