Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
I stared at a firm hand for a full thirty seconds.
Then I left it there.
The app suggested additional tags. I selected discreet, responsive, exclusive preferred. I hovered over enjoys discipline, withdrew my thumb, then selected open to correction instead, which was somehow more humiliating because it was truer to my own evasions.
When I hit save, the app rewarded me with a little visual flourish of a bouquet, and another alert.
Your profile is now optimized for high-value sponsors.
The phrase made me blush all over again. High-value sponsors, as if I were a product being moved to a more expensive shelf.
I tossed my phone onto the comforter and sat very still.
My body felt over-aware of itself. Of the lace against my skin. Of the cool air in the room touching the tops of my breasts where the bra did not cover. Of the ache between my legs I had been trying not to name all evening. It was impossible, after the photographs and the words, not to feel as though I had enacted something already. Submission by increments. I had responded to instruction. I had displayed myself. I had softened my language into the shape men on that app liked. No one had ordered it. Which somehow made it more intimate and more damning.
I lay back on the bed and shut my eyes.
My phone buzzed again almost immediately, and I snatched it up with a desperate speed that embarrassed me even in private.
Another app notification:
Profile refresh complete. Increased visibility active for the next 12 hours.
Still no man. Just the system, noticing and rewarding and nudging me onward like a trainer with a clicker.
But I opened the browse tab anyway.
Porter B. appeared near the top now, whether by algorithm or fate or because I had spent too much time on his profile before, I didn’t know. His photograph looked the same: jaw, mouth, gray at the temple, control in every line of him. His profile’s text opened with the same concise certainty that made the others seem sloppy.
I read it again more slowly than before, in my lingerie on my bed with my own newly softened profile live on the same system that hosted him. That changed the words. Or maybe it changed me. I no longer read them as a spectator peering at some other kind of woman. I read them as a candidate.
I am generous with a woman who pleases me and consistent with one who requires correction.
My hand drifted between my thighs of its own accord.
CHAPTER 5
Alex
I disliked how immediately my imagination supplied the rest. A man’s hand closing around the back of my neck. A low voice telling me what I’d done wrong. The heat in my face and between my legs as punishment became the mainspring of my imagination.
I rubbed my much-too-warm pussy through the mesh lace of my naughty panties. I bit my lip, and a little whimper emerged from my throat.
In my mind, to my horror, I went back, helplessly, to Gowry’s office. His hand in my hair came back to me first… just the feeling, without any of the details of the room where it had happened… the feeling of being held in place by a man’s certainty that his pleasure mattered more than my comfort… while I knelt and tried, and failed, and choked around him. I bit my lip and squeezed, down there, tightening the muscles in a helpless way that made my forehead crease. My fingers slipped under the damp lace because there was no point pretending I meant to stop. My clit felt swollen already, oversensitive, and when I touched it I gasped.
I remembered the shame of it with sickening clarity. My tears. His disgust. The way he had told me I was awful at it, as if my body existed for grading. I should have recoiled from the memory. Instead I found myself rubbing faster, circling the little aching knot while my other hand gripped my own thigh hard enough to leave marks.
I could hear him in my head. Jesus Christ. You’re terrible at this.
That should have killed any trace of arousal. It didn’t. The humiliation made it worse. It made my stomach clench and my nipples ache under the ivory bra. I slid my fingers more firmly against myself, through wetness that had already soaked the gusset of my lacy panties, and felt my face burn with the knowledge of what I was doing.
Then the scene in my mind lurched onward, obedient to whatever lewd little current had seized me.
Bent over the desk. The cold wood under my breasts. The first stripe of pain across my ass. I let out a tiny cry into the empty room and pushed my fingers harder between my pussy lips, rubbing in rough, desperate strokes that made my whole body tense. I could almost feel the belt again, hot and sharp, could almost feel the humiliating spread of heat after each blow.