Given to the Club by Emily Tilton
Chapter 22
Gerard
Miniver brought the cane down with the satisfying, practiced swish of a true Prosperian gentleman. The thwack of the rattan against Helena’s creamy posterior, from which the red welts left by Jones’ strap had faded away, gave equal satisfaction.
The girl’s response, though—a sob through gritted teeth—told me that Helena had become, rather unexpectedly, a difficult case. Her lovely round bottom, so beautifully exposed over the saddle of the punishment horse, squirmed and clenched in an involuntarily lewd movement, and her head reared back from the horse’s neck, but I thought I could see in the rigidity she maintained in the rest of her body that she had adopted some sort of resolution to defy us—and me, as her guardian, in particular.
Miniver caned her again, the swish-thwack falling in near silence this time, as Helena somehow steeled herself to make even less noise, a mere sharp exhalation of breath through her nose, even as her back arched and her knees bounced atop the ‘stirrups’ of the horse.
“Again,” I said impatiently, suddenly conscious of a battle of wills taking shape between my treasonous young lady and we three, tasked with her chastisement and interrogation. It didn’t seem she had anything to tell us, despite her occasionally seeming to keep a secret. Those accused, I reflected, often seemed guilty simply by their presence in suspicious circumstances.
Miniver brought the rattan down again, and Helena grunted, her whole body shuddering as the bounce in her knees and the squirming of her bottom-cheeks grew more intense. One double line of red had appeared vividly across both those peach-like cheeks and another, just below it, had begun to form. As I watched that one became almost as bright, and a third showed itself, higher up than either of its predecessors.
“Lovely, Miniver,” said Justice Warren.
Helena’s breathing came in little puffs through her nose. I saw that her hands, bound to the sides of the horse’s neck, had taken hold of the polished wood, one hand atop the other, squeezing so hard that I felt certain her unseen knuckles had gone white.
“Again, please,” I told Miniver. “Helena, you must tell us everything.”
She had seemed to me, in the chamber of pleasure, to have begun learning her lesson. I had thought her on the way to accepting her position and the difficult notion of how well it suited her particular sexual needs. The resistance I could see in her sweet naked body under the cane certainly seemed, however, to tell a different tale.
Miniver struck again, and now Helena bounced up and down atop the horse as if she rode a seat of fire. She had her lower lip between her teeth, and a low whine emerged.
“Speak, girl,” I told her. “Who put that note in your hand?”
Her shoulders contracted, her slender arms mobile, as if she were trying to ease the tension in them, having discovered how much more the cane hurts when applied to a tightened frame.
“I told you,” Helena said, her voice emerging low from her chest and with an effort that made me think she was attempting not to sob. “I didn’t see.”
Four double lines of red graced her young bottom now, the beginnings of a richly deserved comeuppance. I found it difficult to shake the feeling, however, that she had something more locked in her mind—something she at least thought important that she must keep hidden.
“Give her the last two of the six, please, Miniver,” I said. “Then Justice Warren, you may take the paddle to that disrespectful backside.”
* * *
Helena
“No!” I shouted, fighting with all my will to keep facing the wall rather than turning to fix pleading eyes on Gerard. But I heard the whistle of the cane through the air again, and again it came down with the sharp sound, and again I felt the searing pain across my poor bottom, added to the fire Mr. Miniver had already brought there.
This time I cried out. I simply couldn’t help it. I felt my muscles tense, and then relax as I began to move in that humiliating way that the designer of the horrid punishment horse had clearly intended: the bouncing movement like that of a girl atop a rocking horse, desperately and lewdly showing her whipped bottom and her exposed private part as she bounced on her knees in an attempt to ease her suffering.
I had planned only to take so much of the whipping, hadn’t I? I had meant to show myself theatrically broken under their discipline, and to convince them that way of my no longer having any information to supply. Now as Mr. Miniver caned me a sixth time I found it very difficult to maintain any mental grip on that idea: there was my will not to show these gentlemen that I had truly deserved this shameful, painful treatment, and there was the mortifying need inside me to submit to their authority—to my loving guardian, above all, but also to the men with whom he meant to share me.
I heard Mr. Miniver step back. Almost immediately, before the pain had faded even a little from the last cut of the cane, I felt the hand of Justice Warren on the belt at my back. Fear of the terrible wooden paddle I had seen in his hand, and the simple need to see it, as if perhaps I would see that it didn’t really look as painful as the image in my mind, possessed me. I turned, writhing, to one side and then the other, but the magistrate stood too close. I sensed his weight shifting behind me. I cried out, “No!” again and this time I couldn’t help adding that weakest word, “Please!”
But Justice Warren began to paddle me nonetheless, speaking in a tone that seemed terrible in the contrast of its levelness, even its gentleness, with the fierce retribution of the heavy wooden thing in his hand.
“There, girl,” he said. “There. You were very naughty, weren’t you? Now you’re only getting what you earned. That’s what justice truly is.”
He had his face close enough to my ear, as he struck, hard and fast, over and over, that I could hear him speak even over my screams. For I began to scream almost as soon as I felt the paddle’s discipline over the searing welts of the cane.
The idea that my body had been delivered to the ownership of Drake’s club, to be disposed of according to the pleasure of my guardian, had very clearly represented the underlying lesson of my whole ordeal thus far. Until that moment, when my mind again found that detached state where I seemed to regard myself from outside my body, I believe I had not truly absorbed that notion. With Justice Warren paddling me, however, I suddenly felt in my whole being that I belonged no longer to myself, but to Gerard, and to his friends. They would train me, and they would use me with their hands, their straps, their canes, their cocks just as they pleased. What I thought about the matter made no difference whatsoever, and neither did any secret I might keep or divulge.
“She’s ready for the cunt paddle, I think,” I heard Gerard say.
No, my mind said, though my body kept screaming as Justice Warren punished my thighs with the heavy wood, then my bottom. My hips rode up and down, my knees bouncing frantically atop my shameful mount. No… you have to let me say I’m broken… then I’ll be able to keep the secret…
But my thoughts had grown distant and indistinct. As Justice Warren stepped away and my guardian took his place, left hand taking hold of the belt and steadying my motion, I managed to sob, “Please,” somehow thinking I would be able to say, Please, I’ve told you everything. You can use me as degradingly as you choose, but I don’t know anything more.
Gerard didn’t allow me to gather the words into my head into any such form, let alone speak them. I felt him shift a little, and I heard a different sort of swishing sound, and then I felt the leather strike my pussy and heard its smack. I screamed, holding the neck of the awful horse so tightly my fingers hurt. Again the slight movement of my guardian’s body, almost touching mine, and again the sound, and now I cried out even before it struck, because it hurt so much already. I felt that they had turned the whole region between my waist and my knees—the region it seemed they meant to possess, above every other part of me—into a blazing fire with their justice and their training.
Then, to my horror, my guardian paused, and in the same place he had just whipped me with the horrible special paddle I felt something else. He had turned my governor up, much higher than it had been since my defloration in the chamber of pleasure. Seven? Eight?
“What?” I sobbed.
Gerard struck again with the wide leather blade, and I cried out, my back arching, my head rearing. Then he put his hand there, gently—much too gently.
“Speak, my dear,” he murmured in my ear, masturbating me so that in a terrible moment the pain changed to that other thing—not pleasure, but somehow greater than pleasure and infinitely more needy.
He took the soothing hand away.
“No,” I cried as I understood what would happen next, but he whipped me again with the paddle. I screamed in mingled need and agony and fear. I didn’t know what he meant to do then, but I thought I could stop it—knew I could stop it. “I saw a man… with a scar on his cheek… by the place where I left the documents!”
“Ah,” I heard Justice Warren say.
“There we go,” said Mr. Miniver. “Good girl.”
Gerard’s hand came back between my legs. I cried out, and I rode his fingers shamelessly, trying to put from my mind the thought that I had just betrayed those whom I had hoped to aid. Whether their cause had any merit in the end I couldn’t say, and didn’t wish to; I had certainly come to understand that the governor represented a far more ambiguous thing than I had thought. I was a creature of my Prosperian society, to be sure, but to have my guardian in charge of my pussy seemed right to me—and perhaps I had only done the right thing in informing on my world’s enemies.
As he comforted me between my thighs, and drove me onward toward a release I hoped desperately he would allow, if I pleased him, Gerard murmured, “Now I know you have told the truth, Helena. But do not fear for the man with the scar—he is the government agent who uncovered the plot.”
I gasped, and turned my face over my shoulder though I could see nothing but the back of my guardian’s shirt at first. When he sensed my movement, however, Gerard leaned back so that he could look into my tearful eyes as he kept working my wet pussy with his knowing hand. He took his left hand from the belt, then, and used it to embrace me, and he kissed me gently, if a little awkwardly thanks to my position atop the punishment horse.
“Oh, delightful,” Justice Warren said. “I should think you’d like to allow her a climax, Professor.”
My heart jumped with hope, but Gerard took his hand from between my legs, then, and my hope seemed to turn to ashes. I gave a whimpering cry, a pathetic plea, even as he kept kissing me, and then I realized that he had put his hand in his breast pocket, for the feeling down there increased so intensely, from the mere aftershocks of the whipping and the soothing, that I cried out.
Then the hand was back on my pussy, and Gerard was kissing me, and my bottom, under his gentle fingers, rode and rode a saddle of pleasure instead of pain. I cried out into my guardian’s mouth as I began to climax almost immediately.
“That’s it,” said Mr. Miniver. “Get that little quim onto your master’s fingers. Work that whipped arse.”
“What a pretty sight,” Justice Warren said. “Shall we fuck her atop the horse before we have her all together?”