Chapter 1 #2
I am confused, but I don’t want to show it. I am already incredibly scared and self-conscious, and I know that I am supposed to have some understanding of what is happening.
I am led through more doors, handed off to more people. At each step, some facet of my being is inspected. I am asked questions, very personal questions. Finally, I arrive in a sterile white room that contains a bed with stirrups at the end of it, and a male nurse wearing a white uniform. He greets me with a curt nod, and proceeds to ask me the most impertinent question yet.
“Have you had mating relations with anybody?”
He has a State accent. He must be from the Darken side of the pond. I feel a little spark of excitement, wondering if he perhaps knows my husband. Just as quickly, I dismiss the idea. He is clearly in the business of medical service, and I am sure the Archon-General keeps more elite company.
“Mating relations?” I let out a little laugh. “Of course not.”
I hope not, anyway. I don’t dare tell him I don’t really understand the question. I’m not entirely sure what mating relations entail. We don’t talk about those things in our family. It is unseemly, my mother says. Something we only need to know before we are married. Unfortunately, this means she has told Maraline, and not me.
“Take your clothes off,” he says.
“Take my clothes off? Why?”
He looks at me, immediately impatient. I don’t think people usually ask questions. “You are not here to ask questions, girl. You are here to be screened for final suitability.”
“What does that mean?”
My question earns me another irritated glance. “Your body belongs to the Artifice first, your husband second, your babies third, and yourself a distant fourth.”
I have never heard that precept stated so boldly and simply before. Of course, it is more or less there in the Angelicized texts distributed to the populace, but never this crudely.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you need to be quiet and submit,” the officer says. “And take your damn clothes off, before you earn yourself Artifice marks.”
“Is that some kind of currency?”
I have inadvertently reached the end of the officer’s patience. I discover what an Artifice mark is when he grabs my hand and lays the business end of a short but terribly whippy cane across it.
I gasp in pain, snatching my hand from his and looking at the awful red line left in its wake. “How dare you!”
“I am the human manifestation of the will of the Artifice,” he says. “Now take your clothes off, unless you want to see the doctor with a very sore ass.”
At that point, the doctor enters the room. He is an older man with a kinder air, though when he speaks, he also has a Stateside accent.
“Hello, young lady. No need to look so concerned. This is a simple enough examination to determine your suitability for mating and marriage. It is important that all brides are capable of procreation. We’re going to do a physical exam today to test your nervous system’s responses to stimuli, and to ensure that you’re ready for copulation.”
When he says it like that, it all feels very reasonable. I feel a bit silly for having resisted in the first place. I take my dress and boots off and sit up on the bed. I am still wearing my underwear, which he does not seem to mind.
“Put your feet in the stirrups. Good girl,” he says. “Now lean back, and let me know how this feels.”
“Oh!”
My underwear is pulled to the side, and I gasp as warm gel is dripped down between my legs, landing on a very sensitive part of my anatomy that has never been handled before. The doctor’s gloved fingers then begin to massage it in with a touch that cannot help but feel exceptionally intimate.
“Don’t worry. We will be preserving your innocence today. That belongs to your husband,” he says.
I was not worried. I’m still not entirely sure what is taking place. This is all part of the official procedure, so it must be alright, even though it is giving me very complicated feelings.
“Did the Archon-General request this?” I breathe the question, trying to make my voice sound normal. I fail. It sounds breathless and strained.
“The Artifice requires it,” the doctor explains, his thumb pressing against a very delicate part of my anatomy. My hips jolt, and I let out a squeal of surprise.
“Very good!” The doctor praises me unexpectedly. “You’re incredibly responsive. Your husband will be well pleased. Now, we are going to check the intensity and strength of your orgasmic response. This is done by machine. Don’t hold back. It is important we see exactly how you react.”
My entire body feels flushed with heat from shame, humiliation, and very, very good feelings. I have touched myself before, but I’ve never made myself feel this way. Now the doctor is pushing a tool up between my thighs, something that cups the area and suctions lightly across the entirety of my crotch, covering me from the golden hair on my soft mound, all the way down toward that filthy hole I do not like to think about.
I feel all the muscles low in my belly tensing as I respond to the stimulus, which I am not able to escape even if I want to. Shamefully, I don’t want to. It feels different. It feels nice.
I have a faint feeling I should not be enjoying this so publicly. The realization that I am being observed, all of my reactions documented, makes me blush furiously, which in turn only seems to accelerate my excitement.
“Just relax,” the doctor says as the machine begins to vibrate.
I try to relax, but I cannot, because the machine is creating several sensations all at the same time. There is a wet sucking against the area around the top of my lips, and a light probing feeling lower down. It doesn’t enter my body, but it presses against my secret entrance, promising penetration without delivering.
My back arches, and my mind swirls with the strangest thoughts and feelings. It is as though I am trying to think through molasses. The device is giving me so much pleasure, I do not know how to handle it. It’s more than I have ever felt. More than I knew I was capable of feeling, and it is being delivered in the most clinical way possible.
I feel my bra cups lowered, two clips placed over my nipples. They are very hard already, and the squeezing of the clips serves to send bolts of raw sensation zipping through me right to that super sensitive part of my body being suckled by the machine. I find myself holding my breath as I sweat and squirm, writhing against the bed and bucking against the equipment.
“Are you resisting orgasm, young lady?” The doctor’s voice has dipped into stern tones.
“I don’t know,” I whimper. “What’s an orgasm?”
There is a brief pause, and then a nearly paternal chuckle. “Innocent thing,” he says. “Orgasm is a release of pleasure. If you let yourself feel all of this, you will reach a point where all those good feelings reach a peak. This machine is designed to make you come to climax.”
“Ohhhhhh…” I moan the response as he tightens the clamps on my nipples a fraction.
I know I am holding back, but not because I want to be bad, but because I don’t know what it means to do what he wants.
The machine keeps stimulating me, and I keep getting closer and closer to what he describes. The doctor encourages me, his words making my clit pulse in response. There is something very wrong about this. I know it’s a medical examination, but the intense intimacy of it makes me feel as though I am doing something wrong.
“You’re going to need to come for me, young lady. We have no intention of sending the general an anorgasmic mate. So there’s no point holding back. That’s right. Good girl, grind your clitoris against the probe. Yes. Ride it, very nice. You’re talented for a virgin. Very good.”
“She’s not meeting the orgasmic standards,” the officer says.
I might not be accepted as a bride after all. I don’t know if I feel relief or disappointment in this moment. Right now, all I feel is my pussy being manipulated and toyed with, my nipples clamped, my squirming, sweating body on display to strange male eyes.
“Let me try something. I have seen this before,” the doctor says. He disconnects the machine, leaving me in a state of helpless arousal I cannot help or escape. He is sitting next to the bed on a chair, which he does not leave as he indicates I should get down.
I do as I am told, shaking and weak. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know…”
I am turned over the doctor’s lap, my underwear pulled down beneath my cheeks. Before I know what is happening, I am being spanked. Hard and fast, the doctor’s hand lands on my upturned cheeks, punishing me swiftly and terribly.
His other hand slides around under me, the tips of his gloved fingers rubbing against my clit in forceful circles that smear the combination of the gel and my own arousal against my pussy.
“Not going to come for me, eh?” he lectures me. “Let’s see what a good, long spanking does for you, spoiled little girl.”
His tone is very stern and strict, and his touch is somehow very professional even though it is still so intimate. I feel the pleasure I was already feeling peaking again, something about the pain and the shame intensifying all of it.
My bottom hurts terribly. He is truly spanking me very hard, punishing me for my refusal to orgasm when he told me to.
“Good girls come when their doctor tells them to,” he says. “They don’t lie in the chair, grinding against the toy like it is there for them to enjoy when they are supposed to be showing how they orgasm. You naughty, greedy little brat. Spread your legs for me. That’s right.”
My legs are spread wide over his lap and now he is spanking both my bottom and my pussy. His fingers are pressed against my clit, but the tips of the fingers on the other hand are whipping my lips.
I can’t hold back anymore. Finally, I understand what he meant by orgasm. It is a feeling of culmination, of all the little sensations coming together in one great big overwhelming wave that leaves me wailing, screaming, and shaking over the doctor’s lap.
No sooner have I come than he pulls my panties back up snugly and pats my bottom in a friendly kind of way. He helps me up and sits me on the bed to catch my breath.
“Some girls won’t orgasm unless they’ve been spanked,” he says to the officer. “I’ll make a note in her file that she should be disciplined before being bred. I’m sure the Archon-General won’t mind whipping that generous behind.”
“Good,” the officer says. “Then I’ll send her on to the transport team.”
“Give her some water,” the doctor says.
I am led out of the medical bay in a haze. I’m not sure what just happened. I’m not sure what to think about how I feel right now. I’m not sure what’s going to happen next. I am passed along through another group of people and then put into a transport vehicle and then driven through the countryside to a very large airport, which is where the planes are.
They do not speak to me on the way there, so I occupy myself by looking out the window at the city. Many of the old buildings have been preserved, making it one of the prettier places in Angeland. There are shining cobble streets and big old brick and stone buildings held together with mortar and custom.
My family never spent much time in the city. Every season, Mother and Maraline and I go to refresh our wardrobes and attend a few social gatherings. Maraline has always complained she doesn’t get to go on her own. She probably will be allowed to now, because she will never be matched. She will have to live her life as an independent woman, able to go where she pleases and do what she wants. It is a terrible fate, one she has regarded with deep horror for as long as I can remember.
My mind keeps drifting from thoughts of home to the strange ordeal I experienced in the medical bay. I can’t make sense of it. My body no longer feels quite so odd, not as light, and not as good. But there are lingering aftereffects, I think.
Does orgasm make you stupid? Is it permanent? I should be getting excited about the plane. This is a once in a lifetime experience.
Only officers of the Artifice have the ability to authorize air travel. It is a great privilege to be allowed to go on a plane. Maraline would not stop talking about how excited she was for the flight. Apparently they serve you unique foods and warm towels and other luxurious treats. There’s even entertainment.
I am still trying to comprehend all that is happening to me when we arrive at the airport. Once again, I am met by a fresh set of Artifice officers. The Artifice keeps many people busy doing its bidding. I am starting to feel as though the only people left in the world are ones who work for the machine.
“This is Mila Seraphine, intended of Archon-General Arthur Darken.”
I am presented to someone by someone. I really don’t know anymore. The one doing the presenting has an Angelish accent. The one being presented to is from The State.
“This is the Archon-General’s bride?” The State officer is unimpressed. Rude.
“It is.”
“Why is she dressed like a flower seller in a particularly depressing historical show?”
“I don’t know. This is the Artifice’s chosen.” There is a certain tone in the Angeland officer’s voice. I don’t think she approves of the flashy officer from The State. I’m sure I don’t.
“Well, she’ll need to get changed.”
“She doesn’t have any luggage.”
“What do you mean she doesn’t have any luggage?”
The conversation goes on in this manner for longer than really makes sense. The State officer seems unable to grasp the fact that I don’t have anything with me.
“I didn’t know I was the one who was chosen,” I explain.
“You have been matched with a highly regarded male,” the officer tells me. “You should have come prepared.”
“I didn’t know I was the one who had been matched… we just…” I am confused. “We just had this conversation.”
“It is your responsibility to answer when the Artifice calls. There are no acceptable excuses. You are an adult.”
I cannot argue with that. Technically, I am an adult. And though my life is not my own, and I had no chance to discover that I was the one chosen to be matched, and had no ability to provide for anything myself, it is still my responsibility. Because that is how life works. Unfairly, and with little regard for reason.
“There are several other Angelish matches traveling today. There will be no drinking on the plane. Come with me. Keep up. Come on. Quick, quick!”
I wonder when the respect as an Artifice chosen bride begins. So far I am being spoken to like a stray. I know why. It is because I am dressed so plainly. People respect clothes more than they do people. They identify and recognize people by them. That’s why my mother spent so long ensuring Maraline would look good, though I do not know how such an ornate dress would travel well through this cavernous airport.
When I finally reach the airplane, I almost don’t realize I am on it. The passage simply turns into a plane somehow. There’s a door, I suppose. Again, my attention is split so many ways. I know I am not thinking about all the things I should be thinking about. I just don’t have the space for it right now.
The aircraft is large enough to fit hundreds of people, but there are only five girls seated in it. I am dressed the plainest of them all, and I am the last on. This is because of all the mess with my family.
There are a few Artifice officers, but I note that they all sit in the front section, which is where the bigger seats and nicer interior is. I am happy to go to the back, if only to have a moment to myself to think. There has not been an opportunity to begin to process what is happening.
“Hello!” A girl close to my age, a little bit older, slides into the seat next to mine. “I’m Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth is beautiful. She has bright blue eyes, long curling blonde hair, and a round, joyful face. Her introduction is so cheerful it lifts my mood.
“Hello,” I reply politely. “I’m Mila.”
“I’ve been matched to Edward Idaho,” she says, as if that name is supposed to mean something to me.
“Congratulations!” I smile broadly and try to match her excitement. I have plenty of practice doing that, talking to Maraline. She clearly thinks this is a very special revelation, and I want her to think I also agree. That’s the only way to make sure people like you.
“He’s one of the richest men in The State,” she says very self-importantly. This really is like talking to Maraline, but a version of Maraline who still likes me. I can still hear the hatred in my sister’s voice as I was led away. She will never forgive me. She will probably loathe me until the day I die. I’ve taken everything from her.
“That’s very exciting.”
“Yes. It means I am going to be the richest woman. I am so excited. We’re going to throw a ball, you know. Edward has been messaging me about it for months.”
“You’ve heard from your match for months?”
“Oh, yes. The Artifice matched us in December. We’ve been planning our June wedding. What are you and your mate planning?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. I think we might be taking off. The plane is moving, and there is a buildup of power in the engines, a growing swiftness that…
“Oh, it’s going to be a surprise!” She beams at me. “That’s exciting for you. Who is your match? We might live close to one another. You could come to my ball!”
That actually sounds nice. It is good to have some kind of social invitation be extended. Elizabeth is kind, I can tell. A sweet, gorgeous young woman who has obviously gotten the kind of match Maraline always dreamed of.
“Thank you,” I say. “That sounds nice.”
“It will be more than nice. It will be spectacular. But you still haven’t told me who your match is?” She leans in with a cute, conspiratorial grin.
“Archon-General Arthur Darken,” I say, his full name and title a huge mouthful.
She draws back, an expression of surprise on her face. “You were matched to an Archon-General?”
“Yes?” I don’t mean to put the questioning inflection on the word, it just comes naturally in response to her clear doubt.
“Arthur Darken?” she hums. “Why do I know that name?”
I shrug.
She leans back in her chair, casting her eyes to the ceiling for a moment. They widen, and then she whips around to look at me. “Arthur Darken, the war hero?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You have no idea who you have been mated to,” she laughs. “This is classic. You’re hilarious! A complete riot!”
She seems genuinely amused. She’s not asking me to explain myself, and I know she doesn’t understand what the hell happened to me.
“I wish I had the confidence to wear such a simple dress,” she says. “But I want to impress Edward. He’s seen pictures and video of course, but it’s not the same thing as being in person, is it?”
“No,” I say.
I stay largely quiet while Elizabeth talks about the love of her life, Edward for the rest of the flight. It is a mere six hours of listening to her hopes, her dreams, her plan to be pregnant by the end of the night, her hope to have a son, or maybe a daughter.
Her talking enables me to avoid thinking. I had started to imagine I should come up with a plan of some kind, but I’m also very aware that there’s no way to plan for something you don’t know about, or have any way of knowing about until you find out.
My mother and Maraline had been having a lot of private talks about her wedding night. I wonder what they said. It would probably come in handy.