Theirs to Use: A Punishment Reverse Harem Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  More Stormy Night Books by Emily Tilton

  Emily Tilton Links

  Theirs to Use

  By

  Emily Tilton

  Copyright © 2018 by Stormy Night Publications and Emily Tilton

  Copyright © 2018 by Stormy Night Publications and Emily Tilton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

  www.StormyNightPublications.com

  Tilton, Emily

  Theirs to Use

  Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

  Images by Dreamstime/Opolja

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

  Chapter One

  “We have to find three fuckable girls in here—that’s all.”

  The man, one of a pair, spoke in an amused tone, not even sarcastic really. To Karen Hunter, just eighteen and sent to corporate prison for nonpayment of her car loan, it seemed like the man even meant to commiserate with his companion—as if they had no reason to think they might find anything more than slightly fuckable.

  Karen couldn’t see their faces, but she had heard them conversing as they walked down the cell block, one more talkative, with a deeper voice, the other—the one who had just spoken—possessing a baritone that would have sounded pleasant if the things he said had had anything pleasing about them. They weren’t the first men who had come to Karen’s cell block since she had arrived here, but they were the first to come as a pair.

  The others had come one by one, to enter a girl’s cell—not Karen’s, yet, thank God—and spend half an hour or so there. Karen knew about these visits from the sounds of the men’s voices, and the girls’ cries of protest, made into wails of pain by the sharp crack of the prison paddle that it seemed these men were permitted to wield, though Karen didn’t think they were prison guards.

  The guards seemed more, well, professional than that. They, too, used the paddle, but they did it in a much more efficient manner than the men who came to the cells on Karen’s block, without threats and without saying things like, “There you go. Are you going to open those legs for me now? Are you going to say what you need to say?”

  When a guard paddled one of the girls, he told her to go to the discipline trestle in the cafeteria and bend over it, and take down her pants to reveal her standard-issue gray panties. He announced to the hushed room that the girl had for example tried to speak to another prisoner, and then he struck hard with the heavy wooden blade that had five air holes, once, twice, three times. The girl screamed, but if she tried to get up she got another stroke from the horrible thing.

  Afterward, though, with her bottom on fire, she went back to her seat, and the guard seemed not to hold on to any anger toward her. She didn’t do it again, either. Karen knew that from awful experience. The night after her paddling she had lain awake in her cell rubbing the terrible bruises from the paddle and trying to hold on to her idea of who Karen Hunter was supposed to be.

  When the men who came to the cells used the paddle, though, it sounded very different. They punished the reluctant girls slowly, and Karen thought they must take the girls’ panties down, too, for the paddling. It seemed to hurt the girls more even than the paddle over their underwear did. Also, when the girl finally said, as she always did, that she wanted the man to fuck her, the sexual sounds began immediately, as if the man had simply entered her and begun to ride her over the bunk where he had placed her for the punishment.

  The girl in the cell next to Karen’s had been visited twice in the week since Karen had come to the prison. The first time, the man had used the paddle for five minutes before the girl sobbed, “Go ahead. I’m wet. Fuck me.” The second time, when the man asked, “Are you ready for my cock this time, sweetheart?”, she had said yes, and the sex had started even more quickly.

  The two men walking down the cell block seemed more like the men who came visiting to fuck the girls in their cells than like the guards. From what they said, though, they didn’t intend to open the cell doors and go in with paddles and cocks ready, but rather to make some sort of selection.

  “That’s right,” the loquacious one said. “And they’re all pretty fuckable. Haven’t you ever paid your money up at the desk and gone in for a few minutes of fun? If they say no, you just spank them until they change their minds. It’s better than an escort service. Cheaper, too.”

  The voices came closer.

  “Still can’t believe it’s legal,” the same voice continued. “But with the corporate laws, everything just seems to work better, doesn’t it? These prisons provide everyone with exactly what they need. The men get work, and the women get educated in their proper place in society. Oh, she’s nice, isn’t she? Let’s go in and inspect her.”

  They must be at the door of the cell next to Karen’s now. She heard the beep of the lock, and the heavy door open.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” the deep voice said. “Go ahead and take off your clothes, please.”

  “Why?” the girl, whose name Karen suddenly wished she knew, asked in a fearful voice. The prisoners weren’t allowed to talk to one another, as Karen had forgotten that first day and had to relearn with the help of the paddle.

  “To see whether you qualify for a special program,” the one with the more pleasant voice said.

  “What kind of program?”

  The deeper voice responded. “That’s enough talking. Take off your clothes or you’ll get the paddle. You’ve had the paddle before, haven’t you? Your fuck sheet says your first visitor had to use it to get you to behave. I’m sure you don’t want it again, when all we want is to take a look at your tits and your cunt and your ass.”

  A pause. Karen couldn’t hear anything; had the girl decided to obey, and strip for these assholes?

  “Nice tits,” said the baritone.

  “Bend over the bed and spread your ass-cheeks, sweetheart. Show us what you have to offer, if you’re chosen for our program.” The talkative one spoke the final word so as to make it clear that he himself probably wouldn’t have described what awaited the ‘lucky’ girls chosen as a ‘program.’

  “We’ll have to paddle you if you don’t,” the baritone said, a tinge almost of regret in his voice.

  Another pause. The bass spoke. “What do you think, Joe?”

  “I’d put her on the list. That’s two.”

  “Go ahead and get up and get dressed, sweetheart. That’s Joe and I’m Pete. You’ll see us again. Alright, the warden said the next girl down is probably one we’ll want to show to Mr. Green. Says he’s been saving her.”

  Oh, no.

  The door of the other girl’s cell closed. Karen told herself she should try to prepare somehow, should think of a speech begging for mercy that would make these men take her out of corporate prison but not for whatever terrible fate they had planned—maybe she could seduce the one with the pleasant voice? She knew how pretty she was, in a blonde-haired, blue-eyed way that men seemed to find very appealing. Her tries at sex with the one boy she had ever really dated hadn’t gone very well, though. Could she… give herself to these men somehow, in exchange for her freedom?

  Even as she formed the thought, though, she knew it wouldn’t work. Even if she could manage to pretend to want to have sex with this Pete or this Joe—or, she thought with a hard swallow, with both of them—it didn’t sound like they were here for that, and the thing they were here for would probably happen to her anyway, whatever it was.

  A face appeared at the window of the cell door, dark-haired and bearded. Pete or Joe? she wondered, as if it mattered. A smile, obviously fake, broke out on the face, as if the man was trying to use a bland, sympathetic expression to cover over a deeper, more animalistic delight at the sight of Karen.

  “Look at that,” said the face, in the deeper voice of Pete. “I’m not sure we even have to put all three on the list.”

  The beep of the lock, and then its loud click, cut through the stillness of the tiny room. A bunk and a metal toilet were the only furniture, indeed the only contents, of the cell, besides Karen, who had stood when she heard the men moving down the cell block. She took a step back, involuntarily, so that she was almost against the wall opposite the door as Pete came in, followed by the slightly taller Joe. To her dismay, Joe’s face, though handsomer, also seemed crueler than Pete’s, with a disdain in his blue eyes that struck fear into Karen’s heart the more, she thought, because of its contrast with his red-haired good looks. Looking down, she saw that Joe carried the paddle in his r
ight hand.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” Pete said. “Go ahead and take off your clothes for us. We need to get a good look at you.”

  Karen almost asked the same question the other girl had—Why?—but she knew it wouldn’t get her anywhere. She looked at the paddle in Joe’s hand and felt all her rational attempts to find a way out of this horrible moment start to slip away.

  She put her hands out in a beseeching, warding-off gesture. “Please, no.” Her voice quavered, and though she hated the weakness it showed, she hoped, without any reason, it might evoke mercy.

  “I know you haven’t had a visit…” Pete looked down at his handheld. “Karen. But I think you’ve probably figured out how it works around here. When they sentenced you to corporate prison, you gave all your rights to the company you failed to pay back. That means we’re going to have a good look at your body whether you like it or not. My friend Joe will use the paddle if he has to, but wouldn’t it be much easier if you just took off your uniform and your underwear and showed us what we want to see?”

  “But…” Karen said, holding her hands up higher.

  Pete gave a theatrical sigh. “Joe?” he said, in a tone of regret that Karen could tell the man didn’t even want to sound authentic.

  Joe stepped forward swiftly. Two paces brought him right in front of Karen, who cowered back against the wall. He grabbed her shoulder with his left hand and hauled her, struggling and saying, “Please, no,” over and over, backwards those same two paces, to the end of the bed. He thrust her down over it, on her knees with her chest pressed against the awful synthetic blanket. When, flailing, she managed to twist away a little, she found Pete there too, grabbing her arms and holding them firmly behind her at the small of her back.

  “You got the arms?” he asked his partner.

  Joe didn’t speak a reply, but she felt his left hand move to seize the wrists Pete held still for him.

  “Take the panties down, too,” Pete said then. “She needs to learn a real lesson.”

  She cried out as she felt Joe’s hand reach inside the waistband of the orange prison-uniform pants and the waistband of her panties, too. He pulled them down unceremoniously to the bottom of her thighs.

  Pete, to her horror, gave a low whistle. “That’s an ass I think even Mr. Green will appreciate.”

  Who? What the fuck are these men doing here? What is this ‘program’?

  Ever talkative, Pete spoke again. “Paddle it good, now. Don’t ruin it, though.”

  Joe said, “You let me know when you’re ready to take your clothes off, Karen.”

  Then she felt him shift his weight, and she felt the puff of air on her bare bottom-cheeks, and then the crack sounded in the little cell. The pain was so great that Karen writhed over the bunk, in the man’s grasp, feeling her bottom clench and unclench and moving it desperately to try to find a position that didn’t hurt so much.

  “Look at that,” Pete said with a chuckle. “So nice and red, and she can’t help showing us that pretty cunt, either. Girl, you’re going to get a lot of paddling where you’re going.”

  Chapter Two

  Mr. Green—Samuel Green of TruMark Financial Services—had been watching the video feed from the prison without much interest, before his two trusted henchmen Joe and Pete had reached the cell of the girl whose name was apparently Karen Hunter. The video feed, ostensibly for the safety of the inmates of ResTech’s CDF (Corporate Detention Facility) Number Five, had received a number of improvements in the way of resolution enhancement both of picture and of sound that a rehabilitation expert might not have deemed necessary for that so-called primary function.

  The crystal clear view of a girl’s cunt and well-paddled ass-cheeks, like the one Green now had of Karen Hunter, and the high-fidelity rendering of her cries of pain and shame, however, made the feed highly marketable. As a commodity in ResTech’s portfolio—listed in their financial reports as ‘Entertainment Deliverables’—the subscription service constituted an asset even more lucrative than the leasing of the human capital they acquired on a daily basis through their predatory lending practices.

  Selling a prurient look at the disciplinary practices of their CDFs, including the sexual use when deemed appropriate of their female inmates, however, didn’t interfere with another of the key lines on their balance sheet, one that fell under the heading ‘Rehabilitative Programs.’

  On ResTech’s financial report from the previous year, that line had read:

  Rehabilitative services $45,342,827,719

  The ten million dollars, plus tax, that Mr. Green and his associates would pay for each year of the three-year lease they would hold on one of the three girls selected by Joe and Pete, represented the ultra-high end of ResTech’s price range for the indentures of their delinquent borrowers. You could get a strong man to do your landscaping for as little as ten thousand per year, or an older woman as your housekeeper—and, if your taste ran to such things, sexual servant—for twenty. You had to feed, clothe, and house them, but the corporate laws established minimum standards for that, as well as for sexual consent, that didn’t punish the wallet terribly. If you went with the Rehabilitation Support Package option from ResTech, which provided a modular cell to place somewhere on your property, a Spartan work uniform the delinquent, him or herself, could be made to keep clean, and a year of adequate nutrition, you didn’t add all that much to the bottom line.

  Karen Hunter, or one of the other two girls on Joe and Pete’s list, would have housing, clothes, and food better than that—unless of course Green’s associates decided they wanted her kept in squalor, something Green himself found only mildly appealing, though he knew some men enjoyed it. Indeed Green had gone to a dinner party the previous week at the home of an ultra-rich couple who kept a girl in a cell under their backyard.

  The wife in particular had waxed eloquent on the subject of her responsibility to rehabilitate the girl, and at the end of dinner the young woman had been brought out, naked, to eat from a dish placed on the floor before the wife spanked her soundly with a hairbrush, over her knee. The husband had looked on approvingly, and when the girl’s bottom glowed bright red he had offered her mouth to the guests.

  Green had readily availed himself of the opportunity to come in the girl’s practiced mouth while her master and mistress looked on to ensure her faithful attendance to his pleasure. He had found the occasion entertaining, but he didn’t think the majority of his investors would want to keep their girl that way, at least on a day-to-day basis: once they had spent so much on a truly beautiful girl, they would, Green thought, want to dress her up and show her off, even if they ripped the lovely things off her later. The contrast between elegance and debasement constituted a very appealing part of the prospect of owning a girl like Karen Hunter: when, sobbing, she knelt in torn panties to suck your friends’ cocks, the thought that only a few moments before she had looked like an old-fashioned starlet, dressed to the nines, only made you harder.

  Joe had paused after delivering six swats of the prison paddle to Karen’s lovely little bottom. She wailed and struggled, her breath coming in gasps and her backside still doing the sexy dance she apparently couldn’t control. The girl hadn’t said anything to indicate acquiescence, but Joe wouldn’t have reached the status of Special Assistant to Mr. Green, as the nameplate on his office door here at TruMark termed him, unless he understood how to bring a girl along. Green’s predilections meant that his trusted henchmen had a great deal of experience in punishing young women to ensure their obedience; his instincts clearly told him something about Karen, now.

  He put his hand down and began to rub the sweet red cheeks, apparently idly, not letting his fingers drift too far down and in but only, it seemed, intending to soothe her, or perhaps to ascertain how hot he had gotten her rear end with the paddle. Karen wept into the mattress of her bunk, her wrists still held tight behind her and her pants and panties around her knees.

  “Karen,” Pete said, as he watched Joe’s hand very closely, “you know you’re going to have to do as we tell you. You know I’ll paddle you until you do show us your breasts and your pretty cunt properly. We have to get a good look at them, so we can see if you’re a candidate for our program.”