Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
A ndrea
I couldn’t deny that the bus ride to Cato was pretty, at least if you liked waving wheat, which I had to admit I did. I had not the slightest chance of enjoying it, though, despite all my attempts to sing songs from Oklahoma under my breath. Officer Porter’s casual revelation of what would befall me at my destination echoed in my mind in time with the rhythm of the cars that whooshed by the lumbering bus.
The bare-bottom kind… the bare-bottom kind…
The endless fields of golden wheat undulated in the gentle breeze, creating mesmerizing waves that stretched to the horizon. Fluffy white clouds drifted lazily across the vast expanse of blue sky, occasionally casting fleeting shadows on the landscape below. The late afternoon sun bathed everything in a warm, honeyed glow that would normally have filled me with a sense of peace and contentment.
But I couldn’t appreciate any of it. Officer Porter’s words echoed relentlessly in my mind, drowning out the soft hum of the bus engine and the quiet conversations of my fellow passengers.
The bare-bottom kind… the bare-bottom kind…
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, my face burning with a mixture of shame and mortifying, unwelcome arousal. I tried to focus on the scenery passing by my window—a picturesque red barn, a herd of grazing cattle, a quaint farmhouse with a white picket fence. But each new sight only served as a stark reminder of the traditional, antiquated world it seemed I had no choice but to enter.
Desperate for distraction, I pulled out my phone. My eyes widened in surprise as I noticed a new app icon on my home screen—a demure silhouette of a woman in a modest dress, labeled simply ‘NM.’ New Modesty . With trembling fingers, I tapped the icon.
The app opened to reveal a detailed map of a small town, helpfully labeled Cato . My gaze was immediately drawn to a prominent star icon on Main Street, marking the New Modesty Authority office. As I zoomed in, I noticed a small house icon on a street in what looked like a residential area near the town center.
My heart racing, I tapped on the house icon. A window popped up, displaying the words: “Your new home, the Weathers residence.” I tapped again, my throat constricting as a photo appeared of a couple in their mid-forties—Devin and Greta Weathers.
I read the accompanying text with growing trepidation. Devin, I learned, managed one of the large automated farms outside of town, as well as owning a farm-supply business. Greta was a homemaker who ran a small crafting business with the help of the New Modesty girls they took in. The profile explained that new girls entered the household as housemaids but could earn their way to becoming assistants.
At the bottom of the Weathers’ profile, I noticed a link.
House rules.
My finger hovered over it for a moment before I gathered the courage to tap it. When I did, I got a new screen, full of text. The basic tenets appeared at the top: respect, obedience, dedication, and modesty. Innocuous, if old-fashioned. As I scrolled down to read the specifics, though, I felt a wave of mortification wash over me.
Girls will address their elders as sir and ma’am.
Girls will be home by sundown unless given express permission for a date with an approved suitor.
Girls will do whatever they are told by Mr. and Mrs. Weathers without question.
Girls will maintain proper hygiene, including weekly shaving of intimate areas.
Girls will submit to weekly inspections to ensure their modesty and hygiene.
Girls will wear the modest underwear and dresses provided by the New Modesty authority, except on Saturday when girls are allowed to wear pants, if they’ve behaved themselves.
My eyes widened as I read this rule. I glanced down at my current outfit—a knee-length skirt and blouse that I had thought was perfectly modest. Apparently, it wouldn’t meet the standards in Cato. I tried to imagine what kind of dresses and underwear would be considered acceptable. Would I be forced to wear long, shapeless sacks that hid every curve? And the idea of someone else dictating my undergarments made me squirm in my seat.
The next rule made my tummy flip:
Girls will go on the dates arranged for them and be respectful to their approved suitors.
Arranged dates? Approved suitors? The words swam before my eyes as I struggled to process their implications. I thought of my past relationships—the awkward first dates, the thrill of mutual attraction, the freedom to choose who I wanted to be with. All of that would be taken away. Instead, I would be expected to docilely accept whichever man the Weatherses deemed appropriate for me.
My mind conjured an image of myself sitting across from some stern-faced stranger at a quaint diner, forcing polite small talk while he evaluated me as a potential wife. Would I be expected to laugh at his jokes, agree with his every opinion? The thought made me feel slightly ill.
With growing dread, I read the final rule:
Infractions of the rules will be punished with traditional family discipline: spanking for minor offenses, the family strap for more serious ones.
My breath caught in my throat. Spanking? A strap? Officer Porter’s words came flooding back, much more loudly.
The bare-bottom kind. The… bare… bottom… kind.
I shifted again in my seat, much too aware of my backside pressed against the worn fabric. To my horror, I felt a surge of heat between my thighs. I clenched my legs together, my face burning with shame.
This isn’t me. I don’t want this.
I tried to stop reading these rules over and over, but found myself unable to look away. My eyes kept darting back to certain phrases— modest underwear , approved suitors , traditional family discipline . Each time I read them, I felt a confusing mix of revulsion and the wayward heat that made me feel I had gone crazy.
As the bus rolled on through the picturesque countryside, making occasional stops to drop off Selecta workers and other young women whose destinations I couldn’t bear to contemplate, a desperate plan began to form in my mind. Maybe I could get off at a different stop. Slip away before anyone noticed I was gone.
An hour and a half into the journey, I decided to try it. As the bus slowed for another stop, I stood up, trying to look as casual as I could. I made my way forward along the aisle, my heart pounding. But as I reached the front, the driver’s gruff voice stopped me in my tracks.
“Andrea Jacobsen, get your backside back in that seat,” he said firmly. “I don’t want to have to tell the folks in Cato that you need even more of a lesson than you’re already in for. Cato’s next. Twenty minutes.”
My face burned with mortification as I realized the driver knew about my impending punishment. Shoulders slumped in defeat, I shuffled back to my seat, acutely aware of the curious stares from the other passengers.
As I sank back down, I caught sight of my reflection in the window. My cheeks were flushed, my blue eyes wide with fear.
Fear. That’s all. That’s all .
I looked away immediately, unable to face the conflicted emotions I saw there.
The bus rumbled on, eating up the few remaining miles between me and my new life in Cato. With each passing moment, my anxiety grew. What would happen when we arrived? Would someone be there to meet me? Would I be taken straight to the Weatherses’ home, or to the New Modesty office first?
And looming over it all was the promise—the threat—of my ‘lesson.’ My stomach twisted as I imagined myself bent over, skirt raised, panties lowered…
The bare-bottom kind , Officer Porter had said. I squirmed in my seat, trying to banish the mental image. The way he had said it, I realized, had made it ten times worse. As if…
As if it were something I would be getting used to.
As fields gave way to small clusters of houses, I knew we must be getting close. I wiped my sweaty palms on my skirt, my breathing shallow and rapid. This was really happening. In just a few minutes, I would step into a world I had never imagined for myself.
The bus slowed as we entered the town proper. I peered out the window, taking in the quaint storefronts and neatly manicured lawns. Everything looked so… normal. Peaceful, even. It was hard to reconcile this idyllic scene with the strict rules that it seemed governed life here.
Finally, with a hiss of brakes, we pulled up to the curb. “Cato,” the driver called out. Through the window I didn’t see a bus stop. Just a storefront, a window bearing the ominous words in a decal, New Modesty Authority.
On shaky legs, I stood and made my way to the front of the bus. As I stepped down onto the sidewalk, the warm afternoon sun on my face, I took a deep breath.
“Andrea,” a gruff male voice said. I turned to see that Devin Weathers stood a few feet away, dressed in a flannel shirt and faded jeans. He hadn’t looked so big in the profile picture; in person he loomed over me, his muscles subtly bulging under the checked fabric that covered his arms and chest.
I stood frozen, staring up at him. His blue eyes were cool as they assessed me, and I felt terribly revealed under his gaze.
“Y-yes,” I managed to stammer out. “I’m Andrea.”
Mr. Weathers nodded curtly. “I’m your elder now, Andrea. You’ll address me as ‘sir.’”
My face flushed hot with embarrassment. “Yes… sir,” I whispered, the word feeling foreign on my tongue.
“Good girl,” he said.
I felt my tummy lurch as other parts of my body responded to this older man’s praise in a way I refused to think about. I felt my blush get even hotter, and I tried to cover it over with the first words that came into my mind.
“I read the… the house rules… in the app, I mean. So, I… uh… I understand. About… the… the rules, I mean.”
Oh, god. This was horrible. I sounded to myself like I accepted the horrible things I had read.
“Well, I guess those newfangled things are worth something after all,” Mr. Weathers said, the corner of his mouth crooking slightly up. I nodded mutely, not trusting myself to speak. The sign of pleasure vanished as quickly as it had come, though: Mr. Weathers’ expression turned serious.
“Is it true you tried to run away, back in the city, despite being told to stay put?” he asked sternly.
I trembled, considering lying for a brief moment. But Mr. Weathers’ intense gaze made it clear he would tolerate no dishonesty.
“Yes, sir,” I confessed in a whisper, eyes downcast.
Mr. Weathers nodded grimly. “I see. Then I suppose you know you have a lesson coming.”
My tummy clenched at his words, the awful mix of dread and shameful anticipation washing over me. This was really happening. In just a short time, I would be bent over for the first spanking of my life.
I shifted nervously from foot to foot, acutely aware of my helplessness before this stern man who now had authority over me. What would happen next? How soon would my ‘lesson’ be administered? And most pressingly—just how much was it going to hurt?
“We’ll take care of that at home, after dinner,” he said. “I’m parked right around the corner, so you can go ahead and follow me.”
He gave me a final long look, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he might be trying to decide whether I would try again to escape. Then he turned and began to walk down the sidewalk. With a crease in my forehead that felt as deep as the Grand Canyon, I followed him, my legs feeling shaky beneath me.