Chapter 24
Audrey
Bride.
Pierre had said it, as if he thought of me that way. At the very least he clearly meant to train me the way one of Selecta’s New Modesty brides got trained by her new husband: shamefully, thoroughly, dominantly.
Bride… a bride who’s also a little whore.
I didn’t let myself think about either of those terribly powerful words as I lowered my eyes and went into the bathroom, my bottom burning as I imagined so many brides’ did, when their husbands decided they needed a lesson in obedience.
I found the large purple plug in the black box on the counter.
The mere sight of it—its sheer size—made my bottom clench in reflexive fear.
I picked it up with trembling fingers, then reached for the lubricant.
As I turned to leave, I caught sight of myself in the mirror—naked, tearstained, my bottom glowing red from Pierre’s punishment.
The stark reality of what I’d become stared back at me.
I tried to stop thinking about Pierre telling me he meant to treat me like a New Modesty bride, but the more I pushed the thought away, the more insistently it came back.
Did the New Modesty recommend anal training—anal punishment, even—for new brides? I shuddered. Suddenly I felt quite certain that they did. The thought sent a terribly unwelcome pulse of heat through my core, making me press my thighs together.
“Audrey!” Pierre called from the bedroom, his voice sharp with impatience. “Hurry up, unless you want more whipping.”
With a little whimper, I grabbed the plug and the lube and hurried out, wincing at the sting in my bottom and then suddenly realizing how very wet I’d gotten since my sponsor had whipped me.
The evidence of my arousal was unmistakable, slick moisture gathering between my thighs as the painful glow from the martinet seemed to keep making its way forward as something very different.
I stood before Pierre, naked, the plug in one hand and the lubricant in the other. My sponsor sat on the edge of the bed, his expression a mixture of stern authority and hungry anticipation. My cheeks burned with humiliation as I felt a droplet of wetness slide down my inner thigh.
Hesitantly, heat flooding my cheeks, I asked, “May I… may I masturbate while you put the plug in, Monsieur?”
Pierre’s eyebrows rose slightly, surprise flickering across his handsome features before his lips curved into a knowing smile.
“So the little whore needs to come while her ass is being trained,” he mused, his voice rich with amusement. “That’s very honest of you, Audrey.”
I lowered my eyes, mortified by my own request, yet unable to deny the throbbing need between my legs. The combination of the burning in my bottom and the anticipation of being filled again had awakened a desperate hunger I couldn’t suppress.
“I would have allowed you that pleasure if you had obeyed me from the start,” Pierre said, his voice smooth, but unyielding.
“But your defiance has consequences. Your real punishment is that you’re not going to come for a long time, ma petite.
” His eyes narrowed slightly as he pointed to the bed. “Now present your anus for training.”
My face burning with shame, my bottom still aflame from the martinet, I crawled onto the bed on trembling limbs.
I knelt with my face down against the comforter, then reached back with both hands to spread my buttocks.
The position was so utterly humiliating that I whimpered, feeling the cool air of the room against my most private place.
“Beautiful,” Pierre murmured, taking the lubricant from where I’d placed it on the bed.
I heard the cap snap open, then felt his slick finger circling the tiny bud, the little hole where he had opened me on his manhood.
Despite my embarrassment, my body responded eagerly to his touch, my inner muscles relaxing as he worked the lubricant inside me with methodical patience.
When he was satisfied with his preparation, I watched from the corner of my eye, my heart racing, as Pierre picked up the purple plug.
Then I whimpered softly as I felt the cool, blunt tip pressing against my entrance, so much larger than the one I’d worn before.
He pushed forward steadily, giving me no chance to resist or hesitate.
The stretch was immediate and intense, burning as the widest part breached my tight ring of muscle.
“Breathe through it,” Pierre instructed as I gasped in discomfort. “Accept what your master gives you.”
I sobbed as he continued to press the plug deeper, feeling impossibly full as my body struggled to accommodate the intrusion. When it finally slipped fully inside, my anus closing around the narrower neck, I collapsed forward onto the bed, overwhelmed by sensation.
I felt like a naughty little girl who’d been taught a terrible lesson.
The burning in my bottom from the martinet combined with the profound fullness of the plug created a swirling mass of concepts and sensations, all orbiting a hot, central star—the idea of disciplined submission.
In that moment of complete vulnerability, with nothing hidden from the man who had claimed every part of me, words spilled from my lips before I could stop them.
“I love you,” I whispered, then froze in horror at my admission.
Pierre’s hand, which had been gently caressing my punished flesh, stilled for a moment. The silence stretched between us, heavy with significance. Then I felt the mattress dip as he leaned over me, his lips brushing against my ear.
“I love you too, Audrey,” he said softly, his voice carrying a warmth I hadn’t heard before.
The words made my heart leap in my chest. I turned my head to look at him, searching his face for any sign of mockery or manipulation.
Instead, I found only intense sincerity in his hazel eyes.
Something shifted between us in that moment—not erasing the power dynamic that defined our relationship, but somehow deepening it, giving it new dimensions.
“Now,” Pierre said, “You may get up and put your dress on. It’s time to go.”
On the drive from Paris to the Loire, I had terrible trouble sitting still.
The seats of Pierre’s Jaguar were luxurious, but my bottom squirmed constantly thanks to the welts from the martinet and the presence of the huge plug.
Every bump in the road sent a jolt through my core, making me gasp involuntarily.
The leather seat beneath my bare thighs felt decadent and forbidden—nothing between it and my most intimate places except the thin fabric of my sundress.
To distract myself from the constant reminders of my submission, I found myself asking questions about the thing that had been occupying my thoughts more and more.
“Pierre,” I ventured, my voice smaller than I intended, “would you tell me more about the New Modesty?”
He glanced at me, his lips curving into a knowing smile as he returned his attention to the road. “What would you like to know, ma petite?”
I shifted in my seat, wincing as the movement caused the plug to press deeper. “I… I’m curious about it. How it works, what it means for women.” The admission felt strangely naughty, as if by asking, I was acknowledging my interest in something I should rightfully condemn.
“You’re beginning to embrace your curiosity about this,” he observed, his voice warm with approval. “That’s good. The New Modesty isn’t what feminist propaganda has painted it to be. It’s about acknowledging natural hierarchies and finding peace within them.”
I bit my lip, gathering my courage. “How often…” I hesitated, my cheeks burning. “How often do New Modesty brides get punished? And how?”
Pierre’s hand moved from the gearshift to rest on my bare knee, his touch sending electric currents up my thigh.
“It depends on the couple, of course,” he replied, his thumb tracing small circles on my skin.
“But the New Modesty Authority recommends weekly discipline at minimum. It keeps the relationship balanced.”
I swallowed hard, imagining being turned over Pierre’s knee once a week, my bottom bared for correction. The image shouldn’t have aroused me, but I couldn’t deny the fresh wetness gathering between my thighs.
“As for how,” Pierre continued, his voice dropping to a more intimate register, “the Authority recommends that a husband learn to use his belt properly. The symbolism of removing it from his own clothing to whip his wife helps her take his guidance seriously.”
“What about other implements?” I asked, the words escaping before I could consider how eager I must sound.
Pierre’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Paddles are common for more serious infractions. Wooden ones leave quite an impression. And for the most severe disobedience, a cane might be employed.”
My breath caught at the thought. “Do women get punished… in the nude?” I whispered, barely able to voice the question.
“The Authority recommends it,” Pierre confirmed, his hand sliding slightly higher on my thigh. “Punishment in the nude increases the wife’s shame at her misconduct. The vulnerability of being completely exposed while receiving discipline creates a powerful psychological effect.”
I bit my lip, trying to control my breathing as his fingers traced lazy patterns on my inner thigh, dangerously close to where I ached for his touch.
“In fact,” he continued, his voice dropping to an intimate murmur, “I’ve read that for some wives, having another couple present, invited to witness their punishment, even in the nude, helps them behave.
The added humiliation of being disciplined before her friends creates a stronger incentive to obey in the future. ”
My heart nearly stopped at his words. The image flooded my mind instantly: myself, completely naked, bent over while Pierre whipped me with the martinet…
all while another couple watched my shameful punishment.
The thought should have horrified me. Instead, a rush of wetness flooded between my thighs, so intense I gasped audibly.
I pressed my thighs together, mortified by my body’s response yet unable to control it. Pierre noticed immediately, his knowing smile making my face burn hotter.
“Does that idea excite you, ma petite?” he asked, his voice silky with amusement.
“No,” I lied, but my breathless tone betrayed me completely.
Pierre chuckled, his hand squeezing my thigh gently. “Your body tells me otherwise. I can smell your arousal from here.”
I turned my face toward the window, watching the French countryside blur past as I tried desperately to compose myself.
The wetness between my legs had become impossible to ignore.
I shifted uncomfortably, worried that I might soak through my dress onto Pierre’s expensive leather seat.
The thought only intensified my arousal, creating a humiliating feedback loop I couldn’t escape.
“Be still,” Pierre commanded, noting my squirming. “You’ll make the plug shift, and I don’t want you coming without permission.”
I whimpered, but forced myself to be still, feeling the constant pressure of the plug reminding me of my submission.
The rest of the journey passed in a haze of frustrated desire and shameful anticipation, Pierre occasionally asking me questions about my work at International Energy Partners that I struggled to answer coherently with the plug filling me and his hand resting possessively on my thigh.
When we finally turned onto a long, tree-lined drive, I gasped at the sight that greeted us.
Pierre’s chateau was not the small country house I’d picture, but a mansion that reminded me of the Petit Trianon.
Its pale stone facade gleamed in the afternoon sun.
Perfectly manicured gardens surrounded it, with fountains and statuary visible from the approach.
“Welcome to Chateau Lemieux,” Pierre said, clear pride in his voice as he guided the Jaguar around a circular drive to the front entrance.
A middle-aged couple stood waiting at the top of the stone steps, their posture perfect, their dark clothing immaculate.
“Those are the Duboises,” Pierre explained. “They’ve served my family for two generations. You may find them a bit formal, but their hearts are golden.”
They welcomed Pierre and me at the top of the stone steps. Monsieur Dubois, a distinguished silver-haired gentleman with ramrod-straight posture, bowed formally. Beside him, Madame Dubois, a woman of similar age with her dark hair pulled back in a neat bun, curtsied with practiced grace.
“Welcome home, Monsieur,” Monsieur Dubois said, his voice cultured and precise.
“Thank you, Etienne,” Pierre replied warmly. “This is Mademoiselle Campbell.”
I felt their eyes on me—assessing, knowing eyes that seemed to penetrate through my modest sundress to the plug nestled in my bottom and the welts from the martinet still burning my flesh.
My cheeks flushed hot as Madame Dubois’ gaze lingered on my face for a moment too long, a subtle smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Enchantée, Mademoiselle,” she said, her voice warm, but somehow knowing. “I have prepared the Lavender Suite for your stay.”
“Merci,” I managed, fighting the urge to squirm as the plug shifted inside me. Did they know what Pierre had done to me? Could they tell, somehow, that beneath my innocent blue dress I wore nothing but the evidence of my submission?
Pierre’s hand settled at the small of my back, guiding me up the final steps. The simple touch felt possessive, marking me as his in front of his servants. Neither Dubois reacted visibly, but I sensed their quiet acceptance of his claim on me.
“Aimee has prepared a light supper for eight o’clock,” Monsieur Dubois informed Pierre as we entered the grand foyer. “Would you prefer it served in the dining room or on the terrace?”
“The terrace, I think,” Pierre replied. “The evening should be pleasant. Now, I’ll show Audrey to her suite.”