Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 80699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
To help you learn your place.
I would be spanked regularly. Maybe I would also regularly find myself in front of my reflection, the image of the independent young woman, clad in silk but with her hands behind her head to demonstrate that even dressed in such luxury, even comfortably pampered by her keeper, she nevertheless had a place—a lower place, a subservient place—that she must learn.
Here in LA, in this apartment, as a wealthy man’s bed girl who must keep herself ready for his use whenever he chose… and if the white dress should happen… I swallowed hard.
If the white dress happens, it won’t make you any less of a fuck toy.
I heard him coming up behind me. Even the knowledge of his nearness set my tummy fluttering and made my nipples tingle. Then, suddenly his hands were on me, from behind. His left hand seized my throat, delicately but firmly. His right hand pressed at the silk of my dress, between my thighs, so that through the thin fabric of the dress and the lace of my panties and the sealed lips of my pussy I could still feel his lewd, possessive touch where I needed it the most.
I whimpered softly as his warm breath whispered against my right cheek. His lips pressed against my ear, and my hips bucked at the jolt of arousal the sensation brought.
“Shh, Rebel,” he murmured. “You did a good job cleaning up. No extra punishment for that.”
My face puckered almost painfully with the urgency of my shame and need. Somehow the almost-brutal firmness of Christian’s hand in training me had made any little concession he gave to my obedience a moment of piercing relief and joy—as well as a reminder that my master had made clear that if he chose he would whip me anyway, just because I needed it and he enjoyed bestowing harsh discipline on his bed girl’s bare bottom and her naughty pussy.
“Thank you, sir,” I breathed, not even thinking about how compliant I must sound, how committed to learning my place as Christian’s sexual servant, despite him calling me Rebel. I searched inside myself, and I found the rebel, down deep, still independent and still willing to rebel: she would return, I promised myself. Just not tonight.
His hands moved, and he stepped back a little. He took my wrists into his grasp and lowered them to my sides.
“Let’s get you out of your dress,” he said, releasing my hands and beginning to unzip the back of the gorgeous garment.
I closed my eyes. I couldn’t bear to see the girl in the window having her naughty underwear shown to the voyeuristic gaze of every passerby who happened to glance upward.
“No, Leah,” Christian said, his voice stern. “Open those beautiful eyes. I want you to watch.”
I let out a little sob. Of course he wanted me to watch; I had already understood the point, hadn’t I? And I knew what would happen if I disobeyed: the little tremble of panic that in some crazy, paradoxical way sent a thrill to my clit showed that I knew. My keeper would punish me for that in addition to what I already had coming.
My eyes opened, and I saw in the plate glass the well-dressed man helping the girl to shrug the beautiful dress to the floor, in a pool of green silk around her ankles. I saw the girl’s lacy white lingerie, the evidence that she had known, as she had prepared herself for her evening with her billionaire keeper, that she would have to yield her body’s most intimate places to his gaze and his use.
Christian took hold of my wrists again, and raised my hands back to their submissive position on the back of my neck. Then he stepped away for a moment. Confused, I turned my head to find that he had moved to the corner of the living room, where for the first time I noticed a seam in the wall, traveling up from the floor and over and back down, almost in the shape of a door.
“Apartment,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder at me, with a strict expression in his eyes that made my face go hot and my attention go back to the lewd image in the window’s reflection. “Open furniture compartment.”
I heard a click, and then I felt, thanks to my skin being so exposed, a subtle puff of air. I risked a look back over at the corner, to see that a door had indeed swung outward. Christian had already begun to pull something out of the little closet, a low piece of furniture—a hassock, or an ottoman, or maybe a special sort of coffee table with padding on the top, designed by Selecta for what I instantly suspected, and dreaded, must represent its primary purpose.