Chapter 26 #2
“Oh, god,” I whispered to my reflection as I mechanically rubbed sunscreen all over. “I can’t do this. I can’t.”
But I knew I would. Because the alternative was another whipping, and my bottom couldn’t take that.
Because Mike had commanded it, and I had learned that disobeying him only made things worse.
Because some dark, twisted part of me wanted to do it—wanted to be displayed this way, marked and owned and utterly his.
“Two minutes,” Mike called from the other room.
I took a shuddering breath and opened the bathroom door. Mike was waiting, his expression unreadable as his eyes traveled over my body. I stood there trembling, my arms wrapped around myself, waiting for his verdict.
“Perfect,” he said softly, and the approval in his voice sent warmth flooding through my chest despite my terror. “Come here.”
I crossed to him on unsteady legs. He turned me around gently, lifting the hem of the coverup to examine his handiwork. His fingers traced one of the welts, and I whimpered at the tender touch.
“So beautiful,” he murmured. “My good girl, marked and ready to show the world who she belongs to.”
He let the coverup fall back into place and took my hand. “Let’s go.”
The walk through the resort felt endless.
Every person we passed seemed to stare, though I couldn’t tell if that was real or just my paranoid imagination.
The coverup swished against my thighs with each step, and I was hyperaware of how little it concealed.
An older couple smiled at us as we passed, and I wanted to die. Could they see? Did they know?
The restaurant was exactly as Mike had described—a sumptuous buffet in an open-air pavilion overlooking the pool and ocean beyond.
The other diners wore swimsuits or casual resort clothing.
I kept my eyes down as Mike led me to a table near the edge of the pavilion, where the breeze carried the salt smell of the ocean.
My face felt like it was on fire, and I was certain everyone was staring at my barely covered bottom, at the marks that stood out so clearly even through the sheer coverup.
“Sit,” Mike said, pulling out a chair.
I lowered myself carefully, wincing as my welted bottom made contact with the cushion. The pain was sharp and immediate. I shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt, but there wasn’t one.
Mike noticed, of course. He always noticed. A knowing smile played at his lips as he settled into his own chair across from me.
“Sore?” he asked quietly.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Good,” he said, and reached across the table to squeeze my hand. “That’s how you’ll remember to be a good girl today.”
A server appeared—a young woman in a crisp white uniform—and I tried to shrink into my chair. Had she seen? Did she know what the marks on my bottom meant? But her smile was professional and friendly as she took our drink orders, showing no sign of judgment.
“Let’s get our food,” Mike said, standing and putting out his hand to me.
“Can’t I…” I started. “Could you… get me something… sir?”
If I stayed seated, no one would see my backside, would they?
“No,” Mike told me. “You’ll choose your own breakfast. I want you to see what’s available.”
I forced myself to stand, my legs shaking so badly I had to grip the edge of the table for support. The pain in my bottom flared as I straightened, and I bit my lip to keep from whimpering. Mike took my hand and led me toward the buffet, and I felt every eye in the restaurant follow us.
Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe it was just my paranoid imagination. But I couldn’t shake the certainty that everyone could see the welts through my sheer coverup, that they all knew exactly what I was.
The buffet stretched along one wall of the pavilion—fresh tropical fruit, made-to-order omelets, pastries that looked like works of art.
Under different circumstances I would have been delighted by the abundance.
Instead, I could barely focus on the food, too conscious of standing there with my marked bottom on display.
“What looks good?” Mike asked, his hand resting possessively on my lower back.
I tried to concentrate on the options, but my mind kept circling back to the same terrible awareness. The coverup was so thin. The welts were so visible. Behind me, I heard voices—a couple, laughing about something. Were they looking at me? Judging me?
“I… I don’t know,” I whispered. “Maybe just fruit?”
“You need more than that,” Mike said firmly. He guided me along the buffet, pointing out options. “Protein. You’re going to need your strength today.”
The implication in those words made me clench even as heat rushed to my cheeks. Today. When he would finally open me and take my virginity properly. When his huge cock would push inside the place that had been sealed and saved for him.
I selected some pineapple and mango with trembling hands, then let Mike add eggs and bacon to my plate.
At the omelet station, the chef smiled at us—a genuine, warm smile that made me wonder if maybe I was being paranoid.
Maybe no one actually cared about the marks on my bottom. Maybe this was all in my head.
But then we turned to head back to our table, and I saw her.
A woman, maybe thirty, sitting with what looked like her husband. Her eyes were fixed on me—specifically on my backside. I watched her lean over and whisper something to her companion, who glanced my way with raised eyebrows.
My face went nuclear. They’d seen. They knew. And they were talking about it.
I wanted to run. To drop my plate and flee back to the room and hide under the covers forever. But Mike’s hand was still on my lower back, guiding me steadily toward our table, and I couldn’t do anything but follow.
“Breathe,” he murmured as we sat down. “You’re doing beautifully.”
Was I, though? I stared down at my plate as I forced myself to take a bite of the bacon that even my current distress didn’t keep me from recognizing as perfectly crisped.
“I want you to think about the look on that woman’s face,” Mike said quietly.
His voice had an intensity that made me look up curiously into his eyes, my forehead furrowing as I tried to figure out what he meant. I saw it, in my mind’s eye, the expression I had taken for pure disgust. But had it been that, or had that been what I had expected to see?
“She’s envious,” Mike said in a level, utterly factual tone. “She wishes she had what you have.”