Chapter 3
Laura
Nurse Samuels withdrew the speculum and I couldn’t keep a sob from escaping my chest at the relief of my anus closing after the speculum’s invasion.
Nor could I stop the trembling that racked my body as the awful woman made a few final notes on her tablet.
The relief of having the horrible device removed warred with the lingering shame of what had just been done to me.
“Well, Laura,” she said, her tone taking on an almost congratulatory quality that made my stomach churn, “your examination is complete. I’m pleased to inform you that you’re approved for the premium offer.”
The words should have brought relief, but instead they only deepened the pit of dread in my stomach. Approved. Like I was a product that had passed quality control.
“Hank,” Nurse Samuels called, and the massive orderly stepped forward from where he’d been standing by the wall. “You can go ahead and release her and take her to the photography area.”
Photography area. Oh, god. What did that mean?
Hank’s large hands worked at the restraints, freeing my wrists first, then my knees from the stirrups.
The strap around my waist came next, and finally the one around my neck.
I lay there for a moment, not quite believing I was free to move, my muscles aching from being held in that exposed position for so long.
“Up,” Hank said, his voice flat and businesslike.
I sat up slowly, my whole body protesting. My freshly shaved privates felt strange, the air cool against my bare skin. I pressed my thighs together, trying to hide myself even though it was far too late for modesty.
“You can get dressed.” Nurse Samuels gestured to where my clothes sat in a neat pile on a chair. “Your photographer is waiting.”
My legs wobbled as I climbed down from the table.
I grabbed my panties and pulled them on with shaking hands.
The fabric felt different against my newly bare skin, more intimate in an undefinably embarrassing way.
With my eyes fixed on the floor I donned my bra, then my jeans and hoodie.
I shoved my feet into my sneakers without bothering to tie them properly.
“This way,” Hank said, already moving toward the door.
I followed him on trembling legs, my whole body feeling like it might collapse at any moment.
We walked through more sterile corridors, then through a door that led outside into what appeared to be a courtyard.
The sudden sunlight made me blink, disoriented after the harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway.
A man in his mid-forties stood beside professional photography equipment, adjusting a large reflector.
He had what seemed like prematurely silver hair and sharp features, dressed entirely in black.
He looked up as we approached, his eyes assessing me with the same detachment I was starting to recognize as standard here.
“This is Mark Edorian,” Hank said. “He’ll be conducting your photoshoot.” Without another word, the orderly turned and left, leaving me alone with the photographer.
“Laura Martindale,” Mark said, glancing at a tablet similar to the one Nurse Samuels had used. “Right?”
“Yes,” I managed to whisper, my voice barely audible.
“Alright.” He gestured to a spot marked with tape on the floor. “Stand there and strip down to your underwear.”
The command made my stomach lurch. I’d just gotten dressed. I’d just endured that horrible examination, and now—
“What?” The word came out strangled.
“Your underwear. Bra and panties.” He said it like he was asking me to hand him a pen. “The photos for your profile need to show your body. Sponsors want to see what they’re getting.”
My arms wrapped around myself instinctively. “I can’t—”
The photographer frowned. He glanced at his watch. “I have three more shoots after you today. Let’s move this along.”
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t make my hands reach for the hem of my hoodie. Not again. Not out here in this courtyard where anyone might see. The examination room had been bad enough, but at least that had been private, clinical. This felt different. Worse.
“No,” I said, the word coming out firmer than I expected. “I’m not doing that.”
Mark’s expression didn’t change. He simply set down his tablet and picked up his phone. “I’m sorry,” he said, though his tone suggested he wasn’t sorry at all, “but I’m going to have to send you for correction.”
My stomach dropped. “Correction?”
“Disciplinary intervention. Don’t feel too bad.
It happens with a lot of girls.” He was already typing something on his phone.
“And honestly, given your profile—” he glanced at his tablet again “—some welts across your backside will actually help you find the right sponsor. There’s a subset of platinum-level men who specifically seek associates who require regular discipline.
Fresh marks will signal your… needs… very clearly. ”
The words made my knees weak. Welts. Marks. Regular discipline.
Before I could process what was happening, Hank reappeared from wherever he’d been waiting. “She needs correction?” he asked Mark.
“Refused to cooperate with the photoshoot.”
Hank’s expression hardened as he looked at me. “Come with me.”
“No, wait—” I backed up a step. “I’ll do it, I’ll—”
“Too late.” Hank’s large hand closed around my upper arm, not painful but absolutely unyielding. “You had your chance.”
He led me back inside, but this time we turned down a different corridor. My heart hammered against my ribs as we walked past door after door until finally stopping at one labeled Discipline Room 2.
The room beyond was smaller than the examination room, but much more frightening.
In the center stood what I knew with a sudden dizziness had to be a whipping bench—a padded surface angled to present someone’s bottom at the perfect height and angle.
Webbing restraints like the ones fitted to the exam table dangled from various points on the frame.
“No,” I whispered. “Please… I’ll…”
But Hank was already guiding me to the bench with firm, inexorable pressure. His massive hand on my shoulder pressed me forward until I had no choice but to bend over the padded surface. The angle forced my bottom up and out, and I felt my face burn with the knowledge of how I must look.
“I’m going to secure you now,” he told me matter-of-factly, “to keep you from getting in the way or hurting yourself.”
His hands moved to the restraints. My heart pounded as I felt the webbing tighten again around my wrists, securing them to the front legs of the bench. Hank put the waist strap over my back, cinching it tight enough that I couldn’t lift my torso. Ankle cuffs kept my legs in place.
“Please,” I tried again, my voice breaking. “I’m sorry, I’ll cooperate, I promise—”
Hank didn’t respond. His huge hands went to the waistband of my jeans, I tried instinctively to twist away as I felt him work his fingers under my hips, so close to the place that the nurse had bared, but the belt prevented it.
I felt him unfasten the button. He lowered the zipper.
He worked the denim down over my hips, down my thighs, until the jeans pooled around my ankles above my sneakers.
When I felt his fingers hook into the waistband of my panties I cried out.
“Stop! You… you can’t!” I yelled, trying to turn my face back over my shoulder as if my red face and my tears would stop him.
He didn’t even look at me as he tugged them down to join my jeans. To my horror, I could feel the cool air against my shaved privates. I was bare from the waist down, bent over this horrible bench, completely exposed.
“No, please—” My voice came out as a whimper.
I heard Hank’s footsteps as he moved away, then the sound of a cabinet opening. When he returned, he stepped into my line of vision, holding a long, thin rod of polished rattan. A cane. Oh, god, he was going to cane me.
“This is a standard disciplinary cane,” Hank said, his voice taking on an almost instructional quality. “Six strokes for a first correction. You’ll count each one aloud. If you fail to count, or if you count incorrectly, we start over. Do you understand?”
I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe. The sight of that horrible implement, the knowledge of what was about to happen, made my mind go blank with terror.
“Do you understand?” he repeated, his tone hardening.
“Yes,” I managed to choke out.
He moved behind me, out of my line of sight. I heard the whistle of the cane cutting through the air—a practice stroke, I realized with mounting dread—and then nothing. The silence stretched out, and I found myself tensing, waiting, every muscle in my body coiled tight.
That’s when the shameful heat hit me.
It flooded through my body like a wave, starting low in my belly and spreading outward until I felt like I might combust. My newly bare pussy throbbed with need, and I realized with absolute horror that I was getting wet.
Aroused by the idea of being whipped by a huge man I’d never met before today.
I was bent over, exposed, my bottom raised, and the realization hit me with fresh mortification that my pussy must be visible between my thighs despite how close together my knees were.
The position forced the cleft of my pussy up and back, and with my legs restrained, there was no way to hide.
Worse, I could feel wetness gathering, could feel myself getting slicker by the second.
Oh, god, I was dripping. I had to be dripping. He could probably see everything.
The first stroke of the cane landed with a crack that echoed through the room.
White-hot pain exploded across my bottom, so intense I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. I’d never felt anything like it—a line of fire searing into my flesh.
“Count,” Hank’s voice came from behind me, flat and unyielding.
“One!” I gasped, my voice breaking into a sob.
The second stroke landed parallel to the first, and this time I screamed. The pain built on itself, the succeeding strike somehow worse than the last.
“Two!” I cried out, tears streaming down my face now.
The third stroke caught me lower, right across the fullest part of my bottom, and I bucked against the restraints.
But even as I sobbed and struggled, that shameful heat intensified.
The pain and the arousal twisted together until I couldn’t tell them apart, and I felt myself getting wetter, felt my pussy clenching around nothing.
“Three,” I whimpered.
Number four landed at the crease where my bottom met my thighs, and I shrieked. My hips jerked forward involuntarily, grinding against the padded bench, and oh, god, that friction against my aching clit—
“Four!” The word came out strangled.
The fifth stroke was the worst yet, crossing over the previous welts, and I dissolved into helpless sobs.
But beneath the pain, my body betrayed me completely.
I was soaking wet now, I knew I had to be, and the thought that Hank could see it, that he knew exactly what this was doing to me, made everything so much worse.
“F-five,” I managed between sobs.
The final stroke landed across the center of my bottom, and I screamed again, my whole body shaking. Every nerve ending was on fire, the pain radiating outward in waves. But underneath it all, that terrible, shameful need pulsed between my legs.
“Six!” I cried out.
Silence fell. I heard Hank’s footsteps as he moved around to where I could see him. He set the cane aside and studied me with the same frank assessment he’d had on his face from the beginning.
“Are you ready to have your picture taken now?” he asked.
I nodded frantically, unable to form words, my face wet with tears and snot. I would do anything—anything—to avoid another stroke of that horrible cane.
“I need to hear you say it.”
“Yes,” I choked out. “Yes, I’m ready.”