Subjugated (5 page)

“What?” Amy said.

There, Major Stewart had cleverly cut to some lovely footage of Amy receiving a very thorough belt-whipping from her father, over her bed in nearly the same pose in which she had pleasured herself. Her father said, “It hurts, doesn’t it, Amy? This is what happens when you engage in such shameful behavior.” Amy, her face turned to the bed and thus invisible—the army’s surveillance cameras were good, and in a place like a high school cafeteria, a skilled editor like Major Stewart had many angles from which to choose, but sometimes you just couldn’t see a girl’s face the way you wanted to—sobbed in pain as she received her just reward.

Back to Jenna. “Nothing… I mean, it’s just that in the letter the officer sent…”

“What?” Paula, looking stunned. Amy, blushing furiously.

Then, intercut: Jenna, the previous night before she went to wash the panties in the bathroom sink, looking at herself in the mirror, wearing only them, thinking… what? It was impossible to tell, but the sight of his girl’s (how could he think of her any other way? not to think of her like that would make it impossible to give the general the show he required and save both their lives) self-contemplation got Bradley terribly hard, for she
must
be thinking something that had to do with the way he would spank her and fuck her in less than a week’s time. Angelic gold hair in a loose ponytail down her back; cute little nose, slightly turned up. Lovely, perfect little breasts that Bradley would give their due, so very soon.

And back to Jenna in the cafeteria, both her lips between her teeth as she clearly tried to decide what to say. Finally she said, so softly that the mic barely caught it, “They know that you both… do it. They—Captain Clark, he’s the one—he told me I should ask you for advice.”

“Oh, God,” Amy said. “I…”

Paula interrupted, “It’s not your fault, Jenna.” Her face was bright pink, though.

“So…” Jenna said.

“So what?” Amy asked in an angry voice. “You touch yourself. It feels good.”

In split screen, very nicely edited, Amy’s angry face and a close-up of her hands on her pussy and bottom.

Then, suddenly, her face softened, as the split screen shot went on, and her moaning cries became audible on the soundtrack. “Okay, it feels really good—so good I don’t even mind getting whipped for it.”

Now, watching Jenna in the bathroom washing the panties, Bradley tried to focus on puzzling out her state of mind. As she hung them to dry on the towel rack, her face seemed even more troubled than it had been the night before, regarding herself in the mirror. Bradley felt suddenly, and very strongly, that if he and Jenna had met under some other circumstance, she might very well be the kind of girl a man left the army for.

Left the army, to have children—the boys almost certainly themselves taken into the army (the sons of officers nearly always were) and the girls probably to be subjugated in their turn, or simply summoned to the Palace of Joy for service as pleasure girls like Rose.

Bradley’s attention, having wandered to an impossible, idyllic future for him and the girl he must now wrong so terribly, snapped back when he saw that she had started the tap running into the bathtub. His cock grew instantly hard again: Jenna was going to shave tonight.

* * *

Jenna took the barber’s scissors from the medicine cabinet, trying not to think about what she was doing. She shaved her legs and her armpits once a week, just as Mrs. Trest had told them eighteen-year-old girls, ready for marriage, should do. How was this any different? It wasn’t; it was just shaving.

She bit her lip, and felt a tear roll down her face.
Dammit
. They
must
be watching, and she had already started to lose it, just at the thought of what it meant to have to sit on a towel, on the black and white tile floor, and cut her pubic hair with the scissors. As the golden hair fell away, though, and into a little pile on the towel, and as her demure, maidenly pussy began to show itself more clearly, she found herself thinking,
Well, this is what they want, right? A girl who’s going to be subjugated should cry about it, shouldn’t she?

Fascinated despite herself by the sight of her most private places growing more and more bare, as they had not been since Jenna entered puberty, and conscious now of the need to put on a show if Plan Beta had any chance of success, she bit her lip again and, hardly able to help herself though she knew there would certainly be consequences, she touched the place at the top—“This is your clitoris, Jenna,” Mrs. Trest had said, touching it lightly with her gloved finger—very lightly, and gave a little whimpering gasp.

The thought of Captain Clark’s letter, and of the mystery of what he would be like, came then into her mind, and although she had intended to take her finger away immediately after she had just touched her clitoris to see what it would feel like with most of the fleece gone from her pussy, she kept pressing. She thought of her conversation with Amy and Paula. “It feels good.”

“Oh, God,” Jenna whispered, knowing she had gone beyond what was allowable. Her pussy had suddenly gotten terribly warm, and even wet, and now she felt it contract with a feeling that would have been lovely if Jenna had not been so ashamed and frightened of the whipping she felt she must receive for what she did there on the floor of the bathroom.

With a supreme effort of will, she pulled her hand away. Mechanically, she stood up and carefully picked up the towel. She brushed her golden curls, which had seemed to her so embarrassing when they first grew, into the wastebasket. How much more embarrassing, though, not to have them now? Not to have them because Captain Clark had told her he wished her to look that way, and to feel that way, between her thighs.

Jenna put the towel on the vanity counter and stepped into the tub, wincing at the shock of the warm water, but soon enough relaxing into its embrace. She tried to forget everything for just a few moments, and found to her surprise that she succeeded. The army watched her, naked in the tub, but all they would see was Jenna Caprio’s closed eyelids—that they also saw her little breasts and the tender cleft now concealed only by fuzz that Jenna must soon shave away didn’t matter. Those parts weren’t
her,
really, were they?

Oh, but they were, she realized as the consciousness of the shaving to come crept back into her mind. And… oh, God, she needed to lather, didn’t she? How could she do it without…

Feeling very clumsy, but also calmer than she had expected, Jenna stood up in the warm water that came to the top of her calves. She raised her right foot out of the water and put it on the side of the tub, to give herself shameful access to her private places. Then she reached for the soap. She lathered her hands, trying to forget where she would now have to put them, not because she didn’t want to do it, but because she wanted it too much.

She moved her lathered right hand there, dreading it and desiring it, and then, with little cooing whimpers that she could not have suppressed if the whole army stood there watching with their guns pointed at Jenna, she rubbed the soap into the skin, so scratchy with the stubble left by the scissors. The feeling was nearly too much: her left knee buckled, and she had to put her left hand against the tile of the shower to keep from falling down. She closed her eyes and, still making the humiliating little noises, she got her pussy and bottom ready for shaving.

That part was over, thank God. But now Jenna had to open her eyes, didn’t she?

She picked up the razor, remembering what Mrs. Trest had said about shaving with the grain. The motion was terribly awkward, and the little bit of pressure that it caused upon her clitoris and her aching, helplessly aroused pussy made Jenna’s cheeks flush hotter even than the steamy water had turned her whole body.

But the soak had helped greatly, making the wiry hair soft; the remaining stubble came away easily at the touch of the little pink razor’s twin blades. For a moment she thought she had finished, but then she remembered about the hairs around her bottom-hole. Suddenly much more self-conscious, she put her hand back there between her cheeks, hoping she would find that really there weren’t any hairs there after all. But to her embarrassment she discovered that she would definitely have to use the razor there too; the soft skin inside the valley of her buttocks, which she had never touched before, really, felt positively in need of shaving, a discovery that sent the blood once again rushing to her face.

Just a few moments before Jenna had felt she didn’t care that Captain Clark and his fellow officers must be watching her bare herself. Now, though, lathering around her tiny anus, all the shame seemed to rush back into her body, and even worse to produce the strange excitement she seemed unable to suppress whenever she tried to picture Captain Clark and to imagine what his voice would sound like when he told her to take off her clothes.

To put her soapy fingertips between her bottom-cheeks, and to rub the lather in, gave her pleasure that the modest part of her knew she should not feel even as the new immodest part told her that Captain Clark wanted her to feel that pleasure so that she could yield it to him. Shaving herself between her bottom-cheeks was without a doubt the most embarrassing thing she had ever had to do in her life, but even as Jenna did it she knew that that humiliation would pale by comparison with the experience she must undergo—no, the thing she must do—Thursday night.

With trembling fingers, she put down the razor at last and turned on the shower, desperately hoping that the warm water cascading over her and carrying away the lather and the last remaining vestiges of her pussy’s and anus’ natural covering would make her feel clean on the inside too. But even as she hoped it, she knew that this strange feeling of dirtiness that had gradually been building inside her since she saw the red panties for the first time would not be washed away.

Even more strangely Jenna realized that her wish that it should be cleansed from her—from her tingling nipples and her warm pussy and the pleasant itchiness around her bottom-hole—had begun to seem almost dishonest. There in the shower, Jenna felt her eyes widen at the sudden realization that somehow it felt good to feel like a dirty girl.

As Bradley watched Jenna’s face on his video feed for the next three days—Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday—he thought he could see that something had changed in her after she had shaved between her legs. Where before Monday night she had seemed, in her more reflective moods, to furrow her brow and purse her lips, and even at times to shed a tear, she seemed in the middle of the week to compress her lips and narrow her eyes when she sat at her desk at home to do her homework, or when she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

Above all when Jenna was naked or in the lacy red panties alone, the new expression appeared upon her face. Bradley, though with some uncertainty, interpreted it as a kind of resolve, though what kind he couldn’t tell, and the question seemed to be of great importance.

Thankfully the officers’ mess lost interest in Jenna during those three days. He knew that Thursday night he’d be expected to watch with them the performance he had enjoined upon her, and hardly an officer didn’t part from Bradley with the words, “Looking forward to Thursday, captain,” spoken in the grateful tones of those anticipating the delayed receipt of a promised gift.

What had Jenna Caprio resolved? To yield? To resist? How much did she know about what would make the next weeks of her life survivable? Really, the risk of either or both of them suffering some penalty from the high command was not great, but neither was it remote, and the high command’s penalties, even when not capital, were harsh.

Since the institution of the subjugation as a punishment for the towns of the Western Republic, seven years before, 247 girls had been subjugated. Twenty-one of them had ended up in the punishment wing of the Palace of Joy, in recompense for offenses committed during their subjugations, which included in particular what the high command called
excessive whorishness
and also what it termed
excessive modesty—
that is, yielding too easily or not easily enough to their subjugating officer’s sexual advances. Five girls had been shot for
egregious whorishness
.

Ten subjugating officers had been disciplined for using too little force—what the high command called
want of manliness:
seven of them had been stockaded and demoted, the other three shot on the spot. Five subjugating officers had been stockaded, but not demoted, for
excessive force
.

When not watching Jenna go through her daily routine, Bradley occupied himself mainly with viewing the video footage of the last few subjugations. Every subjugation of course had to be different from every other, according to the dictate of General Dumfries to the army in the original order. The text
according to the pleasure of the officer punishing and enjoying her naked charms
had, on instruction of the high command, been interpreted from the start as expressing the general’s desire to see a new work of erotic performance art every time an officer arrived at the home of an eighteen-year-old girl who wore the red panties under the demure clothing prescribed by the Western Republic’s traditional values laws.

Officers were, however, expected to watch past subjugations closely, in order to develop their own approach. Of course the human body itself, as well as such constraints as the order that girls only be disciplined between their waist and knees and that their skin not be broken, placed certain limitations on the possibilities, but men like Colonel Davies knew how to use a girl’s own background, and the geography of her house and of her town, to combine the various disciplinary and sexual elements into a sort of sonata of pain and pleasure that even Bradley had to admit had a right to consideration as a sort of virtuosity.

He watched Colonel Davies’ last performance, which had occurred the previous year in a town called Trenton in the Northeast region.

“Hello, Miss Smith,” the colonel said, shaking the pretty brown-haired girl’s hand, once Grace Smith’s mother had let him in through the front door of their little ranch house. “I’m here to punish you, I’m afraid.”