Chapter 19 #2
I was too sore. My bottom still burned from the spanking. My thighs ached. My pussy felt used by my sponsor’s huge, hard cock. My ass was terribly stretched around the toy. None of that prevented my body from answering him.
“Such a needy girl,” he said through the speaker, and I hated the low throb of pleasure the words caused. “Humping a pillow with your butt plug in, because your cunt needs it so much. Such a slut.”
I bit my lip and rocked harder. Like so many of the things Porter said about my hot, dark needs, it didn’t make logical sense: I hadn’t asked to have the toy in my anus, and I hadn’t begged to be allowed to hump this pillow. And yet at the level of my body, of my pussy, it felt much too true.
After a little while the room began to fade.
This had happened before with him, that strange splitting.
It was as if some central part of me took one look at the humiliation and at the intensity and simply left the Earth, bound for geosynchronous orbit.
I remained in my body, obviously, because my body kept moving, but my mind traveled somewhere so far away that I could watch the scene with a terrible clarity from an impossible distance.
There I was, billions of miles away, on hands and knees in a luxurious bed, red hair falling around my face, ass raised, hand moving a plug in and out by fractions while I humped a pillow at a man’s command.
Somehow that dizzying distance made obedience easier. The girl in the bed could do it if I, the self observing from a frozen outer galaxy, was not quite the same girl. She could whimper. She could grind herself shamelessly against the pillow. She could spread her knees wider when he told her to.
“Wider,” Porter said, and I obeyed before I had fully processed the word.
“That’s right. Keep the plug moving. Slow at first. Feel what it does to you.”
I did. Every tiny adjustment radiated through me. My pussy grew slicker. The pillow became sopping beneath me. My hips moved with an urgency I found appalling, and from very far away I watched them do it.
“Does it feel good?”
The question hung there.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered into the sheet.
“Louder.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What feels good, you little whore?”
I could hardly answer because answering made the thing real in language. Still, I heard myself do it. “The plug, sir. And… the pillow.”
“And?”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Being made to… because… because… you’ll spank me.”
“Good girl.”
The praise almost undid me. My body reacted before my pride could object, rocking faster, clutching the pillow tighter.
I was humping it now with no pretense of dignity whatsoever, using it as if I were some lonely adolescent discovered at the worst possible moment, except that this wasn’t privacy discovered.
This was exhibition demanded. Supervised. Directed.
“Rub that needy little cunt harder,” he said. “Use what I gave you.”
I moved harder against the pillow. The friction went sharp and bright almost immediately. The plug shifted under my fingers. My stomach tightened. I could hear my own breath, my little humiliating gasps, and now and then the faint sound of the bed answering my movement.
“I can see how wet you are,” he said.
A moan escaped me, half shame.
“Yes,” he said softly. “You should be ashamed. You’re sore and tired and still you’re humping a pillow for me like a fuck toy who can’t help herself.”
The words struck straight through me. Shame poured heat into every nerve. My hips stuttered, then found a more desperate rhythm.
I didn’t know how long it went on. Time there was measured only in his instructions and my body’s responses.
“More plug.”
I moved it a little farther and cried out.
“Hold it there. Grind.”
I obeyed.
“That’s it. Let your body learn.”
The pressure built low and frighteningly fast. It came in waves distorted by soreness, by fullness, by embarrassment.
I felt half mad with it. The detached self billions of miles away could see perfectly that I was being conditioned, that he had found some shortcut straight into the part of me that answered ritual and command and humiliation more obediently than I had ever believed possible.
The girl on the bed didn’t seem able to care. She wanted relief. She wanted permission even more.
“Sir,” I whispered.
“Yes?”
My throat tightened. “May I come?”
He let the silence sit long enough to make me shake.
“No.”
The refusal went through me like a blade. I made a broken sound and kept moving because I had no other option. My whole body trembled around the pillow.
“Keep riding,” he said. “Don’t stop because I denied you.”
I obeyed. Tears pricked my eyes from sheer overwhelm. My clit throbbed against the pillow. The plug moved in tiny, horrible increments. I felt dizzy with need.
“Ask again.”
“Please, may I come, sir?”
“No.”
This time I actually sobbed. The sound was swallowed by the bedding, by the room, by the expensive quiet of the apartment, but it was a sob all the same. Still I kept going, humping the pillow, hand at my ass.
“That’s right,” he said. “You can take frustration too. Such a useful girl.”
I don’t know whether the dissociation deepened then or merely became more beautiful in its cruelty.
The distant observing self saw all of it: the apartment, the cameras, the bed, the speaker, the man above me who had arranged every element and who now denied me orgasm while making me perform for him.
At last, when I was shaking hard enough that my movements had become jerky and wild, his voice changed.
“Stop moving the plug.”
I froze my hand around the base.
“Now hold still,” he said, “except for your cunt on the pillow. Just that. There. Nice little strokes. You can come.”
The orgasm hit so suddenly that I screamed into the sheet.
It tore through me in a rush sharpened by everything that had gone before: the denial, the surveillance, the plug, the soreness, the pillow, the shame.
My thighs shook violently. I pressed back helplessly, then forward, rubbing through the convulsions because my body no longer understood anything but obeying the permission.
“That’s it,” he said in that calm, terrible voice from nowhere and everywhere. “Come on your pillow. Good girl.”
I did. Hard enough to leave me weak all through my stomach and legs. I stayed draped over the pillow panting, my cheek against the sheet, my hand still at my bottom because I had not been told to move it.
For a few seconds all I could hear was my own breathing.
Then, “Take your hand away from the plug.”
I obeyed slowly.
“Lie on your side.”
I turned over with care. My body felt almost fluid with exhaustion.
I pulled the pillow against my chest without thinking, as if I needed to hide behind the evidence of what I had done.
The scent of my naughtiness came to my nostrils, and to my abject mortification I felt myself clench down there, just at the thought of having left that evidence of my complete submission.
He let me settle. Then he said, “Do you understand now that I can use you from anywhere I want?”
The blush that rose in me felt almost feverish. “Yes, sir.”
“And that your body answers me just as well when I’m not touching you.”
I shut my eyes. “Yes, sir.”
A little pause.
“Good. That matters.”
Something in his tone, some cryptic note of affection, made my throat tighten.
He continued, “You’ll sleep with the plug in. If I decide to check on you later, I expect to find you properly in bed, not wandering around, and definitely not touching yourself. From now on, masturbating without permission means the cane for you.”