CHAPTER 16
Mike
I had a shit-ton of work to do the next day, but I couldn’t help myself. As soon as I’d made my coffee I fetched my phone from the bedside table and pulled up Laura’s feed in the SA app.
I found her in the bathroom, standing naked in front of the mirror. The morning light streaming through the window made her look impossibly innocent—vulnerable in a way that sent a possessive thrill through my chest. I felt sure she hadn’t remembered the camera feed yet, hadn’t realized I could watch her like this.
Her hand moved behind her, reaching back tentatively. I watched her fingers find the base of the plug, saw her face flush as she gripped it. The hesitation was evident in every movement—the way she bit her lower lip, the way her breathing quickened. Then, slowly, she began to pull.
The data feed from her perineal sensor spiked immediately. I leaned back against my headboard, my coffee forgotten on the nightstand, completely absorbed in watching the numbers climb. Her arousal was unmistakable—the metrics showed her body responding even as embarrassment colored her cheeks a deep pink.
She gasped as the widest part of the plug stretched her, and I saw her free hand grip the edge of the sink for support. The plug came free with what looked like a pop, and her whole body shuddered. The sensor data showed a sharp spike—not quite an orgasm, but close. Very close.
Christ, this girl was responsive.
I watched her stand there for a moment, trembling, the plug held in her hand like she didn’t quite know what to do with it. She had her eyes turned away as if to keep herself from seeing what state her bottom had left the device in. Then she turned on the tap and began washing it with methodical care, her face burning brighter with each pass of her soapy hands over the silicone. The data feed continued to show elevated arousal—the act of cleaning the plug that had been inside her all night was turning her on.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
She dried it carefully and returned it to the bedroom, setting it on the nightstand with obvious reluctance. Then she dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, her movements still slightly awkward, still adjusting to the absence of the fullness she’d carried through the night.
I switched the feed to the living room camera and watched her make coffee, her hands steadier now. She carried the mug to the small desk by the window and opened her laptop. For a moment she just stared at the blank screen, chewing on her lower lip. Then her fingers moved to the keyboard and she began to type.
My chest tightened with something I didn’t want to examine too closely. She was actually doing it. Actually working on the proposal I’d asked for instead of spiraling into shame or regret about what had happened between us.
I watched her work for twenty minutes, her expression shifting from uncertain to focused to almost excited as she typed. She stopped occasionally to research something on her phone, taking notes in a document I couldn’t see. But the posture, the intent concentration—it was exactly what I’d hoped to see. She needed this. Needed something to pour her intelligence into, something that mattered.
I opened the messaging function in the app and began typing, keeping my tone warm but firm.
Good morning, sweetheart. I hope you slept well.
Laura
I saw the notification pop up on my laptop screen while I was typing, and my stomach did a somersault. The SA app had pinged with a new message from Mike. I hesitated, my fingers frozen over the keyboard, before clicking to open it.
Good morning, sweetheart. I hope you slept well.
My face went hot. To my surprise I had slept relatively well. At first, the plug had reminded me incessantly of its presence—a constant pressure that sent sparks of awareness through my core when I’d shifted. But the way Mike had worn me out acted like a sedative.
I’d woken up once during the night, disoriented and aching a bit, the seal between my legs feeling odd. I’d thought about Mike. About his hands on me. About the way he’d made me come. About the things he’d made me do. Somehow their very dreamlike quality had sent me back into more dreams, of the kind that faded completely when I woke.
I stared at the message, trying to figure out how to respond. What was I supposed to say? That I’d been hyperaware of what he’d put inside me when I woke? That removing the plug this morning had nearly made me come? That even now, sitting here trying to work on the proposal he’d assigned, all I could think about was how empty I felt without it?
My fingers moved to the keyboard before I could overthink it.
Good morning, sir. I slept… okay. I’m working on the proposal now.
I hit send and immediately wanted to take it back. Too casual? Too formal? I had no idea what the right tone was for messaging the man who’d spanked me and made me swallow his cum less than twelve hours ago.
The response came a few seconds later.
Good girl. I’m proud of you for getting started right away. I want you to know that you did beautifully last night. You pleased me very much.
My chest went warm, and I felt myself sitting up straighter, my lips curving into an involuntary smile. He was proud of me. He thought I’d done well.
God, what was wrong with me? Why did his approval matter so much?
But even as I asked myself the question, I knew the answer. Because no one had been proud of me in a long time. Not my parents, not my professors, not anyone. I’d been drifting for months—maybe years—just trying to survive without any real sense of purpose or direction.
