Chapter 10
Scott
I sat at my desk the next morning, sipping coffee as I opened Grace’s report titled Video Analysis: Debbie’s Arrival.
From the first page I couldn’t help but admire the girl’s ability to maintain a professional tone despite the content that I knew she found so unsettling.
Assessment’s analysis of Grace’s needs, included prominently in her dossier, indicated clearly that the sweet young woman, so disappointed by her worthless ex-husband, would have to confront her submissive nature in a way she strangely enough hadn’t yet had to do.
The parts of her experience with NMB that had fulfilled Grace in ways she couldn’t yet admit had become confused with Jacob Whitcomb’s failure to accept his marital responsibilities.
When I had developed my plan for her training as a member of my programming team, my friend Van Gregory in Assessment had called it unorthodox, but had praised my idea’s ingenuity, and approved my moving forward with Grace’s re-education.
This report seemed to confirm the wisdom of my approach.
Grace’s initial observations about the video caught my attention immediately: she noted that the production quality exceeded expectations, with the suburban setting convincingly creating a wholesome facade that contrasted with the corruption narrative.
Then she very cannily suggested enhancements to boost viewer engagement.
Grace’s insights were sharp, and I imagined her fingers flying over the keyboard as she articulated her thoughts.
The pacing during the initial inspection scene moves too quickly to build proper anticipation, she wrote.
When Abe conducts the ‘purity check,’ the camera should linger longer on Debbie’s face, capturing each micro-expression as she processes the violation.
The audience needs to see her internal struggle—the war between her training to be modest and her body’s involuntary response.
I paused, intrigued by Grace’s analytical depth. I could almost hear her voice as I moved on to her next point.
Additionally, Ruth’s role could be expanded.
Her gentle encouragement while participating in Debbie’s first violation creates a fascinating dynamic—the maternal figure who enables rather than protects.
This psychological complexity would resonate with viewers who understand that the most effective training comes from caring authority.
I took a long breath through my nose. I could feel the intensity of Grace’s observations, and I was taken aback by how much they felt like my own. Her analysis was surprisingly comprehensive, and I found almost every detail compelling and well supported.
The bedroom scene where Debbie watches her foster parents copulate is conceptually strong, but could benefit from more explicit dialogue.
Abe’s clinical instruction to Debbie about ‘what good wives do’ should be interspersed with specific commands about her future duties.
Perhaps he could describe exactly how her eventual husband will use her while demonstrating on Ruth.
I smiled, warmth growing in my chest as I realized the sexy, wonderfully degrading nature of Grace’s suggestions. I couldn’t deny her ability to dig deep into the psychological layers, even if it meant delving into the more provocative elements.
On the other hand, I knew Van would tell me that Assessment liked to see girls like Grace develop a little more freedom of expression than my sweet new intern seemed able to demonstrate at the moment.
For a young woman who had starred in her own explicit streams, Grace’s vocabulary seemed a bit limited.
I double-clicked on the final paragraph to insert a comment that would ping her email.
What should Abe have said, exactly?
Grace
I thought all morning about Scott’s comment on my report. He didn’t mention it—or refer to the video assignment at all—when I brought him his afternoon coffee.
He did have me close the door of his office and raise my skirt to show him the black lingerie I had chosen this morning.
He put his hand between my thighs without saying anything, just looking into my eyes.
My forehead creased hard at the humiliating, possessive caress, and I chewed the inside of my cheek, wondering what would happen next.
But Scott merely took his hand away and said, “You may lower your skirt, Grace, and go. Have a good afternoon.”
Walking back to my cubicle, his comment played again in my head. What should Abe have said?
My face blazed as the answer came to me once again—the same words that I had thought, but not written, the previous night.
Your husband will fuck your tight little cunt just like this, Debbie. He’s going to have a good time when he pops your sweet cherry.
How could I even think those words, let alone write them?
By the time I got back to my apartment, my nerves felt shot.
I stood in my apartment’s entryway, my handbag sliding from my shoulder as exhaustion hit me.
The refrigerator display chirped its greeting, reminding me I’d only consumed 892 calories so far.
My stomach rumbled in response, but as I reached for the handle, another thought struck me with the force of a physical blow.
The second video. I had to watch Morning Corrections tonight.
My hand froze on the refrigerator handle.
The memory of this morning flooded back—standing before my mirror in the black lingerie I’d selected with trembling fingers.
The bra had delicate lace and strategic cutouts, pushing my breasts up scandalously.
But it was the thong that had made my breath catch.
A tiny triangle of black lace in front, with a string that disappeared between my cheeks, leaving me essentially bare.
I’d turned slowly, examining myself from every angle, and felt a shameful thrill at how…
sexy I looked. How unlike the demure girl from the New Modesty program.
My tummy flipped with something that wasn’t hunger. I should eat first, I told myself. Be sensible. But my body was already responding to the mere thought of what waited on that tablet, warmth spreading below my belly where the tiny thong pressed against increasingly sensitive flesh.
I abandoned the refrigerator and walked to the bedroom on unsteady legs.
My fingers fumbled with the zipper of my dress, and I let it pool at my feet.
The full-length mirror reflected again what Scott had seen earlier—the black lace barely concealing anything, my nipples already visible through the sheer fabric, the thong showing vividly how bare I was required to keep myself down there.
I bit my lip hard, my hand drifting toward my breast before I caught myself. Not yet. I had to watch the video first, follow his instructions exactly.
I grabbed the tablet with shaking hands and settled onto the bed, propping myself against the pillows. The NMB logo made my tummy flip all on its own as I navigated to the second video. Morning Corrections appeared on the screen, and I pressed play before I could lose my nerve.
The scene opened in Debbie’s pink and white bedroom. Morning light streamed through sheer curtains as Ruth entered, her expression stern but not unkind.
“Time for your morning inspection, sweetheart,” she announced, pulling back Debbie’s covers.
Debbie sat up groggily, wearing a thin white nightgown that had ridden up during sleep. Ruth’s eyes immediately narrowed.
“Stand up and remove your nightgown,” she instructed.
I watched as Debbie obeyed, her movements still sluggish with sleep. When the nightgown dropped, revealing her completely naked body, Ruth’s expression darkened further.
“Turn around, hands on the wall.”
The camera captured everything as Ruth conducted her inspection, running her hands along Debbie’s body with detached precision. When her fingers reached between the girl’s legs, she made a disappointed sound.
“What did I tell you about not giving in to temptation?” Ruth’s voice was sharp with disapproval.
My hand moved between my own legs almost involuntarily, fingers finding the damp lace of my thong as I watched Ruth withdraw her hand and show the camera—and Debbie—the evidence of the girl’s arousal glistening on her fingers.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Debbie whimpered. “I tried not to touch myself, but… I had a dream, and…”
“Dreams are no excuse for giving into idle pleasure,” Ruth said firmly. “Abe will need to correct this behavior immediately.”
My breathing quickened as Abe entered the frame, already dressed for work in slacks and a button-down shirt.
His expression when he saw Debbie’s position—hands against the wall, legs spread, Ruth’s fingers still displaying her wetness—made my stomach clench with recognition.
It was the same look Jacob had gotten when he found a reason to discipline.
“How many times have we discussed this, Debbie?” Abe asked, his voice dangerously calm as he removed his belt with practiced efficiency.
“Three times, sir,” Debbie whispered, her whole body trembling.
“And yet here we are again.” The leather made an ominous creaking noise as he doubled it over. “Twenty lashes. Count them.”
I pressed my fingers harder against my clit through the soaked lace as the first strike landed across Debbie’s bottom.
Her cry echoed through my bedroom, mixing with my own soft gasp.
The camera work was exquisite—cutting between Debbie’s face contorted in pain, the red stripes blooming across her pale skin, and Ruth’s expression of maternal concern mixed with approval.
“One! Thank you, sir!” Debbie sobbed.
By the tenth lash, to my mingled dismay and helpless excitement, I had done something so naughty it made my head spin: I had pulled the thong inside the lips of my soaking pussy, one hand’s fingers working frantically around it and over my bare flesh while the other tugged the panties against my swollen clit.
Debbie’s bottom was a canvas of red welts, and tears streamed down her face, but the camera also captured how her thighs glistened with fresh arousal.
The contradiction made me feel faint—the pain clearly genuine, the humiliation absolute, yet her body betrayed her just as mine betrayed me now.
“You’re getting wetter,” Abe observed after the fifteenth lash, pausing to run his fingers through her folds. “This correction is arousing you.”
“I’m sorry, sir!” Debbie wailed. “I can’t help it!”
“That’s exactly the problem,” Ruth said, moving to stroke Debbie’s hair. “Good girls learn to control their responses. Perhaps we need to add another element to your training.”
My fingers stilled as Ruth produced something from the dresser drawer—a thick rubber plug that made my own bottom clench in remembered sensation.
“Oh, no, please,” Debbie begged, but Ruth was already coating it with lubricant as Abe delivered the final five lashes of the girl’s punishment.
“Now the plug, to help you remember to maintain proper control,” Abe said. “Go ahead, Ruth. Give her a taste of what a husband does to make sure his wife obeys him. Debbie, honey, reach back and spread those cheeks for us. You’ll thank your foster mother once she’s got your butt nice and full.”
Debbie cried out as Ruth worked the plug into her thoroughly whipped bottom.
The combined sight and sound of Debbie’s punishment and violation pushed me over the edge.
My orgasm crashed through me as I watched Ruth seat the plug fully between the firm little cheeks and trembling thighs where Abe’s belt had painted such vivid stripes.
I bit down hard on my tongue to muffle my scream, my hips bucking wildly as the thong cut into my sensitive flesh, the friction almost painful in its intensity.
“Thank you, ma’am!” Debbie sobbed on screen, her legs shaking as she struggled to maintain position with the plug stretching her uncomfortably.
“Good girl,” Abe said, his tone shifting to something almost tender. “Now Ruth will help you get dressed for breakfast. You’ll wear your training underwear today as a reminder.”
The scene shifted to the breakfast table, where Debbie sat gingerly on a cushion, her discomfort obvious despite her attempts to eat normally.
The thick training underwear showed clearly through her thin dress, and every few minutes she would shift, a small whimper escaping as the plug made its presence known.
I lay panting on my bed, the tablet sliding onto the mattress beside me.
My panties were utterly ruined, twisted and soaked beyond salvation.
With trembling fingers, I peeled them off, gasping as the fabric pulled away from my oversensitive flesh.
The scent of my arousal filled the air—musky, unmistakable, shameful.
I held the destroyed garment up to examine it, my face burning at the evidence of my desperation.
The delicate lace was stretched and distorted where I’d pulled it, the black fabric darkened further with my wetness.
Without letting myself think too hard about it, I brought it to my face and inhaled deeply, the concentrated scent making my head swim and sending an aftershock of pleasure through my still-trembling body.
After sealing the thong in its labeled bag, I grabbed my laptop with shaking hands. Scott’s comment on my first report burned in my mind. He wanted specifics. He wanted me to write the words that made my face flame with embarrassment.
Video Analysis: Morning Corrections
The morning inspection scene effectively establishes the power dynamic but could benefit from more explicit dialogue during the punishment sequence. When Abe observes Debbie’s arousal, he should be more specific in his degradation.
I paused, my fingers hovering over the keys. Then, with my face burning, I forced myself to continue:
He should say something like: “Look how wet your tight little cunt is getting from your punishment, Debbie. Your pussy is practically dripping for the belt. What kind of shameful slut gets this aroused from having her ass whipped?”