Page 59 of Innocence Tamed
We reached the bottom of the stairs and turned down the corridor I remembered led to the library, though my feelings about the room had undergone a sea change in the intervening time. Massive oak doors loomed at the end, slightly ajar, warm light spilling from within. My steps faltered as we approached.
“Courage,Mademoiselle,” the housekeeper murmured, her hand coming to rest briefly, reassuringly, on my lower back.
I took a deep breath and pushed the door open wider. The library was magnificent—two stories of leather-bound books lining the walls, a massive fireplace with a crackling fire, comfortable leather armchairs arranged in conversational groupings. When Pierre had shown it to me the previous afternoon, I had delighted in exploring a bit, running my fingers along the spines of ancient volumes and breathing in the comforting scent of old paper and leather.
But today my attention went immediately to the center of the room, where a curious piece of furniture had been placed—a padded leather bench with sturdy legs, its surface sloping slightly, down from the middle of the Persian carpet on which it stood. The whipping block, I realized with a jolt. Precisely positioned for maximum visibility from anywhere in the room.
Pierre stood nearby, a slender rattan cane in his hand. He wore a dinner jacket and crisp white shirt, as if preparing to host a formal gathering rather than discipline his disobedient American girl. Beside him,MonsieurDubois watched us approach, clearly as much a guest tonight as a servant, at least for the terrible ceremony of my lesson: both men had glasses of amber liquid in their hands.
The men watched asMadameDubois guided me to the block and helped me kneel on the little ledge, low down at the thing’s front, then bend my upper body down along the surface of the bench. My heart hammered so violently I thought it might burst from my chest. The leather surface felt cool against my knees as I positioned myself according to the housekeeper’s gentle directions.
“Like this,Mademoiselle,” she murmured, helping me find the proper position—knees spread slightly, back arched, head down, hands gripping the bench’s far corners. The posture forced my bottom into prominence, presenting it perfectly for the punishment to come.
With practiced efficiency, Madame Dubois lifted my blue dress, carefully arranging the fabric so it draped over my upper back. She took small pins from her pocket and secured the material in place, ensuring it wouldn’t fall during my correction. The cool air of the library caressed my exposed lower half, clad only in the sheer black panties that did nothing to preserve my modesty.
“Monsieur,”MadameDubois said, her voice formal yet somehow intimate, “shall I lowerMademoiselle’s panties, or would you prefer to do it yourself?”
I held my breath, my face burning with shame as they discussed my underwear as casually as if talking about the weather. The silence stretched for several heartbeats before Pierre responded.
“I’ll do it,” he said, his voice rich with anticipation.
I heard his footsteps approach, felt his presence behind me. His fingers traced the waistband of my panties, making me shiver. Then, with excruciating slowness, he began to draw them down. The lace scraped gently over the curve of my buttocks, graduallyrevealing my most intimate places to the watchful eyes of the Duboises.
A sob escaped me—part shame, part fear, and part unmistakable need. The wetness between my thighs betrayed my body’s response to this humiliation, and I knew Pierre would feel it on the delicate fabric as he continued to lower my panties to mid-thigh.
“You’ll stay like this for a while,” Pierre said, his voice stern yet somehow gentle. “To think about your behavior.”
I whimpered as his hand came to rest on my bare bottom, the warmth of his palm a stark contrast to the cool air. The position—kneeling, dress pinned up, panties at mid-thigh—left me feeling much more revealed than even complete nudity would have. I thought of whatMadameDubois had said, about the shame of being undressed, and felt the truth of it much too strongly.
“MonsieurDubois,” Pierre said conversationally, “would you say our young lady seems properly contrite?”
I heard the older man clear his throat. “She appears to be feeling the appropriate shame,Monsieur,” he replied, his voice formal, but not unkind. “Though obviously she may require a thorough lesson to fully understand her place.”
“I agree,” Pierre said, his hand still resting on my bottom. “Audrey, would you like to explain to us why you’re being punished this evening?”
The question caught me off guard. Having to speak aloud, to articulate my sins while in this humiliating position, seemed almost worse than the coming strokes of the cane. I swallowed hard, trying to find my voice.
“I… I disobeyed you,” I whispered, my face pressed against the leather of the whipping block. “In the paddock. I told you to stop the lesson when you didn’t want to.”
“And why was that disobedient?” Pierre prompted, his fingers tracing small circles on my exposed bottom.
“Because…” I faltered, then forced myself to continue. “Because my body belongs to you. Because you decide what happens to me, not me.”
“Precisely,” Pierre agreed, his voice warming with approval. “You presumed to countermand my wishes regarding your training. That requires correction.” His hand lifted from my bottom, and I heard him step back slightly. “Six strokes with the cane, as I promised. You will count each one and thank me for it.”
I trembled, my entire body taut with anticipation and dread. The silence in the library seemed to stretch endlessly, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire and my own shallow breathing.
“Are you ready, Audrey?” Pierre asked, his voice somehow gentle despite the circumstances.
“Yes,Monsieur,” I whispered, though in truth I wasn’t ready at all. How could anyone ever be ready for such a thing?
I heard the whistle of the cane cutting through the air before I felt it—a sound that made my blood run cold. Then came the impact—a line of fire across the center of my bottom that made me cry out in shock and pain.
“One!” I gasped when I could catch my breath. “Thank you,Monsieur.”
The pain was unlike anything I’d experienced before—far worse than the martinet, more precise and penetrating. It seemed to sink deep into my flesh before blooming outward in waves of burning agony.
The second stroke fell just below the first, another perfect line of fire that made me jerk against the whipping block, my body instinctively trying to escape the pain.
