Chapter 19
Alex
“All night?” I asked, incredulous.
“Yes.”
I swallowed.
“And from now on,” he said, “you won’t wear panties unless I want to see you in them, because I want to take them off you.”
The words sent a fresh, humiliating pulse of heat through me.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Put those on.”
I obeyed. The sweats were soft and expensive-feeling.
Pulling them over my naked body while I still felt sore and full and faintly damp from him was its own strange embarrassment.
The absence of underwear made itself known instantly; the fabric brushed directly over the most sensitive parts of me and made me acutely aware of how thoroughly my new sponsor had used me.
Porter watched without comment until I had finished.
Then he took my elbow lightly and led me out of the bedroom, through the penthouse, and to the elevator. We rode down one floor in silence.
It was only one floor.
That somehow made it more surreal.
When the doors opened, we stepped into a beautifully furnished hallway, and he led me to a door that bore the number 33C. As soon as I neared the door, I heard it unlock.
“Facial recognition,” Porter told me. “Keyed to both of us.”
I felt my heart jump. Both of us.
Inside lay a small but still luxurious apartment. It was elegant in a more curated, impersonal way than his penthouse: pale walls, tasteful art, sleek furniture, a softness meant to reassure while quietly announcing that everything had been arranged in advance.
“Selecta maintains these apartments in certain buildings—for sponsors’ convenience,” he told me.
He showed me everything. The living room first, with a spectacular view of the distant National Mall, then the small kitchen with its gleaming counters and refrigerator already stocked with groceries, water, fruit, wine, yogurt, eggs—far more than anyone, I thought, would have prepared merely for convenience.
He opened cabinets and drawers as if conducting an inspection.
“In here,” he said, moving down a short hall, “is the bedroom.”
It was beautifully done in creams and slate blue, with a wide bed, crisp linens, a long dresser, and heavy curtains over tall windows.
Next he showed me the closet.
I stared.
It was full. Dresses, skirts, blouses, slacks, sweaters, coats, shoes in boxes below, all in sizes that looked very much as though someone had expected them to fit me. I touched the sleeve of a cashmere cardigan with stunned fingertips.
“There are more items coming,” he said.
I turned toward him. “You already had all this arranged?”
He did not answer the question directly. Instead he went to a lower drawer in the dresser and pulled it open.
Lingerie.
“For when I want you in something nice,” he told me. “After I’ve had you waxed.”
Silk. Lace. Satin. Bras and panties, garters, stockings, little scraps of things that looked less like clothing than like a humiliating form of decoration. My face went hot as I looked down at them.
He slid the drawer shut and led me into the large bathroom.
The space itself was lavish, with pale stone and mirrors and brushed gold fixtures.
Inside the cabinet were rows of products: skin care, hair care, makeup, razors, bath oils, tampons, hair ties, toothpaste, body lotion, even a curling iron.
“This is too much,” I murmured.
“No,” he said mildly. “It’s efficient.”
Then he took out his phone and tapped into the SA app. He showed me his home screen, which had options mine definitely did not. He tapped the one labeled Associate supervision.
His screen filled with six thumbnails depicting an interior, including—I realized with a lurch of my tummy—a view of the two of us, standing in the bathroom.
Another view displayed the entry. Another the living room. The kitchen. The bedroom, from two different angles.
I stared at the screens. “You can see all of it.”
“Yes.”
“All the time?”
His gaze rested on me. I looked down, my stomach tightening, thinking about his eye contact rules, though of course I didn’t have to, then, because he had his jeans on.
“Right. Of course,” I mumbled.
He showed me the lock controls. The shades.
The climate settings. How deliveries would be made.
How I could request items in my own SA app.
He did it all with the same practical tone he might have used to orient a new employee, if new employees were expected to sleep plugged and under surveillance one floor below the man who had just fucked them senseless over a dining table.
Then he put the phone away and looked at me as if the tour had concluded.
“Be in that bed in fifteen minutes,” he said. “Naked.”
My pulse jumped. “And then?”
“I’ll decide what to do with you.”
He left. The door shut behind him with a soft sound that somehow emphasized the fact that I was alone only in what seemed like a technical sense.
I stood in the middle of the living room for one stupid second, feeling the plug inside me, the soft sweats against my bare skin, the invisible cameras, the proximity of him one floor above. Then I moved.
I went first to the bedroom because it seemed most urgent.
The bed looked too neat to touch. I stripped off the sweatshirt and sweatpants with clumsy hands and left them in a heap on the bench at the foot of the bed.
The air touched every place the fabric had warmed.
My nipples tightened at once. The plug shifted when I bent to pull the pants fully off, and I had to close my eyes for a second.
Bathroom. I brushed my teeth because I needed to do something normal.
I splashed water on my face. In the mirror I looked strange to myself, as if Porter had somehow rearranged me at the cellular level.
My hair, half dry from the bath, had gone wild at the ends.
My cheeks still held too much color. My mouth looked swollen.
My eyes looked… not happy, certainly, but dazed in a way that suggested wonder and enchantment—which, paradoxically or not, frightened me. The remaining rational part of me, anyway.
I checked the time twice, then padded back to the bedroom. I got under the covers and lay on my back, naked except for the thing inside me, and tried not to think. The sheets were cool and high-thread-count smooth. The mattress felt so comfortable it seemed indecent.
At what must have been exactly the moment when fifteen minutes had elapsed, a speaker somewhere in the room came alive.
“Open your legs.”
I jerked so hard the sheets rustled. Porter’s voice, disembodied but perfectly clear, made the room change shape around me. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered, though I had no idea whether the system could hear me. I spread my knees.
“I can hear you,” he said, “even at that volume. And I can see you. Turn over. Knees apart. Take the covers down and present your bottom.”
Heat flooded me all at once. He could see me. Of course he could see me. He had shown me that. But somehow hearing him say it, hearing him make use of it, brought the shame to life—almost as humiliatingly as those simple but filthy words: Present your bottom.
I pushed the covers down, heat surging in me as I revealed myself yet again. Then I turned over and got onto my knees. My whole body felt sore and overused. I lowered my chest to the mattress, then hesitated.
“Higher,” he said. “Get that bottom up, or I’m going to spank it first thing in the morning.”
A shiver ran through me. I raised my hips. The plug made itself known immediately, seated there like a seal my sponsor had placed to mark his property.
“Better,” he said. “Stay like that.”
The pause lasted long enough to make me fully aware of his gaze, of what his eyes must be interested in enjoying.
My ass, with the little black flare nestled between the cheeks he had spanked over his knee.
My pussy beneath, probably still puffy and damp and indecently responsive…
soon to be waxed smooth for him. My back rose and fell with my breath, too quickly for my mental comfort.
Then his voice came again, calmer than my breathing, calmer than my heart.
“Get a pillow.”
I reached forward, fumbling one from under the covers.
“Put it under you. You’re going to hump it.”
For a second I went still with humiliation. Then I moved the pillow beneath my hips.
“With one hand,” he continued, “I want you touching the plug. Move it for me. Use the other arm to hold the pillow, or to hold yourself up. Start.”
I made the tiniest noise, almost not a sound at all.
“Now, Alex.”
I have no choice. He’ll spank me. He’ll cane me.
I whimpered as I pictured it, and I wrapped my left arm around the pillow and lowered myself against it.
With my right hand I reached back, fingers trembling, and found the smooth base of the plug.
The first tiny movement of it made me gasp.
I was sore enough that the sensation bordered on too much at once, not pure pleasure, not pure pain, but something hot and degrading in between.
“Ride,” he said. “Rub that little cunt on that nice pillow.”
I pressed my face into the sheet and rocked against the pillow.
It felt utterly obscene, immediately. Not sexy-obscene in any sort of porno, deliberate sense.
But completely humiliating at an animal level.
My naked pussy moving against a pillow in the bed he had put me in, my hand at my own ass because he had told me to put it there, while he watched from another floor and listened to the little sounds I couldn’t stop making.
“Good,” he said. “Use the pillow properly. Don’t just wiggle. Show me you need it. Get the pillowcase nice and wet with your sweet cunt.”
My vision seemed to blur from sheer embarrassment.
I obeyed more fully, dragging myself against the pillow with a deeper rhythm.
The pressure hit my clit through the fabric and made my whole body jolt.
At the same time I worked the plug a little, just enough to make the fullness shift in me.
The combination instantly felt awful and wonderful.