Chapter 16
Paul
My eyes narrowed as I watched Anne’s face over the surveillance feed from Penelope’s office.
I had a truly extraordinary suite of biometric analytic algorithms I could have called up if I wanted to, detailing precisely how aroused my new girl had just gotten at the idea of going down on her boss.
I didn’t have any intention of evoking them, though: I preferred to judge what was happening between Anne’s lovely thighs, not to mention in her heart and mind, the old-fashioned way.
The picture on the screen was high-definition: Selecta didn’t skimp on its internal monitoring systems. The camera angle gave me a clear view of the scene from a position roughly equivalent to standing in the corner behind Penelope’s desk.
I could see Penelope’s face in three-quarter profile, her head tilted back against the chair, her lips parted, her hand still working beneath the burgundy silk of her naughty panties.
I could see Anne kneeling on the carpet in front of her, that cream blouse buttoned to the collar, her shoulders hunched in the posture of a girl who understood what was about to be asked of her and was losing the battle against her bashfulness about it.
Penelope’s free hand found the side of Anne’s face.
She cupped it—tenderly, almost maternally—and then her fingers slid back into Anne’s hair, gathering a fistful of it almost the same way I had an hour earlier on the bedroom set.
Penelope Gallagher had done this before, and the ease with which she handled the girl told me she’d done it many times.
“Keep telling me,” Penelope said, and her voice came through the surveillance audio with crystalline fidelity. The microphones in her office were military grade—another Selecta indulgence. “You were over his knee. He’d bared your bottom. He was spanking you with his hand. What happened next?”
Anne’s voice, thin and wavering: “He counted. Each one. And by the sixth I was… I was crying. Really crying. Not just tears but—”
“Sobbing,” Penelope supplied. Her hand withdrew from beneath the silk of her panties and moved downward.
She hooked her thumb under the burgundy fabric over the cleft of her pussy and pulled it to the side, tugging the gusset away from her center and holding it there with a casual expertise that exposed her to the girl kneeling between her thighs.
I watched Penelope’s other hand tighten in Anne’s hair and guide her head forward.
“Don’t stop talking. Tell me about the sobbing.
But you’re going to make my cunt feel good while you do it. ”
I leaned back in my chair in the control room and studied the feed.
The biometric overlay pulsed in my peripheral vision—heart rate, galvanic skin response, core temperature—but I kept my focus on what my eyes could tell me without technological assistance.
Anne’s shoulders had gone rigid, her spine stiff with the particular tension of a girl confronting something that her upbringing had given her no framework for.
Her hands, which had been clasped in her lap, now hovered uncertainly in the air on either side of Penelope’s thighs, fingers spread, as if she were about to touch a surface she’d been warned was electrified.
But her head moved forward. Penelope’s hand guided it, yes, the fist in Anne’s hair providing direction.
I’d spent enough years reading the difference between a girl being forced and a girl being given permission to know which one I was watching.
Anne’s resistance lived in her shoulders and her spine.
Her compliance lived lower, in the way her knees shifted on the carpet, settling into a wider stance, and in the almost imperceptible forward tilt of her hips that told me her body had already begun to respond to the proximity of Penelope’s arousal.
“Good girl,” I murmured, as if Anne were there with me. The decision to delay the bathroom scene until tomorrow had obviously been a good one; Anne had a little more to learn about herself today and tonight before she became truly ready for the next step that my shaving her pussy would represent.
* * *
Anne
I heard a tiny whimper emerge from my throat as my lips made contact with Penelope’s fragrant pussy.
The taste of her was different from what I’d expected—though I hadn’t expected anything, not really, because I’d never imagined myself here, kneeling between a woman’s thighs with my mouth on her most intimate place.
She tasted warm and faintly salt-sweet and alive, a musk that was nothing like Master Paul’s but carried its own particular intensity, its own demand.
The trimmed hair brushed against my upper lip and nose, soft and surprisingly intimate, and beneath it her flesh was swollen and slick and hot against my tongue.
“There,” Penelope breathed, her hand tightening in my hair. “Just like that. Flatten your tongue. Broader strokes. Don’t dart—lick. Long and slow, from the bottom up. You’re not trying to find anything yet. You’re just… tasting.”
I obeyed. My tongue moved in a slow, broad stroke upward through her musky folds, and Penelope’s hips shifted in the chair—a small, clearly involuntary motion that told me I’d done something right.
The wet sound my mouth made against her was obscene in the quiet of the office, and I felt my face burn hotter.
“Good,” she murmured. “Now keep going. And keep talking.”
A little whine came from the vicinity of my nose. I sounded like a naughty little girl trying to get out of a difficult task on a technicality. My words, muffled by her sex, came out in a matching petulant tone.
“I… I… can’t talk while I’m—”
Her hand pulled my head back, just far enough that my lips separated from her with a soft, wet sound. Her eyes looked down at me—heavy-lidded, cheeks flushed, mouth curved in that particular smile that seemed both that of a mentor and of a predator.
“Yes, you can,” she said. “You talk, and then you lick. You give me a sentence of the story, and then you put your mouth back on me. Think of it as practice—a girl needs to learn to multitask when she’s pleasing her boss.
Now. You were telling me about the spanking.
He finished at ten. What happened next?”
She guided my head back down. My lips found her again, and I gave her three long, slow strokes of my tongue before pulling back just enough to speak, my breath panting against her wetness.
“He… he helped me up. Off his lap. And he told me to strip.”
“Back on me,” Penelope instructed. I pressed my mouth to her and licked, tasting her more deeply now. I felt like I was watching another girl, one who found performing cunnilingus an ordinary part of office life. Penelope let out a low, approving hum. “Mmm. You’re a quick study. Did you strip?”
I pulled back. “Yes. I turned away from him and unbuttoned my blouse. And my bra. And then I… I kept rubbing my bottom. I couldn’t stop touching where he’d spanked me, and Melissa—”
“Back down. Tongue on my clit now. You feel that little nub? Higher. Higher. There—yes, right there. Small circles. Gentle. Don’t press too hard.”
I found it—the firm, swollen bead of her clitoris, and I circled it with the tip of my tongue the way she told me to.
Penelope’s thigh muscles tensed against the sides of my face, and the sound she made—a low, shuddering exhale through parted lips—sent a pulse of heat between my own legs that made me squirm on my knees.
“Melissa saw me rubbing my bottom,” I continued, pulling back just enough to form the words, my lips brushing Penelope’s flesh as I spoke. “She said it was the… the whole campaign in a single image. And then Darlene lit me, and I had to stand there, naked, while they—”
“Put your mouth back on me when you pause,” Penelope commanded, her voice suddenly harsh and hungry. “Don’t leave me empty, you little slut.”
I licked her. Long, slow, broad strokes alternating with the tight circles on her clit that made her breathing change.
My jaw still felt sore from Master Paul—the ache lived deep in the hinge of it, a dull reminder of what his cock had done to me—but this was different.
Softer. My tongue moved over yielding flesh rather than rigid hardness, and the rhythm Penelope wanted was gentler, more patient than the brutal pace Master Paul had set.
“Then what?” Penelope asked, her voice thickening.
I pulled back. A thin strand of her wetness connected my lower lip to her folds, and I watched it catch the light from the office window before it broke. “Master Paul told me to put on the baby doll. The pink one. And when I had it on, he… he started to inspect me.”
“Inspect you how?” Her hand in my hair pushed me back down, and I licked her while I gathered the courage to continue.
“He circled me,” I said against her terribly wet pussy.
“He touched me through the nightgown. My shoulders. My arms. My breasts.” I gave her clit three tight circles and felt her hips buck.
“He lifted the hem and looked at my bottom. At the marks from the spanking. And then he told me to turn around and face him, and he… he looked at my…”
“Your cunt,” Penelope supplied, her voice gone raspy. “Say it.”
“My cunt,” I whispered, and the word felt different this time—less like a grenade and more like a key, turning in a lock I hadn’t known I carried. “He looked at my… my cunt through the chiffon. And then he told me to lift the nightgown. To hold it up above my waist so he could see me properly.”
“And you did.”
“Yes… and he said I’d have to be…” I took a little breath through my nose and my tummy flipped at how naughty the scent between my face and Penelope’s pussy had become. The word came out in a sob. “…shaved.”
“Ooh, that’s hot,” Penelope said, with the air of a connoisseur. “Good girl. Suck on my clit now. Take it between your lips, very gently, and suck. Like you’re nursing on it.”
I did. The sensation must have been intense, because Penelope’s hand spasmed in my hair and her hips pressed upward against my mouth with a force that ground her pubic bone against my nose.
The neatly trimmed hair tickled my upper lip, and I found myself thinking—with the dazed, dissociative clarity of a girl whose life had been turned inside out—about the difference between her body and mine.
She had hair. I had hair. But hers seemed to be…
allowed, maybe… and mine would be taken away tomorrow.
As if reading my thoughts, Penelope’s hand eased its grip, and she spoke in a voice that had gone slightly breathless but retained its instructional quality.
“You’re wondering why I’m allowed to keep my pubic hair, when yours is going to be taken away,” she said in a voice so knowing that it made me feel faint.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
Penelope’s hand stroked through my hair—a gentler motion now, almost petting. “It’s a matter of designation, Anne, as we call it here. I’m registered as a switch within the Selecta hierarchy. Do you know what that means?”
“Sort of,” I whispered. “It means you can be… both? Dominant and…”
“And submissive, yes. Depending on the context and the partner.” Her fingers traced the shell of my ear, and I shivered.
“A registered switch at my level is encouraged to maintain neatly kept pubic hair. It’s a marker of status, in a way—a visible sign that I hold authority over girls like you, even though there are people, men especially, who hold authority over me.
The grooming reflects the position. Trimmed. Maintained. Present but controlled.”
Her hand slid back into my hair and guided me down again. I licked her obediently, tasting the increased slickness that told me our conversation was arousing her as much as my tongue.
“Girls like you, though,” she continued, and her voice had taken on the particular quality of warmth and instruction laced with something darker that I’d come to recognize as Penelope at her most dangerous.
“Girls in your position—new, unattached, submissive by nature even if they haven’t fully accepted it yet—are strongly encouraged to be bare.
Completely bare. Smooth as the day you were born.
No hair, no hiding place, nothing between your skin and whatever your trainer or your suitor wants to put against it. ”
She paused. Her hips rolled against my mouth.
“It’s not arbitrary,” she said. “The baring serves a purpose. When a girl has hair between her legs, she has… hmmm… psychologically, even if she doesn’t realize it…
she has one last scrap of coverage. One last barrier.
One final little way of saying this part of me is still mine, still private, still hidden.
Taking that away… waxing her or shaving her smooth, making her feel the air and the fabric and every casual touch against bare, sensitive skin…
oh… it… removes that barrier. It makes her feel her submission constantly.
Between her thighs, every moment of every day.
It’s one of the most effective tools in any Selecta training program, and it’s practically non-negotiable for girls at your level. ”
My tongue had slowed against her. The words had settled over me with a weight that made my stomach feel hollow and my pulse race.
I thought of Master Paul’s hands between my thighs, tugging at my pubic hair with that expression of displeasure.
I thought of him saying This little cunt is going to be shaved.
I thought of the bathroom set—the white tile, the claw-foot tub, the mirror—and the razor that would be waiting for me there tomorrow morning.
“I’m glad Paul is going to do it himself,” Penelope said.
Her voice had become soft, almost confiding.
“Tomorrow. Honestly, Anne, it’s better this way.
Having a man shave you—having your trainer bare your pussy with his own hands while you hold yourself open for him—it’s…
hmmm… faster, sweetie… oh, God… that’s it… ”
Her hips bucked. She pulled my face against her. “…just like that… it’s not just about the hair. It’s about… surrender. It’s about letting someone take something from you that you can’t take back, and trusting that what he’s giving you in return is worth more than what you lost.”
Her hand pressed my face even more firmly against her, moved herself to rub her clit against my nose, then released me yet again. “What happened next?”