Chapter 13
Audrey
His casual lewdness transfixed me with shame.
Paralyzed by humiliation, I stood frozen in the center of the living room as Pierre’s words hung in the air between us.
My virginity clearly represented something he had bought and paid for.
My body flushed hot, then cold at the thought.
The abstract idea that the special premium for my defloration lay within my grasp didn’t seem to have anything to do with the electric tension of the here and now.
Pierre reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his phone. With casual authority, he tapped the screen several times, his eyes never leaving mine. To my astonishment, a panel in the entertainment center across the room slid open silently, revealing a hidden compartment I hadn’t known existed.
“Selecta provides for a sponsor’s convenience in amazing ways,” Pierre informed me, his tone conversational, as if we were discussing something as mundane as the weather. “Look in the compartment and bring me what you find there.”
I hesitated, my feet seemingly rooted to the floor.
What horrors might be concealed in that secret space?
Some instrument of torture? Some humiliating sexual device?
My imagination ran wild, conjuring images that made my stomach clench with dread—and, shamefully, with that persistent, unwanted arousal.
“Now, Audrey,” Pierre commanded, his voice hardening. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
My legs trembled as I forced myself to move toward the entertainment center.
Each step felt like wading through molasses, my nearly naked body hyper-aware of Pierre’s gaze following my movements.
I felt the cool air against my bare breasts, the snug fit of the thong between my buttocks, the wetness gathering embarrassingly between my thighs.
When I reached the compartment, I peered inside cautiously. What I saw made my blood run cold.
A whip—no, not exactly a whip, but something similar—lay nestled against black velvet. It had a polished wooden handle about ten inches long, from which emerged multiple slender leather strands, perhaps a dozen in all. The leather was supple looking, well oiled, the color of dark honey.
“It’s called a martinet,” Pierre explained from behind me, as if sensing my confusion. “A traditional French implement of discipline. Quite effective for correcting willful behavior.”
I recoiled instinctively, taking a step back. My breathing had become shallow, my pulse racing wildly. This couldn’t be happening. This elegant, sophisticated man couldn’t possibly intend to whip me with that cruel-looking instrument.
“I think I’ll begin to whip you in the panties,” Pierre continued calmly. “They give such easy access to your naughty bottom.”
I felt like I might faint. The room seemed to tilt slightly, the edges of my vision darkening.
I’d never been whipped before—spanked, yes, over Theodore’s knee during that mortifying photo session, but that had been different.
His hand had been firm, but warm, human.
This implement looked cold, impersonal, designed specifically to inflict pain.
“Bring me the martinet, Audrey,” Pierre repeated, his voice deceptively gentle now. “The longer you delay, the more severe your punishment will become.”
I shook my head wordlessly, still staring at the implement. My fingers twitched at my sides, but I couldn’t make them reach for the martinet. The leather strands seemed to shimmer in the apartment’s soft lighting, promising pain I wasn’t ready to accept.
“Very well,” Pierre sighed behind me. “Since you insist on disobedience, I’ll have to whip you harder and longer than I had initially planned. This is your choice, Audrey.”
I continued to stare at the martinet, unable to look away from it yet equally unable to touch it. My heart hammered against my ribs like a caged animal seeking escape.
“This resistance of yours,” Pierre continued, his voice taking on a lecturing tone, “it’s precisely what I want to address tonight. This is the essence of the New Modesty, what I wanted to teach you about yourself.”
I finally managed to tear my gaze away from the martinet to look over my shoulder at him. His expression was calm, almost tender, in spite of the threat of punishment in his words.
“You may not be a traditional midwestern farm girl—you came to Paris after all, and I can tell that you’re brilliant—but you still have the needs of an old-fashioned bride on her wedding night,” he explained.
His hazel eyes seemed to see right through me, past my defenses to something I’d kept hidden even from myself.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered, though some deep, secret part of me feared that I did.
I heard myself whimper as Pierre’s words penetrated the fog of fear surrounding me.
Old-fashioned bride on her wedding night?
The crude yet somehow romantic image made my stomach flutter.
Even in my terror, I felt a rush of wetness between my legs.
“You need guidance, Audrey,” Pierre said softly. “Above all, you need guidance in learning to give pleasure to a man who has taken you in hand and wants to support you.”
His words resonated within me, stirring something primal and long-denied. My rational, feminist mind hated how he made me feel—exposed, vulnerable, seen. Yet another part of me, a part I’d spent years suppressing, thrilled to his assessment.
I realized with a shock that I was falling for him—not just physically responding to his dominance, but emotionally drawn to his confidence, his perceptiveness, his unwavering certainty. The thought terrified me even more than the martinet.
“You should go,” I said abruptly, turning to face him fully despite my near-nakedness.
I crossed my arms over my chest, and I divided my attention between his too-handsome face and a scan of the floor to figure out where the dress had ended up.
“You can take your money back if you want. Maybe we can talk about this tomorrow.”
Pierre’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened.
“That’s not how this works,” he said, his voice suddenly hard as steel. He stepped toward me with a fluid grace that reminded me of a predator closing in on its prey.
I froze, unable to move as he approached. My legs wouldn’t obey the frantic commands from my brain to run, to escape, to do anything but stand there trembling like a frightened doe.
Pierre grabbed my elbow with his left hand, his grip firm but not painful. With his right, he reached into the compartment and retrieved the martinet, the leather strands swinging ominously as he lifted it.
“No, please,” I whispered, but my protest was weak, my voice barely audible even to my own ears.
Without responding, Pierre marched me to the couch, his steps purposeful and unhurried.
I stumbled alongside him, my bare feet unsteady on the deep carpet.
When we reached the sofa, he bent me over its arm in one smooth motion, pressing me down until my breasts were flattened against the cool fabric, my bottom raised and vulnerable in the tiny white thong.
The first strike came without warning, the leather strands of the martinet landing across both cheeks of my backside with a sound like distant thunder. The pain followed a split second later—sharp, stinging, radiating outward from the point of impact. I gasped, my body jerking reflexively.
“One,” Pierre counted calmly, as if we were engaged in some ordinary, innocuous activity rather than this surreal punishment.
Before I could recover, the second stroke fell, slightly lower than the first. The leather strips connected with my sensitive skin, some of them curling around to flick against the tender flesh where thigh met buttock.
“Two.”
A cry escaped me then, a strangled sound that seemed to come from someone else.
The pain was unlike anything I’d experienced before—not just the physical sensation, which was intense enough, but the emotional impact of being disciplined this way, bent over and helpless while a man I barely knew administered punishment to my nearly naked body.
Somehow the spanking from Theodore, the photographer, didn’t compare.
To my distress, I had enough room in my thoughts to figure out why: because I liked Pierre, admired him…
and because I knew he intended to claim me with the rigid manhood I suddenly felt desperate to see, so that I could make certain—crazy as it made me feel to long for it—that his cock had gotten hard as he punished me.
“Three.”
The third stroke landed directly across the thin strip of fabric covering my most intimate parts. The leather strands somehow found their way beneath the thong, striking my tender flesh with precise cruelty. I yelped, my hips bucking involuntarily.
“Four.”
By the fifth stroke, tears had sprung to my eyes, blurring my vision. I gripped the couch cushions desperately, my knuckles white with tension. Each impact of the martinet sent surges of heat radiating through my body, pain transforming into something more complex with every passing second.
“Five.” Pierre’s voice remained steady, controlled.
The sixth stroke fell directly on the upper thighs, where the skin was more sensitive than my bottom. I cried out loudly, my legs trembling as they struggled to support me.
“Six.”
I sobbed uncontrollably now, my tears dampening the couch beneath me. The pain from the martinet had built into a fiery blaze across my bottom and thighs, each new stroke layering over the previous until my entire lower body felt aflame.
“I’m going to take your panties down, now,” Pierre announced. “I want to see your pretty con.”
Panic surged through me.
“No!” I cried, flinging my hand back in a desperate attempt to protect myself from this final humiliation. “Please, don’t!”
Pierre caught my wrist easily, bending it behind my back in a firm hold that wasn’t painful, but left me completely helpless. I felt his other hand at the waistband of my thong, his fingers sliding beneath the delicate lace.
“This is happening, Audrey,” he said, his voice low and determined. “You need to understand this new life of yours.”
With one smooth motion, he pulled the thong down to just above my knees, surely exposing my pussy and even my anus to his gaze. I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to bear the thought of being so completely revealed to him.
The feeling of having my panties pulled down by a man—by Pierre—created a terrible conflict within me.
On one level, the humiliation felt excruciating, worse than anything I’d experienced before.
I felt like a naughty child being punished, stripped of both clothing and dignity.
Yet beneath that shame, something primitive and undeniable stirred—a dark excitement, a forbidden thrill that made my breath catch and my pulse race.
My pussy clenched involuntarily, a betrayal so intimate I wanted to die of shame. Behind me, Pierre chuckled, the sound both knowing and triumphant.
“I can see how badly your pussy needs a man’s cock in it,” he observed, his voice thick with satisfaction. “It’s practically weeping for attention. But you must learn obedience before you’re fucked for the first time.”
His crude words should have disgusted me, should have made me fight harder against this degradation. Instead, they sent a fresh surge of need between my legs.
“I’m going to whip you until you say you’ll put the babydoll nightgown on,” Pierre continued, running one finger lightly down the cleft of my buttocks, making me shiver uncontrollably. “When you do that, you will earn the right to suck my cock, which has gotten very, very hard as I’ve whipped you.”
The martinet whistled through the air again, landing with precise cruelty across my now bare bottom.
Without the minimal protection of the thong, the pain was even more intense, the leather strands finding every sensitive spot with unerring accuracy.
I howled, my body bucking against the unyielding arm of the couch.
“Seven,” Pierre counted calmly.
To my horror, my mouth began to water as I thought about Pierre’s unseen cock.
The idea of putting my lips around his hardness, of tasting him, of feeling him thrust into my mouth—sent a shameful ripple of desire through my entire body.
I’d never sucked a man before, never even seen an erect penis except in anatomical diagrams or glimpsed in movies.
The thought should have disgusted me, or at least frightened me.
Instead, I found myself wondering how big he was, how he would taste, what sounds he would make as I pleasured him with my mouth.
Then, even worse, after the next lash from the martinet, Pierre put his hand between my thighs. The sudden contact with my most intimate place made me gasp, my body jerking in surprise.
“It’s important to me that you learn not just about the painful side of discipline,” he said, his voice husky with what I knew with a lurch of my stomach must be lust, “but also the other side—not just about punishment, but also about reward.”
His fingers brushed lightly against my outer lips, making me tremble. No man had ever touched me there before. The sensation was electric, sending sparks shooting up my spine.
“You’re so wet,” Pierre murmured, sounding pleased. “Your body understands what’s happening even if your mind still resists.”
He began to work my virgin pussy with what I sensed, with a hot blush, must be great skill, his fingers sliding through my folds with confident precision. One finger circled the entrance of my vagina, teasing but not penetrating, while his thumb found my clit and pressed against it gently.
The pleasure was immediate and overwhelming. I bit my lip, trying desperately to hold back the moan building in my throat.
When his finger finally slipped inside me, just to the first knuckle, the sensation was so intense that I couldn’t contain the sound any longer. A moan escaped me, low and needy, a sound I barely recognized as my own.
Pierre’s response was immediate. His hand withdrew from between my legs, and before I could process the loss, three hard lashes from the martinet landed in rapid succession across my already tender bottom.
“Eight, nine, ten,” he counted, his voice now tight with what sounded like barely controlled desire.
I cried out with each stroke, the pain somehow sharper, more focused after the momentary pleasure his fingers had provided. Tears streamed down my face, but beneath the pain, that insistent pulse of arousal continued to build.
“Please,” I sobbed. “Oh, please…”