Chapter 22
Alex
In the moment, in the face of such an apparently reasonable question, I had no idea why I suddenly chose to rebel. The answer came out of me with a coolness I didn’t feel.
“I don’t know.”
Even as I said it, I knew it as a lie. White. Innocence.
Wedding night. Surrender.
Surrender, on her wedding night.
White for the kind of use my sponsor had prepared me for, with his hands and his toys and his calm, relentless certainty. White because tonight, I felt sure, he meant to take my ass for the first time.
The lie sat there between us.
The glance I risked at his face, then, showed me that Porter’s expression hadn’t changed much. Something in the room changed, though. A degree of softness vanished.
“You do know,” he said. “Look at me.”
I lifted my chin a fraction. “No, I don’t.”
His dark gaze held mine for a long second, and the heat of my own defiance frightened me even while I clung to it. I hadn’t planned it. I hadn’t reasoned my way into some noble stand. I had simply, suddenly wanted to push. To press against the walls of his control and to feel whether they moved.
Somehow I understand that he had seen that instantly.
“You’re testing me,” he said quietly. “Deliberately. You want to see where the boundary is.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
That earned me a very small nod, as if I had just confirmed something for him.
“You’re going to find out a good deal more about that boundary, now, you little slut,” he said in a calm, even voice that made me bite my lip to keep back a whine of fear.
“Go to your bedroom. Take the comforter and the top sheet off the bed. Lie on it, on your back. Pull your knees up and hold them that way. Spread yourself.”
My stomach dropped. I didn’t move.
He went on in the same even tone. “I’m going to spank your cunt for that little act of defiance.”
Every part of me went hot and cold at once.
“No.” The word burst out of me before I could stop it. “No, please… Porter, sir… not that?”
Spank your cunt. He had used the c-word before, and it had felt dirty and coarse and hot. In that horrible phrase it felt incandescent. Fear and arousal surged through my whole body as I pleaded with him, tears springing to the corners of my eyes.
He just watched me.
My mind turned wild immediately, not with dignity or principle, but with fear and the hideous pulse of need his words had caused.
A pussy spanking. Not my bottom, not the slightly familiar place of punishment that he had already made part of our structure, but…
there. The most exposed, most humiliating possible spot.
The place he had had waxed, so it would be extra exposed and extra sensitive.
I felt as if he had reached inside me and squeezed my lungs.
“Please spank my bottom,” I heard myself say. “Please. I’ll take that. I’ll take more than that.”
His face stayed composed.
“You can whip me,” I blurted. “My bottom, I mean. Or… cane me. If you want to punish me, then do that. Please don’t…”
The words wouldn’t finish. My body knew too well what I was begging him not to do.
His mouth moved very slightly. “I’m fairly sure I’ll cane that sweet bottom before long.”
A shiver went through me so violently that I had to lock my knees.
“But not for this,” he said. “For this, the proper punishment is a spanking on your little cunt, because the challenge you just issued was an attempt to find out how far I’ll go to correct you.”
I whimpered.
He put his hand behind my head. His thumb came to rest on my cheekbone.
“You have a choice,” he said. “You may accept the punishment that fits your behavior. Or I end this arrangement tonight.”
I stared at him.
He continued, as if clarifying terms in a contract. “I’ll transfer ten thousand dollars to you for the time so far. You’ll keep the apartment through the end of the month. Then my sponsorship ends, and so does the subsidy. No further training. No further obligations.”
The air seemed to thin around me.
He made it sound so reasonable. For one absurd second I felt angry about that. He hadn’t yelled at me. He hadn’t cornered me physically, despite the controlling, warning hand around my head. He had simply laid out consequences in a voice that implied adult freedom while leaving me almost none.
I thought about the apartment. The money. The fact that I had no good alternative and knew it. I thought about the strange, terrible gravity that had already formed between us. I thought about walking out of it all and trying to reconstruct some version of myself untouched by him.
Then I thought about him ending it. About never feeling his hand on me again. Never being seen by him again in that impossible, humiliating, clarifying way.
That last thought did something awful to my chest.
My pride made one final desperate attempt at heroism, and found absolutely nothing useful to say.
Very quietly, I asked, “If I go in there… will you really…”
“Yes.”
I shut my eyes.
When I opened them again, he was still simply waiting. Entirely resolved that if I chose his support and his care, I chose all of it, including having my pussy spanked when I foolishly challenged him in the slightest way.
He let go of my head, and my body started to move though I didn’t think I had made any kind of choice about it.
My legs felt unsteady as I rose, turned, and walked toward the bedroom.
I could feel my pulse in my throat. Each step made me more aware of the white lace on my skin, of the bareness the waxing had left underneath, of the way I had already been dressed for exposure.
By the time I reached the bed, my hands were shaking.
I pulled the comforter down first, then the top sheet, my fingers clumsy in the expensive bedding. The bed looked suddenly bare and purposeful, stripped to the fitted sheet the same way I had been stripped down, scantily dressed, prepared.
A ridiculous thought came to me with absolute certainty: this was what a bed looked like when a man meant to use a girl properly, all night if he wanted, without any pretty layers in the way. Smooth. Available. Ready for his convenience.
Dressed for fucking, some shameless part of my mind supplied.
My face burned. I wasn’t even sure how I knew such a thing, only that I did. Men who intended to enjoy a woman thoroughly did not want to be fighting with blankets. They wanted access. They wanted a raised, resilient, unencumbered surface.
My hands shook harder.
I climbed onto the bed, turned, lay back.
The mattress gave beneath me with a softness that seemed obscene in its own right.
Drawing my knees up made the garter straps tug lightly against the tops of my stockings.
I spread them, because he had told me to, and then I had no choice but to feel every inch of what that position did to me: the thong stretched between my thighs, the tiny lacy panel pressed directly over my waxed, throbbing sex, the cool air on the insides of my knees, the weakness in my legs.
I took hold of my thighs with my hands because he had said to hold them that way, and because if I did not I thought they might close on their own.
I waited.
It was much worse than if he had entered the bedroom at once.
I stared at the ceiling and listened for him, my heart racing.
I wondered whether he would speak first when he entered, whether he would make me look at him, whether he would touch me there before the punishment or simply begin.
The uncertainty had a life of its own. My body had already become too alert, too tense, too aware.
When he came in at last, I heard his soft footfalls, and I felt his presence, before I quite saw him.
I raised my head as he stopped at the foot of the bed and looked down at me long enough that I squirmed. His gaze moved over my body with a steadiness that made me feel both cherished and appraised.
“Very obedient,” he said quietly. “And extraordinarily beautiful.”
The praise made my throat tighten. It felt unbearable that he could stand there about to do this and still make me feel that hot, melting response to approval.
“Please,” I whispered. “Please just do it.”
One dark eyebrow moved slightly. “Just do what?”
My face flamed. “Spank me… my… my pussy. Please, sir. Get it over with.”
He came closer to the bed, and for one mad, bizarrely hopeful second I thought he might actually grant that request.
Instead his hand settled high on my inner thigh.
My limbs jerked.
“No,” I said at once, panic and arousal colliding. “No, please, don’t—”
His fingers moved over the lace panel of the thong with infuriating gentleness. The fabric was already damp, and the way he touched me made that humiliating fact even more obvious. He stroked through the lace, slow and knowing, pressing just enough over my clit to make my whole body arch.
“Oh,” I gasped.
“That’s right,” he murmured. “Feel how ready this little cunt gets when it’s going to be corrected.”
“It’s not correction if you—” I stopped because his fingers had found a rhythm that made coherent thought impossible.
He smiled faintly, as if at the unfinished protest, and then he hooked one finger under the soaking gusset and drew it aside.
The first direct touch on my bare, waxed pussy made me cry out.
I was too sensitive already, too exposed, and his fingertips seemed to know exactly how to use that.
He did not thrust a finger inside me at first. He simply played with the slick folds he had had prepared for his pleasure, spreading me, circling me, letting me feel how wet I was.
“Sir,” I whispered, half plea, half warning, though I no longer knew what I was trying to stop him from doing.
He slid one finger into me.
I moaned and bit my lip. My hips tried to lift. My hands tightened on my own thighs so hard they almost hurt. He kept me on the edge with absurd ease, his thumb brushing my clit just enough, his finger moving in and out of me with slow, humiliating intimacy.
“That’s it,” he said. “Look at this. So ready.”
I was shaking by then. Every nerve had begun to gather toward a single unbearable point. I knew what he was doing. I knew he was making it worse. My body didn’t care. My body only knew that he was touching me exactly the way I wanted, exactly the way it had begun to crave.
“Please,” I heard myself say. I didn’t even know whether I meant please stop or please don’t stop.
He brought me one breath away from climax. I could feel it blooming low and hot and inevitable, my back arching, my knees trying to spread wider.
Then he withdrew his hand.
A broken sound came out of me at once.
Before I could even properly protest, he put the gusset back in place over my soaked, aching pussy. The lace clung to me in a way that felt entirely pornographic.
Then he spanked me there, very hard, with his open hand.
I screamed.
The first slap through the wet lace felt like fire.
Not the broad sting of a bottom spanking, not the more familiar burn on flesh made for sitting and walking and discipline, but something shocking and intimate and almost impossible to process, the impact landing directly on the swollen center of me through the soaked little scrap of fabric.
“No! Oh, God… sir… please… no!”
The second swat came almost immediately.
My head threshed from side to side. My knees tried to close. He caught one sharply and forced it back apart.
“Hold still.”
The third spank landed before the tears had fully broken from my eyes.
I sobbed. “Please stop, please stop, I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”
The fourth.
The fifth.
The sixth.
By the end I was screaming and sobbing, my whole lower body aflame, my pussy throbbing under the wet lace in a way that seemed half pain and half some terrible, reconfigured arousal.
I couldn’t breathe properly. I couldn’t think.
I only knew that he had done exactly what he said he would do and that something in me had needed to know he meant it.