A Fine Young Woman 
                  (part 1)

She was a fine young woman.

Lovely, in a distinct sort of way.  Her own 
person.

Slim, with an obvious potential for understated 
elegance.

There was no apparent motive for her to have 
entered into the arrangement.  

She was in all respects normal.  You wouldn't 
have noticed anything different about her in a 
casual encounter.

She found herself engaged in the unpredictable 
daily pursuits of others her age ... living 
freely, exploring who she is or wants to be ... 
the same jumble of living and growing that 
people often go through in their early twenties.

Why, then, had she agreed to let him guide her?  
Why had she contemplated what on the surface 
seems the oddest and silliest of ideas?  And why 
was it more than a silly game to her?

Her first task was to select a day.  There would 
be one day a week.  A day when she began to draw 
out the lovely young woman within.  A day when 
they worked together, with him nudging her a 
little this way, a little that ... helping her 
find that sweet and elegant person that anyone 
would know she could be.

It was today.

She found herself showering, and then taking 
special care in the way she groomed herself.  
Sharp, but understated.  Makeup applied 
carefully but sparingly ... accenting in subtle 
ways.  

An observer should be unable to tell with any 
certainty whether a lovely young woman is 
wearing makeup.  It should tease out the woman 
within and allow her to shine through, a 
transparent and subtle magnifier of inner 
beauty.  

That was one among several things he had taken 
some trouble to explain.

She wore a simple and neatly pressed blouse and 
skirt combination -- a chiffon blouse with lace 
pointelle that she happened to like.

She looked at herself in the full-length bedroom 
mirror.  It startled her a bit.  The skin-tone 
pantihose blended nicely, barely noticeable.  
The medium-length heels also matched ... giving 
her that odd sense of slight physical imbalance 
combined with an obvious and impressive visual 
fullness.  She couldn't stop looking at herself.

Nor could she help but feel a little odd just 
hanging around her apartment that morning.  All 
dressed up and no place to go.

He required that she remain for an hour.  She 
could do any of the things a young woman might 
busy herself with -- paying bills, tidying up, 
reading the morning paper over breakfast.

She would wait an hour.  And then she would 
check.  There would be instructions.

She assumed there would be, but did not know for 
sure, this being the first day, each part of it 
utterly new.

She knew to print them.  She knew she was not 
supposed to read them, but found this difficult.  
She had managed to absorb the first few 
sentences as she went to print, as she minimized 
the browser window, and as she checked the 
printer and watched for a moment as it ran.

Was there any possibility she'd read the items 
one-by-one, per her instructions?

Now that she held the page in hand, was there 
any chance she would refrain from reading all 
the way through?

He didn't think so.  He spaced the items evenly, 
giving her an opportunity to pause after each.  
It was an opportunity he knew she would fail to 
take advantage of.

She didn't have the level of self-control 
appropriate to such a lovely young woman ... an 
obvious area of potential improvement.

He would never ask if she had followed this 
small piece of his instructions, nor would he 
discipline her directly for the mistake he knew 
she would make.  But she would soon pay at a 
level of severity much greater than he had 
intended.

Standing there and reading, with a faint sense 
of half-guilt, she had most assuredly sealed her 
own fate.

It's hard to convey the mix of emotions that 
overcame her at that moment.  She had been 
physically excited since morning.  Dressing up 
this way always had that effect on her, all the 
more because she knew she was doing it for 
*some* reason.

Now she was blushing deeply, not thinking that 
she would follow the simple instructions ... but 
just, thinking.  Realizing she was an open book.  
Knowing she was *known*.  It was a new and odd 
and overwhelming feeling ... half-way between 
being honored and insulted ... accompanied by an 
odd mix of fear and doubt and excitement.

She walked from her bedroom, to the hall, and 
into the living room.  Nobody home.  There was 
no way for anybody to ever know, and she could 
safely skip the whole thing.

She glanced at the door, and ran through some of 
the obvious risks.  

There was some possibility her roomate would 
return from work, wasn't there?  If she felt 
ill, or had a little accident, or for some other 
unknown reason just decided to come home?

Yes, that was possible.

She slowly strolled and found herself standing 
between the couch and coffee table, and she 
looked out into the room.  She placed the single 
sheet on the coffee table before her ... and she 
*looked* ... the TV, the picture on the wall, 
the chair.

She slid her hands, almost unconsciously, behind 
her back ... and she held them lightly together 
as she looked.

And she blushed.

The test had begun.  An easy test, but one she 
had no chance of passing.

The sides of her skirt had to gently give way, 
as she slid her hands ... ran them ever so 
slowly up the sides of her legs ... up her silky 
pantyhose, which soon came to an end, leading to 
the skin of her hips ... and slowly up ... and 
then touching the waistband of her panties on 
either side.

Touching ... holding them.

Holding ... gripping ... and then lightly 
pulling.

Her fine, lacy panties had to come ... so ... 
gingerly ... down.  They had to go all the way 
down to her ankles.  Slowly.  And she had to 
step out of them.

Since she could not pass the test, she knew they 
would ultimately be deposited in the laundry, 
leaving her without for the day.

Reading that sentence, late in the instructions, 
had helped ensure she would not pass:

"A lady doesn't deserve fine underclothes if 
she's going to soil them with the products of 
her own arousal.  You will therefore go without 
for the rest of the day."

Now she could sit.  But she must take care, per 
her instructions, not to allow the back of her 
skirt to come to rest between her bottom and the 
couch.

She slowly swept it behind her, and found 
herself sitting with bare bottom on the couch.

She knew, too, that her skirt would never rest 
underneath her that day.  A lady knows how to 
sit, and gracefully sweeps her skirt behind her 
as she does so.

She sat at the edge of the couch cushion.  And 
slowly, she reclined.

Her knees ... legs ... had to come up.  Up and 
apart.  They did so slowly, her knees bent ... 
her ankles, feet, heels and all, hovering almost 
a full yard apart.

The struggle within her became instantly, 
physically real.  What she was supposed to be.  
What was nice.  And on the other side of the 
equation, what would most completely shock just 
about anyone ... what would instantly arouse any 
guy.

The picture of her right at that moment.  The 
feeling of cool air on her exposed sex.

The struggle overtook her physically at that 
moment ... squeezing ... relentlessly squeezing 
... and wringing from her the suddenly plentiful 
residue of her shame.

The test was simple.  The tip of her finger.  
Resting for a moment at the place nice girls 
don't touch.  Then raised.  Examined.

She need not have looked ... but looking helped 
her take hold of her wrenching sense of 
disapproval ... helped her feel it ... helped it 
grow within her, until she was on the verge of 
real tears.

Test failed.  A young woman learns to control 
her feelings, and to push inappropriate 
thoughts, when they occur, from her mind.

So he had told her.

She had not done so.  And she needed some kind 
of incentive, something to remind her.  
Something unpleasant to associate with the 
extreme emotional miscue so clearly underway in 
the pretty girl's mind and body.

The first step.  She would touch the tip of a 
finger again.  She would begin at the lowest 
part of her now-slick labia.  She would touch, 
and move slowly up.

She moved *very* slowly.  Very, very slowly.  
Imperceptibly.  Gradually.  A little up, and a 
little more.

She lifted her finger.  Looked so very briefly.  
Knew she was required to clean her finger off, 
and that there was only one acceptable way.

Her hand moved slowly.  Her lips parted.  She 
could not imagine touching it to her tongue ... 
but soon found her lips wrapped fully around her 
finger, holding it in her mouth.  Holding it 
right there.

A basic, if dramatic, disincentive.  Make her 
taste it ... clean it from her slick finger.  
And maybe she would know better next time.

She knew what was next.  Clearly, he was not the 
kind to offer only mild disincentives.

She must, she knew, punish the part of her that 
was betraying her.  She was a fine young woman 
... except, of course ... except for the fact 
that she felt certain things that were ... 
unacceptable.

Except for her positively unladylike gushing 
pussy.

It must be punished.

Her right hand seemed to pull away from her 
mouth almost on its own, and she was looking at 
it.  She felt herself shift back a little more, 
her knees spread wider ... her heels hovering, 
high, forward, apart.

She felt her hand straighten.  She looked at it, 
and she looked down.

She was to count out loud, even with nobody 
there to hear.  The strokes were to be somewhere 
between medium and hard.

He had underestimated her resolve, though.  
Given a range of punishment options, she was 
incapable of selecting anyting but the harshest.

At that moment, she was overwhelmed with the 
sense that she deserved it ... and "medium to 
hard" just had to mean *hard*.  She was in real 
trouble now.

The first hard slap of palm to pussy shook her 
to the core ... transported her to dizzying 
places of incalculable pain ... hovering 
suddenly at the edge of unconsciousness.

It got worse.  She cried.  And then sobbed.  She 
had to wait in between.  Partly because she 
might pass out.  Partly because she might come.  
If she did, she knew an additional 15 strokes 
would be added to her required 30.  

And she knew she would go through with it.

It took half of forever.  It was harder than 
anything ever could be, it seemed.  She had to 
wait.  And she had to hurt herself over and 
over.  And she had to count them.

She ran between extreme pain and dizzying semi-
unconsciousness.  It was all too much.  More 
than he intended it to be.  

Maybe she would learn, though.  Maybe her body 
would learn, and never present her with these 
awful prospects again.

She moved slowly.  Her body ached as she tried 
to get up.  She walked gingerly, slowly in the 
direction of the kitchen.

She found what she needed.  And walked gingerly 
again to the living room.  She placed the 
cooking timer on the coffee table, set for 20 
minutes.

And she walked to the corner of the room.

She turned, and faced the room.  And she looked 
... and then she slowly pulled up her skirt ... 
held it in place.

She would look out into the room.  She would 
exhibit her punishment.  It had become the 
center of the universe of pain for her, an 
unrelenting, throbbing, constant presence.  And 
it had taken on the dark, musky red appearance 
of fresh meat.

There was nothing but throbbing.  Throbbing and 
looking through half-open eyes at an empty room, 
and prominently in the background, the front 
door of her apartment.  

In the first minute, she nearly fell over.  She 
hovered on the edge of unconsciousness.  

The clock ticked, though, and seemed to draw her 
so very gradually toward that irresistable wild 
mix of pain and slowly emerging arousal.

By the tenth minute, she could feel the distinct 
trickles on her upper thighs.  She knew to 
remain looking straight forward.  She could not 
look down.  But she could feel it, and was 
frightened by it ... and really felt truly 
*penetrated* by it ... by what it said so 
clearly about her.

By the twentieth minute, accompanied as it was 
by the startling an oddly cheerful "ding!", the 
trickles had very nearly reached her ankles.

And she was a free woman.  Her punishment 
served.

Her fine, frilly pair of panties still sat on 
the floor between the couch and coffee table.  
They were deposited in the laundry.  And she was 
otherwise free to go about her day.

He asked just one more thing of her.  He wished 
her to do a checkup.  It would occur at 10:30 
that morning.  And at that moment, she need do 
nothing other than take stock of herself.

He would not subject her to the indignity of 
another physical exam.  She knew how she was 
feeling ... whether her thoughts stayed within 
the range appropriate to such a nice young 
woman.

She knew, and would be able to say so.  If they 
were, she would go about the rest of her day.  
If they were not, she might benefit from a 
little further guidance.