Chapter 18
Laura
It shouldn’t make any difference at all, I kept telling myself.
No, I’d never slept in the nude. Even after everything that had happened the previous night I had gotten up to put on my panties over the plug and pull my nightgown over my head—just out of habit, just because that’s the way I’d grown up.
When I’d touched myself at night in my dorm bed, I’d done it with my hand inside my panties, as if that made masturbation more respectable.
I had been shaved down there. I had been caned. I had played with myself for the camera. I had been spanked over a man’s knee and made to come and then to suck his cock.
I had a butt plug in my bottom, for goodness’ sake.
Sleeping in the nude shouldn’t have posed a problem. Even the thought, That poses a problem, shouldn’t have occurred to me. Right?
But my face had gone hot at the mere thought of what it would feel like to slide between the sheets that way.
I stared at Mike’s message for what felt like forever, my thumb hovering over the screen.
The logical part of my brain kept insisting it was ridiculous to feel this way about something so simple.
But the rest of me couldn’t shake the feeling that it represented something different from everything else that had happened.
Different because it felt like I would be choosing it myself.
Mike hadn’t commanded me to masturbate: he had said I could, and given me a condition.
If I decided I needed to pleasure myself, needed to come…
then I would have to strip completely and climb into bed naked, under the covers, hidden from the camera’s unblinking eye…
but obedient to my sponsor’s humiliating rule.
He’ll still be watching, though. Through the sensor.
But it didn’t feel that way. The idea of being naked but also covered up, of playing with myself as if I thought no one could see, but still being bare, being naughty in the night…
it made my tummy lurch and the warmth gather, further down.
If Mike watched via the camera, what would he see?
Would the covers move, or could I keep them from moving, to hide my mortifying need and my even more embarrassing satisfaction of it?
It didn’t make sense, but it seemed to have a lewd logic of its own. I would get into bed that way—that way. Knowing the plug would shift inside me every time I moved. Knowing I would touch myself under the covers, exposed and vulnerable but free and nude in my bed, like a lascivious kitten.
My face burned hotter as I imagined it. The sheets against my bare skin. My hand between my legs. The plug in my bottom. All of it invisible to Mike, even if he chose to watch—and yet also completely known to him with a glance at his phone.
I set the phone down and walked to the bedroom on trembling legs. The plug made itself known with each step, sending thrills of awareness through my core that made it hard to think straight. I stood at the foot of the bed and stared at it like it was some kind of challenge.
This is stupid, I told myself firmly. You’ve done so much worse, and you need it so bad. If you come enough tonight, you’ll be satisfied… sore, even.
I swallowed hard at that thought, unable to keep from picturing myself, wanton and crying out over and over into the wee hours of the morning, working myself so hard behind the seal that I had trouble walking in the morning.
You won’t have to worry about getting whipped for masturbating without permission. Just take off your clothes and get in bed.
My hands moved to the hem of my t-shirt.
I pulled it over my head slowly, feeling the cool air hit my skin.
I unhooked my bra, the clasp seeming to take forever even though my fingers knew the motion by heart.
I dropped it to the floor. I tugged down my yoga pants, sliding the stretch fabric down my hips until they landed at my feet.
I stood there in just my panties for a long moment, my arms wrapped around myself. The last barrier. The final piece of clothing between me and complete exposure.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband and pushed them down, stepping out of them quickly before I could change my mind.
The sense of vulnerability sent a shiver through me. I was more conscious of being completely naked, except for the plug in my bottom, than I had been even with Mike physically present. I stood in the middle of the bedroom where the cameras could see everything.
My hands flew up to cover myself instinctively—one arm across my breasts, the other between my legs over my pussy. The realization that there was so much less to see down there than there had been two days ago brought a helpless clench.
God, what was I doing? What had I become in just twenty-four hours?
But even as shame flooded through me, I felt that familiar throb of arousal.
I realized with horror that being exposed like this was turning me on.
The thought of Mike watching, seeing me naked and vulnerable and obedient—more, that he would know instantly that I had eagerly chosen to accept his condition so that I could have my lewd reward—was something I could hardly bear.
I rushed to the bed, each step making the plug shift in ways that had me biting my lip. I pulled back the covers and slid between the sheets.
The sensation was overwhelming. The soft cotton against my bare skin felt terribly intimate, sliding over my breasts and belly and thighs.
I’d never felt so aware of my own body, so conscious of every inch of exposed flesh.
The plug in my bottom seemed even more prominent in this position, pressing deeper as I lay on my back.
I turned on my side and without thinking about it I put my hand back there to find the base of the humiliating device. Something in me wanted to see what it felt like, I realized with a hot blush, and to my distress, before I could push the idea away, it felt perversely right.
A naughty girl like me should be naked in bed with her pussy closed and a sizable plug up her little bottom. A girl like me had to learn about her body’s shameful needs in an equally shameful way.
I twisted the plug experimentally, and the feeling shot straight through the root of me, like a forbidden nerve had been plugged directly into my brain.
I gasped, rolling onto my back again, my legs scissoring under the sheet.
The air on my nipples made them pebble, and I brought my hand up to cup one breast, squeezing it, pinching at the tip the way I liked.
I let my other hand drift down my belly, pausing at the seal.
It was so smooth, so final. I pressed my palm flat against it and flexed my thighs, rocking my hips the way Mike had taught me.
The pressure of the plug inside me combined with the frictionless resistance of my closed slit, and I found I could build the sensation with just pelvic muscle and imagination alone.
It was the weirdest, hottest thing I’d ever felt, and somehow it only made me want more.
I started to play, not just with my body, but my mind. I let the images come, playing out every fantasy I’d ever had and some that, until last night, would have horrified me.
First, the memory of being spanked over Mike’s knee.
The pain, the helplessness, the sound of his voice telling me what a naughty girl I was—it all returned with vivid, cinematic intensity.
I could practically feel the heat blooming in my bottom, the way his hand had gripped and shaped me, the impossibility of escape.
Then, escalation: the memory of the orderly’s cane, six precise lines across my bare cheeks, the way I’d been forced to count and thank him.
I imagined Mike standing over me with the same cane, his face stern but his eyes full of a secret pride, making me bend over the boardroom table in front of a dozen silent, watching men in expensive suits.
The image made me clench so hard I almost came.
“Please,” I whispered to the darkness. “Please, no… I can’t… I can’t bear it.”
My mind and my aching pussy pushed me further. I needed more… I needed a sterner lesson. I was naked in bed, playing with myself. I had earned a whipping. I cried, begged on my knees not to have my panties taken down… to be spanked instead…
But Mike took the terrifying thing—the martinet—from the cabinet.
He restrained me over a piece of gleaming gym equipment, my wrists and ankles buckled in with stout leather.
My sponsor lashed the whip against my exposed skin, laying down stripes that made me gasp and shudder, until I was a mess of tears and arousal, sobbing out apologies and promises to be better next time.
“I want to be a good girl for you,” I murmured, suddenly wondering with a surge of heat to my face and beneath my hand, where I could feel the wetness emerging from the little opening, whether Mike could hear me. “Please… no more whipping. Please let me suck your beautiful cock.”
My hand worked my breast harder, and I could feel more of my need escaping the seal, trickling down to the sheet, proof of how responsive I’d become.
But that wasn’t enough. I needed more. I needed to see what would happen if I let myself fantasize about the thing that Mike had hinted at, that he’d promised would come next: his cock, huge and inexorable, stretching me open in the place that he had already begun to train for his pleasure.
In my mind, he was there, kneeling behind me, spreading my cheeks and pressing the head of his cock against my lubed, quivering hole.
I begged him to go slow, but he told me, in that calm, implacable way, that I had to learn to serve his needs.
I felt the stretch, the fullness, the impossible invasion—and I came, just from the thought of it, my body clenching around the plug.