Page 41 of Innocence Tamed
“Warning acknowledged,” the female voice responded, sounding almost satisfied. “Sponsor Pierre Lemieux will not be notified at this time.”
At this time. The implication was clear: future infractions might not be so easily dismissed. I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly feeling exposed despite being alone in the bathroom. The constantly refreshed knowledge that I was being watched—not just in a general sense, but in intimate detail—sent contradictory shivers of fear and excitement through me every time.
I felt tears trickle from the corners of my eyes. Not of sadness, though, I understood with an inner jolt of awareness that put a furrow in my brow. Of… well, of frustration that I wasn’t allowed to give myself the pleasure that I’d always treated as my right, but also…
I wiped angrily at my eyes. The frustration had more to it. I felt an irrational, but absolutely real irritation at Pierre and at Selecta. Not the frustration at them having the ability—whichIhad given them—to control me. That would have at least a little logic to it. No—I felt mad that I couldn’t pretend any longer, to myself anyway. I couldn’t tell myself that Pierre and Selecta didn’t know more about my needs than I did—nor could I deny the humiliating nature of those needs any longer.
I turned to face the mirror fully, keeping my arms firmly across my midriff. The girl staring back at me looked different from the one I felt like—the reflected blue eyes seemed wider, the cheeks flushed with a knowledge she couldn’t unlearn. I studied the girl in the mirror, noting how my blonde hair fell in tangled waves around my shoulders, how my small frame seemed both stronger and more vulnerable beneath the sheer white babydoll.
I couldn’t help it. I acknowledged to myself that somehow Pierre’s treatment of me—the way he had whipped me, the way he had fucked me, the way he had trained my bottom—had given me access to my real, bodily emotions on a level I had never expected. The sensation of the martinet striking my tender flesh had broken through barriers I’d constructed around myself, walls I’d built to deny the unsettling truth about what I truly craved. His domination had forced me to confront the person I actually was, not the person I pretended to be.
At the same time, this epiphany mortified me. I couldn’t reconcile the strong, independent woman I’d always believedmyself to be with the submissive creature who had begged for permission to come while a plug stretched her virgin bottom. The contradiction felt impossible to resolve, a fundamental fracture in my understanding of myself.
I told myself that because the SA app couldn’t read my mind, I could at least keep from expressing my humiliating gratitude to Pierre for dominating me so thoroughly. That small rebellion felt important—vital, even—to preserving some fragment of my dignity. I could thank him for my allowance, and even for the enormous First Intimacy Premium, without thanking him for his strict New-Modesty-style guidance and all the objectification that came with it.
With a deep breath, I turned away from the mirror and stepped into the shower, stripping the nightgown off at last and trying not to think about everything it meant as I dropped it to the tiles. The warm water cascaded over my sensitive skin, making me gasp as it struck the welts on my bottom. I carefully washed myself, paying special attention to the places Pierre had claimed as his own. My fingers shook as I cleaned between my legs, the mere touch sending unwanted sparks of pleasure through my core.
After drying off, I stood before the bathroom counter, staring at the plug. I had promised—no, I had been made to promise—to wear it all day. The thought of walking through theJardinswith it inside me, of sitting in a dark cinema with nothing between my bare skin and the seat except the thin fabric of a skirt, made my stomach flutter with dread and shameful anticipation.
With shaking hands, I prepared the plug, coating it generously with lubricant. I bent slightly at the waist, positioning it against my tender entrance. The pressure as I began to push it inside made me sob quietly, the stretch painful yet somehow necessary.I chewed the inside of my cheek as I pushed the widest part inside me. At last the little ring of my anus closed around the narrower part, securing it firmly in place—widening me, keeping me open to teach me how to obey when the time came.
The chime of an alert from the SA app made my face go hot. With a deep crease in my brow at the way the plug subtly changed my movements, I walked, still naked, from the bathroom to pick up my phone from the nightstand.
I stared at the screen, my chest tightening as I read Pierre’s message:Remember: no panties. My face burning with humiliation, I put the phone down, annoyed at the trembling of my fingers. The thought of going outside with nothing beneath my skirt except the plug nestled in my bottom made my knees weak.
I dressed with painstaking care, selecting a modest knee-length skirt in navy blue and a light blouse that buttoned to my throat. The conservative outfit felt like armor—a pretense of respectability that unfortunately only heightened my awareness of what lay beneath. As I stepped into the skirt, letting it settle around my waist, the feeling of the fabric against my bruised buttocks made me gasp. I pressed my thighs together, acutely conscious of my nakedness and the fullness in my bottom.
Every movement as I finished dressing reminded me of my state: my status as Pierre’s no-longer-virgin fuck toy. The brush of the skirt against my sensitive flesh. The slight shift of the plug when I bent to slip on my shoes. The knowledge that anyone who looked closely might notice something different in my gait, might somehow sense the lewd secret I carried inside me.
With one final glance in the mirror—at a girl who looked outwardly ordinary, but whose flushed cheeks and overbright eyes hinted at hidden truths—I left the apartment.
The walk to theJardins de Luxembourgfelt eternal. Each step sent a ripple of sensation through me as the plug shifted subtly within my backside. The morning air felt unnaturally cool against my exposed flesh beneath my skirt. I kept my thighs pressed tightly together, terrified that somehow my state of undress would become obvious to passersby.
A man in a business suit brushed past me on the sidewalk, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Did he know? Had he heard through some network of wealthy men about how Pierre Lemieux had fucked a virgin and then made her go outside with a plug in her bottom? My heart hammered against my ribs as I forced myself to keep walking, one careful step at a time.
When I finally reached the gardens, I found a secluded bench beneath a spreading chestnut tree. I sat down gingerly, wincing as the pressure forced the plug deeper. The sensation made me bite my lip to stifle a moan—part discomfort, part forbidden pleasure. I crossed my legs tightly, trying to maintain whatever dignity I could manage in my compromised state.
Around me, the gardens unfolded in their spring glory. Children played on manicured lawns while their mothers chatted nearby. Elderly men hunched over chess games with intense concentration. University students sprawled on the grass with books and laptops. Normal people living normal lives, while I sat among them having my anus trained for my sponsor’s cock, and nothing beneath my skirt but bare, sensitive skin.
I tried to distract myself by watching a young couple looking at the boats sail across the central pond. Their faces glowedwith innocent joy as the breeze caught the tiny sails. A pang of something like envy struck me—how simple their happiness seemed.
I spent as much time as I could bear in the gardens, my mind drifting between acute embarrassment and unwanted arousal. Eventually I gathered my courage and made my way to the cinema on Boulevard Saint-Michel. I’d seen the comedy advertised—something light and American, with French subtitles—and thought it might distract me from my predicament.
The theater was mercifully dim as I purchased my ticket and found a seat near the back. I lowered myself gingerly onto the plush velvet, a small gasp escaping my lips as the plug shifted inside me. The feeling of the seat almost directly against my bare bottom and pussy made me press my thighs together tightly, terrified someone might somehow notice my state of undress.
As the lights dimmed further and the previews began, I tried to focus on the screen rather than the symbol of Pierre’s control nestled firmly in my backside. For brief moments, I succeeded. The film was genuinely funny, with physical comedy and clever dialogue that occasionally pulled me out of my self-consciousness.
Then I laughed.
The first real laugh caught me by surprise, my body shaking with genuine mirth at the protagonist’s predicament. Instantly, I felt the plug move within me, the sensation shooting sparks of unwanted pleasure up my spine. I squirmed in my seat, trying to adjust to the feeling without being obvious.
“Est-ce que ça va?” whispered the elderly woman beside me, her concerned face illuminated by the screen’s glow.
“Oui, merci,” I whispered back, mortification washing over me in a hot wave. Had my discomfort been that noticeable?
I tried to sit perfectly still after that, but the film kept eliciting involuntary chuckles. Each time, the movement caused the plug to shift, reminding me of its presence, of Pierre’s ownership, of what awaited me later. By the film’s halfway point, I found myself in an impossible situation—torn between the genuine humor onscreen and the humiliating consequences of allowing myself to enjoy it.
A particularly funny scene had the entire audience erupting in laughter. I couldn’t help joining in, my body shaking with genuine amusement. The plug moved inside me, pressing against sensitive nerves, and to my horror, I felt a rush of wetness between my thighs. I was getting aroused—here, in a public cinema, surrounded by strangers, all because the plug in my bottom wouldn’t let me forget that I belonged to Pierre.
