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 could hardly breathe.
His hand spread over my lower belly and held me still. “And because you dressed wrongly and had to be corrected, you’ll stay this way.”
All night. And tomorrow. He didn’t need to say it. I heard it anyway.
I watched my own face in the mirror as the understanding settled in me. I would walk through my apartment like this. Sit, stand, move, bend, with nothing between the white straps and the bare, waxed places he had claimed. Tomorrow, at work at the café, even under my skirt, every step would remind me. Every glance would make me think maybe someone had noticed that I had no panties on. Worst of all, I knew he meant that reminder to work on me, to deepen the lesson until I felt my own availability as something almost natural.
He leaned close enough that I felt his breath near my ear.
“What do you say?”
The answer came automatically now, though not lightly. “Thank you, sir.”
His eyes met mine in the mirror. “That’s better. We’ll see whether having your panties taken away makes you any more obedient when I bend you over for the next round.”
My knees weakened again.
CHAPTER 25
Alex
A subtle chime rang throughout the apartment.
“That’s dinner,” Porter told me, as he took the bigger of the robes from its hook and put it on. “You may stay in your bedroom until the delivery person leaves.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, because as far as I could tell there was nothing else I had it in me to say.
My apartment was so thoroughly his territory, rather than mine, that being told to wait in my own bedroom felt like a reasonable instruction. I went at once, my bare feet soundless on the floor, my face still warm from his demeaning, impossibly hot treatment of me. In the bedroom I stood for a second beside the bed, listening.
Muted sounds came from the front of the apartment: the soft opening of the door, low male voices too indistinct to make out, the efficient exchange of packages. The door shut again.
A moment later Porter appeared in the doorway. His big, muscular frame, clad in a robe whose belt he could simply unfasten to reveal the manhood that seemed destined to rule over me… my breath caught in my throat at the mere sight of him.
“You may come out,” he told me, an ironic sort of smile curving one side of his mouth.
I followed him into the main room and saw the brown paper bags set neatly on the kitchen island, along with two dark glass bottles of mineral water and a wine already breathing on the counter. The air smelled wonderful almost at once—garlic, basil, something rich and buttery, tomato, warm bread. Maybe it should have made the whole thing feel domestic, but for me it only sharpened the bizarre intimacy of it. I stood there in little more than decorative scraps while my sponsor… the man who had just claimed my anus with his cock… unpacked dinner as if this were the most natural sort of evening in the world.
He glanced toward me. “Sit.”
He plated everything himself. Pappardelle glossy with short-rib ragù. A fennel salad with shaved parmesan. Veal saltimbocca, because apparently he had already learned enough about my taste to order as if he had been feeding me for years. There was warm focaccia wrapped in linen. Little cups of olive oil darkened with pepper.
I stood near the table for a moment, suddenly excruciatingly aware of my body in the lingerie. It was one thing to spread my knees, to be inspected, to be used. It was, paradoxically, another to sit down to dinner in lace and stockings with my waxed sex uncovered and no possibility of pretending I was dressed.
Porter looked up at me once, took in the hesitation, and said only, “Sit down, Alex.”
No amusement. No pointed remark. Just the instruction, delivered as if there were nothing at all unusual in it.
The chair felt cool beneath my bare skin. I was acutely conscious of every inch of myself at first—my breasts held in the lace bra, the tug of the garter straps against my thighs, the bareness between my legs, the exposure of my shoulders and stomach. I half expected him to comment on the view whenever I moved. Instead he served me, unfolded my napkin onto my lap with a neatness that made me blush all over again, poured wine, and began eating.
The effect of his composure on me was as powerful as it was hard to describe. Five minutes later, I still felt embarrassed, but in a softer, stranger way. Porter looked at me often enough that I could tell the sight pleased him, as if he had decorated something beautiful to suit his own tastes and found the presentation successful. And because he seemed to treat that beauty as ordinary, my own body slowly began to stop feeling like an emergency.