Chapter 9

Grace

"No," I sobbed.

"Such a naughty girl," Shelly said in a tone that seemed like a magic spell, or a kind of hypnosis. "Just a naughty girl… an adult, but not really a grownup yet, are you, honey?"

I felt like I had fallen through, somehow.

Fallen through what?

The rabbit hole? Alice's gateway to an impossibly strange world?

But Alice… well, she didn't… she would never…

I cried out. I bit my lip hard, looking at Shelly, at the transported expression on her face… she seemed to have fallen through the same trap door, into this dark, hot world. Not so dark I couldn't see the shameful things in it, and feel, to my distress, that I wanted those things.

I felt my burning, whipped, bare bottom squirming on Jake's knowing fingers. I felt my hips riding and riding. I heard how terribly wet he'd gotten me in an instant, after the horrid family strap had seemed to remove every sensation of pleasure and all thought of desire. I breathed in through my nose and I caught the scent of myself, the musky aroma of my naughtiness that I felt certain Jake and Shelly must be able to smell, too.

How could it be real?

"Shelly, hon," Jake said. "You'd better come over here and suck my cock. Whipping our little Grace got me so hard."

My foster mama started to rise from her chair, putting her knitting in the basket next to her.

"May I take off my clothes, sir?" she asked. "May I play with my pussy with my panties down?"

"Oh, God," I moaned. I closed my eyes. It felt like if I watched, all of this impossible, shameful, irresistible scene might simply cease to exist. I put my face in the wet cushion and I shook my head, as if trying to tell the universe that I hadn't asked for a whipping, or my foster father's hand between my legs—that I might have stolen a pair of earrings and sassed Jake, but that otherwise I was innocent.

Jake gripped my pussy more tightly, and I moaned, my back arching and my head thrown back, my fists clenching tight beneath me.

"Go ahead, hon," he told Shelly. "You've been a good girl, so, yes, you may take those panties down and touch your little pussy that way."

I felt his thumb go between my punished cheeks and press against the smallest place, the tiniest hole. My moan became a cry of surprise and degradation. I squeezed my eyes even more tightly shut and shook my head some more.

"Oh, yes, honey," Jake told me. "The man in charge of you is going to touch you wherever he wants, and wherever he thinks you need it."

My forehead creased so hard it hurt.

"I was so scared," I heard Shelly say from the darkness. "The first time Jake told me he was going to fuck my bottom. It hurt, and it still hurts a little every time, but it feels good, too, honey. Kind of like the strap. You know your husband has the right to use you there, and you're proud that he gets so much pleasure from your bottom hole."

I could hear her taking off her dress: soft sounds of unbuttoning, and then the rustle of falling fabric. I didn't want to see, and yet I wanted to see, so bad. I wanted to see her bottom, the place where she had undergone so much, it seemed, from her loving husband. I wanted to see her pussy, as dizzy as the thought made me feel, when I became conscious of it. Her big breasts. All the naughty places she so clearly believed belonged completely to Jake, the parts of her he obviously took great pleasure in using.

The air moved subtly. My senses, the entire surface of my skin, seemed to have come more vividly alive than I had ever felt. I could feel Shelly take two steps. I sensed her kneeling on the rug in front of Jake. I cried out at the image, just the picture in my mind's eye of the naked wife on her knees before her clothed husband, his hand working the desperately needy pussy of the young woman who he had just finished whipping. My bottom moved uncontrollably back and forth, in the motions I knew belonged to sex… to fucking.

Had Shelly really just said that dirty word? Had she really just told me about her husband putting his hardness in her tiniest, most private hole?

I had never had sex, but my body seemed to know how it worked, how my hips and my backside should move when a man finally put his rigid penis inside me, the way Jake did when he used his wife.

He has the right, she had said. It echoed in my mind in all its lewd heat, pulling me into the fantasy. He has the right to fuck. He has the right to spank, and to whip. To touch me, too… to make me come.

I opened my eyes, but I kept my sight in front of me, at the hook on the mantelpiece where the family strap had hung, before Jake had taken it down to teach me my terrible lesson. I rode his hand, pushing my rear end backwards, offering it to him, hoping, wantonly and impossibly, that he would fuck me, right now, the way he fucked his wife.

"May I take out your beautiful cock, sir?" Shelly asked huskily from beside me.

"Yes, you may, good girl," Jake said, his voice sounding just as thick as Shelly's.

I heard a soft rasping that must have been the sound of his zipper opening. I heard my foster father give a soft grunt from deep in his throat. I heard a kiss, and I knew it must have been planted on Jake's cock.

I started to come at the thought of it… at my desperation to see it, to watch a wife please her husband on her knees while she touched herself between her thighs.

Just as Jake had guessed—or, I wondered suddenly, did Selecta and the government somehow have ways of knowing about wayward young women's orgasms?—I had never climaxed before. A part of me had always feared it, I realized as he urged me onward over the cliff of pleasure: when you saw it happen, in a movie or show for grownups, it seemed like it would hurt, or even like it would change you, turn you into something different.

Or maybe I had worried it might feel so good that I would become an orgasm junky or something. That I would beg men—and even women—to make me come, or worse that I wouldn't be able to stop touching myself down there, inside my jeans.

At the moment my first climax started, I thought that all my fears had come true, but that it didn't stop me from screaming in sheer, helpless pleasure. The sob that followed, as Jake made me ride and ride on his probing, skillful fingers, had gratitude and relief in it. When I felt his thumb press firmly into my cringing anus, though, all of it got mixed up into another scream, because I had started to come again.

Multiple orgasms. It had represented a topic of discussion among the eighteen-year-olds at my educational facility. A girl had had sex, and she had whispered to us about what her boyfriend had done with his tongue, how she had come over and over. I had sat at the cafeteria table with my cheeks burning, nothing to say, but another girl who had lost her virginity the week before had scoffed, and a third girl—who had been fucking since her eighteenth birthday—had said she'd never had an orgasm even though sex felt okay.

I had no idea why I would have stored all that information in the back of my mind, ready to come out here in the Carpenters' living room, unless it had something to do with… well, all of this: my so-called ‘suitability' for this strange rehabilitation program. I was… I was a naughty, naughty girl… a girl who could come and come and come on her foster father's hand after he had whipped her for her sassy mouth.

"Good girl," Jake murmured into my ear. "Come for me."

I cried out as a third climax swept through my body. Despite all the noise I was making, I could hear wet sounds that could only come from Shelly attending to her husband's penis. I felt it in Jake's hands on me, too; the left still holding me in place over the arm of his easy chair and the right fondling my pussy and the valley of my bottom. He must be thrusting his hips, fucking Shelly's face the way he would fuck her vagina… or… or… her poor, tiny anus, when he chose, whenever he chose.

I could feel another orgasm approaching, driven on by my imagination of Shelly's shameful service to Jake's rigid cock. Suddenly, though, Jake took his hands away.

"That's enough, honey," he told me, his voice husky but still commanding. "You'll come again when I decide you've behaved yourself. In the meantime, Shelly will get you some nice thick training panties to help you keep from touching yourself. Now I want you to get on your knees and watch how a good wife pleases her husband."

It took long moments before I understood. I lay over the arm of Jake's easy chair. The noises in the room seemed to enfold me so thoroughly that I forgot about everything else, including myself. The wet sounds of Shelly's oral service… her whimpering moans around the thrusting manhood I hadn't seen but had imagined much too vividly… little grunts deep in Jake's throat.

"That's it," he murmured. "That feels so good, you little slut. Take it. Take it deep."

My eyes went wide. My breath, between my parted lips, started to become ragged. He couldn't mean Shelly, could he? His wife? Could he really mean to call his wife a little slut?

"Grace," I heard his voice say, the sound so deep it seemed to come from way down in his flat belly. "Do as you're told. You're a little slut just like Shelly. You need to watch and learn."

My body obeyed. The floating, watching part of me—the part that felt most like me—decided that I hadn't followed Jake's impossibly degrading order. To my dismay, though, I couldn't deny the tiny surge of gladness and of rekindled need that my body's wayward submission brought to my observing mind.

I'm enjoying this. I tried to push the idea far, far away, but it refused to leave—as if the things Jake and Shelly had said about learning what kind of girl I really was had forced me to think about these terrible things rather than thrust them into the darkness.

Whether I meant the me looking down from somewhere else or the body that I couldn't truly deny was also me… something about the shameful scene in the farmhouse living room had answered an essential part of me. My terrible whipping over the arm of Jake's easy chair, the way he had fondled my pussy and my bottom and made me come for the very first time—not as a gift but as… as a… a mastering, a lesson, a start to my training—to my horror, I liked it.

My body got onto its—my—knees, turning so that I could see my foster father thrusting his massive, rock-hard penis in and out of my foster mother's mouth. He had both his hands on the back of her head, and he held her mouth in place so that he could use her face as if she represented nothing more than a receptacle for his manhood. Shelly's eyes were watering and she made helpless little sounds around the thrusting shaft as it went relentlessly in and out between her lips.

I cried out at the sight of it. I had never imagined that something so obscene, so degrading, so brutal could make me so desperate to touch myself between my thighs.