A naughty girl like meshouldbe naked in bed with her pussy closed and a sizable plug up her little bottom. A girl like me had to learn about her body’s shameful needs in an equally shameful way.
I twisted the plug experimentally, and the feeling shot straight through the root of me, like a forbidden nerve had been plugged directly into my brain. I gasped, rolling onto my back again, my legs scissoring under the sheet. The air on my nipples made them pebble, and I brought my hand up to cup one breast, squeezing it, pinching at the tip the way I liked.
I let my other hand drift down my belly, pausing at the seal. It was so smooth, so final. I pressed my palm flat against it and flexed my thighs, rocking my hips the way Mike had taught me. The pressure of the plug inside me combined with the frictionless resistance of my closed slit, and I found I could build the sensation with just pelvic muscle and imagination alone.
It was the weirdest, hottest thing I’d ever felt, and somehow it only made me want more.
I started to play, not just with my body, but my mind. I let the images come, playing out every fantasy I’d ever had and some that, until last night, would have horrified me.
First, the memory of being spanked over Mike’s knee. The pain, the helplessness, the sound of his voice telling me what a naughty girl I was—it all returned with vivid, cinematic intensity. I could practically feel the heat blooming in my bottom, the way his hand had gripped and shaped me, the impossibility of escape.
Then, escalation: the memory of the orderly’s cane, six precise lines across my bare cheeks, the way I’d been forced to count and thank him. I imagined Mike standing over me with the same cane, his face stern but his eyes full of a secret pride, making me bend over the boardroom table in front of a dozen silent, watching men in expensive suits.
The image made me clench so hard I almost came.
“Please,” I whispered to the darkness. “Please, no… I can’t… I can’t bear it.”
My mind and my aching pussy pushed me further. I needed more… I needed a sterner lesson. I was naked in bed, playing with myself. I had earned a whipping. I cried, begged on my knees not to have my panties taken down… to be spanked instead…
But Mike took the terrifying thing—the martinet—from the cabinet. He restrained me over a piece of gleaming gym equipment, my wrists and ankles buckled in with stout leather. My sponsor lashed the whip against my exposed skin, laying down stripes that made me gasp and shudder, until I was a mess of tears and arousal, sobbing out apologies and promises to be better next time.
“I want to be a good girl for you,” I murmured, suddenly wondering with a surge of heat to my face and beneath my hand, where I could feel the wetness emerging from the little opening, whether Mike could hear me. “Please… no more whipping. Please let me suck your beautiful cock.”
My hand worked my breast harder, and I could feel more of my need escaping the seal, trickling down to the sheet, proof of how responsive I’d become.
But that wasn’t enough. I needed more. I needed to see what would happen if I let myself fantasize about the thing that Mike had hinted at, that he’d promised would come next: his cock, huge and inexorable, stretching me open in the place that he had already begun to train for his pleasure.
In my mind, he was there, kneeling behind me, spreading my cheeks and pressing the head of his cock against my lubed, quivering hole. I begged him to go slow, but he told me, in that calm, implacable way, that I had to learn to serve his needs. I felt the stretch, the fullness, the impossible invasion—and I came, just from the thought of it, my body clenching around the plug.
The orgasm left me limp and gasping, legs splayed, the sheet twisted between my thighs. But as soon as the aftershocks faded, the need returned—sharper, more insistent than before. I couldn’t stop. My hand drifted back down, found the seal, the pressure of the plug, the impossible ache inside me. I squeezed and rocked and let my mind slide deeper into the dark places it had never dared before.
This time, I pictured a vast, glass-walled boardroom. Mike stood at the head of a long table, flanked by men and women in suits, every face turned toward me as I walked, naked across the polished floor toward my sponsor. I tried to cover myself, but my hands were cuffed behind my back, leaving my breasts and sealed pussy exposed for all to see. The plug in my bottom was even more enormous in this vision, a shameful, glittering jewel for the board’s entertainment.
Mike adjusted his tie, and announced to the room, “This is Laura. She’s going to demonstrate our latest discipline protocols.” I whimpered—in the fantasy, in the real world, maybe both—as he bent me over the table. The board members leaned in, their polite, professional detachment no match for the carnality of the scene. My cheek was pressed to the polished wood, my eyes turned to the windows. I could see the city below, thousands of people who could see in, could see the fuck toy laid over the table.
Someone asked a question about the philanthropy software, and Mike answered while he spread my cheeks and pushed the plug in and out, showing them all how efficient and effective the program could be. “You see,” he said, voice smooth and certain, “when you close off the primary sensory feedback loop, urges simply relocate. Users adapt. They become more driven, more creative. The energy flows into whatever you direct it toward.” He punctuated his words with a hard thrust of the plug, and I sobbed, my backside on fire, my arousal lighting up the room’s biometric trackers like the Nasdaq in a bull market.
My body tensed and I came again, the orgasm blinding me for a moment, my hand clutching the seal so hard I left nail marks on my own skin. But even as the pleasure reached a crescendo, I was already slipping further into the next layer of the fantasy.
Now it was the company’s annual meeting, a thousand shareholders in the auditorium, every seat filled with expectant faces. I stood onstage, naked but for kitten heels and the plug, a Selecta-branded ribbon tied in a bow over my sealed slit. Mike stood behind me, his hands gripping my hips, his cock pressed between my ass cheeks. He told the crowd that tonight, he would reward the top performer with a live demonstration of ‘total discipline and total reward.’
He pushed me to my knees and made me suck him while the crowd watched, their polite golf applause morphing into wild cheers as I serviced his cock with all the skill I’d learned in my brief, humiliating apprenticeship. When he pulled me back up, bent me over the podium, he spat in his palm and lined up the head of his cock with my trembling bottom hole.
The plug was gone now; he’d taken it out already, in the green room, and the crowd had been shown the lubricated, shiny object before I’d been led onstage. The anticipation of what he was about to do had made my hands shake and my knees threaten to buckle, but now that I was bent over the podium, I could only whimper and wait for him to push inside.
He did it slowly, at first—the head of his cock pressing, stretching, invading with dreadful inevitability. I whimpered for real, seeing my face pressed to the cold plastic of the podium, the stage lights heating my bare skin. The pain was sharp and instant, but it was the humiliation of being fucked in the ass in front of a thousand people—of being a showpiece for my sponsor’s power—that made my whole body light up.
A camera swooped in from the side, broadcasting the scene on a hundred huge monitors. I could see myself, distorted and larger than life, my mouth open, my eyes wide with shock and ecstasy.
“She’s a little tight, gentlemen,” Mike called to the crowd. “But as you can see, once you’ve closed off a girl’s primary pleasure centers, the alternative channels become highly responsive. Look at her body’s adaptation curve.”
His cock slid deeper, stretching me in a way the plug never had. I sobbed, the pain and the pleasure blurring together until I couldn’t tell which was which. He started to fuck me in earnest, gripping my hips to keep me in place, using me as if I were nothing but a tool for his demonstration.
“She came up with our new philanthropy platform,” Mike went on, not even out of breath as he pumped into my ass. “She’s brilliant, but she needs structure—she needs discipline to keep her focused on the mission. See how she’s squeezing, gentlemen? See the data from the perineal sensor?”
The board members nodded, jotting notes, their faces rapt. On the big screen, a biometrics readout showed my arousal spiking off the chart.
Mike pulled out and spat again, then rammed his cock home, making me scream. The shame of it, the total loss of control, sent me over the edge; I came again, the orgasm so fierce it made me collapse against the podium. The crowd went wild, breaking into actual applause as my sponsor fucked me through my convulsions, never losing his rhythm.
