Given to the Club by Emily Tilton

Chapter 3

Helena

I whirled around fully to face him, crouching a little so that I could better shield my gauzy camisole and drawers from my guardian’s eyes. Professor Simmons regarded me with an ironic, detached expression that only increased my embarrassment. At the same time, I had the anxious feeling that I could see something more—and more disquieting—behind his amused eyes. I felt my forehead crease as I wondered, suddenly, if my guardian desired me, in the way wicked men desired young ladies in the educational novels.

Wicked men had those passionate desires, I told myself, but didn’t suitors also have them? Yes, but in a different way, surely. The desires of wicked men would ruin girls, if they should fall into those men’s clutches, while the desires of their suitors made young ladies feel a corresponding affection.

But my guardian… he didn’t fall into either category, did he? Nor did I have the slightest idea, I suddenly realized, what the word desire meant, when it referred to a man. I merely caught a glimpse, behind the little smile of superiority the professor gave me, of a smoldering compulsion, a will to do something to me, or to make me do something… and the unshakable impression that whatever that something might be, it could only bring me shame, could only involve the end of my maidenly modesty.

Of course my guardian had already promised a good deal of that in the humiliations he had already inflicted, and those he had told me of. The idea of disrobing alone, and the fact that he had just asserted his control over my very clothing and begun to undress me himself, should have given me a strong enough idea of the embarrassment in store. Looking into Professor Simmons’ face now, though, I saw a strange hunger behind his eyes. I had a sudden fear that this man, into whose charge my society had given me, wished me to learn much more at his hands, and with a much greater cost to my modesty, than he had even yet told me.

Now, to my surprise, he moved away, withdrawing back around his desk and seating himself again in his chair. I remained where I was, in the spot where he had caused my gown to fall away from me, my hands still trying to cover the places on my camisole and drawers where I felt such anxiety that the light might reveal the shameful secrets of my private places.

I saw him reach into the pocket of his tweed jacket, just as he sat down, and I heard a distinct metallic click behind me. A little gasp burst from my chest as I understood, and I couldn’t help turning around again to try the doorknob, desperately, and to find the door locked.

“An oversight, my dear,” said the professor from behind me. “I did not think you would prove so disobedient.”

I heard something else from his direction, the sound of a desk drawer opening.

“Turn around, Helena,” my guardian said.

I closed my eyes, and then opened them, trying to summon a modicum of mental strength. Slowly I turned around, to see the professor leaning back in his chair, holding something long and thin, with a crooked end. For a moment, I could regard it almost with dispassion, because I had never actually seen this sort of cane before—the sort used for whipping naughty students, and naughty young ladies.

Then I could no longer press back my understanding, and I bit my lip hard, emitting a humiliating little whimper from my throat. Dread seized me from head to toe and the hand that I held in front of my drawers suddenly darted to the rear, as if the horrible piece of rattan already menaced my poor bottom.

“Helena Breverton,” the professor said, “remove your camisole and your drawers and come here this instant, or I shall have to come fetch you, and your punishment will be doubled.”

“Sir,” I begged. “Please… I’ve never… I don’t know how…”

I meant my words sincerely. Although I had read about the young men entering their headmasters’ studies for discipline, I had no idea how even the bravest and most noble of them comported themselves inside. I didn’t know how to be a good girl, when my guardian decreed that I must be punished, even if I had wished to be one.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Helena,” he thundered, clearly exasperated now. “You certainly know how to remove your underthings. Do so at once.”

I watched with horror as he rose again, and tapped the horrible cane in his right hand against the palm of his left. I gave a sob, and I put my hands to the hem of my camisole, fingers trembling so violently that I could scarcely catch hold of the fabric. I closed my eyes again and, feeling my whole body blush, I raised it over my head, grateful that for a moment my guardian could no longer see my face.

I held the little garment there for a moment, suddenly struck motionless by the terrible knowledge that Professor Simmons could see my little breasts. I remembered my governess telling me, soon after my bosom began to assume a more womanly shape, that a young lady’s mature figure could excite unwelcome attention, and I must now have clothing that concealed it properly. The thought of my guardian’s eyes, of his unwelcome attention made my face burn.

From outside the momentary little cocoon of the muslin, then, I heard him say, “Those are lovely breasts, my dear, but please proceed. We must see more.”

The feelings this shameful compliment and command awakened in me made me bite my lip. I did not understand them at all, and at that moment I did not wish to know their meaning. I tore the camisole off and dropped it onto the table. My bosom was not by any means generous, but the feeling of the cooler air on my little nipples and the slight swaying of my breasts brought even more heat to my cheeks.

I put my hands to the waistband of my drawers, feeling faint and hardly believing I could do it. If a young lady’s bosom should always be covered and concealed, the place down below, where my governess had once whispered a husband’s greatest interest lay, carried much more shame.

“Go ahead, Helena,” Professor Simmons said, his voice sounding a little gentler now that I had begun to obey him. “You will have to become accustomed to me seeing you this way.”

I let out another sob, and stepped out of my shoes, which like all Prosperian footwear sensed my movement and loosened automatically. I pressed the place on my drawers’ waistband that loosened it enough to draw the garment down. I told myself I had no choice, and I let them fall, putting my right hand in front of my private part, where the golden fur had only started to grow a few months before, and my left before my bosom as I faced the professor with blazing cheeks and thudding heart.

“Take your hands away from your person, my dear,” he said. “Put them at your sides, if you please. You are not to cover yourself in front of me again, any more than your husband will allow you to cover yourself when he instructs you to undress for him.”

I obeyed. I have no choice, I kept telling myself. With my eyes on the ancient Turkish carpet of the professor’s study, I lowered my hands to my sides, clenching them into little fists against the bare, bare skin of my hips.

“Yes, very lovely,” my guardian said. “We shall remove your pubic hair of course. Some guardians allow the accepted suitor to make the choice, but I prefer to inspect a girl who looks as tidy between her thighs as possible.”

I closed my eyes and tried to choke down the sob of mortification that rose into my throat. I had not even known what the word pubic meant until then.

“Look at me, my dear,” he commanded. I opened my eyes and raised them, to see that the desire in my guardian’s eyes had gained the upper hand over his detachment. My heart beat even faster. To my astonished dismay, I suddenly became aware of how very handsome, and not indeed very old, Professor Simmons was, as well as how very frightening was the length of rattan in his hand. “There, you are beginning to learn, despite all your blushes.”

He had pushed his chair well back from his desk, and now he rapped the dark polished surface of the desk with the cane.

“Come here, and lay yourself down, now. You have a lesson to learn.”

My knees wobbled beneath me as I did as he had bid, lowering my eyes to avoid his dark gaze, thankful for the excuse of having to look in front of my feet at the carpet, and then the desk. When I turned my attention there I realized to my shock that my guardian had pulled from somewhere under the desk two straps of leather that were affixed to the far edge of its top.

I turned to look at him, my lips parted to object, but then I felt his hand upon my back, and I started violently tensing. The professor pressed firmly nonetheless, and his eyes locked onto mine as he enforced his will, bending me over.

“Eyes forward, Helena,” he said very sternly. “Arms in front of you.”

I bit my lip and tried not to whimper as my guardian strapped my wrists down.

“This is so you can’t hurt yourself while you are whipped, my dear,” he said. “Now spread your knees, if you please. It is important that you feel yourself exposed during punishment, and it will allow me to inspect you properly.”

I found I could not obey, even if I had wanted to. My legs trembled too much to allow me any control over them.

Professor Simmons sighed. “I should give you extra strokes of the cane for that disobedience, Helena, but I understand how new this is. Know that in the future I shall punish you severely for any reluctance in exposing your quim and your bottom-hole as I require.”

“My…” I gasped. I had never heard the word, but its very sound seemed shameful.

“Your quim, Helena,” said Professor Simmons rather coldly. “Your cunt, as men call it, or your cunny, as a husband may say with affection. Perhaps you have heard it called a pussy, by naughty girls at school.”

I could not reply, for I had grown faint with shame. The very idea that men would have a special, filthy name for a girl’s private part sent a strange and terrible thrill through me.

Then, much worse, I felt my guardian’s hands between my knees, spreading them for me, so that my feet had to shuffle apart. Worst of all, I suddenly became aware of an odd warmth in the secret place the professor had just exposed to his view.

“There we go,” he said, with an evident satisfaction that sent a rush of heat to my face. I turned, not sure what I wished to do or hoped to see, but desperate to have some control over this hideous inspection. “I told you, Helena Breverton,” the professor thundered. “Eyes forward. You must learn to offer this part of you to the man who has the right and duty to discipline you, and someday soon to enjoy you as well. Your thrashing will commence when you turn your face forward.”

I felt his left hand come down upon my back. For a moment I thought he meant he would wait until I had done as he had ordered before he began to punish me, but then I saw him raise his right hand, the cane held high. I cried out as he brought it down with a terrible swishing sound and then a crack across my poor bare bottom.

I gasped, thinking for just an instant that perhaps it wouldn’t hurt as much as I had feared. But the sting almost immediately became a fiery line of agony. Tears seemed to spring from my eyes as I turned my face forward, knowing I would do anything to shorten the awful lesson.

I felt him shift, and then I heard the terrible sound, and the cane came down again. I screamed and struggled against the straps, my bottom clenching and unclenching in a mortifying and vain attempt to soothe the smart.

“Count for me, Helena. That was one.”

“One,” I sobbed.

“One, sir,” said my guardian, tapping the cane against my bottom, so that I cried out in fear.

“One, sir,” I yelped, and then he struck again.

“Two, sir,” I wailed, and then, “Please, sir… it hurts…”

He caned me again, and I sobbed, “Three, sir,” as my backside bounced up and down atop my guardian’s desk.

“Of course it hurts,” said Professor Simmons. “That is how a young lady learns obedience.”

He brought the cane down again, lower down on my thighs, and I screamed in agony, writhing over the hard wood, and for a moment the pain afflicted me so greatly that I didn’t remember to count until he tapped my bottom with the awful cane again.

“Four, sir,” I said, and he struck again immediately, across the middle of my bottom.

“Five, sir.” My tears had made a little pool on his desk.

“I saw how wet your quim was when I spread your legs, Helena Breverton,” the professor said. “I shall inspect you now.”

My lips parted. Through the pain of my thrashing I tried to understand him.

“Wet, sir?” I asked, my voice choked with tears.

Without warning, my guardian took his left hand from my back and thrust it between my thighs. I thought for an instant that he meant to hurt me there, and I cried out, but then a shock of something else, something so pleasant I knew immediately that it must be wicked, radiated out from my private part through my whole body. His fingers moved upon the part of me he had called my quim and to my mortification my hips responded, riding those fingers as they taught me a very different sort of lesson.

“Yes,” my guardian murmured above me. “Yes, you are very much in need of your bridegroom’s governor, aren’t you, my dear?”

Then he took his hand from my pussy—for, yes, I had heard that word whispered at school—and replaced it on my back, where I could feel the shameful wetness of which he had spoken. I sobbed with frustration, and then I heard the final stroke of my caning and felt it across my bottom.

I returned home with a blushing face and a single determination: to learn what my guardian had meant by the word governor.

* * *

I found the Anti-Governor Resistance League in less than an hour of illicit searching on my father’s workstation. What I learned through them turned me into a traitor to my own world—at least until Professor Simmons caught me, a mere six weeks into my courtship season.