Page 37

CHAPTER 37

M atthew

I positioned Camille across my lap, my movements precise and controlled. With my right hand on her taut, adorable bottom and my left on her lower back, I maneuvered her so that the pert, round cheeks, still faintly marked from Beaumont’s cane, rose perfectly, offered for the discipline she would soon receive.

The girl’s naked body tensed, muscles going rigid as she had time to react to her understanding of what was about to happen. I could feel her heart racing against my thigh, her breathing sharp and shallow. For a moment, I allowed myself to savor the weight of her, the warmth of her skin, the vulnerability of her position.

Then I looked directly at the hidden camera embedded in the wall across from us. I knew Mary would be watching, her eyes wide, her body trembling with fear and perhaps unwanted arousal. I wanted her to see the look in my eye, to understand that I was going to punish her friend in part for Mary’s own benefit. I wanted to make sure both girls knew what awaited them if they attempted to play games with me. I held that gaze for a long moment, letting the message sink in.

At last I turned my attention back to Camille, pressing more firmly with my left hand on the small of her back, pinning her in place. She squirmed beneath my grip, as if testing my resolve. I responded by raising my right hand high and bringing it down with calculated force on the center of her upturned bottom.

The crack of my palm against the tender flesh of the girl’s backside echoed in the small cell. Camille jerked and gasped, more from surprise than pain. I knew how to build a punishment properly, of course—starting with moderate blows that awakened the nerves, preparing them for the more severe spanking to come. This merely represented the beginning.

I spanked her again, and then a third time, as I settled into a rhythm, my hand rising and falling in a steady cadence. Each smack landed with increasing force, warming the girl’s bottom beneath my palm. I watched, satisfied, as the pale skin began to flush pink, then deeper rose, the color spreading across both cheeks like watercolor on wet paper.

“Please,” Camille gasped after the tenth blow, her voice cracking with distress. “I don’t know anything important!”

I ignored her pleas, continuing the punishment without pause. My hand fell again and again, alternating cheeks, occasionally landing where thigh met bottom—a particularly sensitive spot that made her kick and yelp. The sound of old-fashioned correction filled the small cell, mingled with Camille’s increasingly desperate cries.

“This isn’t about what you know right now,” I explained calmly, even as I delivered another stinging slap. “This is about making sure you understand your position here. About ensuring you don’t attempt to resist me.”

I paused briefly, running my palm over the heated flesh of her bottom. The skin was hot to the touch, glowing a deep pink that would soon deepen to crimson. Camille trembled beneath my hand, her breathing ragged.

“Do you understand, Camille?” I asked, my voice deceptively gentle.

She nodded frantically. “Yes! Yes, I understand!”

“I don’t think you do,” I said, resuming the spanking with renewed vigor. My hand fell harder now, the sound sharper, crisper. “If you did, you wouldn’t have tried to make demands of me earlier.”

Camille’s body bucked against my lap as I landed a particularly hard smack at the sensitive crease where bottom met thigh. I could feel her trying to squirm away, but my left arm held her firmly in place, pressing down on the small of her back. Her legs kicked helplessly, toes barely touching the floor.

I found myself admiring her spirit even as I worked to break it. Most subjects would be begging incoherently by now, but Camille maintained a certain defiance despite her cries of pain. It made the punishment all the more necessary.

“I need to know that when I ask you a question, you’ll answer truthfully,” I said, punctuating each word with a sharp smack. “I need to know that you won’t attempt to manipulate or deceive me.”

“I won’t!” Camille cried out, her voice breaking. “I promise I won’t!”

I didn’t believe her, of course. Not yet. Breaking through deeply ingrained resistance required more than just physical pain.

I continued the spanking for several more minutes, deafening myself to the girl’s sobs and shrieks, until Camille’s defiance finally crumbled. Her body went limp across my lap, her resistance giving way to helpless weeping. The proud, defiant girl who had demanded to see her friend was gone, replaced by a chastened submissive whose bottom glowed a deep, angry red from my discipline.

I paused, resting my palm on the heated flesh of her punished backside. Beneath my hand, I could feel Camille tremble, her whole body quivering with the aftermath of pain and the shame of surrender. Her sobs had quieted to whimpers, alternating with shuddering breaths as she struggled to regain her composure.

“There we are,” I murmured, my voice low and soothing now that the punishment was complete. “That’s much better, isn’t it?”

She didn’t answer, but I felt the tension in her body ease slightly at my gentler tone. I allowed my hand to stroke her bottom, caressing the punished flesh with feather-light touches. Camille shivered under my ministrations, a small gasp escaping her lips.

Slowly, deliberately, I let my hand drift lower, fingers trailing along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. I could feel the heat emanating from her pussy even before I pushed my hand in and forced her legs apart so that I could touch her there exactly as I chose. When my fingers finally brushed against her pussy lips, I found them slick with arousal.

Camille whimpered in shame as I began to fondle her, my fingers exploring the sensitive furrow and the entrance to her needy sheath with practiced ease. I slid one finger along her slit, gathering her wetness, then circled her clit with a gentle touch. Her reaction was immediate and unmistakable—a sharp intake of breath, a helpless arching of her back, a tremor running through her entire body.

“Please,” she whispered, though whether she was begging me to stop or continue, I couldn’t be sure. My long experience told me that the girl didn’t know herself.

I continued my intimate exploration, marveling at how responsive she was to my touch. With just a few skilled caresses, I had her teetering on the edge of orgasm, her body taut as a bowstring, quivering with need. Her pussy clenched around my probing fingers, desperate for fulfillment.

I stilled my movements, holding Camille at the precipice of pleasure, but denying her release. Her hips moved desperately against my hand, seeking the friction that would push her over the edge. I felt her pussy pulse around my fingers, greedy and desperate.

“Such a responsive little slut,” I murmured, loud enough for Mary to hear through the surveillance system. “Your body betrays you, Camille. No matter what defiance your mind attempts, your cunt knows what it needs.”

Beneath me, Camille shuddered, a sob of humiliation and desire escaping her throat. I could almost feel her conflicted emotions—the shame at her arousal warring with the desperate hunger for release. It was a battle I’d witnessed countless times during my years with the Guard, yet something about these two young women struck me as exceptional.

As I held Camille suspended in that exquisite agony between pain and pleasure, I reflected on what I’d observed of both girls. Their responses seemed to be remarkably similar—the way their bodies yielded to domination, how quickly their defiance gave way to submission, how their arousal built so rapidly under firm handling. It spoke of a natural proclivity, yes, but there was something more… something cultivated.

Beaumont was skilled, certainly, but the level of sexual responsiveness these girls displayed suggested training that predated their time with him. Mary’s eagerness to please me sexually, her instinctive offering of her anus rather than her vagina—these weren’t the behaviors of a recently corrupted innocent. And now Camille, struggling against her own arousal yet unable to prevent her body’s betrayal—this, too, felt like the product of sophisticated conditioning.

I withdrew my fingers from Camille’s dripping sex, leaving her whimpering with need. Her pussy was exquisitely sensitive, her clit swollen and begging for attention. The ease with which I’d brought her to the edge spoke volumes. These weren’t simply frightened captives desperate to please; they were submissives whose bodies had been trained to respond to dominance with almost Pavlovian precision.

Carefully I wiped the girl’s need off on her upper thigh, feeling her shudder at the humiliation. I took my handheld from the breast pocket of my jacket and tapped out a message to my boss, the head of the New York Mithraeum.

Pater , I’d like permission to begin initiating the two assets we picked up from GS yesterday.

* * *

Mary

I watched in confusion and dismay as Leo Marmareus helped Camille rise from his lap. Her face was streaked with tears, her bottom a bright, angry red that made my own flesh tingle in sympathy. With firm hands on her shoulders, he guided her to kneel on the bed, pressing her face down into the covers while keeping her bottom raised high.

Marmareus looked at the camera, then adjusted Camille’s position so that her bottom and her pussy and even the tiny bud of her anus were on display for me. I swallowed hard at the dismaying implication, that he wanted me to observe closely as he humiliated my friend.

“What is he doing?” I whispered to myself, pressing closer to the view screen as if I could somehow reach through it to Camille.

My confusion deepened as I watched Marmareus approach a section of the stone wall that looked no different from the rest. He pressed his palm against it, and to my astonishment, a panel slid open, revealing a hidden cabinet. From within, he withdrew what appeared to be a collection of leather items: a collar, a belt, and various cuffs.

The items gleamed in the cell’s light, their black leather surfaces looking supple yet strong, adorned with gleaming metal rings and buckles. My heart raced as I recognized their obvious purpose—restraints. But these were unlike anything I’d seen before, even in my time with the Sons of Odin. They looked custom-made, precisely crafted with an attention to detail that spoke of ritual significance rather than mere functionality.

“Remain still,” Marmareus commanded Camille, his voice carrying clearly through whatever audio system connected our cells. “I’m going to explain something important to you now.”

Camille’s body trembled visibly, but she didn’t move from her position. Her dark hair spilled across the bedding, obscuring her face from my view even if she had it turned toward the camera. I longed to see her expression, to somehow communicate with her, to let her know she wasn’t alone.

“From this moment forward,” Marmareus continued, approaching the bed with the leather items in his hands, “you are no longer simply Camille. You are a Columba of the Order of Ostia, the sexual servants of the Pretorian Guard.”

There was that word again— columba . It sent a shiver down my spine. The way Marmareus said it conveyed weight, significance, as if the term itself carried power.

“A Columba ,” Marmareus explained, “is a young woman who serves the Guard. The word means ‘dove’ in Latin—a symbol of peace, purity, and sacrifice. You will learn to embody all these qualities.”

I felt my breath catch in my throat. The Sons of Odin had called us volur , seers with a connection to the world tree. Now the Pretorian Guard sought to rename us as well, to reshape our identities according to their own mythology. Surely they couldn’t know about our true nature, our connection to Yggdrasil. Had they sensed something special in us, though, the way Sven had?

“The leathers,” Marmareus said, dangling the restraints in front of Camille for her to see, “are the mark of a Columba . They will remind you always of your place within our order, and they will allow your masters to arrange you as we wish when we use you for our pleasure—as well as when we punish you.”