“Discipline and reward, ladies and gentlemen,” Mike announced, finishing with a final, brutal thrust. “That’s the Selecta guarantee.”
He came inside me, and the fantasy ended in a dazzling white blur, my whole body racked with spasms. I lay on my back in the real world, the sheets tangled around my legs, my hand pressed to the seal as the plug in my bottom throbbed with each pulse of my orgasm.
I lost track of time. I dozed off, waking sometime later to find my hand still between my thighs, my fingers slick with sweat and need. My nipples ached from how hard I’d squeezed them, and I could feel the wetness leaking from the little hole at the base of my labia.
I lay there, trying to calm myself, to find sleep again. I thought I was done—I’d come so hard, so many times, that my hand was exhausted and my thighs ached from pressing together. The plug in my bottom felt enormous now, its presence a kind of molten ache that pulsed with every heartbeat. My breasts throbbed from overstimulation, and my thighs were slick with the evidence of my own need, my own shame.
But the moment I shifted on the sheet, the sensation of raw soreness against the soft cotton made me gasp, and a fresh wave of arousal rolled through me, just as intense as before. My hand slid down again almost involuntarily, drawn by the instinct that had driven me all night, the one that refused to let me rest even when my whole body screamed for mercy.
I pressed my palm flat against the seal, the way I’d done in the shower, and rocked my hips. The frictionless pressure was so hot, so urgent, it made me want to scream. In my mind, Mike’s voice echoed: “Remember, sweetheart, you only get to feel this because I let you. You’re sealed until I say otherwise. All that desperation is for my pleasure, not yours.”
My other hand grasped behind me, twisting the plug, and the feeling shot through me, overwhelming and immediate. I imagined Mike standing over me, watching through the camera, his phone in hand, reading the real-time spikes on the sensor with a little smile on his face. He’d know exactly how much I needed him, how badly I wanted the thing I could never have until he said I could have it.
I came again, this time crying out helplessly, the sound muffled by the pillow I’d pulled over my face. It was so intense that my vision went black for a second, the world reduced to the pounding of my heart and the relentless clenching of my core. I felt something wet on my cheek, realized I was crying for real now, sobbing into the pillow as I worked myself through the aftershocks.
But another layer of fantasy rose up to meet me, darker and deeper than before. I imagined Mike finally deciding I was ready, unlocking the seal with a little vial of solvent, peeling it open with his own hands while I whimpered and begged him to be gentle. In my mind, he didn’t wait—he pushed me back on the bed and drove into me, hard and deep, splitting me open with the cock I’d already learned to worship. I could feel the pain, the stretch, the impossible fullness, and I screamed, both in the fantasy and in the real world, feeling my whole body seize up around the plug.
And then the orgasm hit me, wave after brutal wave. I clawed at the sheets, my legs thrashing, my voice gone hoarse from crying out. The plug in my ass seemed to anchor the feeling, to amplify it, turning my whole body into a single trembling muscle of pleasure and shame.
When it was over, I curled into a ball, my hands between my thighs, my face turned to the wall. Tears kept coming, but now they felt clean, like I’d finally wrung out every last drop of need. My mind floated free, and I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER 19
Mike
The video the SA app curated for me, of Laura’s naughty night, moved me a good deal more deeply than I had expected. For better or worse, and to my great surprise, I found I couldn’t get my mind off of her despite the extremely interesting, and potentially lucrative, meetings I was having in New York.
On my way back to San Francisco Friday morning, I decided I had to make my next time with Laura as special as it could possibly be. From the air I sent her a message in the app.
I have a surprise for you. Pack for the weekend. Bring a bathing suit or two. I’m going to give you a $1000 shopping budget. I want you to spend all of it today.
The instant I hit send, a surge of nervous anticipation ignited in my chest, which was a ridiculous reaction for a man who’d closed three nine-figure deals in the last fiscal quarter. Still, I found myself checking the app’s video channel as soon as Laura’s notification pinged on my wrist. She’d read the message immediately—her eyes had gone wide, her lips parted, and she’d clapped a hand over her mouth in a gesture so raw and girlish it made my pulse skip.
She started pacing, back and forth across the micro-apartment’s living room, clutching her phone as if the message might vanish if she looked away. The biometric overlay showed her heart rate had jumped by twenty BPM; the overall arousal line coming from her perineal sensor, naturally, spiked in tandem. I wondered how she would spend the money. Would she splurge on something extravagant, or try to impress me with thrift? The nice thing about Laura was that, despite her apparently middle-of-the road style—Sacramento as the Midwest, she’d called it, hadn’t she?—her responses never seemed quite what I expected.
I had sponsored two girls before Laura through SA. I had thought myself quite interested in them—in their bodies, of course, but also in doing things to help them and make them happy. I realized now, however, as I began to explore the full extent of the surveillance features in the app, that what I’d started to feel for Laura Martindale represented a different order of magnitude.
To my surprise I found that when I tapped Laura’s icon a dialogue popped up, asking whether I wanted to pay a surcharge to follow her through Selecta’s main security feed—the one that covered the entire city, including public transit, cabs, and rideshare vehicles. I didn’t hesitate.
So, a few minutes later, I had the ability to watch her in the backseat of a rideshare headed to Union Square. The camera feed from the car showed her studying fashion blogs and TikToks the whole way, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her t-shirt. The moment she stepped onto the sidewalk, she transformed—her body language became purposeful, her stride almost predatory as she made for the enormous bulk of the Nordstrom flagship.
I had to turn off Wi-Fi for landing then, but by the time my jet had landed Laura had started to try on bathing suits. I couldn’t stop watching much of the way across the country; ensconced in a boutique fitting room my adorable naughty girl aimed for ‘cute and modest’ at first, but quickly caving to curiosity about the more revealing options. She settled on three: a simple black one-piece that fit her like a glove, a blush pink bikini with ties that played up her petite build, and, for reasons I instantly understood, a white microkini so minimal it could barely be called clothing. The feed from the perineal sensor lit up like a Christmas tree when she tried on the last one. She bought all three, along with a pair of tiny denim shorts and an oversized straw hat.
After a quick detour for designer sunglasses and sandals, she stopped back at Nordstrom for a white sundress, three sets of matching lacy underwear, and a bottle of floral perfume. The shopping total came to $973, which I could only interpret as a deliberate attempt to please me: a little discipline, a little indulgence, all within the boundaries I’d set.
By the time the valet had brought my Porsche to the curb, Laura had returned to the apartment and packed her new things in a small roller bag. She seemed to be spending the rest of the afternoon alternating between compulsive cleaning and staring at her phone. The dominant in me wondered if I should deliberately keep her waiting past the agreed pickup time, just to watch her squirm. Instead, I stopped briefly at home to restock my suitcase and headed over to pick her up. Just before I started the car I messaged her in the app.
Ready to go? I’ll be there in ten. Put the medium plug in your adorable little bottom.
Laura
I couldn’t keep still as I waited for Mike. I kept checking the time on my phone, even though I’d already set the SA app—on the app’s advice—to send a notification when my sponsor got within a block of the building. My roller bag was packed and sitting at the door, the new sundress I’d bought for the trip fluttering nervously around my legs each time I paced past the window. I’d changed outfits three times—first the denim shorts and cropped tee, then the black one-piece swimsuit under a sheer coverup, before finally settling on the white dress with my new sandals. The label was still in the pocket. The thought that Mike would see it, know I’d bought it for him, made my face go hot.
I checked myself in the mirror for the tenth time. The dress was tight enough to show the curve of my hips, but long in the skirt, hitting just below my knees. My arms looked thin and pale, but the neckline was flattering. My straight hair was behaving for once, tucked behind my ears with a little extra shine from the leave-in conditioner I’d splurged on at Nordstrom. Even my face, with only a little makeup, looked fresher than it had in weeks.
Except for the color in my cheeks. I’d been blushing nonstop since the moment I’d gotten Mike’s first message this morning.
Thinking about him made my pussy clench involuntarily behind the seal that had come to seem almost normal. I squeezed my thighs together, feeling the ever-present bulk of the medium plug. I had been trying not to look at it, on the bathroom counter, since taking it out and cleaning it the morning after what I couldn’t keep from calling, to myself, my naked night. Putting it in again on Mike’s instruction though had seemed, dismayingly, almost normal; having it there now was a gentle, constant pressure that reminded me with every step that I belonged to someone. That I was here, waiting for him.
