Chapter 8 #2
He opened the door immediately, slipped inside, and turned the lock with an ease that made me wonder if he’d done precisely this before: not just entered a restroom and locked the door, but entered this one…
this one already occupied by a possibly nude woman he intended to discipline and train as his fuck toy, and made certain she could not easily escape.
His gaze took me in with a single pass. I watched his eyes narrow as he registered my state of dress.
I flushed hotter.
“I gave you instructions,” he said, his tone amused.
“I know.”
“You didn’t follow them.” He stepped closer. “I’ll give you one opportunity to correct that. Take off your clothes.”
The air seemed to tighten around me. My mouth had gone dry, but underneath the fear there was that awful pulse again, low and liquid and impossible to mistake.
“What happens if I don’t?”
The words came out breathless. The instant they did, a hard throb went through me between my legs so sudden and humiliating that I nearly closed my eyes.
His expression barely changed. “Then I punish you.”
“How?”
“You’ll find out.”
I don’t know what possessed me in that moment. Pride, perhaps. Or the need to see whether he would truly do what he had said. Or, more shamefully, the terrible need that had flooded me at the word punish.
My heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat, I heard myself say, “I’m not taking them off.”
He moved so quickly that I barely had time to gasp.
One second I was facing him; the next he had turned me, his hand firm over my mouth, and bent me forward over the sink.
The cold edge dug into my hips. The mirror showed me only fragments—my wide blue eye, a spill of red hair, his dark suit behind me.
“Quiet,” he said near my ear.
I nodded frantically against his palm.
His hand left my mouth only long enough to gather my skirt and flip it up over my backside. Then I felt his fingers hook the waistband of my panties and pull them down in one smooth, devastating motion, to mid-thigh.
The exposure of it made me let out a muffled sound before I could stop myself.
“A spanking would be unwise in here,” he said calmly. “Too loud. Fortunately there’s another consequence I’ve found very effective for girls who choose defiance.”
My body shuddered from head to toe.
His broad hand settled on one bare bottom cheek, not striking, only resting there with appalling intimacy.
Then his fingers parted my hind cheeks. My breath caught hard against his palm as his middle finger slid between the firm little globes, slow and deliberate, until the tip pressed against the tiny, tight place there.
I made a helpless, high little whimper.
“If you nod,” he said, “I’ll put my finger in your anus as the first part of your punishment for disobedience. And your nod will also mean that you accept my sponsorship. The next part of your punishment will happen in my apartment, within the hour.”
For a second the words did not fit inside my mind.
Punishment… sponsorship… finger in your anus.
The sink felt too hard under me. My knees had gone weak.
The tip of his finger remained there, not pushing, only promising, and the combination of fear and arousal was so violent it was almost indistinguishable from dizziness.
I nodded.
At once his hand left my mouth.
“Good girl,” he said quietly. “Hold still.”
I clutched the edges of the sink. My entire body seemed to become the point of contact where his fingertip rested. He did not force his way in immediately. He let it stay there, as if testing my resolution to obey.
I tried to stay still. I really did. But then he began to press inward, and my whole body jerked.
“Still,” he said again.
I bit my lip hard enough to hurt. The pressure increased, strange and shamefully intimate and not at all like anything I had ever actually felt.
My body resisted on sheer reflex. He did not hurry.
He only kept that calm inexorable pressure until the muscle yielded a little, then more, and the tip of his finger slipped inside me.
A broken sound escaped my throat.
It didn’t matter that I had, mortifyingly enough, done the same thing to myself while masturbating the previous night.
The sensation when another person—a gorgeous man—did it to my bottom hole felt so foreign that for a second I could hardly process it.
Intrusion, yes, and stretch, and the acute embarrassment of knowing exactly where he was touching me.
But threaded through all of it was a frightening pulse of pleasure, not direct exactly but translating instantly into wet heat between my legs.
He paused there, just the tip inside.
“Breathe.”
I dragged in air. My face was burning. My hands were white-knuckled on the sink.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “You’re taking your consequence.”
Then he eased farther in.
I whimpered again, louder this time, and he put his free hand flat between my shoulder blades, not pinning me so much as informing me that movement would be pointless.
The finger inside me felt impossibly large, though some rational corner of my mind knew that was ridiculous.
It was the intimacy of it, the forbiddenness, the fact that he had placed it there as punishment and I had nodded for it that made every sensation seem magnified.
“Oh, God,” I whispered.
“No,” he said. “Sir.”
The answer should have outraged me. Instead it sent such a hot humiliating shiver through me that my thighs trembled.
He did not thrust. He let me feel the fullness of him there, the undeniable reality of what I had consented to, and then he moved his finger just slightly inside me, enough to make me gasp and press my forehead nearly against the mirror.