Colton Broderick Keene is a man who wears a big silver watch – he’d probably call it a ‘time piece’. It is the first thing I notice when he meets us the first time, in the sitting room of the main house of his estate, coming toward us in a muted-colored suit that is tailored to hug his substantial body and emphasize the masculine muscles, angles, and bulges of him.

Dylan told me on our way here that there was an ‘estate’. That his father was rich by the Vow. I got nervous.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dylan said and put his hand on my thigh. “He’s not a rich asshole type. He’s just my dad, and he’s good at what he does. That’s why he deserves his wealth. It’s all how it’s supposed to be.” His pinky finger stroked the inside of my thigh. “You’ll see.”

“Dad.” Dylan greets him with a bear hug.

“Son.” Colton claps him on the back once. “Good to see you.”

Then his face turns to me. I try and fail to not stare at the scar bisecting his cheek from his mouth all the way to his ear, made more obvious by the thick more-salt-than-pepper beard around it.

Dylan told me once about the car accident. His mom tragically died in it. His three-year-old self and his father survived with broken bones, concussions, and scratches, thanks to a man who pulled them both out of the wreck. This man also gave the grieving Colton his copy of the Penitent’s Vow when he was in hospital. “And the rest is history,” as Dylan puts it.

I smile at my future father-in-law, just a little tremulously. “Hello, Mr. Keene. I’m so glad to finally meet you. I’m-“

“I know who you are,” he interrupts, and the tone of voice, the way it’s suffused with command, is immediately familiar. His son has it, too. I click my jaw shut.

Mr. Keene looks me up and down in my sundress-and-denim-jacket combo. His eyes get stuck on my chest for a second. My cheeks heat. The dress is quite modest in terms of the depth of the decollete, but the fabric is airy. It was not meant to be worn without a bra.

“They are clamped properly?” he asks.

They prick up as though they realize they’re being mentioned. The dull pain gets more acute. I hunch my shoulders reflexively.

I open my mouth to reply somehow – even though I’m not sure what I even want to say – but Dylan preempts me.

“Of course,” he says with a smirk and a shrug. “Can’t have her in the car for four hours without something to distract her from her cunt on the seat.”

“Dylan!” I gasp. My face feels like it’s on fire. Belatedly, I wrap my jacket around my upper body more to shield my nipples from view. The jostle and pressure on my tender tits make the pain flare up again and I flinch. “Please!”

Neither of the men minds me.

“Unless you ramp up and then bring down the pain continuously, you’ll just condition and desensitize her, son.” Colton’s gaze fixes on me again. “I bet she’s already leaking into her panties because her greedy clit is envious of the nips.”

Dylan laughs, carefree. “I kinda like it that way, to be honest.” He slings an arm around my shoulders and smiles at my embarrassed moue and reddened cheeks. “And if anything, she’s leaking down her legs. She has lost her panty privileges last night.”

“You’ll tell me about it during dinner,” Dylan’s father states. “You can take her to your rooms now and relax until then. Make sure she’s ready for the first lection tonight.”

“You want to start tonight already?”

Colton glances at me again, then turns back to his son. “From the looks of it, we should have started years ago. We should not waste another day.”

I shiver despite the balmy air, mostly at the feeling of the wet trail creeping down the inside of my thigh.

***

Dylan and his father talk about life and business over dinner – salmon and asparagus and an expensive-looking bottle of white wine – which we enjoy on the back porch. The food and drink are delicious, the scenery is wonderful, and there’s soft jazz floating through the air from some stereo system, right alongside the subtle scent of citronella and eucalyptus that keeps any insects away.

Still, I can’t relax even a little bit. I nibble the food and sip my wine and feel like I’m sitting on nettles. For once, it’s not because of anything Dylan has done (although the lack of underwear, for which he is responsible, heightens my senses to an uncomfortable degree). Knowing that I would have to sit for hours on end on the journey to his father’s estate, Dylan graciously hasn’t done anything to me for the last five days.

I’m afraid that the restless, tingling feeling stems precisely from that. From... the lack. The unfulfilled need for… I feel the blush rise from my chest to my face. My chest… Even my chest feels wrong now that the clamps are off. Strangely naked.

“Your betrothed seems discontented,” Mr. Keene remarks to his son when I squirm and shuffle my shoulders for the nth time. Our table is normal-sized and rectangular. The men are sitting across from each other at the short ends, while I am seated at Dylan’s right. I somehow feel both overlooked and sidelined, and caught in the direct line of sight of each man.

Dylan shoots me a fond smile. “She’s chomping at the bit, that’s all. An eager beaver.” He grins wickedly.

“Dylan, stop it,” I murmur. The heat in my face intensifies.

“I sure hope that unclothed beaver is not currently eagerly rubbing up against my seat cushion,” Colton says, and I can’t tell if he’s joking or serious. He fixes his eyes on me. “They were presents. I shall not like to see them ruined with your pussy drool.”

Even though his son has been talking to me like this daily for a month now, hearing such words out of the mouth of a man I barely know still gives me a zap up my spine.

“Mr Keene, I wouldn’t…” I try to hold eye contact. It takes a lot of willpower. His eyes are green like Dylan’s, but they don’t look at me with much warmth. “Please, don’t speak like that. I’m not like that.”

I’m not a helplessly horny slut of a woman. I’m not in a constant state of arousal to the point of ruining the upholstery. I’m not.

He silently watches me squirm for long seconds. “Not very honest, is she?” he eventually asks his son. “Ill-behaved.”

I drop the cutlery on my plate and lift my hands to my cheeks. They are flaming. “Excuse me, Mr. Keene. I’m not a child. I’m twenty-five years old-”

They ignore me and for some reason, that makes me blush even harder and makes my belly feel tight.

“There are twenty-four years of deprogramming to do, dad,” Dylan shrugs. “But I have faith in the power of the Vow, in you and your training, and in her. She protests and hems and haws, but her body is honest enough. There’s potential. You’ll see.”

“Yes, I will,” Colton agrees as he, too, puts his cutlery down, and takes up the cloth napkin to wipe his mouth with deliberation. “I won’t see my only son married to an undisciplined, mendacious whore. You and your offspring stand to inherit an ecclesia. Your wife will be perfect.”

Dylan nods at his father, then looks at me. There is sharp arousal and desire in his eyes, and my heart shrinks in fear and thumps in anticipation at the same time.

***

My boyfriend leads me by the hand into a salon. There are chaise longues and armchairs in dark grey around a low, oval wooden table waxed to mirroring perfection, next to a fireplace that looks authentic but unused. Vitrines with intricately carved glass doors and two chests of drawers made of dark wood, oil paintings, brass-colored curtains, and a small, elegant chandelier finish the look of utter sophistication.

Mr. Keene comes in behind us and closes the door. The sound raises my trepidation. I hold my stomach that’s fluttering like a small swarm of bees has taken residency inside of it.

“Sit, son.” Mr. Keene offers a seat to Dylan and then goes to fix them both a squat glass of scotch or maybe whiskey – some sort of amber-colored alcohol. He offers me none and doesn’t ask me to get seated, either.

Dylan kisses the back of my hand, shooting me a heated look as he does, and makes himself comfortable in one of the armchairs.

“Elizabeth Sophia Wright,” Mr. Keene says my name slowly as he re-stoppers the bottle.

“Nobody calls me that.” I chuckle with embarrassment because I haven’t heard my full name, let alone my second name, in years. Not unless I was in serious trouble with my mom. “Call me ‘Liz’, please.”

Colton turns towards me, one hand in his pocket, his drink in the other. “I decide what I call you.”

My stomach sinks. I press my lips together. “Sorr-“

“Don’t apologize.”

He sounds just like Dylan, just… harder. Even more self-assured. My belly tightens even more.

I click my mouth shut. My neck prickles with goosebumps.

Colton sips from his glass. “Dylan has told me that you were given a copy of the Vow almost a month ago and that you have read it.”

“Well, uh. Some of it, yes. It’s… difficult for me to understand,” I admit. It is. The language and meaning are both a bit cryptic. It’s not exactly a novel.

“Dylan has told me that he impressed on you the cardinal principle. Intentions, words, behavior.”

Intentions are just shapes found in clouds. Words are just noise. Behavior is all that matters. I nod, a little too eager. I know this! “Yes, I—"

“Then you will understand that apologies are worthless. I have no need for them.”

I swallow hard and then nod jerkily.

“Take off your clothes.”

“Bu-“

“Lizzie.” Dylan immediately shoots down my impending objection. “Behavior.”

My palms itch. My nipples tingle. I feel sweaty under my arms.

And always, always wet between my thighs.

“Now, Liz,” Dylan demands, just like he demands every time, and just like every time, I obey because the thought of it makes me feel hot-cold, shivery, and alive.

With another look at Dylan, I step out of my ballerinas and peel my dress off my body, twitchy with agitation, my hands unsteady. I’m not wearing underwear, so once the dress is off, I’m entirely nude right away. My skin is covered in goose pimples. My chest is pointing right at Mr. Keene, betrayers of my excitement.

My gaze slides to the windows. The curtains are open. Outside is dark, so I can see myself in the reflection.

I watch myself for a moment, my nude form, my heaving chest and curling toes.

Anyone could be watching me from outside.

I cross my arms in front of my breasts.

“Arms to the sides,” Colton commands me coolly.

Immediately I take them down, interlace my fingers vaguely in front of my bare crotch at first, but then let go again and let them fall uselessly to my sides when Colton gives me a long, stern look.

I feel like a naughty schoolgirl in the strict headmaster’s office and… I involuntarily recall how prominently this exact scenario has featured in my sexual life before Dylan. I’ve watched hours of porn of this type, read so many smutty stories; I even sext-roleplayed this once with a virtual stranger on the internet. When I met Dylan, my fixation transformed into ‘schoolgirl and tutor’ or ‘schoolgirl and bully’.

Colton Keene is exactly the type I have envisioned so often. Older, still strong, a little hefty – and that cool, commanding temperament. Some contempt, too. Authority that makes me weak.

I just never knew how nervous and anxious it is when it’s not a fantasy, not happening on my smartphone screen, but in real life.

Or when it’s your fiancé’s father and the key to your future.

“Spread your knees.”

I need a moment to work this out. Not the legs, not the thighs – he wants me to spread my knees. I end up in a highly unsexy shape that reminds me of the yogic ‘horse pose’ done especially shoddily, or of a demi-plié – a term that stayed with me after the two (yes, two) ballerina lessons I took (and hated) when I was little.

The ungainly pose splays me open. The air licks at my puffy slit. My thighs quickly start to tremble, from the strain and the nerves. I huff air out my nose.

“She will become more physically resilient.” Colton examines me like I’m not just in horse pose, but an actual horse he wants to buy, or sell. “Fitter. Stronger.”

“I’ll manage her diet and exercise,” Dylan says.

I hate how much their speaking like I’m not in the room affects me. How it makes me queasy and floods me with feverish excitement. My mouth makes little “uhn”- noises.

“Your vulva hasn’t been touched in a month, correct?” Colton addresses me.

‘Vulva’, he says. Maybe he's not a headmaster. Maybe he's a doctor?

“I, uh,” I giggle stupidly, “well, I mean, I do wipe myself when I go to the restroom, so…” I don’t quite know why I feel the need to point this out. It’s clearly not what he meant, and also quite beside the point, and anyway - why am I talking about bathroom business in front of my future father-in-law, while naked? Shut up, Lizzie!

“For the duration of your stay here, you will not be doing that anymore,” Colton says with an acknowledging nod.

It takes me a moment to catch his meaning. “What?!” I straighten my knees and immediately feel the relief. “You mean, I’m not gonna wipe myself anymore? You cannot be serious! Dylan, this-”

“Behavior, Liz!” my boyfriend bellows yet again, trying to silence me. Not this easily, not this time.

“Dylan, seriously, I won't-“

“You will have anything and everything I deem necessary to raise you to the level of an acceptable wife for my son, Elizabeth,” Colton snaps. His voice booms through me. “And for your information, an acceptable wife is a woman that certainly does not contradict her husband while in company, and also one that does not contradict her spiritual leader in the middle of their first lection. Now spread your damn knees and be silent!”

I look from Dylan to Colton and back. They are a united front. With a shaky huff, I bend my knees again and splay them wide.

God, I wish my pussy wasn’t quite so wet and my nipples not quite so turgid.

“As I was saying,” Mr. Keene continues, “for the duration of your stay here you will ask me or Dylan to assist you in the restroom. Your whore slit has been fondled more than enough by you already, and I can already see that it is still greedy for more, as well as under the impression that it deserves the fondling. Isn’t that right, Elizabeth?”

My thoughts are still reeling from the realization that I’m going to have to ask Dylan – I certainly won’t ask Colton, ever, ever – to wipe my pussy and ass for me after going to the toilet, so I missed a bit of the question.

“Uhm, I think so?” I reply, not entirely sure what I’m agreeing to.

Colton steps closer to me until he is right in front of me, an arm’s length away. “I apparently don’t have your entire attention,” he says quietly, then pulls his hand out of his pocket and sticks it between my legs.

Almost casually.

My breath halts in my lungs. My motionless body goes ice cold, then blazing hot, and the two swirl together between my legs. His fingers slide between my perpetually swollen, moist lips.

I want to slap him across the face. I want to run away. I want to yell and cry.

I want to hump his hand.

Dylan leans forward, elbows on his knees. His avid gaze is locked on his father’s hand that’s rummaging between my thighs.

“I’ll repeat the question,” Colton tells me patiently. “Your slutty pussy still thinks it deserves to be pleasured, does it not, Elizabeth?”

“My… I, uh, it-“ I gasp when his thick fingertip slides over the hood of my clit. “My body is, uhm, used to, to, uhm, to pleasure.”

“And what do we call pleasure that leaves you dysfunctional when it is not provided?”

Not headmaster, not doctor. Priest. Oh God, oh God, I would kneel at his altar, I would-

“Uhm, addiction?” I stammer. My legs tremble from the effort of holding back a rocking motion.

“Vice,” he says and sips his drink with the one hand while the fingers of the other probe my folds. “From the Latin word ‘vitium’ – a mistake, a lack, a defect, damage. In human behavior, it’s a lack of order, a defect in character, and damage done to society through behavior.”

I know his words don’t sink all the way in, and I should be worried, but his fingers are so, so good. It’s been so long, it’s been forever, I’ve been so horny all these days, please, please- “Please,” I hush, searching his hard eyes for mercy and finding none.

“For the duration of your stay here, for the duration of your tuition, I will be the one to correct that mistake. Whatever it takes.”

A thick finger slides into me, into my tight, hot, drenched, desperate sheath. I whimper. Too much, not enough. I can hear myself, my wetness. I’m squelching and gurgling below.

“I will teach you order," he promises quietly. "I will teach you the abilities and competencies your future husband requires. Whatever it takes.”

Oh God, those words. They seem to reach into my pussy from above and prod me in all the right places.

One more flick against my clit, and I would explode. Just one more slide against the side of my nub, one more press against it from the inside, even, would be enough.

Colton pulls his finger out of me and inflicts a stinging slap on my aroused pussy with the full palm of his hand. It feels like a flame darting through my whole...