Chapter 24
Laura
I nodded, unable to speak around the lump in my throat. He was right and we both knew it. The sensor must be telling him a very clear, very shameful story—my arousal had been spiking constantly, even as fear twisted my stomach into knots.
After dessert—some kind of haupia cheesecake that I could barely taste—Mike stood and gestured to one of the dining chairs. “Come here.”
My legs felt like jelly as I rose from my position at his feet.
He moved the chair so it faced away from the windows, then guided me forward until my hips pressed against the curved back.
His hands were firm but not rough as he bent me over it, arranging my body exactly how he wanted—torso draped over the back, hands gripping the seat, knees spread wide on either side.
The feeling of being dominated that way…
quietly, efficiently, as if this powerful man knew he could take my compliance with whatever degradation he chose to inflict on me for granted…
I felt my brow furrow hard with helpless need even as my heart raced with fear, my body responding instinctively to the complete exposure.
I could feel the air conditioning on my sealed pussy, on the cleft of my bottom, even on the cringing button of my anus.
My breasts hung down, nipples brushing the upholstery.
I tried to turn my head to see what Mike was doing, but the angle made it impossible without craning my neck uncomfortably.
“Eyes forward,” he commanded from somewhere behind me.
I obeyed, staring at the seat cushion inches from my face, my heart hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears. I heard him moving around the room—the clink of glass, liquid being poured. Then footsteps, and the creak of furniture as he settled into what I assumed was the other chair.
The silence stretched. I could feel his eyes on me, could imagine him sipping his brandy while he studied my exposed body.
The humiliation was overwhelming—being displayed like this, unable to see him, not knowing when he would start.
But underneath the shame was something else, the even-more-mortifying other thing.
The hot, desperate feeling—so deep in my body that it felt more like a primitive fact of my nervous system—that made my pussy clench behind the seal, sending the treasonous wetness trickling out of the little opening.
“Please,” I whispered. “Please just… get it over with.”
“Patience, sweetheart.” His voice came from directly behind me, calm and measured. “I want you to think about why you’re being punished, and what it means to be. What did you do wrong?”
“I… I touched myself without permission.”
“That’s right. You disobeyed me. Even though you knew the consequences.” Another pause. “Tell me what you were thinking about in the shower.”
My face blazed with heat. “I can’t…”
“Of course you can, Laura,” he said matter-of-factly. “And you’re going to, or this will go even worse for your bottom.”
The words tumbled out before I could stop them, in response to the thrill of fear roused by the calm menace in his voice. “I was thinking about you whipping me. About… about how it would feel. And then I started touching myself because thinking about it made me so…”
“So what?”
“So desperate,” I whispered, shame washing over me in waves. “So wet. I couldn’t help it.”
“Hmm.” I heard him stand, heard footsteps approaching.
“The truth is, Laura, you could have helped it. You chose not to. Because part of you wanted this.” His hand stroked down my spine, making me shiver.
“Part of you needs to be disciplined firmly, even harshly. You need to feel that a man will take you in hand and give you what you need in every way, while he takes what he wants and makes himself feel good inside your pretty holes.”
As he delivered this terrible humiliation in his calm, steady voice, he fondled my bottom possessively to emphasize every degrading detail. A sob burst from my chest as part of my mind tried to deny it even as another part, to my mortification, felt seen and understood in a way I never had.
“Oh, god,” I whispered.
Mike didn’t respond. I heard him walk in the direction of the closet, where he had put his suitcase.
I heard a zipper, then the rustle of fabric, and then he was beside me again, stopping down.
Something soft but firm pressed against my right wrist, and I realized with a jolt of panic that he had begun to tie me to the chair with some kind of thin black rope.
“Wait, Mike—sir—what are you—”
“Shibari rope,” he said calmly, wrapping the smooth cord around my wrist, and then the chair leg, and then both together, with precise movements. “It won’t hurt you, but you won’t be able to get free.”
I tried to pull away instinctively, my fingers scrabbling at the seat cushion, but his grip was iron. He secured my right wrist to the chair leg, then moved to my left side. I twisted, trying to see what he was doing, but the position made it impossible.
“Please, I’ll be good, I promise—”
“I know you will,” he murmured, binding my left wrist with the same methodical care. “Especially after this.”
The rope was surprisingly soft against my skin, but I could feel how thoroughly it held me.
I tugged experimentally and found I couldn’t move my arms at all.
My breathing came faster as he moved to my ankles, spreading my knees even wider and securing them to the chair legs.
I couldn’t close my legs or protect myself in any way, and the mental image of what Mike could see brought new fire to my cheeks.
I heard him step back, and the silence that followed was worse than anything. My whole body trembled as I waited, bent over the chair with my bottom raised high, my sealed pussy and my anus on display for his viewing pleasure.
Then I heard it—the soft whisper of leather being lifted, the tails of the martinet sliding against each other. My stomach clenched so hard I thought I might be sick.
“I’m going to start now,” Mike said, his voice still that same calm, measured tone. “I’ll finish when I like the way your ass looks, and I think you’re ready to take the plug.”
The first stroke landed across both cheeks, and I screamed. The sensation was nothing like his hand or even the cane—it was sharp and stinging, dozens of tiny lines of fire across my skin. My body jerked against the restraints, but they held firm.
The second stroke came lower, catching the sensitive crease where my bottom met my thighs. I cried out again, tears already streaming down my face.
He worked methodically, covering every inch of my bottom with those terrible leather tails.
Some strokes landed diagonally, others horizontally, creating a web of sensation that built and built until I couldn’t tell where one stroke ended and the next began.
My whole backside felt like it was on fire.
Then the next stroke landed differently—not across my bottom, but between my spread thighs.
I screamed as the martinet struck the tender flesh there, the place where I had been sealed so that Mike would have more pleasure in opening me.
The sting intensified the fire that already consumed my bottom.
The pain was overwhelming, but there was something else—a deep, primal satisfaction that told me, to my dismay, how right my sponsor was about me.
Mike paused, his hand gently caressing my punished cheeks, and I felt a rush of gratitude that made no sense.
“Look at this,” he murmured, his voice filled with a warmth that contrasted sharply with the pain he was inflicting. “Such a pretty shade of pink. Your little bottom is so round and perfect, Laura. It was made to be whipped.”
His fingers traced the welts left by the martinet, and I whimpered, the combination of pain and pleasure sending confusing signals through my body.
He continued to whip me, the strokes coming at a leisurely pace, each one building on the last until I was a sobbing mess, my body jerking with every strike.
Mike paused again, his hands fondling my cheeks, squeezing and kneading the flesh. “You’re taking this so well, sweetheart. I’m proud of you.”
His words sent a thrill through me, and I found myself pushing back against his touch, seeking more of his approval. The whipping continued, each stroke layering on the last until my entire bottom was a mass of stinging welts.
Finally, he stopped, and I heard him move away.
When he returned, he held a mirror in front of me, angling it so I could see the state of my bottom reflected in the glass of the sliding doors to the lanai.
The sight was shocking—my cheeks were a deep, fiery red, crisscrossed with the marks of the martinet.
It was a brutal reminder of my punishment, and yet, there was a strange beauty to it, a testament to my endurance and obedience.
“Tomorrow,” Mike said, his voice low and filled with promise, “you’re going to wear that microkini to the beach. And everyone will see what a naughty girl you are, with your whipped bottom on display. I’m looking forward to it.”
I shuddered at the thought, a mix of humiliation and arousal coursing through me. Mike set the mirror aside and returned to stand behind me. I felt something cool and firm press against my anus, and I realized with a jolt of panic that it was the large plug.
“No, please,” I begged, even as my body clenched in anticipation. “I can’t—”
“Shh, sweetheart,” Mike murmured, pressing the plug firmly against my tight opening. “You can take it. Your body knows how.”
The pressure increased, and I screamed as the plug began to stretch me, the burn intense and overwhelming. Tears streamed down my face, but even as I sobbed, I felt another perverse wave of gratitude wash over me. This was what I needed, what I deserved.
Why? demanded the remaining logical part of my brain. How could I—how could anyone—possibly deserve this?
Mike pushed the plug deeper, and I felt my body yield further than I had imagined possible.
My brain tried to answer the question. The cheating? But I felt like I had paid for that: hadn’t I felt forgiven, after Mike had spanked me the first time?
More pressure. “Oh, god,” I sobbed. “Oh, please. Sir… please…”
“Shh, Laura,” Mike said. “You’re so close.”
What I deserve.
Not because I’m just a billionaire’s fuck toy, a little slut, a dirty whore. Or… maybe not just because of that… because I had definitely become those shameful things… those… those wonderful things…
I heard myself cry out piteously, like a naughty girl getting the lesson she so desperately needed…
the punishment she had earned… and I felt the enormous plug seat itself fully inside me, the tiny ring of my anus, no longer tiny, contracting around the narrower part that joined the flared base.
Open… so open now, back there, even though I was closed up front…
so ready to have my bottom deflowered before my pussy.
What I deserve… because my sponsor knows how to take me in hand, and being cared for that way is something I deserve because…
Because I love him.
Oh, no.
“It’s time,” Mike said. I felt him tug at the base of the plug, and the question Time for what? died on my lips. I shook my head, but I knew as I felt the movement in my neck that I didn’t mean it—that the denial came from the remnants of my Midwestern modesty.
“Please…” I repeated. Then, “Sir… please, be gentle?”
Mike pulled harder at the plug, and I yelped.
“You’ve been a good girl,” he told me in a low voice that made my aching, virgin sheath clench behind the seal. “So I’ll try to be gentle at first. But we both know you need much more than gentleness from your master’s cock.”