Chapter 26
Laura
The next morning I woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the sound of waves crashing against the shore.
For a blissful moment I felt peaceful, wrapped in soft sheets with the ocean breeze drifting through the partially open lanai door.
Then I shifted my hips and the soreness hit me—a deep, aching tenderness that radiated from my bottom and reminded me exactly what had happened the night before.
My face went hot as the memories flooded back. The whipping. Bent over the chair with my legs spread and tied. The huge plug. And then… oh, god, then Mike had fucked my ass while I was bound and helpless, and I had come so hard I’d nearly blacked out.
I squeezed my eyes shut and buried my face in the pillow, trying to will away the mortification.
But my body wouldn’t let me forget—every time I moved, I felt it.
The welts on my bottom. The strange, used feeling in my anus.
The constant, gnawing emptiness in my sealed pussy that had only gotten worse overnight.
And today I was supposed to wear that microkini to the beach. To show everyone what had been done to me. Like a good girl.
A good girl who had gotten punished for being naughty. It made no sense, and yet all the sense in the world… the hot, dark, red world deep inside me, anyway.
I heard movement in the other room and realized Mike must already be awake.
Part of me wanted to hide under the covers forever, but I knew that would only make things worse.
He expected obedience. He expected me to accept what I was—his property, his toy, his good girl who took whatever he chose to give and yielded to him whatever he chose to take.
The thought made my pussy clench behind my closed labia, and I bit my lip in frustration. Why did my body keep responding this way? Why did the humiliation and degradation make me so desperately aroused instead of repulsed?
I forced myself to sit up, wincing at the pull of tender flesh.
The nightgown Mike had dressed me in last night had ridden up during sleep, and I tugged it down self-consciously even though I was alone.
My hair was a mess, tangled from the shower and sleep, and I could see faint marks on my wrists where the rope had held me.
“Laura?” Mike’s voice came from the living area. “You awake, sweetheart?”
My stomach flipped at the endearment. I remembered thinking I’d heard him say something else last night, something that couldn’t possibly have been real.
I love you. But that was ridiculous. This was an arrangement, a transaction.
He paid me to submit to him, to let him train and use my body however he wanted. Love had nothing to do with it.
Did it?
“Yes, sir,” I called back, my voice coming out smaller than I’d intended. “I’m awake.”
“Come out here. I want to see you.”
I slid out of bed carefully, my legs shaky as I stood. Each step reminded me of the previous night—the stretch, the burn, the overwhelming fullness of his cock claiming a place no one had ever touched before. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and stopped in my tracks.
I couldn’t see my bottom. I didn’t want to see my bottom. I didn’t.
I don’t. I don’t want to see.
I turned my back to the mirror and looked back at my reflection over my shoulders. With trembling fingers I raised the hem of my nightgown.
I couldn’t keep down a sob at what I saw.
The welts crisscrossed my bottom in an angry pattern of raised pink and red lines, some darker than others—almost purple—where the leather tails had struck with particular force.
The marks stood out starkly against my pale skin.
It looked exactly like what it was: evidence that I had been whipped. Thoroughly. By a man who owned me.
And today I was supposed to display this to the world in a bathing suit that covered nothing.
I dropped the nightgown and turned away from the mirror, my hands shaking.
Fresh tears spilled down my cheeks, and I wasn’t even sure if they were from shame or something else entirely.
Because looking at those marks, seeing the physical proof of what Mike had done to me, had made my pussy throb with need so intense I had to grip the edge of the dresser to steady myself.
What was wrong with me?
“Laura,” Mike called again, his voice firmer this time. “Don’t make me come in there.”
I forced my legs to move, padding barefoot into the living area. Mike stood by the windows overlooking the ocean, already dressed in swim trunks and a linen shirt. He turned when he heard me, and his expression softened as he took in my tearstained face.
“Come here, sweetheart,” he said gently, holding out his hand.
I went to him because I had no choice, because my body moved toward him automatically now. He pulled me into his arms and I buried my face against his chest, trying not to think about how good it felt to be held by him.
“I saw,” I whispered. “In the mirror. I saw what you did.”
“I know.” His hand stroked my hair soothingly. “It’s beautiful, Laura. You’re beautiful.”
“Everyone will see.” My voice broke on the words. “Everyone will know what I am.”
“And what are you?” he asked, tilting my chin up so I had to meet his eyes.
I opened my mouth but couldn’t say it. Couldn’t voice the terrible, shameful truth that my body already knew.
“Say it,” Mike commanded softly.
“Yours,” I breathed. “I’m yours. Your… your good girl.”
“That’s right.” He kissed my forehead tenderly. “And there’s no shame in that, sweetheart. Only beauty. Only truth.”
But there was shame. So much shame it felt like it would drown me. And yet underneath it, woven through it like a thread I couldn’t untangle, was something else. Pride. Belonging. A dark, confusing sense of rightness that made no logical sense but felt true in my bones.
“Now go put on your suit,” Mike said, releasing me. “We’re going to breakfast first, and then the beach.”
My stomach dropped. “Breakfast? But I thought we’d eat here, in the room—”
“No.” His voice took on a hard note.
My heart hammered in my chest as the implication sank in.
He wanted me to wear the microkini in public—not just on the beach where I might blend in with other barely dressed women, but to breakfast. Where people would be clothed.
Where they would see my welted bottom while they ate their eggs and toast.
“Please,” I whispered. “Sir, please don’t make me—”
“The restaurant is outdoors,” Mike said, as if that made it better. “Right by the pool. Very casual. And you’ll be wearing a coverup.”
A coverup. As if that would help. As if sheer fabric could make the exposed, marked flesh of my bottom any less obvious, less shameful.
“I can’t,” I breathed, taking a step backward. “Mike, I can’t do this. Please.”
His expression shifted, becoming stern in a way that made my stomach drop. “Laura. We talked about this last night. You agreed not to make a fuss.”
“I know, but I didn’t—I didn’t understand—”
“You understood perfectly.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “And now you’re trying to back out. Which means you’re being disobedient again.”
The word hung in the air between us, heavy with implication. Disobedient. Which meant punishment. Which meant more pain on top of pain, more marks on top of marks. I felt tears spilling down my cheeks again, hot and helpless.
“I’m sorry,” I sobbed. “I’m sorry, I just—everyone will stare. They’ll know you whipped me. They’ll think I’m some kind of—”
“Some kind of what?” Mike’s voice was quiet but dangerous.
I shook my head, unable to voice the word that burned in my mind. Slut. Whore. Fuck toy.
Mike closed the distance between us in two strides. His hand cupped my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. “They’ll think you’re a beautiful young woman who belongs to a man who knows how to take her in hand. Who knows what she needs. And they’ll be right.”
“But the marks—”
“Are beautiful,” he finished firmly. “They show that you’ve been disciplined. Taught. Loved.”
Loved. There was that word again, the one I’d thought I’d dreamed about last night. My breath caught in my throat.
“Now go put on your suit,” Mike repeated, his tone brooking no argument. “And the white coverup you bought. You have five minutes, or I’ll put you back over that chair and add more stripes to your bottom.”
The threat sent a confusing jolt through my core—terror and arousal mixed so thoroughly I couldn’t separate them. I turned and fled to the bathroom, where I’d hung up the little there was of the microkini, my hands shaking as I pulled it off the towel bar.
It felt even more obscene in my hands than it had yesterday.
I forced myself to step into the bottoms, pulling the tiny triangle of fabric up my thighs.
The strings tied at my hips suddenly seemed to represent the bow on a present: the gift of my virginity, for Mike to unwrap and take with his huge, thrusting penis.
The fabric barely covered my sealed pussy, and when I turned to check the back in the mirror, I gasped.
The thin string disappeared completely between my welted cheeks, leaving them entirely exposed.
Every mark was visible—the crisscrossing lines of red and purple, the darker welts where the martinet had struck hardest.
I looked like exactly what I was: a girl who had been whipped.
My hands trembled as I tied the top, my nipples already hard from the combination of fear and that shameful arousal I couldn’t suppress. The white fabric was so thin it was almost transparent, and I knew it would become completely see-through the moment it got wet.
The coverup hung on the back of the door—a gauzy white thing that fell to mid-thigh.
I pulled it on with shaking fingers, but it did almost nothing to hide the marks.
The sheer fabric just made them look softer, more artistic somehow, like they’d been deliberately displayed rather than reluctantly covered.