Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 75260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
My hands trembled as they moved toward the hem of my short skirt, every fiber of my being screaming in protest even as my treacherous body hummed with unwelcome arousal. The white cotton panties felt strange beneath my fingers, a symbol of modesty that signified everything I was about to yield to the command of these virtual strangers.
“That’s it,” Mrs. Quinst encouraged softly. “Slowly now. Let us see how gracefully you can obey.”
I lifted the pleated navy fabric with shaking hands, revealing the white cotton beneath. Colonel Quinst watched closely, his blue eyes tracking every movement as I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my panties.
The cotton slid down my thighs with agonizing slowness, the air of the kitchen making for a mortifying sensation on my bare pussy as I settled the garment around my knees. I felt the exposure beneath the short skirt and the way the panties would hinder my movement, how I could walk only with the careful, tiny steps that would prevent the panties from falling further.
Colonel Quinst stepped forward with predatory grace, his military bearing making the intimate invasion seem like a tactical maneuver. Without warning, his fingers reached between my thighs to touch the cotton gusset of my lowered panties.
“My goodness, Betty,” he said, his voice full of satisfaction as he felt the mortifyingly damp fabric. “Her cunny is obviously even wetter than I imagined. The material is absolutely soaked through.”
The coarse assessment of my arousal, delivered in that plain, military tone while his fingers lingered on the evidence of my shameful need, sent a fresh surge of heat to my scalding skin. I bit my lip to suppress a whimper as he tugged the panties up slightly, displaying the wet patch to his wife with the same interest I guessed he might show a battlefield report.
“Fascinating,” Mrs. Quinst murmured, moving closer to examine her husband’s findings. “And this from simply being told she would serve dinner in this state. Imagine how she’ll respond in our bed.”
She reached out to touch the dampened cotton herself, her fingers brushing against Colonel Quinst’s as they both assessed the physical proof of my body’s betrayal. My knees threatened to buckle as I did my best to hold still, rather than trying to flee somehow.
“The governor’s readings are clearly quite accurate,” Colonel Quinst observed, consulting his handheld while his other hand still held my panties. “But there’s something particularly satisfying about tangible evidence. Viola, tell us—when did you first realize you were becoming aroused by our instructions?”
The direct question, asked while they both continued to handle my underwear, only intensified my arousal. I could feel fresh wetness gathering between my thighs, my body responding to their proximity with distressing eagerness.
“I… when Mistress said I would serve with my panties down,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “I guess it put an image in my mind that made me…”
“Made you what?” Mrs. Quinst prompted gently, her maternal tone making the interrogation even worse.
“Made me clench,” I admitted, the words torn from my throat. “You know… down there.”
Colonel Quinst released my panties, allowing them to settle back around my knees. “That honesty is very helpful, Viola. Well done. Now then, let’s see how gracefully you can move while made to think of what will happen to your cunny and bottom in the bedroom after dinner. Help your Mistress with the vegetables.”
I took a tentative step toward the counter where Mrs. Quinst had laid out carrots and potatoes, immediately discovering the degrading reality of trying to move with my panties binding my knees. Each step required careful calculation—too long a stride would send the cotton garment sliding down to my ankles, while too short made me look like I was mincing about like a child playing dress-up.
“Excellent posture,” Mrs. Quinst observed approvingly as I reached for a paring knife with trembling fingers. “The restriction teaches you to move with proper feminine grace. Notice how you’re forced to take smaller steps, to keep your thighs closer together. Very ladylike.”
The knife felt strange in my hands as I began peeling carrots, acutely aware of how the short skirt rode up with each movement of my arms. The knowledge that my bare sex was exposed beneath the pleated fabric, that any wrong movement might reveal me completely to my Guardian’s watchful eyes, made every task feel fraught with potential humiliation.
“Tell me about your domestic experience, Viola,” Colonel Quinst said, settling into a chair at the kitchen table where he could observe my struggles. “As president, I assume you had staff to handle such menial tasks.”
“Yes, Guardian,” I replied, focusing intently on the carrot to avoid meeting his penetrating gaze. “I haven’t… I mean, I don’t cook very often.”
“How refreshing,” Mrs. Quinst said, moving to stand beside me with fluid grace. “A completely blank slate. We’ll teach you everything from the beginning—how to plan meals that please your master, how to serve with proper submission, how to find joy in caring for a man’s needs.”