I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My brain was too busy short-circuiting on the idea of packing a butt plug and a whip in the same suitcase as my cute new swimsuits and my SPF 30 sunscreen.
Mike waited, just long enough to make it clear that this was not a joke or an option. I shuffled over and picked up the plug, the weight of it shocking in my hand. I wrapped it quickly in a t-shirt and stuffed it down into the side pocket of my bag, then did the same with the martinet, careful to keep the tails hidden. My face felt like it could ignite a stove.
Mike watched me the whole time, arms folded, the corner of his mouth twitching just enough to let me know he enjoyed my embarrassment. When I zipped the bag, he leaned over and kissed me on the forehead, like I was a little kid who’d just done a good job.
“There,” he said. “That’s my girl.”
I didn’t know what to say. So I asked the only question I could think of. “Where are we going?”
He picked up my bag as if it weighed nothing at all, then gestured toward the door. “You’ll see.”
CHAPTER 20
Laura
The ride to SFO felt surreal, like something out of a movie. Mike drove like a man who had spent his life getting what he wanted. The Porsche was whisper-quiet and almost predatory, slipping through city streets and then onto the freeway with a forceful acceleration that pressed me back against the leather. I couldn’t stop glancing at Mike, trying to read his mood. Sometimes his profile was all business—jaw set, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, mouth a straight line. Then he’d reach over and put his hand on my thigh, fingers drumming lightly, and the pressure of his touch would make my heart stutter.
I kept picturing the humiliating contents of my suitcase. I kept feeling the medium plug, heavy and obscene under my sundress, a mortifying promise of more degradation to come.
With the windows up, I could smell Mike—something expensive and faintly metallic, his own musk mingled with his cologne into the masculine scent I remembered all too well from the night he’d fucked my face. I shifted in my seat, feeling the plug press against my inner muscles, a constant reminder of what I was: not a girlfriend, but a possession… a project. An investment. A discipline case.Soon, I added mentally, with a hot blush,a fuck toy.
We pulled off the freeway before the main SFO exit, gliding into a glass-walled building labeled ‘Signature Flight Support.’ Mike’s ID was waved through by a uniformed attendant. The car was whisked away by a valet the moment we’d emerged from it, with another attendant taking charge of our luggage. This had nothing in common with the family vacations I remembered, piling out of the minivan to wait in line at United check-in. There was a private lobby, white leather couches, and a wall of silent TVs, a full espresso bar attended by a woman in a navy sheath dress. Mike had made a call on the way, so within three minutes a young man in a blazer and tie came to collect our bags (“Mr. Gallagher, this way, please.”), and a golf cart zipped us across the tarmac, past rows of jets gleaming in the morning sun.
“That’s us,” Mike said, pointing at a long, sleek plane with a swoosh of silver on the tail. The kind of jet I’d only ever seen in TikToks about billionaires, or in movies where people did cocaine off glass tables. The name ‘Gallagher Partners’ was stenciled in a minimalist font near the door.
I wasn’t prepared for the inside. I expected leather seats, but not the hush of deep carpet or the way the air felt different—cooler, perfumed, with a perfection that made me think of the inside of a jewelry box. There was a living room, an actual living room, with couches and a long table set for two. A woman in a pencil skirt and white blouse stood waiting, smiling in a way that made me feel instantly transparent.
“Welcome, Mr. Gallagher. Miss Martindale,” she said. “May I offer you a beverage?”
Mike looked at me, as if waiting to see whether I would order. I felt my face go hot.
“Um… water?” I managed.
He smiled, almost indulgent. “Champagne for both of us,” he told the attendant, then to me: “You should celebrate your first private flight.”
The attendant reappeared almost instantly with an actual silver tray and two flutes of champagne. There was a tiny strawberry in each glass. I took mine with a hand so shaky the glass clinked against my teeth.
Mike waited until the attendant withdrew to the front of the cabin, then raised his glass. “To new beginnings,” he said, watching me over the rim.
I tried to echo, but my voice didn’t work—I just nodded, and took a sip. The champagne was icy and sweet, bubbles rushing up my nose, making me cough. Mike laughed and reached over to squeeze my hand.
“You’ll get used to it,” he said, happiness so evident in his eyes that my heart skipped a beat.
The engines started with a rumble that vibrated through the soles of my feet, and I felt the weird, lightheaded thrill of the jet taxiing straight from the little waiting area onto the runway. No lines, no boarding groups, just a seamless flow from the car to the sky. The attendant came back, checked that we were buckled in, and then the plane started to move—not the slow, lumbering crawl of commercial flights, but a lurching, greedy surge. I found myself gripping the armrest and Mike’s hand at the same time.
“Scared?” he asked, voice low.
“Excited,” I admitted, and was surprised to find it was mostly true. The whole thing felt impossible, like a dream where you could fly.
“We’ll be over the Pacific in a few minutes,” Mike said, and his hand slid from mine to rest on my knee.
I nodded, but couldn’t look at him. The view was a strip of runway flashing past, then a quick, stomach-dropping tilt as we left the earth behind. The city shrank so fast it was like time-lapse. The bay was a piece of wrinkled blue fabric, the bridges like matchsticks.
I sipped my champagne, letting the bubbles numb the inside of my mouth. I was aware of Mike’s hand, inching up my thigh, fingers kneading gently. The plug in my bottom seemed to throb in time with the engines of the plane.
The attendant came back with a tray of food. Sliced fruit, little crackers, a dome of cheese.
“Thanks, Elena,” Mike told her, “but we’ll have that a little later.”
