Page 29 of Punished and Trained
“I… when Mistress said I would serve with my panties down,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “I guess it put an image in my mind that made me…”
“Made you what?” Mrs. Quinst prompted gently, her maternal tone making the interrogation even worse.
“Made me clench,” I admitted, the words torn from my throat. “You know… down there.”
Colonel Quinst released my panties, allowing them to settle back around my knees. “That honesty is very helpful, Viola. Well done. Now then, let’s see how gracefully you can move while made to think of what will happen to your cunny and bottom in the bedroom after dinner. Help your Mistress with the vegetables.”
I took a tentative step toward the counter where Mrs. Quinst had laid out carrots and potatoes, immediately discovering thedegrading reality of trying to move with my panties binding my knees. Each step required careful calculation—too long a stride would send the cotton garment sliding down to my ankles, while too short made me look like I was mincing about like a child playing dress-up.
“Excellent posture,” Mrs. Quinst observed approvingly as I reached for a paring knife with trembling fingers. “The restriction teaches you to move with proper feminine grace. Notice how you’re forced to take smaller steps, to keep your thighs closer together. Very ladylike.”
The knife felt strange in my hands as I began peeling carrots, acutely aware of how the short skirt rode up with each movement of my arms. The knowledge that my bare sex was exposed beneath the pleated fabric, that any wrong movement might reveal me completely to my Guardian’s watchful eyes, made every task feel fraught with potential humiliation.
“Tell me about your domestic experience, Viola,” Colonel Quinst said, settling into a chair at the kitchen table where he could observe my struggles. “As president, I assume you had staff to handle such menial tasks.”
“Yes, Guardian,” I replied, focusing intently on the carrot to avoid meeting his penetrating gaze. “I haven’t… I mean, I don’t cook very often.”
“How refreshing,” Mrs. Quinst said, moving to stand beside me with fluid grace. “A completely blank slate. We’ll teach you everything from the beginning—how to plan meals that please your master, how to serve with proper submission, how to find joy in caring for a man’s needs.”
Her hand covered mine on the knife handle, guiding my movements with maternal patience. The intimate contact, combined with her casual discussion of my future servitude, sent another unwelcome surge of heat through my core.
“Slower, dear,” she instructed, her breath warm against my ear. “Cooking requires the same patience and attention to detail that you’ll need to learn in the bedroom. Every motion should be deliberate, graceful.”
I tried to focus on the vegetables, but the kitchen seemed to pulse with sexual tension. Colonel Quinst’s eyes tracked my every movement while his wife’s body pressed close behind mine, her hands occasionally brushing against me as she adjusted my technique. The dampness between my thighs continued to build, and I wondered with growing desperation if they could smell my arousal in the confined space.
“Much better,” Mrs. Quinst murmured as I finished the last carrot. “Now the potatoes. Small, uniform pieces—your Guardian prefers his vegetables precisely cut.”
When we had prepared the meal, and the delicious-smelling chicken emerged from the oven, Mrs. Quinst let me sit at the small table in the kitchen and have my own dinner quickly. Then I had to serve them at the dining table, still with my panties around my knees.
The dining room proved more intimate than I had expected, with a small table set for two and a sideboard where the serving dishes waited. The soft lighting cast warm shadows that might have been romantic under different circumstances, but now only emphasized how exposed I felt with my underwear restricting my movement.
“Serve your Guardian first,” Mrs. Quinst instructed from her seat, “then me. Always remember the proper order of precedence.”
I lifted the platter of carved chicken with careful hands, acutely aware of how I had to shuffle rather than walk normally. As I leaned forward to place a portion on Colonel Quinst’s plate, his hand suddenly cupped my bare bottom beneath the short skirt.
“Excellent presentation,” he said conversationally, his palm warm against my naked flesh as if touching me so intimately was the most natural thing in the world. His fingers traced the curve of my buttock with evident interest while I stood frozen, the serving fork trembling in my grip.
“Thank you, Guardian,” I managed to whisper, though my voice came out strangled. The casual way he explored my body while I served dinner sent more treasonous need flooding through me.
His hand moved lower, fingers brushing against the wetness between my thighs with deliberate precision. “Still quite aroused, I believe. Betty, she’s like a fountain.”
I bit my lip to suppress a whimper as he tested my slickness, his touch both invasive and assessing. When he finally withdrew his hand, I nearly collapsed with relief and unwelcome disappointment.
“Now serve your Mistress,” he commanded, wiping his fingers on his napkin with matter-of-fact efficiency.
My legs shook as I moved around the table, the panties around my knees making every step a careful negotiation. Mrs. Quinst smiled warmly as I approached, but her eyes held the same predatory gleam I had seen in her husband’s.
As I leaned forward to serve her, her hand slipped beneath my skirt from the front, fingers finding my bare pussy with unerring accuracy. Unlike her husband’s frank exploration, her touch carried a feminine understanding that made my knees threaten to buckle.
“Such a randy little thing,” she murmured, her fingers circling my most sensitive areas with practiced skill. “Prince Hendren has begun to break you in, but there’s still so much more to learn.”
Her thumb found the small hood that covered my most private place, rubbing with just enough pressure to make my brow furrow and a tiny humming whimper come from the roof of my mouth. I gripped the serving platter so tightly my knuckles went white, fighting not to drop it as shameful pleasure flashed through me.
“Please,” I gasped, “Mistress, no.”
“Hush, dear,” she said softly, her fingers continuing their maddening exploration. “This is all part of your education. Learning to serve while your body is being pleasured will make you invaluable to your master.”
CHAPTER 14
