Subjugated (7 page)

“That’s five minutes,” said Major Stewart. “Are you going to punish her if she goes over ten?”

Bradley realized that Jenna probably hadn’t remembered to look at the clock, but he knew what he had to say. “Of course.”

Colonel Davies chuckled. “Good lad.”

But it didn’t seem like that would be an issue, for now Jenna was pulling the gusset of her soaking panties aside and running her right hand frantically up and down her pretty pussy-lips while the job of rubbing her clit now fell to her left’s first two fingers. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “Oh, God… oh, Captain Clark…”

Bradley felt a little stunned at that, but the other officers cheered, and the colonel clapped him on the back. “You’ll have to spank her well for that, Clark, of course. She’s a naughty little thing.”

What was Jenna Caprio thinking about? Was she merely watching herself masturbate in the mirror, or was there something in her imagination, about him, the officer who had put in her in the panties and commanded her to touch herself?

Two fingers on her right hand fluttered against the sweet pink lips right where Bradley would put his cock on Saturday, only two days hence. The fingers seemed to push a little; they entered Jenna’s virgin pussy a scant inch, making the girl gasp and give a different sort of cry—higher pitched and more submissive. Colonel Davies said, “O-ho! She’s really thinking of you now, Clark!”

Jenna closed her eyes under a brow troubled by an arousal it seemed she must never have known before.

* * *

In Jenna’s mind, the powerful Captain Clark stood behind her, holding his belt in his right hand and tapping it against his left. Her fingers moved faster and faster.

Why had she said his name? Where had that come from? One minute she had simply been feeling what her body had never truly felt before—a culmination of all the pleasant sensations she had ever known, centered in the forbidden place between her legs where now the army officer told her she must go with her naughty fingers, knowing she would be punished for it, and for so many other things, come Saturday.

All rational thought, all questioning of why she had said his name, evanesced then, overcome by the other thought, or rather the image—the fantasy: Captain Clark, unknown and shadowy, just a sort of big, masculine form, saying now, in a deep voice, “Almost time for your whipping, Jenna.”

And the sensation, over all, of fingers where fingers shouldn’t be, for the first time. The cries that she couldn’t suppress though the walls of her house were thin. The feeling of the scratchy lace bunched in the fingers of her left hand, to expose her warm, wet pussy to the mirror and to anyone who watched the surveillance camera: to Captain Clark, surely among them. Above all the slipperiness of her arousal’s results on her fingers, making the pleasure even more exquisite as she spread the wetness up and down.

She rubbed some onto her clitoris, so that her left hand felt even more wonderful there, and pushed her right forefinger back in there where it felt so strange and yet so wickedly exciting. She knew instinctively that Captain Clark must be very interested in that part of her.

In her mind’s ear, he said, “Touch your bottom-hole.” Again, where had that come from? But he had a belt, and he would whip her even harder if she didn’t obey. She bent her knees, spread her thighs, reached down and back between them. The same wicked forefinger moved in obedience to the fantasy captain, found the little opening, the place that Mrs. Trest had inexplicably made all the girls expose to her, one by one, so she could take the inspection pictures. Why would the army want to see their anuses? Why did the fantasy of Captain Clark tell her to touch it?

But when she did, the strange double pleasure of clitoris and anus made her feel so wicked and immodest that, even knowing she would be whipped harder for it, she had to push a finger, slick with her pussy’s excitement, inside her bottom-hole, just a little. She gave her sharpest cry yet at the sensation, and that was when what could only be her first climax took hold of her.

Her whole body seemed to shake as every muscle tightened in a pleasure so extreme Jenna thought she might fall, and then her pussy seemed to clench tighter and longer than it ever had, then to do it again, and again. She kept rubbing and rubbing at her clitoris, and moving her forefinger gently in and out of her anus, for it seemed that the sensation might go on and on if she kept doing that.

Jenna felt sweat break out on her brow, and suddenly despite her body’s crying out for the climax to continue, all her limbs relaxed, and her muscles suddenly felt exhausted, as if she had run an endurance race. Suddenly she remembered about the time limits Captain Clark had set in the letter, and with wide eyes she turned her head to look at the clock on her nightstand. It was 7:17. But when had she started? Certainly she must have spent more than five minutes doing… that. (Why did she suddenly feel so shy about it, again, when just moments before she had wanted to show all the officers in the army just how wicked her pussy was?) More than ten, though?

She took a deep, heaving breath. Well, she had so much else to be punished for, didn’t she? And she had done it. Jenna looked at herself in the mirror. Skimpy lace panties and black stockings. Lewd. Immodest. Naughty. And—sexy? She felt her cheeks grow hot, and she turned quickly away from the sight and sat down on her bed. She started to roll her stockings down. She must wash the now-soaking panties, and she would be naked as usual in bed, trying not to think about where the fantasy of Captain Clark and his belt had come from.

She would think of Plan Beta, run through it in her head. Tomorrow night, she would shave herself again, according to the order in the letter. And then, bright and early the next morning, it would all begin.

She had the stockings down and off. Mechanically, she picked up her kilt and blouse and bra, folded them, put them away for tomorrow, her last day of high school—her last day of girlhood.

Plan Beta. Resist, but not too much. Wait. See. Use the opportunities that will come to a girl who can keep her head.

But how could she keep her head, when before she had ever laid eyes on him, Captain Clark, holding his belt, had come into her fantasies and told her that he would soon whip her?

How could Jenna keep her head when the thought of being whipped by Captain Clark made her helplessly, meltingly wet between her thighs?

She left her room, deep in thought, not even bothering to ascertain that her parents weren’t there to see her in the panties. Something in the back of her mind said that they must know something related to the subjugation was taking place tonight, and had gone to a corner of the house where they would be fully insulated from it. She thanked them silently as she stood at the sink she had filled with warm sudsy water.

Again self-conscious, for she could see her naked body again in the bathroom mirror, she bent to take off the panties. They were very damp, and the fragrance of her pussy’s arousal rose strongly from them. Helpless to stop herself, knowing that the action must show Jenna to be a very lewd girl indeed, she raised the panties to her nose and inhaled her own naughty scent.

How could she ever keep her head, when she loved the sheer wickedness of that aroma so very much?

Bradley arrived at Camp Wayne, the Northwest base of the Army of Western Liberation, late Friday night. When he reached headquarters, a big, low building at the center of the camp, the floodlights that symbolized the army’s ability to keep the power on as much as their ability to keep their camps secure made the only source of visible light.

Colonel Gertner of the 17th Regiment came out to the Jeep, driven by Bradley’s executive officer Lieutenant Jacobs, and greeted him warmly.

“You gave us quite a show the other night, captain,” he said. “It was all I could do to keep my officers from getting in their cars and heading into Springfield for a
special correctional operation,
if you know what I mean.”

Bradley forced a chuckle as he got out of the Jeep. “You would have missed tomorrow’s show, then, sir,” he said, “wouldn’t you?”

“That’s just what I told my XO,” the colonel said, chuckling in turn. “We get enough correctional duty anyway, out here. Had to go into Freetown on Tuesday to whip a girl who let her boyfriend go all the way, and take her to Las Vegas. She wasn’t half as pretty as your Jenna, though.”

The colonel turned to Lieutenant Jacobs. “Captain Clark’s quarters are just past HQ, and yours are right next to it, son.”

“See you in a few,” Bradley said. “Colonel, are the Trests here?”

“Yup,” said the colonel, smiling. “They’re already waiting in the office where we’ve put you.”

* * *

Major and Mrs. Trest sat primly at the briefing table in the adjutant office assigned to Bradley. The department of traditional values, for which they worked, consisted entirely of true believers in the general’s program of social reform through sexual reform. The position of human development inspector, held by Major Trest, was awarded only to married men whose wives also passed the rigorous psychological and doctrinal evaluation. There were twenty HDIs, assigned by district, and the Trests had been assigned to Springfield, Taunton, and Red Basin for the last three years.

Major Trest, an MD of about forty, had dark greying hair; his wife Joan’s hair was brown, long—as specified in the
Manual of Traditional Values
promulgated by the high command and largely written by General Dumfries himself—but pulled back into a severe bun.

“Major Trest, Mrs. Trest, very nice to see you,” Bradley said, shaking their hands as they rose. “Please, sit down.” He sat himself at the table and looked at the major. “What do you have for me?”

“Well,” said Major Trest in a deep, avuncular voice. “Jenna’s clearly in the right frame of mind. The masturbation Thursday night was a little unconventional, of course…” Major Trest had approved Bradley’s letter before it was finally printed and sent, “…but her orgasm shows that she’s healthy, and ready for sexual and disciplinary activities.”

“Definitely,” said Mrs. Trest, nodding. “She’s a little innocent, still, of course. I remember her very well from her Human Development class in January. Very focused on her academics, no time for boys. I try to get the girls to open up a little about their social lives, and though it seems like there’s a healthy dating scene in Springfield for past-eighteens, with the hanky-panky under good control, Jenna was one of the girls who didn’t seem even to have thought about it.”

Bradley’s mind went to an early section of the
Manual of Traditional Values
.

“Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?” didn’t become a proverbial expression for no reason. The army will do its best to make sure girls don’t make the mistake of giving up the precious gift of their virginity before they are legally wed and ready to start families full of strong boys and obedient girls.

In practice, that meant a safe place where past-eighteens could go and neck, subsidized and supervised by the local garrison. Young men, as instructed by Major Trest and his fellow HDIs in their own Human Development classes, knew that when the time came, and they married their girls, they would fuck them as much as they wanted and however they wanted.

The army, too, kept a careful watch on each dating couple and each single young man. If it appeared that a past-eighteen boy was in danger of losing control, the district HDI came to pick him up and take him to the army base for counseling, which usually involved a visit to one of the camp’s pleasure girls to take the edge off a past-eighteen’s natural appetites, which as the Department of Traditional Values knew very well often threatened to overwhelm his reason.

“Perfectly ready for subjugation, though, of course,” said Major Trest. “The question is just how much resistance you’ll see. I’m guessing not much—as the mayor’s daughter she’s got a healthy respect for authority.”

“And despite what we saw Thursday night,” Mrs. Trest continued, “she’s clearly not whorish. I don’t think there’s any danger, captain. You and your squad will have a pleasant time, I’m certain, and the Palace of Joy will get a fine new pleasure girl.”

“I may even visit her myself,” confessed Major Trest, with an eyebrows-raised look at his wife, who pursed her lips.

One of the things that has made the least sense in the history of civilization,
read the manual,
is the relatively very illogical expectation that husbands can and should remain sexually faithful to their wives.
Truly
traditional values lay out as a founding principle that a man, so long as he does not fuck the wife of another man without that man’s permission, should fuck any girl he likes. The establishment of the duty of pleasure, and of the ranks of the pleasure girls of the Army of Western Liberation, codifies for the first time in modern human history, a proper understanding of masculine sexuality.

“Thank you,” Bradley said. He turned to Mrs. Trest. “You’ll inspect her at nine?”

She nodded. “I will. Major Trest and I will both go; we stayed there in January and the Caprios are a very pleasant couple. I’ll take her up to her room for the inspection. When I’m done, Major Trest and I will bring the Caprios back here to the base, then go to the command center in the town hall, so that we’re ready to do our part when you parade Jenna there.”

* * *

The doorbell rang at 8:59 a.m. according to the clock on the nightstand. Jenna had not slept at all, really, except for little semi-conscious periods when she had seen strange visions of army vehicles driving across vast deserts and enormous troops of soldiers marching toward Springfield to lie on top of her until all the breath had gone from her body.

She sat up, swung her legs over the side of her bed. She heard the murmur of voices downstairs in the front hall.

Then, “Jenna?” Oh, no—she recognized that voice. Feet on the stairs, a brief knock, and her door opened to reveal Mrs. Trest.