Given to the Club by Emily Tilton
Chapter 4
Gerard
I discovered Helena’s treason when she attempted to access a sensitive administration file from my dataport. I felt terribly foolish for having allowed her access to the data port, especially when I discovered that she had installed, with the help of her contacts in the misguided Anti-Governor Resistance League, a set of programs that masked her illicit searches behind innocuous ones.
Since her initial inspection, Helena had come to my rooms in college once a week. On those occasions I had inspected her lovely naked body, paying special attention of course to the hygiene of her quim and bottom. I had also spoken with her about the progress of her suitors’ courtship of her.
Then, if she had shown herself obedient, I would allow her to dress and, as a reward for her compliance, I would invite her to spend some time using my university dataport, which furnished resources far beyond those Helena might access at home. I could tell how grateful this small favor made the girl, and it gratified me to please her.
For I must admit to the strong affection I had developed for Helena. I had found very early on—indeed at her first inspection, when I had been forced to whip the girl’s sweet little bottom—that alongside my natural and unavoidable sexual desire for such a beautiful young lady, delivered into my care, I admired her in a more platonic way as well. Helena Breverton possessed every charm and attainment of Prosperian young womanhood to such an extent that I found myself beginning to question my choice of life.
I had always before thought myself a perfect bachelor don. The genius of Prosperia’s social system meant that I need not, as the dons of old had done—or at least as they had been expected to do—go without the delights that only a good, masterful fuck can provide a man like me. My twice-weekly visits to my favorite pleasure house, and the occasional naughty girl sent to serve my gentlemen’s club, had always given me all the scope my dominant libido required.
I had known the honor of serving as guardian to three previous young ladies. Despite the naturally cock-stiffening consequences of doing my duty by them in the way of guidance, inspection, and discipline, I had not desired to claim them as my own. Or, rather, I had found myself easily able to repress that wholly natural desire while inspecting and disciplining those previous young ladies, and then to discharge it in the velvety cunt or tight bottom-hole of a pleasure girl.
Miss Helena Breverton had proven quite another matter, however. Somewhat to my chagrin, since her first visit to me I had not paid a single call to any of my favorite young women in Prosperia City’s pleasure district.
More notably, thanks to my involvement with the intelligence service and its efforts to aid the Magisterians in rooting out Vionian spies, a disobedient young lady had been sent to my club a month or so after my first inspection of Helena. The foolish girl was quite a lovely auburn-haired thing, in fact, but I had passed up the opportunity to fuck her. Not only did I decline to make an individual appointment to interrogate and to discipline the girl, but I even absented myself from the Saturday night revel when the girl received her full comeuppance at the hands and cocks of my fellow members.
Of course, as a part of my duty of care, I had checked up on her network activity after she had used the dataport. I had seen that she had sent a few books—educational novels, generally about ancient days on Earth—to her account from the university library. She had also, it appeared done a little clothes shopping. I had smiled to myself at the bit of intimacy this afforded, and I had noted down the items she had looked at.
When at our next appointment I had asked her, in a jocular tone, about whether she still wanted the pair of shoes for which she had shopped, I should I suppose have grown more suspicious at the furtive manner that came over her. My foolishness, however, only stood revealed the next week.
Helena had come for her fifth appointment with me. Her progress seemed rather slow on the courtship front, and I had begun to notice signs of immorality between her legs when I inspected her. On my advice, Mrs. Breverton had ensured that Helena learned how to shave her quim and rear cleavage, so I had an unobstructed view of her private places as she bent before me.
“My dear,” I asked gently, placing my middle two fingers on the sweetly wrinkled hood of the girl’s clitoris, “are you quite sure you do not touch yourself here, perhaps in the shower, more than is necessary for cleanliness’ sake?”
“No, sir,” Helena whispered. Since I had stimulated her during her caning, at her first visit, I had not made reference to her clearly wanton nature. I had hoped that in the course of her courtship the successful suitor would discipline her properly when I had informed him of the potential problem. By then the girl’s governor would be installed, and the potential for immodesty would be much less. If Helena had begun to masturbate, however, the situation could present additional difficulties.
“You are getting wet, Helena Breverton,” I said a little sternly. Indeed, her little pink quim showed an alluring pearl of girlish passion now, and I could scent on the air her burgeoning need. A lucky suitor, I thought to myself, would enjoy himself greatly when he had her for the first time—and thereafter. If I had that honor, I thought wistfully to myself, I would fuck this adorable young lady every night and every morning.
She didn’t respond in words, but rather made a whimpering sound deep in her throat. I noted that she had begun to strain against the straps binding her to the desk, as if she would have covered her cunt if she could.
“Very well,” I told her, not wishing to extend her ordeal for fear I might lose control of myself. My cock had naturally grown very hard at the sight, the feel, and the fragrance of Helena’s untried quim. “You may get dressed and use the dataport.”
I left the study to allow her some time. To my astonishment, I received an alert on my handheld only a minute later, if that.
Sensitive Access Requested Via Dataport at Your Residence. Allow?
* * *
Helena
Professor Simmons burst through the door of his study. I hadn’t even put on my underwear before I had gone to the dataport, so urgent did I think my mission. I had crouched a little, and started trying to find out what had happened to my contact Wasp. Now I turned to see my wrathful guardian standing in the doorway.
At the sight of me, naked in front of the keyboard and screen of his dataport, he seemed for a moment to be on the verge of saying something—or yelling something. Instead, he strode across the carpet to take hold of my upper arm and draw me up and away from the keyboard and the screen.
I had not even realized what the message, Authentication Required. Notification sent,meant. I had supposed it might mean that some bureaucrat somewhere in downtown Prosperia City would have a notice in their mail of the three hundred people who had looked at the report marked Sensitive: Known Agents of Vionian Auxiliary Organizations. If my guardian had access to the report, I thought, surely many other men must also have it.
I should have grasped the meaning of the document being available on Professor Simmons’ dataport in the first place. More important, I should have seen the significance of the fact that he could even request editorial access. Thrilled to see it, though, with my heart pounding, I had clicked the button that said ‘Edit,’ in hope of deleting Wasp’s name from the list. The moment I had opened the document, I had seen that she must be the sixth of the eighteen names, Viola Hammersmith: her address was the only one that fit with the location of our dead drop.
But as soon as the professor came through the door, my mind put together what my hope had prevented it from realizing before. My guardian must have a much more important role in the administration than his position as a professor of history at St. Giles College would indicate. This document undoubtedly represented only the tip of the iceberg, when it came to the Prosperian administration’s efforts to help our Magisterian allies roll up the espionage networks the Vionians had put in place on my world.
I sobbed in frustration as I looked at Professor Simmons’ wrathful face. How foolish could I possibly be? Even if I had deleted Wasp’s name from the list, the system would have tracked the revision: for that idiocy I could plead only a young lady’s thorough ignorance of the workings of the technological world that on Prosperia lay entirely within men’s control.
Yet I had done so much to cover my tracks, in the initial illicit investigation that had led me to make contact with the Anti-Governor Resistance League. Sneaking into my father’s library, I had accessed on his dataport only publicly available files—publicly available to men, of course, but none of them sensitive in the slightest.
My guardian used his hold on my arm to prostrate me on the carpet, my naked breasts pressing down into its scratchy material and my nipples instantly stiffening at the touch so that I whimpered in alarm and, much worse, arousal. Since the first time the professor had bent me over his desk, I had learned a good deal about women’s needs. The Prosperian administration, in the documents I had read, invariably called it that—the thing I always felt at my inspections despite my mortification and my desperate attempts to hide my body’s response to his gaze and his touch.
They called it women’s needs, and they controlled those needs with the tiny device they placed between the thighs of every Prosperian girl before she reached the age of nineteen: the governor. Though I had dedicated my existence, only three months earlier, to its abolition, I suddenly and perversely wished I had one down there, on my clitoris.
If I had a governor, and the man in charge of me—my husband or, in the case of an unmarried woman, my guardian—decided I shouldn’t experience sexual pleasure, I wouldn’t feel what I felt now. I wouldn’t be blushing furiously at the terrible excitation caused by the professor shifting his left hand to the small of my back to hold me down as with his right he took hold of my whole bottom and raised it up.
“What were you doing, Helena Breverton?” he demanded in a growl, squeezing my bottom hard, his middle fingers pressing firmly against my shaved pussy as if to remind me that he had decided I should be so smooth and bare there. “What were you looking at?”
To my horror I knew that he must already know: whatever notification he had received must have had that information. The question could only represent the beginning of the professor’s effort to break me. If I began to confess, I felt certain, I would crumble entirely.
“Let me up, sir!” I exclaimed, my voice muffled by the carpet but as indignant as I could make it under the circumstances. “I wish to go home and to consult with my father!”
My guardian’s only response was to lift his hand from my backside and then to begin to spank me, hard and fast, his hand moving from right to left. I gasped, then yelped, then cried out. I tried to twist away, tried to lower my backside to evade the terrible slaps of the professor’s big hand, but that hand seemed to follow my bottom wherever I moved it.
“Your father, miss, will be very grateful that you won’t be going home for quite a while,” he said very coldly, even as he delivered spank after spank. “Now arch your back and offer your bottom properly. Our discussion of your misconduct won’t begin in earnest until you obey me in that particular.”