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)
Normal sounds. A normal day at the beach.
At a resort I could never afford in my wildest dreams, if I weren’t a billionaire’s fuck toy.
And I was lying here in the midst of this wealth and luxury with my punished bottom on display, marked as property, sealed and plugged and waiting to be deflowered by the man who owned me.
My pussy warmed at the thought, and I bit my lip. The constant ache of arousal had become almost background noise, but it surged to the forefront whenever I thought about what Mike had promised. Today. He would open the seal. He would finally claim my virginity properly, pushing that enormous cock into the place that had been saved for him.
The drinks arrived, and Mike pressed a cold glass into my hand. Some kind of tropical cocktail, sweet and strong. I sipped it gratefully, the alcohol helping to ease the knot of tension in my stomach.
“How are you doing?” Mike asked.
“Okay,” I whispered, surprised to find it was mostly true. “I’m… okay.”
“That’s my girl.” His hand found the small of my back, stroking gently. The touch was affectionate rather than sexual, but it still made my breath catch. “You’re being so brave.”
Brave. Was that what this was? It didn’t feel brave. It felt terrifying and humiliating and overwhelming. But underneath all that, there was something else. Pride. The same dark, confusing pride I’d felt when Mike had praised me for taking his cock in my bottom last night.
I was pleasing him. Being a good girl for him. And that mattered more than the stares or the whispers or my own mortification.
Time passed in a strange blur. Mike went for a swim at some point, and I watched him from my chair, my eyes tracing the lines of his body as he moved through the water. He was beautiful—tall and athletic, his movements confident and controlled. And he was mine. Or rather, I was his, but somehow that meant he belonged to me too, in some way I didn’t fully understand yet.
When he returned, water dripping from his hair and body, he settled back into his chair and picked up his phone. I watched him scroll through something, his expression focused, and felt a surge of curiosity about what he was looking at. Work emails? The sensor data from my perineal monitor? Something else entirely?
“Sir?” I ventured quietly.
He looked up from his phone, one eyebrow raised. “Yes, sweetheart?”
I hesitated, suddenly unsure what I’d meant to ask. My mind felt fuzzy from the sun and the cocktail and the constant low-level arousal that had become my normal state. “What are you looking at?”
“The app,” he said simply, turning the screen so I could see.
My face went instantly hot. It was the SA app, showing a graph with multiple colored lines that spiked and dipped in patterns I didn’t fully understand. But I recognized enough to know what it was tracking: my arousal, my stress levels, my physical responses to everything that had happened.
“See this?” Mike pointed to a purple line that had been climbing steadily. “This is your baseline arousal over the past few days. It’s getting higher. Your body is learning to stay ready for me.”
I buried my face in my arms, mortified. Of course he’d been monitoring the data. Of course he knew exactly how my body was responding to every degrading thing he did to me.
“And this spike here,” he continued, his finger tracing a sharp upward jump on the screen, “was when you saw the other woman with marks on her bottom. Your arousal jumped twenty percent in about thirty seconds.”
“Please,” I whimpered. “Don’t…”
“Don’t what? Tell you the truth about yourself?” His voice was gentle but firm. “You got turned on seeing another woman who’s been disciplined. Another submissive who belongs to her master. Because it made you feel less alone.”
I couldn’t deny it. The evidence was right there on the screen, my body’s betrayal documented in cold data. But hearing him say it out loud made it real in a way that terrified me.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Mike said, setting his phone aside. “It’s amazing, actually. You’re accepting what you are. Who you are.”
I wanted to argue, to insist that I wasn’t really like this, that it was just the circumstances or the training or something I could eventually overcome. But the words wouldn’t come. Because deep down, in that hot, dark place I’d been trying to ignore my whole life, I knew he was right.
“I want to go in the water,” I heard myself say. Maybe I could hide there, submerged, away from the stares and the terrible exposure.
“Good idea,” Mike said, standing and offering his hand. “The salt water will sting a bit, but then it’ll feel good on your bottom.”
My face blazed at his casual mention of my welts, but I took his hand and let him pull me to my feet. The walk to the water felt endless, and I was acutely aware of every person we passed. An older man looked up from his book and his eyes lingered on my bottom for a moment too long. A group of younger guys by the volleyball net definitely noticed, one of them elbowing his friend and gesturing in my direction.