The Most Shameful Game Read online

  The Most Shameful Game

  By

  Emily Tilton

  Copyright © 2019 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

  The Most Shameful Game

  Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

  Images by Shutterstock/DenisProduction.com, Shutterstock/ktsdesign, and Shutterstock/Jaswe

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

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Additional Books in the Beyond the Institute: The Future of Correction Series

  More Stormy Night Books by Emily Tilton

  Emily Tilton Links

  Prologue

  Petronilla Lourcy looked up into the stern, handsome face of her husband Robert.

  “Please,” she begged. “Please, don’t make me.”

  “You know I don’t have a choice, Pet. Now turn around and bend over the fucking block before we get the second penalty, and I have to cane you too.”

  She turned to face the horrible block, not really a block but rather a sort of bench, with the cuffs at the far end for her wrists. She was already naked except for the leather collar around her neck, because all pieces were naked from the start of the game until they got eliminated or received a clothing upgrade. When her husband, the one who actually played the game, had led her to the block by the leash whose looped end he held in his hand, and secured her in place, he would be able to plunge his hardness into her just as he wished.

  Just as the game demanded. From behind, as Pet cried out atop the wooden block.

  Every punishment fucking in the game was administered from behind, as an expression of the piece’s submission to the authority both of the players and of the gamemasters.

  Pet knew what it was to have her husband inside her that way, for at home on Prosperia a discipline horse stood next to her bed. Over it she received a whipping most nights at bedtime, and then a hard fucking, for as a good Prosperian husband Robert had to train his bride properly for her good and his pleasure. But that was private: what happened here in the stone circle in the penalty hex on Ludia would be seen across the galaxy by millions of devotees of the game.

  Pet just simply couldn’t, could she? Not of her own free will.

  Petronilla looked around the lovely landscape marred by the fucking block and the stone circle in which it stood. They had put the circle next to a pretty little pond that she supposed they must have based on some water feature in the park of a manor house in England, back on Earth three thousand years before, in the century or so before the collapse of Terran civilization. This year’s game zone, which comprised a continent the size, Pet supposed, of Victorian London, had Western Terran culture as its theme.

  Gamemasters and players called the zone the board, harking back to the days when games of strategy had been played on actual, material flat surfaces. Pieces like Petronilla generally called it the board, too, but as she had learned entirely too well in the last few weeks, what a piece called anything, or said at all, didn’t matter.

  Little hills just high enough to obscure what lay four hundred meters away, dotted with stands of trees, lay all about Robert and Petronilla here, and she could only barely discern that they formed a hexagonal shape: the designers of planet Ludia had mastered the art of making a board look entirely natural to the players and their pieces, from ground level at least. Seen from above, by the seven gamemasters, watching via nano-drones from their orbital station, it looked more like a sheet—or, Pet guessed, a board—of almost three hundred adjoining hexagons, all of them divided from one another in some way visible from the air, like hills or bands of trees or stone walls.

  Robert’s handheld could display that kind of view, too, modified from what the gamemasters saw to obscure the parts of the board he hadn’t seen yet. At the moment, that meant that if he looked right now at the state of play he would see this hex, with the pond and the stone circle, and the one they had just left, which held their ‘home’: a tent of what Pet thought must be an ancient style, since it looked a little like pictures of houses from thousands of years ago, and seemed to be made of a heavy fabric that seemed unlikely despite its weight to keep off heavy rain for very long. Certainly it wouldn’t have lasted a day on Robert and Pet’s home planet, Prosperia, during the rainy season.

  Their home hex, divided from its six neighbors by low hills just like this one was, had contained only the tent, in the middle of a grassy field. Elsewhere on the little, water-bounded continent five other players, each of them with his own naked, female piece, had also started their day in some simple structure. For all Robert and Pet knew, each player had a tent identical to theirs, though the gamemasters might just as well have varied the home structure so that three players had tents and three had... Pet searched her brain for an equivalent, her mind desperately trying to avoid contemplating the block in the middle of the stone circle.

  Igloos, she thought. Igloos, maybe. The thought might have made her giggle under other circumstances, but the designers could easily have shaped the board to be half frozen wasteland, putting refrigeration equipment in the engineering cavern that lay a hundred meters below the surface of the artificial planet. The gamemasters of Prosperia and Magisteria, the two founding worlds of Ludia, had designed their planet—technically an orbital station though everyone just called it a planet, and no one in the galaxy had ever liked anyone else’s definition of planet anyway—for easy variation of climate.

  Pet might have giggled, and she might have told Robert that she wouldn’t mind seeing what it felt like to sleep in an igloo, to eat fish and watch out for polar bears (if she remembered her ancient history right). To make love in an igloo, and yield herself to the kind, though strict man to whom her body belonged, according to the laws of their home planet, fully in force also here on Ludia.

  An igloo had walls, even if they were curved and made of ice. The rules of the game strictly forbid the gamemasters, and thus also the millions of spectators throughout the galaxy, from looking inside a player’s home structures, whether it comprised the simple starting hut or tent or igloo, or it had grown, as surviving players’ homes did, into something grander. The very, very ancient proverb, A man’s home is his castle, which both Prosperians and Magisterians held as the basis of property rights, applied in a very literal way here on the game world of Ludia, where a man’s tent, if he succeeded, might well become his castle.
r />   A castle into which the gamemasters and the viewing masses could not pry, to see what a husband like Robert Lourcy did when he decided to enjoy his wife. Not like a stone circle by a little pond, with a fucking block in the middle of it.

  Robert had had six choices, for his first move. No more than one of them could have had a penalty circle, where a piece had to receive her first fucking.

  Pet looked at the block and felt her brow crease. She bit her lip and looked over her shoulder at Robert, solemn in his purple player’s robe, beneath which he had on only the special pants that left his hard cock uncovered.

  So that he can enjoy his piece when the game demands it. And... if we eliminate another player. Pet swallowed hard. Or if another player eliminates him...

  “No more delaying, darling,” Robert said sternly. He glanced down at his handheld. “We have two minutes before the second penalty.”

  Pet only just managed to keep from crying out at these words. Second penalty would be the cane that lay on a stand at the other side of the stone circle. Robert would have to whip her, and then take her with his hard penis over the fucking block.

  She turned back to the wooden block standing on the stone. It had risen out of the ground as Robert and Pet had approached it, apprehensive at the terrible luck of having moved into a penalty hex on Robert’s very first turn. Different sorts of erotic discipline could appear in a penalty circle, but Pet had instantly recognized the fucking block, and had known what it meant: the player must fuck his piece over the block with the greatest possible force.

  Chapter One

  Mrs. Robert Lourcy—or, more familiarly, Petronilla Lourcy—learned for the first time about the game when her husband gave her a book from his library—a real book, with paper pages and, more surprisingly for Pet, the red cover that on Prosperia meant the book was meant only for the eyes of men. In black letters, the cover said The Game of Discipline.

  The title made Pet think of her courtship with Robert, less than a year before when she had still been Petronilla Wendell, and of how her future husband had introduced her to the ways of a husband’s loving discipline even before their marriage. He had, like most accepted suitors among the Prosperian upper class, come to Pet’s home to correct his intended bride’s wayward conduct while he also introduced her to his intentions as to the more pleasurable intimacies of the marriage chamber.

  Like every Prosperian girl, Pet had been taken by her mother to the doctor’s office the same day her accepted suitor was to visit her bedchamber for the first time. At the clinic Pet had received her governor, the tiny sentinel over her feminine pleasure implanted on her clitoris. The day after she had accepted Robert’s proposal, he had sent the governor, bearing his initials and configured to his specifications, to Pet’s parents. Made to disrobe entirely and to sit in the embarrassing examination chair that allowed the doctor to inspect her thoroughly between her legs and her bottom-cheeks, Pet had watched him place the frightening tiny thing where her mother had told her never to touch herself, but to wait for her husband’s care and teaching: he would explain a girl’s duty as to her private parts, just as he would discipline her when she misbehaved.

  With the governor, his firm hand, and the family punishment strap, her bridegroom had taught her the ways of Prosperian marriage. Looking back at the varied marriage customs of the human species over the millennia, Pet could not imagine wanting it any other way: she submitted to her husband’s discipline, and he took care of her and decided for both of them how best to live. He consulted her opinion, like every good husband, but his masculine wisdom made their life together run as smoothly as domestic existence should.

  “Read this book, please, Pet,” he said one morning, three weeks after their wedding, having summoned her to his study to hand her the slim red volume. “I’ve been nominated to represent my corporation on the game world Ludia next month. It’s a great honor, and most men would perhaps not ask their wives’ help in deciding whether to accept it. I would like to know what you think, though.”

  “But, sir,” Pet replied, “that’s a gentlemen’s book! What would Mother say if she knew I had read it?”

  Robert smiled gently, and Pet thought she could see in his eyes his indulgent opinion of her admittedly excitable mother.

  “I promise not to tell your mother I have given it to you,” he said. “And I forbid you to tell her.”

  That made Pet giggle, though even to touch a book with a red cover seemed to make her fingers tingle. It certainly made her cheeks hot. She had never even read the title of a gentleman’s book before: Prosperian girls were taught to avert their eyes from anything in that color, by which the planetary government identified those documents and even those entire buildings that men alone were permitted to use, except for those women of lower caste who were employed in some capacity having to do with them.

  Well-born girls like Pet never had contact with such things at all. Some of her schoolmates—naughty girls, her mother had called them—would sometimes whisper that the red books were about (the girls’ voices had dropped even lower) fucking and the red buildings were places where men went to fuck lower-caste women. Soon after turning eighteen, Pet had received a painful spanking from her guardian, a man unrelated to her, for asking about these whispers, and she had tried to put the idea from her mind, though the terrible monosyllable had never seemed to leave her thoughts completely. She hadn’t even known what it meant, and when at last Robert had told her, shown her, and had fucked her for the first time, her face had gone as red as the cover of this book she had now held.

  Pet took the book to her sitting room, and sent her ladies’ maid away. Even before opening the cover, she felt the tingle down between her legs that meant her governor had begun to control her wayward pleasure. Robert kept her cunny set to the lowest setting, level one, most days, just as the Prosperian marital authority recommended. Like many wives in the first years of their marriage, Pet also had to wear the tight bride-training pants that kept her cunny and her bottom thickly covered, so that straying hands could not overstimulate a girl’s desire.

  Nevertheless, Pet usually didn’t even remember that her body’s most intimate places belonged completely to her husband, except when she had to ask his permission to pull her training pants down to use the toilet. A Prosperian woman’s clothing fastened with electronic adhesions, most of which she could open with her own fingerprints—her guardian and then her husband being the only men given that privilege as well. Pet’s training pants, however, did not unfasten at her touch, but only at Robert’s and that of the faithful housekeeper Mrs. Graves, who had responsibility for disciplining Pet when necessary, if Robert was unavailable.

  It seemed to her as she opened the red cover of The Game of Discipline, though, that perhaps Robert had turned the governor up a little, because when she had felt the tingle of the implant’s action on her nerve endings she had also felt warm down there—the way she did when her husband kissed her lips and fondled her between her legs at night, to get her ready for intimacy.

  For... Pet’s mind hesitated, as if Robert could read her thoughts, and would turn the governor down again if he knew what they held. But her naughtiness, her secret need, pushed onward. For fucking. For my husband’s hardness, for his... Another hesitation, another pressing need. For his prick.

  She whimpered, because she had felt her training pants begin to get wet, and she knew Robert would see, thanks to the humidistat in the shameful garment. He must have turned it up. To three? Four?

  Pet whimpered again, and she squirmed in her reading chair. She hadn’t even started to read yet.

  When she read, and she began to learn about the game of Discipline, her difficulty became much worse.

  The book told her that the game called Discipline had found its essential shape back on old Earth, in the days of the Roman Empire. Roman officers had played its tactical component on the same kind of grid that would one day become known around the galaxy as a ‘chessboard’: eight by eig
ht, each square representing an equal area of imagined terrain.

  The other part of the game the Romans had called fututoria et verberatoria—that is, ‘the matters of the fucker and of the flogger’ or, more elegantly, ‘sex and punishment.’ It had gone by several other names over the millennia-long history of the game, including the plainly literal sex and punishment. In what the mixed Prosperian and Magisterian game design team considered the game’s ultimate form, played on the specially designed game planet Ludia, they called it simply mastering.

  What set Discipline apart from every other known game in the galaxy lay of course in this element of sexual dominance and submission. Pet bit her lip as she thought of Robert, perhaps looking at his handheld at that moment and seeing how wayward his bride had become, just from reading the book with the red cover.

  From the beginning, Discipline was a game of the officers—the military tribunes above all—rather than of the legionaries. The accounts I have found in the Magisterian archives, taken from the annals of the Pretorian Guard (that is, of the secret refounding of the guard in the twentieth century of the common era, describing their research into lost accounts of the earliest days of the game) support this notion. Occasionally a centurion might be allowed to play Ludus Disciplinae as they called it, but only in order to judge his worthiness for greater responsibility.

  The importance of this restriction cannot be overemphasized, because along with it came the essentially consensual nature of the game for the participants whom the Romans with their customary bluntness called simply cunnos: cunts.

  That brought a gasp to Pet’s chest, a sharp indrawn breath as a fire seemed to blaze up down there, in the place Robert had taught her to call not by that shameful man’s word, but by a softer feminine version that sounded to the ear of Pet’s imagination even more like the Roman word. “This is your cunny, Pet,” Robert had said softly, as he looked down at it and touched it gently. “A man calls it a cunt, but a girl must not use that word, or she will be punished. When we are alone together, though, you may speak to me of your cunny.”