Chapter 20
Pierre
I could tell that Audrey’s legs nearly gave out beneath her as my words registered.
My bottom, I watched her eyes say, as clearly if I could read her mind.
I saw in the blush that suffused her sweet face the recollection that the plug only represented preparation, a precursor of what I had made clear to her I truly intended.
Yes, I saw her realize, my sponsor means it.
Indeed I did. I meant to take the lovely girl’s final virginity before night fell, to claim the one place I had not yet put my rigid manhood in her delectable body.
“Come sit,” I instructed, carrying the plates to the table. “You must be hungry after your morning activities.”
Audrey moved woodenly to the table, lowering herself carefully onto the chair. The pressure of sitting clearly forced the plug deeper, making her gasp audibly. I felt my smile widen slightly at the reaction, and I saw her cheeks redden another shade as she saw the knowledge in my eyes.
“The tuna nicoise is one of my favorite dishes,” I told her, watching her face as she struggled to focus on my words rather than the sensations clearly running wild through her body. “Balancing the acid of the vinaigrette against the richness of the tuna requires a careful hand.”
I poured white wine into both our glasses, noting how Audrey’s eyes followed my movements with a mixture of wariness and fascination. Her pupils looked dilated and her breathing seemed slightly irregular—clear signs of her arousal even in light of her obvious discomfort.
“How was your morning?” I inquired conversationally, as if we were any normal couple discussing their day over lunch. “Did you enjoy the Jardins?”
“It was… nice,” she managed, shifting slightly in her chair and immediately freezing as the movement disturbed the plug. “The gardens were beautiful.”
“And the film?” I pressed, cutting into my tuna with deliberate precision. “Was it amusing?”
Her blush deepened, and I knew immediately what had happened. The thought of her squirming in her cinema seat, trying not to react as laughter moved the plug inside her, sent a rush of heat to my own loins.
“It was funny,” she admitted in a small voice, her eyes dropping to her plate. “I… I had trouble sitting still.”
“I imagine you did,” I replied, my voice dropping to a register that made her look up sharply. “Eat your lunch, Audrey. You’ll need your strength for what comes next.”
She picked up her fork with trembling fingers and began to eat, taking small, careful bites.
I watched her throat work as she swallowed, imagining how it would look later when stretched around my cock.
The memory of her virgin mouth struggling to accommodate me the previous night made my erection throb against the confines of my trousers.
“I find myself bewitched by you,” I told her honestly, observing how she struggled to maintain her composure despite the plug in her bottom, the absence of her underwear, and the knowledge that she would soon be fucked in the ass for the first time.
“Your combination of intelligence and reluctant submission is… intoxicating.”
Her eyes widened slightly at the compliment, confusion flitting across her features. Perhaps she had expected only crude domination from me, not this hint of genuine admiration.
I decided to test the theory that had been forming in my mind since our first meeting. Could this girl be more than just another conquest? Might she possess the kind of mind that could make her a valuable asset beyond the bedroom?
“Tell me, Audrey,” I said, leaning back in my chair with my wineglass, “what’s your best idea for making energy markets more resilient as the worldwide economic collapse continues?”
Audrey
Pierre’s question took me completely aback.
I blinked, momentarily forgetting my physical state as my mind engaged with the problem.
A new surge of heat came to my cheeks as the notion that this wealthy man—the sponsor who had bought my virginity, had whipped me, used me roughly, trained me for his pleasure in the most humiliating possible way—had just expressed real interest in my professional opinion.
The thought broke through any attempt I might have made to guard my words, and I answered without really thinking through what I intended to say.
“To my dismay,” I began, feeling a furrow crease my forehead, “I suppose I have to say that I think Selecta may have the right approach with the New Modesty. The behavioral interventions I was working on at International Energy Partners were so small-scale compared to what’s needed.
” I took a sip of wine to steady my nerves, surprised at how easily the words flowed, my physical discomfort notwithstanding.
“We need widespread cultural change in how people approach energy consumption, and traditional policy interventions just aren’t effective enough. ”
I watched Pierre’s face carefully, trying to gauge his reaction. His expression remained thoughtfully neutral, though I thought I detected a hint of pleased surprise in his hazel eyes.
“But,” I continued, emboldened by his apparent interest, “I don’t think the patriarchal structure is necessary for the model to work. The surveillance and accountability aspects could be implemented in more egalitarian ways.”
Pierre’s eyebrow arched slightly. “Yet you respond so beautifully to the hierarchy,” he observed, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that made my insides quiver. “Your body seems to crave the very structure your mind resists.”
The plug shifted inside me as I squirmed under his penetrating gaze. I couldn’t deny the truth of his words—my body’s response to his dominance had been undeniable, humiliatingly so.
“That’s… personal,” I whispered, dropping my eyes to my half-eaten lunch. “It doesn’t mean the same approach would work for everyone.”
“Perhaps not,” Pierre conceded, taking another sip of his wine.
“But Selecta’s research suggests that a significant percentage of the population responds positively to clear hierarchical structures.
The New Modesty simply acknowledges what humans have known for millennia—that order brings comfort, and submission can bring freedom. ”
I looked up at him, startled by the philosophical turn. “Freedom? How can giving up control possibly create freedom?”
Pierre smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that made my heart race. “You tell me, Audrey. How did you feel last night, when all choices were taken from you? When you were simply required to obey?”
The memory flooded back—the relief that had washed over me when I stopped fighting, when I surrendered to his will. The way my mind had quieted, my anxieties silenced by the clarity of his commands. I had felt… liberated, in the most perverse way imaginable.
“I felt…” I struggled to find words that wouldn’t reveal too much. “I felt different.”
“You felt present,” Pierre supplied, his eyes never leaving mine. “Fully in your body, perhaps for the first time. No worrying about your career, your finances, the energy crisis. Just sensation and response.”
I stared at him, unsettled by the accuracy of his observation. Again I had the feeling, as I had that morning in the bathroom, that he knew me better than he should—that he could articulate feelings I barely understood myself.
“Finish your lunch,” he instructed gently. “Then we’ll continue your education.”
I obeyed automatically, my fork moving seemingly of its own accord.
In the back of my mind, though, I found a simmering rebellion.
I remembered my thoughts from the bathroom that morning: not to tell Pierre how thoroughly his dominance had met my mortifying needs.
The humiliating truth was that I craved his control, his discipline, his ownership.
But I couldn’t bring myself to admit it—not to him, not even fully to myself.
“No,” I said softly, setting down my fork with deliberate care. “I’m sure, for myself: the New Modesty doesn’t suit me, however many other women it may suit.”
Pierre’s eyebrows rose slightly, his expression one of mild surprise. He took a slow sip of his wine, studying me over the rim of his glass.
“Is that so?” he asked, his voice deceptively gentle.
I nodded, gathering my courage. “I know I have to let you… fuck me in the ass,” I forced myself to say, the crude words burning my lips. “But I don’t want it.”
I swallowed hard as I saw fire flash in Pierre’s eyes. My heart skipped a beat as I saw him smile, rather than becoming angry. The smile wasn’t kind or understanding—it was predatory, almost triumphant.
“Perhaps you didn’t mean that as a challenge, ma petite,” he said, “but I take it as one.”
He rose from his chair with fluid grace, gathering our plates. The domesticity of the gesture seemed incongruous with the heat in his gaze, with the promise of what was to come.
“Get the lube and take off all your clothes while I do the dishes,” he instructed, his voice casual as if he were asking me to fetch the mail. “You are to be on your bed, presenting your plugged anus to me, when I finish cleaning up.”
I stared at him, my mouth suddenly dry. The challenge in his voice, the expectation in his eyes—they sent contradictory shivers of dread and excitement through me.
I knew I should protest, should stand up for myself, should refuse to be treated like an object for his pleasure, even if I had just acknowledged that I understood the necessity I had fallen under.
Yet my body had already begun to respond to his command, my nipples hardening beneath my blouse, wetness gathering between my thighs despite my mind’s objections.
“Now, Audrey,” Pierre said, his voice hardening when I hesitated too long. “Unless you want another session with the martinet before I claim your ass.”
I rose from my chair on trembling legs, the plug shifting inside me with the movement. Each step toward the bedroom felt like walking through molasses—my body heavy with reluctance, yet propelled forward by some deeper need I couldn’t name or resist.
In the bathroom, I found the lubricant where I’d left it on the counter.
I clutched it in my hand, staring at the bottle as if the rational words of its instructions might offer some escape from what was coming.
The sound of water running in the kitchen reminded me that Pierre would soon finish the dishes. I didn’t have much time.
My fingers fumbled with the buttons of my blouse, each one a small surrender.
The fabric parted to reveal my modest cotton bra, which I unhooked with shaking hands.
My breasts felt heavy and sensitive as they spilled free, the cool air of the apartment hardening my nipples further.
I slipped the blouse from my shoulders and let it fall to the floor.
Next came my skirt. I unzipped it slowly, delaying the inevitable moment when I would stand completely naked, waiting for a man to take the final virginity I possessed.
The fabric pooled around my ankles and the feeling of complete exposure took hold, already, I thought, much too familiar.
I knew, now, exactly what Pierre was capable of doing to my body; how very vulnerable he could render me.
I stepped out of the skirt and stood trembling in the middle of the bedroom, naked except for the plug still firmly seated in my anus.
The knowledge that I had walked through Paris with it inside me, that I had sat in a public cinema with almost nothing between my bare skin and the seat, made my face burn with renewed shame.
The water in the kitchen stopped running.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I moved to the bed, positioning myself as Pierre had commanded.
I crawled onto the mattress, the plug shifting inside me with each movement, reminding me of its presence and purpose.
I turned to face away from the door, lowering my chest to the bedspread while keeping my knees under me, my bottom raised and offered.
In this position, with my face pressed against the cool cotton and my backside shamefully presented, I felt more objectified than I ever had in my life.
I could picture how terribly visible the plug must be between my spread cheeks, the base a visual reminder of what Pierre intended to replace it with, of how he had trained my most private place for his degrading use.
My virgin anus stretched around the silicone, preparing me for the invasion I both dreaded and, secretly, horrifyingly, wanted.
“Lovely,” I heard Pierre say from behind me. “Lovely… and all mine.”