Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
He pressed two fingers to the base of the plug, rocking it gently back and forth. The sensation was so intense I had to bite my lip to keep from whimpering. “Perfect,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “You’re ready for the big one, I think.”
I had no idea whether he meant it as a compliment or a threat.
Then his hand lifted and came down, a sharp smack that made me yelp. I straightened up, hugging the dress around my waist, my face burning.
“Next time,” said Mike, “don’t pretend you don’t know what I want. Or you’ll start the weekend with a spanking that makes it hard to sit still on the plane.”
My brain hiccupped on the word plane. I realized I had no idea where we were going, or how we were getting there. I stood there, still clutching at the hem of my skirt, not sure whether to be mortified or thrilled or just plain terrified. Mike looked at me for another long second, then strode past me into the living room. The tread of his shoes on the floor seemed like a countdown, and I found myself following, unable to not obey.
He stopped at the blank space where I knew the hidden door to the sponsor’s cabinet lay. He unlocked it with his phone. There was a faint hiss and a click, and then he opened the door and started to rummage through the shelves like he was picking out snacks for a road trip.
He took it out, and I had to bite my lip to keep from uttering yet another whimper. The plug. The huge one. The one I had dreaded, fantasized about, tried not to think about for two days. He set it on the table with a little clunk. Then he reached in again and took down the martinet. The leather tails looked even more menacing in the daylight, draped over his hand like a horse’s mane.
He turned to me, and I felt my knees go weak.
“Put these in your suitcase,” he said. “You’ll need them.”
I stared at the objects, then at him. “Both?” My voice came out as a squeak.
“Both,” said Mike, with a little smile. “I want you to think of them as accessories you bring for your sponsor’s convenience in training you and enjoying you.”
I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My brain was too busy short-circuiting on the idea of packing a butt plug and a whip in the same suitcase as my cute new swimsuits and my SPF 30 sunscreen.
Mike waited, just long enough to make it clear that this was not a joke or an option. I shuffled over and picked up the plug, the weight of it shocking in my hand. I wrapped it quickly in a t-shirt and stuffed it down into the side pocket of my bag, then did the same with the martinet, careful to keep the tails hidden. My face felt like it could ignite a stove.
Mike watched me the whole time, arms folded, the corner of his mouth twitching just enough to let me know he enjoyed my embarrassment. When I zipped the bag, he leaned over and kissed me on the forehead, like I was a little kid who’d just done a good job.
“There,” he said. “That’s my girl.”
I didn’t know what to say. So I asked the only question I could think of. “Where are we going?”
He picked up my bag as if it weighed nothing at all, then gestured toward the door. “You’ll see.”
CHAPTER 20
Laura
The ride to SFO felt surreal, like something out of a movie. Mike drove like a man who had spent his life getting what he wanted. The Porsche was whisper-quiet and almost predatory, slipping through city streets and then onto the freeway with a forceful acceleration that pressed me back against the leather. I couldn’t stop glancing at Mike, trying to read his mood. Sometimes his profile was all business—jaw set, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, mouth a straight line. Then he’d reach over and put his hand on my thigh, fingers drumming lightly, and the pressure of his touch would make my heart stutter.
I kept picturing the humiliating contents of my suitcase. I kept feeling the medium plug, heavy and obscene under my sundress, a mortifying promise of more degradation to come.
With the windows up, I could smell Mike—something expensive and faintly metallic, his own musk mingled with his cologne into the masculine scent I remembered all too well from the night he’d fucked my face. I shifted in my seat, feeling the plug press against my inner muscles, a constant reminder of what I was: not a girlfriend, but a possession… a project. An investment. A discipline case. Soon, I added mentally, with a hot blush, a fuck toy.
We pulled off the freeway before the main SFO exit, gliding into a glass-walled building labeled ‘Signature Flight Support.’ Mike’s ID was waved through by a uniformed attendant. The car was whisked away by a valet the moment we’d emerged from it, with another attendant taking charge of our luggage. This had nothing in common with the family vacations I remembered, piling out of the minivan to wait in line at United check-in. There was a private lobby, white leather couches, and a wall of silent TVs, a full espresso bar attended by a woman in a navy sheath dress. Mike had made a call on the way, so within three minutes a young man in a blazer and tie came to collect our bags (“Mr. Gallagher, this way, please.”), and a golf cart zipped us across the tarmac, past rows of jets gleaming in the morning sun.