And now Mike was giving me both. Structure. Expectations. Something to work toward.
Another message appeared.
I need to go out of town for work, but I’ll be back Friday. Keep working on the proposal. I want to see what you come up with.
My heart sank. Friday? That was three days away. Three days without seeing him, without… I forced myself to stop that line of thinking. This was good. I needed time to work on the proposal, to prove I could do something meaningful.
Another message.
One more thing. Tonight at seven p.m., I’m going to open the sponsor’s cabinet remotely. You’re to put the smallplug back in the cabinet and take out the medium one. You’ll insert the medium plug and sleep with it tonight.
My breath caught. The medium plug. I thought about the three sizes I’d seen last night, how the middle one had looked significantly thicker than the small one I’d just removed. My bottom clenched involuntarily at the memory, and I felt a wave of nervous heat wash through me.
I’ll be watching the surveillance feed, the next message said.You are not to masturbate. I’ll see you Friday. I’m going to help you insert the biggest plug then.
Oh, god.The biggest plug. The one that had looked impossibly huge. And he was going to… he was going to help me. Which meant he was going to watch me do it. Maybe touch me while I did it. Maybe?—
I realized I’d put my hand between my thighs without thinking about it, pressing against the seal through my sweatpants. I jerked my hand away guiltily, my face blazing. He could see that. The sensor could tell him exactly what I was doing, and he’d just told me not to touch myself.
I forced myself to type a response with trembling fingers.
Yes, sir. I understand.
I stared at the message thread for another moment, then closed the app and tried to refocus on the proposal document in front of me. The cursor blinked at me mockingly from the middle of a half-formed sentence about donor engagement metrics.
For a few minutes, I couldn’t concentrate at all. My mind kept drifting back to Mike’s messages, to the medium plug waiting in the cabinet, to Friday when he’d help me with the large one. But gradually, as I forced myself to read through what I’d already written, something shifted.
The ideas started flowing again. I found myself getting excited about the concept—a platform that could really connect donors with causes in meaningful ways, that could track real impact instead of just donations. I started researching existing philanthropy apps, taking notes on what worked and what didn’t, sketching out features that could make a real difference.
Two hours passed without me noticing. I was completely absorbed, my fingers flying over the keyboard as I outlined the core functionality, the user experience, the metrics that would matter. This was what I’d loved about computer science before everything had gone wrong—the problem-solving, the creativity, the sense that code could actually make things better.
I sat back finally, stretching my arms over my head, and realized I was smiling. Really smiling, not the fake kind I’d been putting on for months. I had pages of notes, a solid outline, ideas that felt genuinely innovative.
And I hadn’t thought about the seal between my legs in hours.
The realization hit me like cold water. I hadn’t been distracted. Hadn’t been obsessing over the constant aching need. I’d been… focused. Productive. Like a functional human being instead of a desperate mess.
I thought about what Nurse Samuels had said during my intake. About how the seal would help me focus, help me be less distracted by my own arousal. I’d wanted to dismiss it as manipulation, as Selecta trying to justify their cruel procedure. But sitting here now, having just completed two solid hours of productive work, I wondered whether there was something to it.
Maybe not physically, especially given that Mike had taught me that I could still pleasure myself. Mentally, though. Psychologically—maybe knowing that someone had closed me down there and wanted me that way, for my own theoretical good… maybe it had affected me on some subconscious level?
The thought filled me with a complicated mixture of resentment and relief. I hated that they’d been right. Hated that sealing my pussy had actually helped me concentrate in a way I hadn’t been able to for months. But I also couldn’t ignore the evidence right in front of me. I’d just done more meaningful work in two hours than I’d managed in weeks at college.
My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten breakfast. I saved my document and headed to the kitchen, pulling open the fridge. The display on the door lit up with calorie counts and suggested recipes based on the ingredients inside. I grabbed eggs and vegetables, deciding to make an omelet.
As I cooked, my mind kept drifting back to Mike. To the warmth in his voice when he’d praised me. To the way he’d held me after that devastating orgasm, stroking my hair and telling me I was safe. To the impossible contradiction of his tenderness and his dominance.
I thought about the proposal he’d assigned me. How he’d listened when I mentioned my interest in philanthropy software, how he’d remembered it and given me an actual project instead of just using me for sex and leaving. He wanted to see what I could create. He believed I was capable of something meaningful.
The realization made my chest tight with emotion I didn’t want to examine too closely. When was the last time someone had believed in me like that? When was the last time someone had seen potential in me instead of just disappointment?
I ate my omelet at the small dining table, the same one where Mike had fed me last night before everything had spiraled into that intense, overwhelming experience. My bottom still felt tender when I sat down, a reminder of his hand coming down again and again. But underneath the soreness was something else. Something that felt almost like… safety.
Which was insane. How could I feel safe with a man who’d spanked me until I screamed, who’d made me suck his cock, who’d put a plug in my ass and told me I couldn’t touch myself without permission?
But somehow I did. He’d set boundaries. He’d given me structure. He’d told me exactly what he expected, and when I’d obeyed, he’d praised me. When I’d pleased him, he’d made sure I knew it.
After I cleaned up from breakfast, I forced myself to go for a run. The Presidio trails were beautiful in the morning light, and I lost myself in the rhythm of my feet hitting the path. I noticed things I hadn’t paid attention to before—the Victorian mansions in Pacific Heights, the expensive cars parked in driveways, the well-dressed people walking designer dogs.
