Chapter 10 #2
“Yes, Daddy,” I whispered, the words emerging unbidden.
Esme smiled, a knowing look in her eyes.
“They always do, once they accept who they truly are.” She straightened and moved back to her portfolio.
“Now, about nightwear. I suggest several babyish nightgowns, perhaps with matching panties, and at least one special occasion nightie for when you want to reward her.”
“Perfect,” Jax agreed, his rhythm becoming more insistent. “And I want at least one outfit that’s specifically designed for public punishment. In front of guests, at any rate.”
I gasped, my head jerking up despite his grip on my hair. “Public?—?”
Another sharp slap landed on my bottom. “What did I say about speaking, Little Lulu?”
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I whimpered, lowering my head again.
“As I was saying,” Jax continued, his voice steady despite his increasingly forceful thrusts, “I want something that allows me to bare her bottom quickly and efficiently when she needs correction in public.”
“I have just the design,” Esme assured him. “A romper with a panel in the back that fastens with small buttons. You can undo them in seconds to expose her for spanking, then button her up again when you’re finished.”
The image of being spanked in public, my bottom bared for anyone to see, sent a confusing mix of terror and arousal through me. I pressed my lips together to keep from making a sound, but my body betrayed me again, my vagina clenching around Jax’s cock.
“She’s very close to climax,” Esme observed, glancing at what must have been the readout from this mysterious sensor they’d mentioned. “Would you like me to leave so you can finish with her?”
“No need,” Jax replied. “I don’t want her to come right now anyway. This is a training session, not a reward.” He pulled out of me suddenly, leaving me empty and aching. “Stand up straight and face us, Little Lulu.”
I straightened on trembling legs, my face burning as I turned to face them both. My pussy throbbed with denied release, and I could feel my own wetness on my inner thighs. The panties remained open at the back, a humiliating reminder of how I’d just been used.
“Could you refasten her?” Jax asked Esme. “I want to see how well the button works after vigorous activity.”
I felt Esme’s cool fingers at my backside as she pulled the fabric together and secured the pearl button. “As I said, the stitching is quite sturdy,” she noted. “And the elastic maintains excellent tension.”
“Good,” Jax said, tucking himself back into his pants. “Now, let’s continue with the measurements.”
For the next hour, I stood naked except for the special panties while Esme measured every inch of my body. She worked methodically, recording each measurement in a small leather-bound notebook.
“Arms out to the sides,” she instructed, measuring across my shoulders. “Now turn… perfect.”
Through this humiliating experience, I retreated into my mind, seeking refuge in my Georgia Jones fantasy. In my imagination, Georgia’s wedding night continued, her new husband leading her to their marital bed after her punishment.
“These are special panties I’ve had made for you,” Georgia’s husband told her, holding up the white ruffled garment with its telltale pearl button. “They’re designed to remind you who you belong to.”
I could see it so clearly—Georgia’s trembling fingers as she stepped into the panties, the way they hugged her hips, the vulnerable feeling as her husband turned her around to inspect the fit.
“Perfect,” he murmured in my fantasy, his finger touching the pearl button. “Do you know what this is for, my innocent little bride?”
Georgia shook her head, her eyes wide with apprehension.
“It’s so I can access your bottom whenever I choose,” he explained, unfastening the button to demonstrate. “A wife’s body belongs completely to her husband. Including this tight little hole that no one has ever touched.”
My body responded to the fantasy even as Esme continued her measurements, wrapping the tape measure around my waist. I imagined Georgia’s husband applying lubricant to his fingers, pressing one against her virgin entrance while she whimpered in fear and confusion.
“Please,” fantasy Georgia begged, “I don’t think I can?—”
“Shh,” her husband soothed, working his finger deeper. “Your body was made to please me. All of your body.”
In my mind, I watched as Georgia’s husband gradually stretched her, adding a second finger and then a third as she cried out in discomfort. When he finally positioned his cock against her forbidden entrance, tears streamed down her face.
“It will hurt,” he warned, “but you’ll learn to love it. Because it pleases me.”
I felt my face flush violently as the fantasy progressed, Georgia crying out as her husband breached her virgin bottom, claiming her completely.
What shocked me most wasn’t the explicit nature of my daydream, but the moment when fantasy Georgia, despite her pain and humiliation, looked back at her husband with eyes full of love and gratitude.
“Thank you for knowing what I need,” she whispered in my imagination.
“Turn around, please,” Esme instructed, snapping me back to my humiliating reality.
I obeyed mechanically, my mind still half-lost in the fantasy. Why was I imagining such things? Why did the idea of complete submission—not just physical, but emotional—affect me so powerfully?
“She’s quite responsive,” Esme noted to Jax, glancing at her tablet again. “Even during the mundane process of being measured.”
“Yes,” Jax agreed, his eyes studying my flushed face. “I suspect our Little Lulu has quite the active imagination. Don’t you, baby girl?”
I lowered my eyes, mortified. “Yes, Daddy,” I said, because there didn’t seem any other way out of the degrading conversation.
“I think that’s everything I need,” Esme finally announced, putting away her measuring tape. “I’ll have the first items ready within a week. For tonight’s dinner, I’ve brought a selection of ready-made pieces that should suffice temporarily.”
She opened a large garment bag I hadn’t noticed before, removing several items and laying them on the sofa. “This should work well for a first impression with your associates.”
The outfit she held up made my stomach drop. It was a pink pinafore dress with a white Peter Pan collar, the kind a six-year-old might wear to Sunday school. Alongside it lay white knee socks with lace trim and shiny black Mary Jane shoes.
“Perfect,” Jax said, his eyes gleaming. “What do you think, Little Lulu? Isn’t Ms. Leopold thoughtful to bring you such a pretty dress for dinner?”
Again, there seemed no other possible response. “Yes, Daddy,” I murmured.