Mateus is seated several rows back, near the galley, a laptop open in front of him. He’s pretending to work, but the set of his shoulders is rigid. I know he is watching, and he is judging. Let him. Let him see what true control looks like.
I reach over and trace a finger along the line of Grace’s jaw. She looks up, her brown eyes wide and seemingly guileless.
“We’ll be landing at Ciampino in a few hours, Dumpling,” I tell her, my voice a low murmur meant only for her. “You’ll like the villa. It’s perched on a hill overlooking the city. There are gardens, fountains, a pool that seems to spill into the horizon. You will want for nothing there.”
She offers me a small, sweet smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but the effort is charming. “It sounds beautiful. Thank you, Master.”
I lean closer, my voice dropping even further. “How are you feeling? You’ve had a few days to rest since our little party.” The memory of her, spread out and presented to Charles and his brutes is a dark, possessive thrill that coils in my gut. They used her, but they did so under my command. They enjoyed my property with my permission and I enjoyed watching her take it all, playing my perfect obedient pet.
A delicate blush colours her cheeks. She looks down at her hands, the picture of demure embarrassment. “The rest helped, thank you. I’m, I’m recovered.”
“Good,” I purr. I let the silence stretch for a moment, watching the pulse flutter in her throat. The hum of the jet is the only sound. That, and the quiet tap of Mateus’s stubby fingers on his keyboard, in an obvious beat of disapproval. “Show me.”
Her head snaps up, her blush deepening as confusion clouds her features. “Show you?”
“Yes.” My tone leaves no room for question. “Take off your dress.”
Her eyes flicker, just for a microsecond towards the back of the cabin where my brother sits, like she hasn’t played this part before in front of him. I see the hesitation, the flicker of shame.
Good. Let her feel it. Let him see it. This is not a secret. This is a demonstration.
“Master…” she whispers, a faint plea.
“Now, Pet.” The words are soft but absolute. “Stand up. Take off your dress. Let me see you. Spread your legs and show me your cunt. I want to see that you are truly healed. I want to see what is mine.”
Her breath hitches. For a moment, I think she might refuse. That the spirit she tries so hard to hide might flare up but then with trembling fingers, she stands. She keeps her eyes downcast, avoiding my gaze, avoiding the certain stare I know is burning into her from the back of the plane. The simple, navy blue dress she wears has a zipper at the back. Her hands shake as she reaches for it, the sound of the zipper descending a sharp, metallic rasp in the quiet cabin.
The fabric pools at her feet. She stands before me, bathed in the golden light of the cabin, wearing only a pair of simple white lace panties. Her skin is flawless, a canvas of cream and rose. The bruises those men left on her hips and thighs have faded to faint yellow smudges, like old watercolour paintings. Evidence of her ordeal, but also of my care in healing her.
“The panties too,” I instruct, my voice thick.
She hooks her thumbs into the waistband and pushes them down, stepping out of them. She is completely naked now, exposed under the ambient light and my relentless gaze.
“Sit back, spread your legs. Let me see you.” I command softly.
A soft, shuddering sigh escapes her lips. Slowly, hesitantly she sits back in the seat, spreading her thighs up over the arms, offering herself for my visual inspection. She is breathtakingly beautiful.
I feel my cock stir, thickening against the constraint of my trousers. The animal part of me wants to take her right here, right now over the arm of this chair with Mateus as our unwilling audience. But I want more. I want theatre, I want worship, and I want to prove a point.
I reach into the inner pocket of my suit jacket and produce the object I placed there this morning: a sleek, black vibrator. It’s small but powerful.
Her eyes widen as I hold it up, a silent question in them.
“I want you to play for me, Pet.” I say, my voice a dark caress as I hold the vibrator out to her. “I want you to get that beautiful, treacherous cunt nice and wet for me. I want you to show your Master how much you enjoy entertaining him. How grateful you are for all my care these last few days.”
Her hand trembles as she takes the vibrator from me. Her face is a masterpiece of conflicted emotion: shame, reluctance, a flicker of fear, and beneath it all? A dark, responding thrill that she cannot fully hide.
She is aroused by my command, by the degradation, by the sheer power of it.
“Go on,” I urge, settling back into my chair. I loosen my tie, undoing the top button of my shirt. I feel the hard ridge of my erection press demandingly against my fly. “Make yourself come for me. Let me watch.”
She bites her lower lip, her gaze darting around the cabin as if seeking an escape she knows doesn’t exist. Finally, her eyes close and she turns the vibrator on. The low, insistent buzz is barely audible over the jet’s engines, but I can hear it. I can feel it.
She brings it to her core, her hand tentative at first. The tip of the toy brushes against her outer lips and she gasps, a sharp, involuntary sound. Her body jolts as she begins to explore herself with it, circling her clit, carefully avoiding the piercing that is hanging right there.
Her breathing changes, becoming shallower, quicker. Her other hand comes up to cup her own breast, her thumb brushing over her nipple, pinching it lightly. She is getting into it, losing herself in the sensation, just as I commanded. Her performance is becoming real.
“That’s it,” I murmur, my own breath catching. “Look at you. So beautiful when you’re needy, when you’re wet for me.”
