In a small art supply store one day near the university, a young student who was there to buy some charcoal pencils for her drawing class bumped into the store manager, a tall and beautiful woman whose shimmering brown eyes and musky feminine scent drank in the poor girl's will like a black hole of want. Panicked, she dropped her pencils and rushed out without so much as an apology.
All the rest of that day- and for the next one as well- she was haunted by the flesh momory of their brief encounter in the store isle, and no matter how long or how furiously she masturbated in her dorm room, her fever would not subside.
So she took a long bus ride across town to buy an identical box of pencils from the town's only other art supply outlet. Then she returned to the store of her torment, deliberately mishandling the delicate box as she entered, and presented them to that manager whose beauty vexed her so sorely.
"I stole these," she confessed falsely. "And I am too ashamed of myself to use them to draw. So here, I am returning them to unburden my conscience. Will you forgive me?"
The store manager did her best to remain stern in the face of such a touching plea. "They are broken," she told her little penitent, "and as such I cannot sell them. If you say you stole them, that certainly means you do not have the money to pay. So what am I to do with you?"
"Whatever you wish, Ma'am," she said with her eyes deferentially downcast. "It is not for me to say. I pray only that I will fail you no further."
"Very well then," said the manager, noting that it was near time for the store's closure. "You are to stand motionless- right were you are- while I close up."
The girl did, with the flutter of her heart and the faint heave of her chest as she anticipated her punishment the only motions betraying her presence as she stood.
The store manager asked her when she flicked off the display case window: "Have you ever worked as an artist's model?"
"No Ma'am, I have not." The girl could scarcely speak, she was so beside herself.
"But you keep your body still so well." Her captor gave her permission to relax. She had to help the girl to a chair, and stood behind her stroking her hair whle she interrogated her about her circumstances and schedule. Yes, she was legally an adult, but not by many months. No, she was not beholden to anybody presently, nor expected to report for work or classes, nor for any other duties any time for the remainder of the day. She abused no drugs, was in good health and was completely oriented to, and cognizigant of, the present circumstances. Then the manager directed that girl- quietly but with an authority whose tone would suffer no impudence- to confess all other sins, the large, as well as the many small ones of all of her eighteen years. Though those of the first category were few and truly mild in their comparative severity, those that she confessed to in the later category were so many, yet so trifling (and some of them even clearly imaginary; a seemingly endless catalog of lonely, mixed-up school-girl guilt,) that after her florid and heartfelt accounting of what was scarcely the prefex to that catalog, the store manager was forced abruptly to tell her to stop, as they must leave the building post haste. Closing time on Sunday was 1:00 PM.
Afraid that she would be cast adrift, the girl nearly burst into tears, but her confessor assured her that she would not be abandoned in her present state, and told her to sit still again and be quiet while she drove to her lakeside studio.
"Your shame is so unfounded," she told her prisoner as she made sure her seat belt was on tight. "It is a crime for an innocent such as you to suffer so. So tonight my little lamb, you shall be cleansed."
In her aging 2-seated European sports car whose engine purred sensuously beneath them, she drove along the lake front shoreway, far to the east of the city to where they would find a small white panel boathouse whose attached dwelling had long since been torn down and the nearest cottages were 200 meters away on either side, which was at least the length of the gravely drive accessing it through landscape of ice age rocks upturned by the last glacier's final thrust, and blanketed with a thick forest of pine and the occasional maple that loomed around them in a steep primordial gorge as they descended, through a small public picnic area that was deserted despite the mild weather, to lake level.
"Get out," the driver told her prisoner.
She did, and stood awed by the beauty, which was like a childhood memory of a show she once saw on the Discovery Channel about the Norwegian fiords. At water's edge, more of those glacier-upended rocks formed a crescent-shaped cove around the tiny wooden dock leading from the boat house, and extended out another fifty meters in a rugged pileup of stone, whereupon waves no doubt thundered against in a high wind, exploding into mist and great sucking whirlpools with gravity's return of each breaking wave- such was the vision on that mild autumn day that the penitent girl had of rougher weather in the place of her coming detention. From where she stood, the only windows visible were boarded over with thick sheets of plywood, such as which would cover a condemned house.
The store manager fiddled with a great iron lock on her studio door and it opened only under a mighty turn of the key. She pushed on the door and though it be of wood, it opened with a groan one would expect of a steel prison cell door. She clicked a switch and the harsh glare of two flood- lights came on.
Pungent turpentine fumes stung the penitent's nose. She squinted through the glare and discovered that the art store manager was a true artist herself. Big, bright canvases of sinewy young female track athletes covered the walls, and a nearly completed one of a girl in sports bra and tiny shorts doing hamstring stretches in the grass and gazing sadly from the canvas, was upon an easle. "Are your models professionals?" asked the penitent.
"Ha! Do you think I can afford to pay models on my wages? Oh, a few friends pose for me from time to time, but mostly I work from photos, and from my imagination. But enough questions from you. I want you to tell me why we are here."
"For my punishment," was the girl's unhesitating answer.
"Good. Do you willingly turn yourself over to me for correction?"
"I do, she told the artist." She trembled so badly she could scracely stand.
The artist sensed that the girl had needs that could not much longer wait, and led her to a small changing room with an unshielded toilet and full length mirrors on three walls. "Who shall undress you, yourself or me? Your choice shall have no bearing on the severity of your punishment, but bare you must be for it."
"You please, Ma'am," was the girl's barely audible answer.
"Very well then. Stand, with your hands over your head." She pulled the girl's windbreaker off, but for the moment left on her tee shirt and sports bra, and knelt to undo her shoelaces. The artist pulled the penitent's sneakers off, but left her sox on. Then she delicately undid the girl's belt buckle and lowered her trousers zipper. Deftly, she pulled the girls jeans and panties down to her ankles and made her step out of them. Out of modesty, the penitent pulled down the front of her tee sirt to cover her fuzzy womanhood. The artist gave her hands a playful little slap, with an admonition to put her hands back over her head.
Then she turned her to face the middle of the three mirrors and told her to look at herself. The girl blushed furiously. The artist pulled her tee shirt off over her head and loosened her sports bra, taking that off as well, leaving the humiliated girl looking at frontal and side views of herself naked, save for her sox. Lean, small- breasted, with strong thighs from rollerblading, disheveled strawberry blond hair and sharp red tan lines from the recent summer, she was a touching sight to behold and the artist had to pinch her to get her attention and stop her from absentmindedly rocking where she stood in a way that could give rise to unclean feelings.
"I'm going to cuff your hands so you don't get into mischief," she told the girl. She pulled the poor girl's hands behind her back and snapped a velvet-cushioned pair of handcuffs onto her wrists. "They're not too tight, are they?," she asked.
The girl just shook her head.
Her captor made her shuffle to the toilet and sit upon it. "There is toilet paper within reach if you need it," she told her, and quietly left the room.
The girl peed and peed and peed and peed...
...the artist came back in while she was still urinating...
...out of shock and embarassment, the girl's sphincter muscle tightened, she stopped in mid-pee and she whimpered, but the artist took her hand and told her it was OK, that she would be patient and wait till the girl's bladder relaxed. The artist stroked her head and whispered encouragement in her ear, and by sheer will to please her captor, the poor bladder-shy girl began to pee again, first in tiny squirts, then in a steady stream that brought joy to her heart and a wild gleeful smile to her face.
Once she was finished, the artist took a wad of tissue and patted her prisoner dry once, only once. That brought a heave against her hand from the girl, and the artist slapped her face ever so lightly and told her there'd be none of that.
"Yes, Ma'am," she whispered, struggling against tears.
"You will learn quickly, my precious." She kissed her captive's cheek right where she'd slapped it, then led her back to the mirrors and forbade her to close her eyes. "You must look at yourself in all your helplessness," she told her, sternly. "Now stand still while I unlock your cuffs."
She did, and allowed the penitent to shake the circulation back into them before she locked the cuffs back onto one hand and told her to raise both over her head. The girl did, and the artist looped the loose cuff over an overhead beam and locked the other hand in. Now the prisoner was helpless and completely exsposed, in a position long associated with whipping. The artist left the room until the girl grew tired and let herself hang loosely from the beam.
"Do not do that!," snapped the artist. Her captive could see that she had changed into a dark, two-piece swimsuit and held a wide leather belt. Her legs were long, lean and strong, her arms sinewey and lean, her tummy flat and rippling with muscle.
The prisoner, cringing at the sight, stood up straight.
"You should not hang on your wrists," the artist told her, softly now. It will cut off your circulation and cause blood clots. "I don't want the girl I'm trying so hard to help come to any harm." She stroked the captive's bare bottom with the belt, but did not strike her.
The artist carried a drawing board across the room, removed the newsprint pad of sketches that was clipped to it and brought the belt down hard on the smooth wooden surface. CRACK! "This belt will sting very badly if I were to use it on you," she told the trembling penitent. "Should I whip you on your bare back?" She stroked the girl there, softly. "Or on your bare bottom?" She carressed the girl's round, firm little bottocks with it, and lower... "Or maybe you need a strapping up front..." The girl cried out when the artist pressed the belt against her fuzzy womanhood, right into the crack of it and stroked upwards. "That makes you feel dirty, doesn't it?"
The girl could not speak...
CRACK! Another blow to the drawing board... "DOESN'T IT?"!
"Yes Ma'am," choked out the girl, with difficulty.
"Tell me now," demanded the artist, "do you still believe you need punishment?"
The girl gulped and whispered "Yes Ma'am."
From a tiny purse tied to her waist, the artist produced a box of charcoal pencils; the box the girl had presented to her with her confession. "You didn't steal these," she said, like it was an accusation. "You bought them at another store and lied to me about it! I know because the bar code on it is different than our store. Did you actually believe I would not notice?!"
At that, the girl broke down sobbing.
"Oh, you poor thing." The artist craded her head againts her shoulder and whispered in her ear that she'd get what she needed. Helpless, suspended from the overhead beam, the girl sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. Through her veil of tears, the girl could see her captor lower her swimsuit bottom.
She held the helpless girl and thrust her womanhood against her bottom. The captive responded as if by instinct and rhythmically ground her bottocks against her captor's loins till the dark-haired one cried out and climaxed against her, once, twice, three times and more. She clung to her and her hot breath was in the girl's ear. "You are mine, entirely mine!"
"Yes, Ma'am, I am yours!" The declaration brought the greatest of joys to her heart and in that moment she would be willing to endure anything, any punishement at all, even the ultimate one, if that was what her mistress demanded.
"You did not steal," the artist told her as she peeled herself of her tender quarry, "but you lied to me. You lied and you cried, like a little one. So it is like a little one you shall be punished, over my knee, with my bare hand upon your bare bottom!"
She unlocked the girl's handcuffs and lowered her gently to the toilet, the lid of which she had lowered to make a temporary chair. "I shall spank you over my lap," she told the girl, "but first I must reduce the appearance of your age your age by half so you may better feel your helplesssness." So she combed the snarls out of her charge's hair and set it up in pigtails tied tight and high on her head. She lifted the toilet lid and sat the girl back down on the seat. "Sit perfectly still," she commanded. A pair of sissors she produced and began to clip away at the prisoner's rich, downy pubic hair, flushing all the loose clippings away.
"Now get in the tub," she ordered. With the girl there, she splashed cool water over her privates and lathered the area up with shaving creme.
With tiny, delicate strokes, she shaved away the obedient one's pubic hair. After each stroke of the razor across the girl's pink little mound, she washed the hair it collected into the tub and made another stroke. Again and again the girl was so overcome with the drama of her preparation that she brought her hands to the area of concern to masturbate, but the artist slapped them each time and told her she would only make it worse for herself if she kept it up. Finally in exasperation, she had to handcuff her hands back behind her back, which put the girl at the brink of tears again. "I'll give you something to cry about," her captor warned, but the threat came across as so tender that the two both had to laugh.
"Now up over my knee. No, I'm not going to spank you quite yet. I have to finish shaving you."
To the sensitive area around the girl's anus, she did the same, admonishing her not to move lest she make a painful nick on that precious spot.
Then to the tub the artist took her again and rinsed away all the shaving cream and loose hair. At last the girl's private parts and creamy white behind were so smooth and hairless she looked as if she were truly half the number of years she really was. "Oh, you are soooooooo cute," the artist told her. She unlocked the handcuffs and put the girl over her lap.
"You tell me how many strokes with my bare hand you need for your lying and your naughtiness with your hands, and I shall adjust the severity accordingly. Many or few, no matter. You will get the punishment you need."
"May I please have eighteen?" asked the girl in a voice that was high and squeaky in anticipation.
"Very well, eighteen it is. But this will be no Birthday Spanking!" The artist thwacked the girls's bottom once and she giggled. It was a mere love pat. The next was to the opposite cheek and a wee bit harder, but the girl giggled again. The third stroke was to the very center of her bottom- the area around her anus and the girl yelped, half in surprise at its location and half in genuine pain.
"Now who's laughing?" asked the artist.
"Good! Now feel THIS!" The fourth blow was harder, but to a buttock cheek again and the girl only made a tiny sound in lament. The fifth was a bit harder and to the opposite cheek and again only a tiny peep of protest. The sixth again was over her butthole, and it stung worse than the one there before it. The artist patted her head. "You're healing, my dove. Let the embarassment cleanse you and set your spirit free."
So it went- a smack to a butt cheek, then another harder one to the other, then one right over her puckered, hairless little anus that caused her to flinch and whimper, but not yet cry out. Then after the fourteenth stroke, when she knew that the next would be to that intimate place at the center of her attention, she cried out. "Please, stop!"
Her tormentor stopped and patted her softly where the blow was to come. "Are you sure you want me to stop? When your punishment is not yet complete? Wouldn't it be better if you summoned to courage to accept the completion of it?"
"Yes, Ma'am, I shall try. Please give me a moment to gather my nerve."
"Very well. You tell me when to proceed, and I will make the blows quick." She gently patted the girl's pink bottom and quietly marveled at her beauty.
The girl sniffled and absentmindedly rocked herself against the artist's bare thighs, which brought from her discpilnarian another admonition, but no blows. "Sweetheart, you must tell me soon or I will proceed at a time of my own choosing and I guarantee you will not like the result."
"Please, Ma'am, Please..."
` "I shall take that as a request to continue!"
SMACK, SMACK, SMACK......
All four blows were to that sensitive area aroud her anus, but they were not hard and they were over very quickly.
The penitent gasped, but made no effort to escape.
"I am so proud of you, Dearest," the artist told her. "Your punishment is now complete. That wasn't so bad, was it?"
"No, Ma'am, it was not," the girl admitted, smiling shyly. "Thank you for helping me learn the error of my ways. I shall be forever in your debt. How can I ever repay you?"
"You must accept my ongoing direction in matters most intimate to you."
"Gladly I will, Ma'am, gladly!"
"Good." The artist patted her pink bottom. "In the short time I have had you here, I have had to stop you several times from taking indecent liberties with yourself. I can only imagine how you behave in your dorm room. Do you behave in a way that you believe is shameful? Don't you dare lie to me. I know all about girls like you! Now answer me; do you behave in a way that you believe is shameful?"
"Yes, Ma'am, I do," the girl confessed, blushing furiously.
"Does that mean you play with your.... pussy.... for pleasure?"
"Yes, Ma'am, it does."
"Do you wish to do it less?"
"Yes, Ma'am, I do!"
"Good," the artist told her. "Get up."
She had her sit on her hands on the the toilet lid, and promise not to touch you-know-where in her brief absence.
Returning in just a moment, she bore a polished wooden box, and laid it out on the drawing board. "Come see, she told the obedient one."
"What is it?" asked the penitent in a faint whisper, her anticipation was so great.
The artist flipped it open to reveal an elongated, polished steel shell resembling a half egg encased in a blue velvet enclosure, with three bands of leather-padded steel attached, one from the wider end, the other two from the narrower, bottom end. The band at the top was attached to a wide leather belt, the sides of which were afixed to shiny latching mechanisms that seemed fitted to accomodate the two bands looping up from the bottom end of the shell.
"This is called a chastity belt," the artist told the bug-eyed girl. "This shield....." she pressed the half-egg over the girls' hairless mound... "fits over your naughty little...pussy.... so you can't touch on it, and these straps..." she fingered the leathered bands... "hold it snug so your... pussy... is held prisoner, out of reach from your dirty little hands! Feel how roomy it is? How it fits around naughty Miss Pussy, but no part of it touches where YOU.... already touch TOO MUCH?"
The feel of it on her mound, and the thought of how humiliating it would be to wear it caused the girl's knees to go weak. "OhmiGod!," she gasped.
The artist showed her obedient one a small vent near the bottom of the shell-half. "Through this," she told her, "you can pee without taking it off, and these straps loop around your bun cheeks so even your butthole is free.... to poop... without removing it! There were women who wore these for years, you know, while their men were away at war. And only a century ago, young girls who had the same... problem... that you have were forced to wear them to keep them from rubbing, and the only time a girl was ever released was when she outgrew hers and had to be fitted with a larger one! Now, I'm not so strict that I'd make you wear this all the time like they did, but I think it would do you well to get the feel of it and learn that from this moment on, you do not have the right to masturbate without my permission!"
"Stand up straight, girl! Up straight! It isn't going to hurt you! Spread your legs! Hands over head! Stand still! Still, I said!"
She pressed it snug over the penitent's source of sin, then pulled the wide leather belt tight,, high above her waist, almost at the level of her navel, where it tugged at the leathered steel band connected to the egg shell. Then she drew the other two steel bands up between her prisoner's legs and fiddled for a long time latching them in place behind her back. Finally with two loud "SNAP"s, she fastened it all in place with a pair of heavy locks.
To the mirrors she led the penitent. "I want you to look at that girl. See that shiny belt she's wearing? That's to help her not touch herself in an indecent way! A good thing, wouldn't you agree, for that pretty girl in the mirror to not be able to touch herself in an indecent way? Answer me!"
"Yes," the girl whispered, "it is a good thing that... she...."
"...that I not be able to touch... MY... self... in an indecent way!" She blushed three shades of red and her lip trembled, but she made a heroic effort to not break down sobbing again.
The artist made note of that and kissed her softly on the cheek. "You are so brave, my Dear. And you wear your chastity belt so well. I promise you, you shall come to love the feel of it. Come, you must be hungry."
To a tiny kitchen, the artist took the belted one, and made her stand till she fetched a pillow for her to sit on. "This will make it more comfy, she told her. Now sit, and let me feed you. You must be starved."
Apologizing for not having anthing fancier, she heated up some leftover spaghetti and meatballs and when the girl had devoured all of it, the artist plied her with sweet cakes, juice and steaming hot coffee till she burped agreeably and the two both laughed.
"Are you comfy in your belt?"
"I guess so. It is good that you shaved me. Otherwise it would pinch!"
They laughed again, and the artist had her press on the enclosure to see if she could stimulate herself that way. "Go ahead, you have my permission to masturbate. If you can!"
The penitent blushed and pressed on it. She squirmed on her pillow and pushed hard on the shiny thing, yet all she could feel was its hard, smooth rim on her pubic bone and the outer perimeter of her tender little mound.
"Try and wiggle your fingers in," the artist commanded her, and the girl tried, but could not.
"Your precious little playbox is tucked safely away," the artist whispered in her ear. She kissed her. "And only I can release it. Now you tell me, how is that going to effect your behavior?"
"I think I shall behave very well!"
"You believe that good behavior will get you released from your chastity belt, so that you may masturbate?"
"Yes, Ma'am," she answered, meekly.
Slap! The blow stung her face as badly as the spanking had stung her anus. "Shame on you! You are not to think of masturbating! You are to be innocent in thought, as well as deed, and it is I who shall determine WHEN, or even IF you may satisfy your dirty passions! Do you understrand that, young lady?!"
"Yes, Ma'am, I do," she answered without crying.
"Good." The artist went to her freezer, put ice in a plastic bag and pressed it to the girl's face.
"Now I ask you again, how will wearing that belt affect your behavior?"
"It will affect my behavior in a positive way because I shall learn from it that your word is my command," she said without hesitation.
"You learn so well, my little one. I am proud of you, and being proud as I am, I wish to be ever more strict with you, more strict tomorrow than I am today, more strict the next day than tomorrow, and so on for Infinity, to preserve and nurture your innocence. Is that agreeable to you?"
"Yes, Ma'am, it is!" The girl smiled radiently.
The artist stood behind her subject, hugging her. "Soon, child, you shall be rewarded for your obedience." The faint titter of her cell phone had her disengaging, and she left the kitchen to have a hushed conversation with the caller.
The penitent could not help but eavesdrop...
"...a new friend," she heard the artist say... "...a good girl... very sweet.... you will like her a lot..."
The girl's heart raced in excitement...
"A couple of my friends are coming by," the artist told her upon reentering the kitchen. "They are finishing up their run and should be up by the picnic area in fifteen minutes. Come, we must dress quickly!"
To the studio she took her by hand, where she slipped into a sweatshirt and modest running shorts. She handed the girl a light knit turtleneck sweater, then told her to sit. "Here, put these sox on. They will keep you warm up to your thighs."
The penitent obeyed, pulling up the tight thigh-high sox. Then she reached for the blue jeans she'd worn to the art store. "These are going to be tight over my chastity belt," she said...
The artist slapped her hand and took away her pants. She cupped the girl's face tenderly between her hands and held it close to her own. "Sweetheart, if I WANT you to wear pants, I will TELL you to wear pants! Now quick, we have to go meet my friends!"
Horrified, the girl'd face turned white. "Go outside, like THIS?!"
"No, not like THAT, silly! Put on your SHOES! Quit dawdling, child!"
The penitent was frozen in shock.
"Oh, I'll help you, then!" She knelt to work the girl's sneakers onto her feet while she whimpered. "Don't worry, My Dearest. Only those whom I wish to see you in your shame, shall. The picnic area up there is deserted. Trust me, I live here! Oh, I almost forgot, bring that pillow you were sitting on!"
Obediently, the penitent fetched it and carried it like a bundle in both her arms against her breast, and did not attempt to cover her belted nakedness with it, though she was sorely tempted to so.
The artist took the penitent by the arm outside, where the sun's last red streaks hung over the lake and a gorgeous full moon rose behind the dark sillouettes of pine trees covering the area between road and beach. "Such a nice night, is it not?"
"Indeed, it is," the penitent answered, trying to put on a brave face.
"Come, take my hand. Doesn't the breeze feel nice on your nakedness?"
The penitent tucked the pillow under one arm and took the artist's hand. She had to admit that yes, the breeze did feel good on her nakedness.
"Even in the moonlight, I can see you blush. Blushing suits you well, my little one. You shall be rewarded in inverse measure to your willfullness. Abandon your silly pride and you will know bliss."
She led the faux pencil thief up the gravely path down which she had driven her earlier, to the little picnic area, where a few rough-hewn wooden tables, a grill and an antique levered pump stood near a teeter-totter, some gym bars and a slide in the shadows of the dark pines.
The artist sat her prisoner on the heavy, galvanized steel fulcrum of the teeter-totter and laughed at her startled reaction to the feel of the cold metal on her lightly-spanked bottom. She fiddled with her cell phone and said that they should arrive any moment.
Up the road came two figures, running at a lesiurely pace. In embarrassment, the penitent crossed her legs, but could not press out of sight the shiny steel badge of shame she wore on her loins.
The two running figures became a pair of beautiful college age girls, wearing identical long sleeved jerseys from a small college nearby, and very short shorts. One was Caucasian and blond, with her hair tied up in a tight bun; the other was Asian, with long black bangs and ponytail. They jogged up to the picnic spot and greeted their friend warmly, each with a hug and a kiss to her lips.
Then in the shadows of the pine trees, they noticed the penitent, who had made a mighty effort to keep from pulling down her sweater to cover her shame.
"Who is your pretty friend with the no pants?," asked the Asian girl.
"And why is she wearing... THE CHASTITY BELT?!" asked the other, laughing, pointing and covering her mouth in surprise.
The artist led her by the hand out of the shadows to introduce her. "Tell them why you are wearing the chastity belt.
" Without hesitation, she blurted out: "I am wearing it because I touch myself too often in an indecent way!" She knew those were the words the artist wanted her to say. They came so easily.
"Well shame on you! The belt is to help you stop?," asked the Caucasian girl.
The girl never imagined humiliation could be so delicious. "Oh, I truly hope so!" She felt as if she were buzzing with electricity all over.
"Well, you're very fortunate to be allowed to wear it!," came the Asian girl.
"Yes, I am," she agreed. The artist whispered to her to hug the two girls, and they received her greeting gladly, with kisses.
"I had to spank her," the artist said. "She lied to me, so I put her over my lap and gave her what she needed!"
The girls giggled and the Asian pinched the Caucasian girl's bottom. "We get spanked sometimes, too!"
The artist told the penitent to turn around and bend over so her new friends could examine her bare bottom.
"It is not so bad," remarked the Caucasian girl, stroking it like it was a kitten.
The Asian girl cupped her hand over the penitent's anal area and pumped gently. "I bet she spanked you right... here!"
"Yes she did!," confessed the penitent, luxuriating in her humiliation. The belt pinched at her loins, but she did not care.
The artist drew the penitent close to her so the girl's head was squeezed between her stong, tanned legs, and held her there as the girls each took her turn having her way with her as the artist did when she was tied up in the studio. The penitent rhythmically thrusted her fanny in response as well as her position allowed, and the squealing and gasping of the girls' young passions as they climaxed against her seemed to grow and wane with the music of the late summer cicadas trilling all around them in the moonlight.
When finally the girls could cum no more against her, the artist allowed her to stand and the thrree of them swallowed her in a group hug.
"What did I tell you about your masturbation?," asked the artist.
"That I may no longer do it without your permission, Ma'am," the girl whispered.
"Say it louder so your new friends may hear you," the artist told her.
"I may not masturbate without your express permission, Ma'am!"
"When I give you permission to masturbate, Sweetheart, it will also be in a manner prescribed by me." She massaged the girl's back. "It is well known to those who study such things that the manner in which a woman pleasures herself reflects her personality, and that changing the way she pleasures herself can change her personality. You have confessed to me that you use your hands to masturbate, is that not correct?"
"It is, Ma'am."
"And that you have felt great shame for it?"
"Truly I have, Ma'am." At that moment she felt a growing pressure in her blader, as well.
"Could that shame be for the selfishness of the act?"
"I have not thought of that before, but indeed it could be, Ma'am."
"And that perhaps you have control issues you are not proud of?"
"Ma'am, you are too wise! Yes, that is true!"
"Well then, the manner by which I shall direct you to masturbate will not involve you touching yourself. How do you feel about that?"
"I feel good that you wish to help me with my control issues, Ma'am, but I also have to pee very badly!"
Everybody laughed at her confession.
"Well," declared the artist, "I shall not test your endurance by prohibiting you from doing that. Not tonight, at least. Come, I shall take you to the place where you may relieve yourself."
She led her by the hand to the middle of the gravely path, where she would be fully illuminated by the moonlight. The penitent whimpered and trembled. "I... I..."
"Squat and pee, my little one."
The penitent squatted as commanded. "But...but..."
The artist stood behind her and covered her eyes with her warm hand. "Remember in the studio how you relaxed and peed?"
"Well do it now."
The girl trembled and hyerventlated, but no pee came. "I'm sorry! I.... I...."
"You are safe and with friends," the artist told her. "Think of the service you are performing. You are in a laboratory, testing an apparatus for improving womens' behavior. Truly, you are. What could be more valuable to Humanity than that?"
The girl pentitent felt her bladder relax and the pee came, filling up the tight shield covering her mound and squirting under pressure from the tiny vent at its bottom. It seeped out from around its seal around her womanhood and dribbled down her thighs as she squirted in the gravel. She squirmed at the feel of that. The arist saw that and promised her she would be cleansed.
The two runners stood at roadside, gape-jawed at the sight of the girl urinating through her chastity belt.
The artist took her hand from the penitent's eyes so she could see her new friends watching her, and every last shred of her pride left her as she emptied her bladder.
When she stood, she nearly collapsed, her head was spinning so wildly. The artist helped steady her and took her to her two new friends, who took her by her arms and legs and carried her to the old pump by the teeter-totter. They held her under the spiggot as the artist fussed with the locks on her chastity belt. One rear band, then the other, popped free and the pressure of the shield around her mound suddenly loosened, allowing it to release the rest of her pent-up pee. The artist undid the buckle on the wide leather belt and peeled away the shield from her vulva. The look of her flesh after being sequestered for a mere few hours was of a swollen, puffy white finger unbandaged, and the feel of it being uncaged made the girl squirm in pleasure.
The artist began working the pump handle, and cool spring water gushed out over the penitent's hairless young womanhood. The water ran over her swollen pussy lips and the artist reached down to spread them with the fingers of one hand while she worked the pump with the other. Water splashed over the girl's clitoris and she had a slobbering, undignified climax. The artist motioned to the runners to move her away from the flowing water and they held her arms and ankles tight as she bucked and gyrated and finished her unplanned orgasm without further stimulation.
"Shame on you," the artist told her, with a sly grin. She pulled the girl's sweater down and patted her pussy dry with it. Then she placed the pillow she'd directed her to bring with her upon one of the rough-hewn picnic tables and directed the two girls holding her to take her there and place her upon it so that the pillow would be mooshed up around her aching girlhood.
"Now my little one, you may masturbate to your sweet little heart's desire, but you may not use your hands." She took the other girls' shorts and panties, which they had left in the grass after using the penitent, and folded them into a little pad to cushion the penitent's head on the rough wood. "Yes, Dearest, let the softness of your pillow accept all the tension in your pussy. What you feel is not the doing of your hands, nor is an act of will which you shall be responsible for once the haze of your passion has cleared, so be innocent of any wrongdoing and simply feel the pleasure. Yes, you may move your hips and grind yourself against it. There is nothing wrong in letting Nature give you release from your discomfort; you have earned that release through your service to us and your help testing the chastity belt. Think how improvements in it may better help girls like you avoid misbehavior..."
The penitent moaned and gripped the ends of the picnic table. The artist held her writsts tight to anchor her there and remove the possiblity of her disobeying...
"Your bottom must be sore after your spanking," said the Asian girl...
"Let me take a closer look, said the Caucasian girl..." As she examined the girl's bare bottom with her strong, gentle hands, the Asian plucked at the hair pins holding her friend's hair up in a bun, and it tumbled down in a soft avalanche, right onto the penitent's bottom. She lashed her head from side to side to whip the poor helpless girl with her luscious blond locks.
The penitent straddled the pillow and thrust herself against it, harder and faster and harder still, till the old wooden picnic table squeaked and rocked with her feverish motion, and all the while her bare, un-caged womanhood was enveloped in the exquisite softness of the pillow, which slipped through the crack of her pussy and against her swollen clitoris, back and forth, back and forth with each frenzied heave...
The Asian girl nudged her blond friend away from the penitent's derrierre' and put her cool, wet lips right upon the place she knew her strict artist friend liked to spank girls...
...the artist kissed the penitent's cheek and whispered "Let the pillow feel your Blessing now," and at that moment the girl cried out and suffered a mighty orgasm against it. Her climax went on and on and on and on and on and on.... She wailed and threw herself against its cool softness with such force she nearly tipped over the picnic table. Her Universe sang to her and, and she to It as waves of the Goddess's Secret Grace washed over her. Her friends held her hands and feet tight and watched her in awe as she loved that pillow with abandon.
Finally her agony subsided, her wailing turned to a low moan, and then a soft purr. She was allowed to move her arms, and the artist massaged her back while each of the others took off one of her shoes and massaged a foot.
"I think they heard that one all the way to Buffalo," said the Asian girl. The blond laughed and pinched her nose, and they fell to the ground wrestling in the soft bed of pine needles on the ground. The blond quickly pinned the Asian girl and ground her fuzzy womanhood against hers, which was shaved bare like the penitent's. The artist tied the two loose pairs of shorts and panties into a hat and crowned the blond with it. The newly crowned Queen pulled up her vanquished's shirt and tickled her till she cried uncle, then scooted up and dropped her womanhood onto the girl's mouth. The artist had the penitent get up off the picnic table and put her shoes back on. Then she directed her to kneel and kiss each of her two new friends, who stopped what they were doing long enough to return it.
Then the blond girl told her prey to resume sucking her pussy or she'd tickle her some more.
"Come, I have to dress you and drive you back to your dorm," the artist told the penitent. "This very night, you are to wear your chastity belt home. Don't give me that look! You'll have the keys and you will decide how long you will stay in it. Once you have worn it as long as you can bear, you may remove it and masturbate straddling this pillow as you did tonight on the picnic table. This pillow only. No other. And no using of your hands! I know all about girls like you and your bad habits, so I will see through any lie you tell me, and the punishment will be considerably more severe than what you received tonight. Do you agree to these conditions?"
"Oh yes, Ma'am, I do! Thank you for caring!"
"You are so welcome, my Precious." She allowed the penitent to cling to her as they walked back her studio. "Each school day, you must report to me where I work and show me your assignments so that I know you are keeping up with them. In my years working in the art store, I have had dealings with many young students, and I make it my business to audit Freshman and Sophomore courses on line. I have considerable knowledge of the coursework, so again I must warn you not to even think of deceiving me. Is that clear?"
"Good. You will do excellently under my guidance." She unlocked the studio and gently peeled the penitent off of her. "Stand still, with your legs spread so I can tuck you back into your chastity belt." She pulled the bands tight- tighter even than before, and the girl's pretty little bottom was puckered up and rounder than ever under their pressure. "Bend over."
The girl obeyed instantly.
The artist dabbed on some mentholated local anesthetic lotion that was at once ice and fire, like an electric shock, followed by a throbbing numbness. "That will keep you numb for a few hours. Once the effect wears off, the nerves it has numbed will come to life more sensitive than ever, and you may feel like pleasuring youreslf there as well as on your girlhood. Whenever I give you permission to masturbate, that is acceptable as well. You are to apply this creme to your derriere' as I just did, a minimum of three times a day, and as many more times as you wish. Your tactile nerves will grow more sensitive each time they re-awaken. That is simply the way Mother Nature has designed your nervous system; it is the very force of Life strugling against adversity and growing stronger from it. I needen't describe to you what your spankings will feel like on that hyper-sensitized little fanny of yours! And on those occasions I allow you to masturbate, you are not even to hold the pillow as you do. Lay it on your bed or a chair or the floor and move your body against it, with your hands out of the way. Climaxing against it will become easier and easier, more and more fulfilling as you learn to accept its comfort and the pleasure it gives you. Keep your hands away as you masturbate and in time your whole personality will change. Where once you believed you were the master of your destiny, you will find yourself more gladly accepting direction and thinking less of your selfish, petty little concerns. In time, your newfound selflessness and acceptance of direction will atune you to the will of the Divine. Yes, I have seen it happen! And till that time, you are to be my student, my helper, my obedient little sister who I shall cherish and adore. Is that acceptable to you?"
"Yes," whispered the penitent, "it is!" She knelt and kissed the artist's hand.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk! There'll be no such displays, my Little One. Up, up on your feet! We must hurry or you will be too sleepy for your classes tomorrow."
She went to her bedroom and returned with a dark blue, pleated skirt. "Wear this. It will obscure your chastity belt better than those jeans."
The penitent donned the skirt and found it embarrassingly short.
"All the better for you to learn how to sit modestly. Pack your things and let's be out of here. Here are the keys for your chastity belt and a jar of the numbing creme. I will replenish it as needed. Now let's be on our way." She pressed the pillow into the girl's arms, nudged her out the door and slammed it shut.
As the artist drove her past the picnic area of her recent torment, the penitent saw on the gravely path a wet stain whose yellow tint stood out in the harsh moonlight, and fifty yards or so further was a pair of panties laid out over a dayglo sharp turn sign, left there no doubt by one of the girls who had used her on the picnic bench. "They knew we'd SEE it there," remarked the artist, chuckling. She stopped, fetched the torphy and stuffed it in her glove compartment. "I'll deal with THEM later!"
The penitent rested her head on the artist's shouder as she drove, and felt a peace that she had never known. The old sportscar purred down the lake front highway and the girl dozed off.
She woke outside her dorm at the university, with the artist nudging her. "Hey sleepyhead, you're home. Take this." She gave the girl her business card. "Call me tomorrow morning. I expect a full and honest report on how you behave tonight. And after classes, come see me. I don't close till 6PM." She handed her her bag, pressed the pillow into her arms, kissed her on the cheek and left her standing there waving and smiling shyly.