I sink to the floor, my body moving as though I have no control over anything anymore.
The polished concrete is cool beneath my knees and palms. My naked breasts sway and I know my position offers anyone who looks a perfect, unobstructed view of my most intimate self.
I look up at him, my Master.
His expression is one of approval. “Perfect. So perfect for me.”
He gives the lead a little flick, and I understand. I follow as he begins to walk, moving on my hands and knees beside him. Crawling like the dog he has made of me. The perspective is dizzying. I see legs and shoes, the undersides of chairs, the swirling patterns in the polished floor.
I am owned.
I am his pretty little pet on display for everyone to see.
Every glance from the people we pass; curious, admiring, envious even, feels like a tribute to his ownership of me.
But he doesn’t lead me to a chair. He leads me directly to the stage. The performers have finished, leaving the frame empty. A hush falls over the immediate vicinity as Antonio, with me crawling behind him, ascends the few steps onto the platform. The golden spotlight shifts, centering on us.
My heart slams against my ribs. Some sort of reason comes back to me, and I’m more than aware that the entire club can see us now.
“Stand, Dog,” Antonio commands softly.
I don’t want to. I don’t want to do this. I want to curl up, to hide, to be anywhere but where I am right now.
But I rise on trembling legs, supremely conscious of my near-nudity under the blazing light.
“Arms out to your sides.”
No. No.
I obey, spreading my arms like a crucifix. From his pocket he produces a length of deep crimson silk rope, the same colour as the velvet chairs. His movements are not rushed; they are ritualistic, an artist preparing his canvas for the entire world to see. He begins at my left wrist, looping the rope in a complex, beautiful knot that is firm but not cutting. He attaches it to a hook on the overhead frame. He does the same with my right wrist, pulling my arms taut so I am stretched open, utterly vulnerable. The silk is surprisingly soft against my skin.
He moves down, tying a harness around my torso. The ropes cinch beneath my breasts, pushing them up and out, making them appear even fuller. Each loop, each pull of the rope is a deliberate caress. His fingers brush my pierced nipples, my stomach, the sensitive skin of my inner arms, leaving trails of fire that have me quivering.
It shouldn’t feel like this. It shouldn’t be like this. Why am I just standing here, letting this happen?
He kneels, tying each of my ankles to the base of the frame, spreading my legs apart as he exposes the lace of my panties to the silent, watching room.
“Shhh,” he murmurs, feeling the tremors that run through me. “Breathe. Feel the ropes. They are your Master’s embrace, they are holding you safe. They are showing everyone how beautiful you are.” His hand slides between my thighs, pressing against the lace. “How perfect my pet is.”
His touch combined with the restraint and the blinding exposure is a potent cocktail. The fear is still there, a bright, sharp edge but it’s being steadily overwhelmed by a deep, throbbing arousal I can’t deny.
I am a spectacle.
My Master is right; the gazes I meet in the crowd are not mocking. They are hungry, appreciative. They are admiring his handiwork.
“Look at them, Pet.” he whispers, his mouth close to my ear as his fingers continue to trace patterns on my bound skin. “Look at them all admiring you. Do you know who they are? Do you see? That man there with the silver hair? He’s the CEO of a global bank. The one beside him, trying to hide his glee? He’s a senator who chairs the finance committee. And him,” Antonio says, his voice dropping even lower, his finger subtly indicating a heavyset man near the front, his eyes glued to my spread legs, “that’s Robert Pembroke. He was your father’s business partner for twenty years.”
The name hits me like a kick to my stomach. Robert Pembroke. Uncle Bobby. The man who gave me a pony. He is here, he is seeing this. He is seeing the ropes, the collar, the desperate arousal that I know is soaking my panties even if I don’t want it to.
A wave of shame tries to crest but Antonio’s hand on my breast, his thumb circling my nipple stops it. Robert Pembroke knows Titus Ratcliffe’s daughter, and he is seeing what she has truly become. What the Brethren and Antonio Macrae have made of her.
The humiliation is a knife slicing right through the belly of my soul.
“Are you thrilled, my pet?” Antonio purrs. “Knowing they can see you? Seeing what I have made of you? My beautiful, bound whore.”
I gasp, my head falling back against the frame. “Please…” I beg. I don’t want this. I don’t… the shock is so sudden I scream. My body jerks in the restraints, and I feel the way the ribbon turns from something soft to something biting.
“Pet.” Antonio says in a voice that is no longer laced with honey. “You know what I expect of you. You know how you are meant to behave.”
