Chapter 27
Porter
At least, I thought as I put down my bag in my suite at the Four Seasons, my day can only get better from here.
The thought of opening up the surveillance feed from Alex’s apartment made the frankly shitty meeting with Anderson fade into the background of my mind in an instant.
I sat down, loosened my tie, and opened the app on my laptop.
Alex’s bedroom filled the screen.
I had texted her my choice for her bedtime attire when I had landed at SFO.
I supposed that should have told me something more significant about how I felt about her than it did at the time, but the idea of her in the pale green babydoll with the sheer little skirt and the cups that would barely pretend to cover her breasts had come into my mind with an urgency I couldn’t deny.
She looked irresistible in it, and my forbidding her to wear anything underneath seemed to glow in her eyes.
I had chosen that nightgown because I knew the color would flatter her skin and her hair, and because the almost-childish sweetness of it would heighten the naughtiness of her nubile body’s nudity beneath its sheer fabric.
On the screen it did exactly what I had intended: it made her look innocent and pretty and helplessly sexy, all long white legs, red hair, pert little breasts, and those small, expressive movements of her lovely features that gave away, I knew, much more than she wanted.
She sat on the edge of the bed when I opened the feed, but a few seconds later she stood up and crossed to the window, then back again.
She’s restless, I thought immediately, my eyes narrowing a little even as my mouth curved into a smile.
Alex touched the hem of the nightgown. Then both hands went to it, gathering the light fabric in her fists before letting it fall. I watched her press her thighs together and close her eyes.
Very restless. I hardly noticed that my right hand had curled a little, as if in preparation of picking up a punishment cane.
I knew Alex knew I might be watching. I thought I could discern that knowledge in the way she tried to soothe herself, short of the self-soothing she really needed with such obvious desperation.
She paced back and forth for a little while.
She paused by the bed and put a hand on the mattress as if she needed the support.
The sight of her struggle began to undo the residue of the meeting with Anderson much more effectively than whiskey could have.
His oily hints and strategic cowardice, his billionaire’s assumption that every person in the room existed either to flatter him or to be bought by him, all of it receded.
Alex, on the other hand, had become impossible to reduce.
She sat again, this time more slowly. One knee came up onto the bed. The little nightgown slid up her thigh. She took a breath that visibly lifted her breasts, and for one irrational instant I felt as if I could hear the thought moving through her.
No touching.
* * *
Alex
He couldn’t be watching, could he? It was much too early on the West Coast for him to watch. And Porter had no time to review surveillance footage, did he? So… I was safe, right?
I clung to that thought because I needed it, because the alternative made the room feel too charged, too full of eyes. Safe. The word had barely formed in my mind before I realized that my hand had gone between my thighs.
Not under the nightgown… not really; just pressing the heel of my palm there through the pale green fabric, as if I had done it absentmindedly. As if it weren’t exactly what he had forbidden.
I snatched my breath in, my body freezing in place.
I should have taken my hand away at once, obviously. Instead, I stayed very still, with my fingers gentle over my bare sex, feeling the pressure of it, feeling how my body answered even that. The nightgown was soft and thin.
I squeezed, because I couldn’t help it. The pressure landed directly over my clit, and a little shock of pleasure went through me so quickly that my knees weakened.
“No,” I whispered to myself, though I heard no firmness in it at all.
My hand moved anyway. Just the tiniest shift. A little testing pressure. My hips moved, too, a little stupid, traitorous rocking into my own palm.
Heat went through me in one long wave, and with it came the thought I had been trying not to think all evening: the cane.
Not the broad, familiar sting of his hand, or even of the belt. The cane. Slim, cutting, precise. I had seen one, nosing around in a cabinet in his office, a few days ago—and instantly wished I hadn’t.
I had imagined it often enough since then that the image had become vivid: Porter choosing it calmly, as if selecting a pen…
Porter tapping it once against his palm…
Porter telling me to bend over and present my bottom because I had disobeyed in a way that required a more serious correction.
Because I had… because I had done… this.
How would he do it? Slowly, I thought at once.
Methodically. No temper in it, which somehow made it worse.
He would place me exactly as he wanted me…
over the arm of a chair, or the couch… over his desk…
then… then he would… he would whip me… stripe me until I truly understood the gravity of my misbehavior.
My fingers flexed against the fabric over my clit.
I told myself I only needed to know one thing. Just one. Just to check how bad it was. How turned on I’d gotten from imagining my own punishment. That wasn’t really playing with myself, was it? That was practically… diagnostic.
The lie sounded so transparent, even in my head, that if Porter had been standing there I felt certain I would have burst into tears from the shame of it. Alone, though, I let myself believe it for another three seconds. Then I slipped my hand under the hem of the babydoll and between my thighs.
The first touch of my fingertips on my smooth, bare pussy made me gasp.
I was soaking, down there.
Wet enough that my fingers slid at once through heat and slickness and found more of it waiting.
The discovery shocked, thrilled, and humiliated me so much that I nearly took my hand away then.
Instead I stared down at myself, heart pounding, and touched again, as if the second time might reveal some less incriminating truth.
It didn’t. My pussy… my… my… my naughty cunt… it… I… I was terribly, humiliatingly wet. Wet from thinking about being caned. Wet from wondering whether he was watching. Wet from wanting him to catch me even while I tried to tell myself I didn’t.
“Oh, God,” I breathed.
Then my fingers did something even worse. Almost of their own accord, they gathered that slickness and spread it upward, over my swollen little clit, making the touch easier, smoother, more direct. I felt my whole body give a tiny, helpless jerk.
I knew that should have been the moment I stopped, in hope of obtaining some mercy for having interrupted my infraction before it became irremediable.
But I climbed farther onto the bed, as if in a trance, and I lay back against the pillows.
My nightgown had ridden up to my waist by then, and I let it stay there.
I closed my eyes because somehow that made it possible to pretend.
If I didn’t look at myself, if I didn’t consciously decide, then perhaps it was not I who was doing it.
Perhaps it was simply happening to me. Perhaps my body had become a place where Porter’s rules and punishments moved around even in his absence, and this was one more way he used me from far away.
I let my fingers circle my clit properly.
The pleasure hit me so hard that I moaned.
“No,” I whispered at once, the word breathy and weak. “No, please… please… no…”
At first the no belonged to the fantasy I needed in order to go on. Porter touching me. Porter making me lie there and take it. Porter refusing to let me pretend I wasn’t the kind of girl who needed exactly this.
But the image changed almost immediately, because my body knew where all roads led now. I was no longer begging him not to touch me. I was begging him not to punish me for letting him make me feel this way.
“Please,” I whispered, my fingers moving faster. “Please, sir… I’m sorry… no… please don’t…”
Every stroke made me wetter. Every little circle on my clit sent a brighter pulse through me. The room seemed to go soft at the edges. I knew this was disobedience. I knew it in the clearest possible way. That only made my need sharper.
I imagined the cane again.
Porter standing over me.
Porter telling me exactly how many strokes.
Porter explaining in that calm, devastating voice that a girl who masturbates without permission earns a thorough lesson.
Porter making me count.
The thought made me cry out softly and rub harder.
I knew then, with a certainty that thrilled and sickened me, that he must be watching. There was no proof. No sound. No sign. Only the conviction that had been growing in me all evening and now flowered into certainty because my body wanted it to be true. Wanted an audience. Wanted judgment.
Wanted consequences.
I spread my legs wider on the bed.
The movement felt so shameless, so deliberate, that a wave of humiliation nearly stopped me. Nearly. Instead it turned into a kind of fever. I touched myself faster, circling and pressing, and heard myself begin to speak to the room.
“Please… please cane me, sir,” I whispered. “Please… I’m such a naughty girl. I know I’m not allowed… I know…”
My voice sounded strange to me, thin and wrecked and far too honest. My hips had started to move against my hand now, adding their own desperation to what I was doing. I could hardly bear the intensity of it. I could even less bear the thought that invisible cameras might be seeing all of it.
That thought made me go on, though.
“Please, sir,” I gasped. “Please cane my bottom… I deserve it… I know I do…”
The orgasm rushed up at me with almost no warning.
My thighs tightened. My back arched. I came with a broken cry, my fingers still working frantically because stopping felt impossible.
The release flooded me, then ebbed only enough to leave me more sensitive, more ashamed, and somehow even hungrier.
I should have stopped then.
Instead I turned my head on the pillow and looked toward nowhere I could identify, trying to find the camera I couldn’t see. Trying to perform for it. For him.
My heart was racing so hard it almost hurt.
I rolled partly onto my side and then farther, opening myself in a posture I knew perfectly well he liked, one knee raised, one hand reaching back to spread my bottom a little while the other kept rubbing my clit.
He had taught me how to do that… how to give my sponsor my anus like that.
The degradation of it made me moan aloud.
“There,” I panted, speaking to the empty room as if to him. “You like that… don’t you? You like to see it. You like to use me there…”
My fingers trembled when they touched my own anus. That tiny touch sent a hot, awful pulse through me, straight to my cunt.
“I know,” I whispered. “I know what I am…”
Another orgasm hit me almost before I had finished the sentence. I cried out and rubbed through it, more frantically now, my body half out of control. When I could speak again, the words came filthy and eager and impossible to call back.
“You like to use me like the ass whore I am,” I said to the invisible gaze I could practically feel on my skin. “I know you do. I can’t help it… I can’t help myself… I need it…”
My throat got so tight that I thought I might faint from pure shame. Still I went on. My hand at my clit was slick and relentless. My other hand parted my cheeks more boldly now, displaying myself to the room.
“I need it in the ass,” I heard myself say, voice breaking. “I need it, sir… please… please use me… please cane me and then use me…”
That sent me over again, harder than before.
I sobbed through the climax, my hips jerking, my thighs trembling.
There was no dignity left anywhere in me.
I was simply a girl in a little green nightgown pulled up to her waist, masturbating wildly for the man who had forbidden it, begging an invisible camera to watch her, punish her, and fuck her in the ass.
Even after that, I didn’t stop at once. I drifted in and out of small convulsions, oversensitive and frantic, chasing sensation through waves of shame and pleasure that no longer separated cleanly.
I begged. I babbled. I told him I was bad.
I told him to punish me. I told him I belonged over his knee and under his cane and on his cock.
At one point I even thanked him for teaching me what I needed.
Only when my body finally began to falter, exhausted by the force of what I had done, did the haze start to lift.
I went still.
My hand slipped away from my sex. My other hand dropped from my bottom. I lay there panting in the quiet of my lovely apartment, feeling my own wetness cooling on my thighs, hearing the terrible little sounds of recovery in my breathing.
Then memory returned all at once.
What I had said… how I had moved… what I had offered.
How completely I had disgraced myself… if my sponsor had indeed been watching.
A sound of misery escaped me before I could stop it. I pulled the nightgown down at once, absurdly trying to cover myself after everything. I rolled onto my back and then sat up too quickly, panic surging through me now that the arousal had quenched itself.
“Sir?” I whispered into the room. “Porter?”
Nothing.
The silence made it worse. It left room for hope, which left room for dread.
“Oh, God,” I said, and this time I meant it in an entirely different way. “Please… please, if you saw that…”
My throat tightened. Tears rushed to my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I said to the room. “Please have mercy on me. Please. I know I disobeyed. I know what you said. I’m sorry.”
For three awful seconds nothing happened.
Then the speaker came alive.
The sound of his voice nearly stopped my heart.
“Thank you for the performance, Alex.”
I made a helpless little cry and clapped a hand over my mouth.
He continued in the same calm tone he might have used to discuss a car service or a dinner reservation. “You were quite explicit.”
I could barely breathe. “Sir… please…”
“You knew the consequences,” he said. “You have been warned clearly more than once. Since you chose to ignore the rule, you will be caned without mercy tomorrow night. I intend that you learn your lesson properly.”