Chapter 19
Mike
The video the SA app curated for me, of Laura’s naughty night, moved me a good deal more deeply than I had expected.
For better or worse, and to my great surprise, I found I couldn’t get my mind off of her despite the extremely interesting, and potentially lucrative, meetings I was having in New York.
On my way back to San Francisco Friday morning, I decided I had to make my next time with Laura as special as it could possibly be. From the air I sent her a message in the app.
The instant I hit send, a surge of nervous anticipation ignited in my chest, which was a ridiculous reaction for a man who’d closed three nine-figure deals in the last fiscal quarter.
Still, I found myself checking the app’s video channel as soon as Laura’s notification pinged on my wrist. She’d read the message immediately—her eyes had gone wide, her lips parted, and she’d clapped a hand over her mouth in a gesture so raw and girlish it made my pulse skip.
She started pacing, back and forth across the micro-apartment’s living room, clutching her phone as if the message might vanish if she looked away.
The biometric overlay showed her heart rate had jumped by twenty BPM; the overall arousal line coming from her perineal sensor, naturally, spiked in tandem.
I wondered how she would spend the money.
Would she splurge on something extravagant, or try to impress me with thrift?
The nice thing about Laura was that, despite her apparently middle-of-the road style—Sacramento as the Midwest, she’d called it, hadn’t she?
—her responses never seemed quite what I expected.
I had sponsored two girls before Laura through SA.
I had thought myself quite interested in them—in their bodies, of course, but also in doing things to help them and make them happy.
I realized now, however, as I began to explore the full extent of the surveillance features in the app, that what I’d started to feel for Laura Martindale represented a different order of magnitude.
To my surprise I found that when I tapped Laura’s icon a dialogue popped up, asking whether I wanted to pay a surcharge to follow her through Selecta’s main security feed—the one that covered the entire city, including public transit, cabs, and rideshare vehicles. I didn’t hesitate.
So, a few minutes later, I had the ability to watch her in the backseat of a rideshare headed to Union Square.
The camera feed from the car showed her studying fashion blogs and TikToks the whole way, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her t-shirt.
The moment she stepped onto the sidewalk, she transformed—her body language became purposeful, her stride almost predatory as she made for the enormous bulk of the Nordstrom flagship.
I had to turn off Wi-Fi for landing then, but by the time my jet had landed Laura had started to try on bathing suits.
I couldn’t stop watching much of the way across the country; ensconced in a boutique fitting room my adorable naughty girl aimed for ‘cute and modest’ at first, but quickly caving to curiosity about the more revealing options.
She settled on three: a simple black one-piece that fit her like a glove, a blush pink bikini with ties that played up her petite build, and, for reasons I instantly understood, a white microkini so minimal it could barely be called clothing.
The feed from the perineal sensor lit up like a Christmas tree when she tried on the last one.
She bought all three, along with a pair of tiny denim shorts and an oversized straw hat.
After a quick detour for designer sunglasses and sandals, she stopped back at Nordstrom for a white sundress, three sets of matching lacy underwear, and a bottle of floral perfume.
The shopping total came to $973, which I could only interpret as a deliberate attempt to please me: a little discipline, a little indulgence, all within the boundaries I’d set.
By the time the valet had brought my Porsche to the curb, Laura had returned to the apartment and packed her new things in a small roller bag.
She seemed to be spending the rest of the afternoon alternating between compulsive cleaning and staring at her phone.
The dominant in me wondered if I should deliberately keep her waiting past the agreed pickup time, just to watch her squirm.
Instead, I stopped briefly at home to restock my suitcase and headed over to pick her up.
Just before I started the car I messaged her in the app.
Ready to go? I’ll be there in ten. Put the medium plug in your adorable little bottom.
Laura
I couldn’t keep still as I waited for Mike.
I kept checking the time on my phone, even though I’d already set the SA app—on the app’s advice—to send a notification when my sponsor got within a block of the building.
My roller bag was packed and sitting at the door, the new sundress I’d bought for the trip fluttering nervously around my legs each time I paced past the window.
I’d changed outfits three times—first the denim shorts and cropped tee, then the black one-piece swimsuit under a sheer coverup, before finally settling on the white dress with my new sandals.
The label was still in the pocket. The thought that Mike would see it, know I’d bought it for him, made my face go hot.
I checked myself in the mirror for the tenth time.
The dress was tight enough to show the curve of my hips, but long in the skirt, hitting just below my knees.
My arms looked thin and pale, but the neckline was flattering.
My straight hair was behaving for once, tucked behind my ears with a little extra shine from the leave-in conditioner I’d splurged on at Nordstrom.
Even my face, with only a little makeup, looked fresher than it had in weeks.
Except for the color in my cheeks. I’d been blushing nonstop since the moment I’d gotten Mike’s first message this morning.
Thinking about him made my pussy clench involuntarily behind the seal that had come to seem almost normal.
I squeezed my thighs together, feeling the ever-present bulk of the medium plug.
I had been trying not to look at it, on the bathroom counter, since taking it out and cleaning it the morning after what I couldn’t keep from calling, to myself, my naked night.
Putting it in again on Mike’s instruction though had seemed, dismayingly, almost normal; having it there now was a gentle, constant pressure that reminded me with every step that I belonged to someone. That I was here, waiting for him.
A motion caught my eye outside—an expensive-looking sports car pulling up to the curb, to the space marked ‘Sponsor Parking.’
The app chimed at the same moment, and I saw Mike starting to climb out of the car. For the next two minutes I stood there, feeling frozen in place, watching the door, wondering if I should open it—wondering what would happen when my sponsor came through it.
The lock disengaged with a soft click, and Mike stepped in, dressed in a dark suit and aviators, emanating the kind of calm, deliberate energy that seemed to make every molecule in the room pay attention.
He swept his sunglasses off and smiled at me, not a huge smile, but enough to make my stomach do a sickening little flip.
I tried to say something cool, something sophisticated, but all that came out was, “Hi.” I wanted to die.
“Hi yourself,” Mike said, and the second the door clicked shut behind him, he set down his own bag and—before I could react—put both hands gently on my face and kissed me.
It was not a polite greeting. It was not a chaste peck.
It was full-on, mouth open, his tongue sliding between my lips and his body pressing me back against the wall so hard I thought I’d melt right down into the floor.
His hands slid from my jaw to my waist, then lower, gripping the curve of my hips through the thin cotton.
The pressure made me arch into him, and I realized with a jolt of humiliation that my nipples were already stiff against the inside of my dress.
Mike’s tongue was in my mouth, his breath hot, and I could feel the plug shift inside me with each little wriggle of my hips.
I whimpered into his mouth—actually whimpered—and the sound seemed to please him.
He broke the kiss, lips lingering at the corner of my mouth.
“You look beautiful,” he said, voice low in that way that vibrated straight through my bones. “You ready?”
I nodded, breathless. He kissed me once more, softer this time.
“Show me,” he said.
I blinked up at him for a moment, and then the blood rushed to my face as I understood what he meant. I pretended I didn’t: I didn’t have a choice. I pointed to my suitcase.
“Everything’s in there,” I chirped. “And thanks so much for the shopping trip. I loved it!”
Mike smiled, his eyes narrowing. He shook his head slowly and deliberately. I felt his hand slide around my hip and downward. I whimpered again as he took hold of my bottom through the sundress, through the skimpy blue panties I’d chosen because I thought Mike would like them.
He squeezed, hard enough to make me gasp. His hand was huge, warm, possessive. I tried to wriggle away, but he just pulled me closer, his other hand still cupping my cheek.
“Laura,” he murmured, his voice a little playful, a little dangerous. “You know exactly what I want to see.”
I went rigid for a second, hoping maybe I could bluff my way through. “Mike… sir, I—”
He cut me off with a slow, knowing smile. “That was cute. But now you’ve lost your panty privileges.” His grip on my hip tightened, and I felt a jolt of shame and excitement run through me. “Take them off for me. Right now.”
I couldn’t speak. My heart was hammering so hard I thought I might pass out.
But there was no arguing with his tone, or the look in his eyes.
I reached under my sundress and hooked my fingers into the waistband.
The blue panties slid down my thighs with agonizing slowness; I bent my knees, stepped out of them, and bunched the cotton in my fist. I handed them over, unable to look him in the eye.
He took them with a little flourish, balling them up and sliding them into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Good girl. Now show me the plug.”
I wanted to melt into the floor. But I hiked up my dress and turned around, feeling the air hit my bare bottom and the plug shift inside me as I bent forward.
I thought I heard Mike’s breath catch slightly behind me, as if the sight moved him.
Then I felt his huge hand was on my ass, lifting the skirt higher, cool and detached and admiring all at once.
He pressed two fingers to the base of the plug, rocking it gently back and forth. The sensation was so intense I had to bite my lip to keep from whimpering. “Perfect,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “You’re ready for the big one, I think.”
I had no idea whether he meant it as a compliment or a threat.
Then his hand lifted and came down, a sharp smack that made me yelp. I straightened up, hugging the dress around my waist, my face burning.
“Next time,” said Mike, “don’t pretend you don’t know what I want. Or you’ll start the weekend with a spanking that makes it hard to sit still on the plane.”
My brain hiccupped on the word plane. I realized I had no idea where we were going, or how we were getting there.
I stood there, still clutching at the hem of my skirt, not sure whether to be mortified or thrilled or just plain terrified.
Mike looked at me for another long second, then strode past me into the living room.
The tread of his shoes on the floor seemed like a countdown, and I found myself following, unable to not obey.
He stopped at the blank space where I knew the hidden door to the sponsor’s cabinet lay. He unlocked it with his phone. There was a faint hiss and a click, and then he opened the door and started to rummage through the shelves like he was picking out snacks for a road trip.
He took it out, and I had to bite my lip to keep from uttering yet another whimper.
The plug. The huge one. The one I had dreaded, fantasized about, tried not to think about for two days.
He set it on the table with a little clunk.
Then he reached in again and took down the martinet.
The leather tails looked even more menacing in the daylight, draped over his hand like a horse’s mane.
He turned to me, and I felt my knees go weak.
“Put these in your suitcase,” he said. “You’ll need them.”
I stared at the objects, then at him. “Both?” My voice came out as a squeak.
“Both,” said Mike, with a little smile. “I want you to think of them as accessories you bring for your sponsor’s convenience in training you and enjoying you.”
I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My brain was too busy short-circuiting on the idea of packing a butt plug and a whip in the same suitcase as my cute new swimsuits and my SPF 30 sunscreen.
Mike waited, just long enough to make it clear that this was not a joke or an option.
I shuffled over and picked up the plug, the weight of it shocking in my hand.
I wrapped it quickly in a t-shirt and stuffed it down into the side pocket of my bag, then did the same with the martinet, careful to keep the tails hidden.
My face felt like it could ignite a stove.
Mike watched me the whole time, arms folded, the corner of his mouth twitching just enough to let me know he enjoyed my embarrassment. When I zipped the bag, he leaned over and kissed me on the forehead, like I was a little kid who’d just done a good job.
“There,” he said. “That’s my girl.”
I didn’t know what to say. So I asked the only question I could think of. “Where are we going?”
He picked up my bag as if it weighed nothing at all, then gestured toward the door. “You’ll see.”