Chapter 18
Audrey
I struggled to find words for the maelstrom of sensations. “It’s… so much,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “I feel too… too full. So…” I let out a helpless sob. “So owned.”
Pierre’s hands moved to my hips, holding me firmly in place as he began to rock the plug gently back and forth. “You’ll feel even fuller tomorrow when it’s my cock stretching this tight little hole,” he promised, his words sending a shiver of fearful anticipation down my spine.
Without warning, one of his hands slipped around to find my swollen clit.
I gasped as his fingers began to circle the sensitive bud with practiced skill.
The dual stimulation—the plug moving in my bottom and his fingers on my most sensitive place—created a feedback loop of sensation that threatened to overwhelm me completely.
“I… I can’t…” I whimpered, my thighs beginning to quiver uncontrollably.
“You need to play with yourself, don’t you?” Pierre observed, his tone knowing and amused. He took his hand away and I let out a tiny whimper. “You need to touch that needy little cunt while I fuck your ass with this plug.”
I bit my lip, horrified by how accurately he had read my desperate need. My hands clenched into fists on the covers, gathering the cotton tightly into my fingers, as I fought the urge to reach between my legs.
“Ask nicely,” Pierre commanded, his fingers rubbing my clit again, but very lightly, leaving me aching for more. “Beg me for permission to masturbate while I train your virgin ass.”
The words stuck in my throat, pride warring with desire. I had already surrendered so much of myself tonight—my virginity, my dignity, my independence. Could I really debase myself further by begging for this?
But my body betrayed me, as it had all night. My hips moved involuntarily, seeking the friction his now-motionless fingers denied me. The plug shifted inside me with each movement, making rational thought nearly impossible.
“Please,” I finally gasped, the word torn from somewhere deep inside me. “Please, Monsieur, may I… may I touch myself while you… while you…” I couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t bring myself to use the crude language he seemed to prefer.
Pierre chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest against my back. “While I what, Audrey? Be specific.”
“While you fuck my ass with the plug,” I whispered, the words burning my lips as they escaped. My face felt hotter than the surface of the sun, shame and arousal battling within me.
“Good girl,” Pierre praised, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Yes, you may touch that needy little cunt while I train your virgin ass. But I have a condition.”
I froze, my hand already halfway to its destination between my thighs. “A condition?” I echoed, my voice small and uncertain.
Pierre leaned forward, his chest pressing against my back, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“Tomorrow, you will wear this plug all day,” he murmured, giving the toy a gentle twist that made me gasp.
“You will go to the Jardins de Luxembourg in the morning, and then to the cinema in the afternoon. And you will wear nothing—absolutely nothing—under your skirt except this plug.”
I couldn’t suppress the moan that escaped me at the thought. “But… people might see…”
“That’s the point,” Pierre replied, his voice hardening slightly as he pushed the plug deeper.
“You’ll walk among them, outwardly respectable, while secretly carrying my mark inside you.
And you are not to touch your cunt tomorrow except to keep it clean for me.
No pleasuring yourself, no matter how desperate you become. Do you understand?”
The proposition was so outrageous, so humiliating, that I should have refused immediately.
Instead, I found myself considering it, my body responding with a fresh surge of wetness between my thighs.
The thought of walking through public spaces with the plug inside me, of sitting in a darkened theater knowing that only a thin layer of fabric separated my naked sex from the seat beneath me—it shouldn’t have aroused me. It absolutely shouldn’t have.
But it did.
“I… I can’t,” I protested weakly, even as my hips rocked back against the plug, betraying my words.
“Then you may not touch yourself,” Pierre said simply, his hand stilling on the base of the plug. “The choice is yours.”
I whimpered, caught in an impossible decision. The need at least to rub my desperately needy clit, to find relief from the building pressure within me, had become almost unbearable. Yet the price he demanded seemed so high, so terribly degrading.
Pierre began to move the plug again, working it in and out of my sensitive passage with deliberate slowness.
His other hand returned to my clit, circling it with maddening lightness, never providing enough pressure to satisfy.
I felt myself climbing toward a peak I couldn’t quite reach, desperate for more stimulation.
“Please,” I gasped, my resolve crumbling under the onslaught of sensation. “Please, I’ll do it. I’ll wear the plug tomorrow. Just… please let me…”
“Say it properly,” Pierre insisted, his fingers still teasing my swollen clit. “Make the commitment clear.”
I swallowed hard, forcing the words out through a throat tight with embarrassment. “I promise to wear the plug all day tomorrow, Monsieur. I’ll go to the Jardins and to the cinema wearing it, with nothing else under my skirt. And I won’t touch my… my pussy except to keep it clean.”
“Clean for whom?” he asked sharply, the question drawing a little whimper from my chest.
“For you, Monsieur,” I sobbed, my hips jerking at the thrill of arousal the words brought.
“Good girl,” Pierre purred, increasing the pressure of his fingers against my clit. “You may touch yourself now.”
With trembling hands, I reached between my legs, my fingers finding the slick, swollen flesh there. The first touch almost undid me completely—my body had been hovering on the edge for so long that even this light contact sent shockwaves of pleasure through me.
“That’s it,” Pierre encouraged, his voice thick with arousal. “Show me how badly you need to come while I fuck this tight little hole.”
He began to work the plug more vigorously now, pulling it almost completely out before pushing it back in, establishing a rhythm that mimicked what he meant to do to me tomorrow.
The fullness, the stretch, the forbidden nature of it all combined with my own fingers on my clit to create a raging storm of sensation.
I circled the tiny bud frantically, my hips moving of their own accord, caught between pushing back against the plug and pressing forward into my own touch. The twin stimulation was overwhelming, building toward a crescendo I couldn’t fight.
“Please, Monsieur,” I gasped, my voice breaking. “May I… may I come?”
“Look at you,” Pierre said, his tone a mixture of amusement and approval. “Already learning to ask permission. Yes, ma petite, you may come. Come hard for me while I train your virgin ass.”
His words were the final push I needed. The orgasm crashed over me like a tsunami, more powerful than anything I’d yet experienced.
My inner muscles clenched rhythmically around the plug, intensifying the sensation as surges of pleasure radiated outward from my core.
I cried out, a sound I barely recognized as my own, as my body convulsed with the force of my release.
Pierre continued to move the plug inside me, prolonging my climax until I collapsed forward, utterly spent, my face pressed against the bed, my body trembling with aftershocks.
I felt his hand stroking my back soothingly, a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the crude dominance he’d displayed moments before.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice soft with what sounded almost like reverence. “You’re even more responsive than I hoped.”
I lay there, catching my breath, my mind struggling to process what had just happened—what I had just allowed to happen. The plug remained inside me, a terrible reminder of my submission, of the promise I’d made for tomorrow.
Pierre carefully eased me off his lap and onto my side on the bed, positioning me so that no pressure was on the plug. He stretched out beside me, his hand stroking my hair with surprising tenderness.
“You did very well,” he murmured into my ear.
Then he took my face in his hands and kissed me so deeply that every sensation except his lips on mine and his gentle tongue inside my mouth, where he had taken such rough pleasure with his rigid penis, faded away.
He broke the kiss at last, leaving me breathless, brought his lips to mine again, even more gently, then pulled his face to a few inches from mine.
“You’re becoming a very good girl indeed. ”
“Thank you, Monsieur,” I replied in a whisper, before I could consider what it meant to express gratitude for all the shameful things he had done to me.
I considered that the next morning, though, from the moment I awoke and remembered the degrading promise I’d made.
I lay in bed, my body feeling like a map of contradictory sensations.
The soft sheets soothed the soreness I felt between my waist and my knees so that I had to ponder whether I could even call the welts from the martinet and the ache in my pussy and anus truly uncomfortable.
My fingers rubbed against my upper thigh, trembling with the effort of restraint.
The mere memory of last night—of Pierre’s commanding presence, his skilled hands, his cruel martinet, his huge, hard manhood—had awakened an insistent throbbing between my legs.
I wanted desperately to touch myself, to ease the ache that had built overnight.
I can’t, I thought. He’ll… he’ll whip me. He’ll know, and he’ll whip me, because I did the naughty thing my sponsor told me I mustn’t do.
I snatched my hand away and pressed it flat against the mattress.
Pierre’s warning echoed in my mind: no touching except to keep myself clean.
Not just myself, and not for my own purposes, either: I mustn’t touch my cunt except to keep it clean for him.
The thought of disobeying him sent a chill down my spine that somehow transformed into heat by the time it reached my core.
Would he use the martinet again? Would he find some even more humiliating punishment?
I shifted slightly, wincing as the movement reawakened real discomfort in my pussy and my anus. My bottom still burned from yesterday’s whipping, the welts tender beneath the weight of my body. I rolled carefully onto my side, trying to find a position that wouldn’t aggravate either sensation.
The SA app would be tracking me today. Pierre would know if I failed to visit the Jardins de Luxembourg this morning or the cinema this afternoon.
He would know if I didn’t insert the plug, or removed it before he gave permission.
He might even know, through those mysterious sensors Selecta had installed throughout the apartment, if I touched myself against his explicit instructions.
I was being watched. Monitored. Controlled.
One of the many voices in my head said that the idea should terrify me. Instead, it sent another pulse of forbidden heat through my veins.
With a groan of frustration, I threw back the covers and forced myself to get up.
The simple act of standing sent a jolt through me as I had to use the muscles of my lower body.
I gasped, steadying myself against the bedside table as I adjusted to the sensations reminding me that my sponsor had taken my virginity the previous night.
Walking to the bathroom was an exercise in careful concentration. Each step made me whimper as the discomfort reinforced Pierre’s ownership as well as the humiliation that awaited me outside these walls.
I caught sight of myself in the mirror, and just below the reflection I saw the butt plug on the counter where I had left it.
I had slept in the babydoll nightgown, unable to think of changing into my usual sleep tee after Pierre had helped me expel the plug, then bidden me good night with a humiliating reminder to clean the plug thoroughly.
My face scalding, I had obeyed, then put the plug on the counter before simply tumbling back into bed and falling instantly asleep.
I felt my forehead crease as I considered, and then I bit my lip as I gave into the impulse: I turned around so I could see my bottom.
I let out a tiny, helpless sob at the sight of the martinet’s work.
I raised the hem of the nightgown so I could see better, and I turned my head over my shoulder.
Hardly conscious of the movement, I started to rub my punished bottom with my other hand, tracing the welts with my fingertips.
A low, keening moan came from my throat at the sight and the sensation.
I heard a bell sound, as if out of thin air.
“Warning,” a cool female voice said. “Masturbatory activity detected. Sponsor Pierre Lemieux has requested that you not masturbate without his permission. Should I message Sponsor Pierre Lemieux to ask for permission for you?”