“Wait, Mike—sir—what are you?—”
“Shibari rope,” he said calmly, wrapping the smooth cord around my wrist, and then the chair leg, and then both together, with precise movements. “It won’t hurt you, but you won’t be able to get free.”
I tried to pull away instinctively, my fingers scrabbling at the seat cushion, but his grip was iron. He secured my right wrist to the chair leg, then moved to my left side. I twisted, trying to see what he was doing, but the position made it impossible.
“Please, I’ll be good, I promise?—”
“I know you will,” he murmured, binding my left wrist with the same methodical care. “Especially after this.”
The rope was surprisingly soft against my skin, but I could feel how thoroughly it held me. I tugged experimentally and found I couldn’t move my arms at all. My breathing came faster as he moved to my ankles, spreading my knees even wider and securing them to the chair legs. I couldn’t close my legs or protect myself in any way, and the mental image of what Mike could see brought new fire to my cheeks.
I heard him step back, and the silence that followed was worse than anything. My whole body trembled as I waited, bent over the chair with my bottom raised high, my sealed pussy and my anus on display for his viewing pleasure.
Then I heard it—the soft whisper of leather being lifted, the tails of the martinet sliding against each other. My stomach clenched so hard I thought I might be sick.
“I’m going to start now,” Mike said, his voice still that same calm, measured tone. “I’ll finish when I like the way your ass looks, and I think you’re ready to take the plug.”
The first stroke landed across both cheeks, and I screamed. The sensation was nothing like his hand or even the cane—it was sharp and stinging, dozens of tiny lines of fire across my skin. My body jerked against the restraints, but they held firm.
The second stroke came lower, catching the sensitive crease where my bottom met my thighs. I cried out again, tears already streaming down my face.
He worked methodically, covering every inch of my bottom with those terrible leather tails. Some strokes landed diagonally, others horizontally, creating a web of sensation that built and built until I couldn’t tell where one stroke ended and the next began. My whole backside felt like it was on fire.
Then the next stroke landed differently—not across my bottom, but between my spread thighs. I screamed as the martinet struck the tender flesh there, the place where I had been sealed so that Mike would have more pleasure in opening me. The sting intensified the fire that already consumed my bottom. The pain was overwhelming, but there was something else—a deep, primal satisfaction that told me, to my dismay, how right my sponsor was about me. Mike paused, his hand gently caressing my punished cheeks, and I felt a rush of gratitude that made no sense.
“Look at this,” he murmured, his voice filled with a warmth that contrasted sharply with the pain he was inflicting. “Such a pretty shade of pink. Your little bottom is so round and perfect, Laura. It was made to be whipped.”
His fingers traced the welts left by the martinet, and I whimpered, the combination of pain and pleasure sending confusing signals through my body. He continued to whip me, the strokes coming at a leisurely pace, each one building on the last until I was a sobbing mess, my body jerking with every strike.
Mike paused again, his hands fondling my cheeks, squeezing and kneading the flesh. “You’re taking this so well, sweetheart. I’m proud of you.”
His words sent a thrill through me, and I found myself pushing back against his touch, seeking more of his approval. The whipping continued, each stroke layering on the last until my entire bottom was a mass of stinging welts.
Finally, he stopped, and I heard him move away. When he returned, he held a mirror in front of me, angling it so I could see the state of my bottom reflected in the glass of the sliding doors to the lanai. The sight was shocking—my cheeks were a deep, fiery red, crisscrossed with the marks of the martinet. It was a brutal reminder of my punishment, and yet, there was a strange beauty to it, a testament to my endurance and obedience.
“Tomorrow,” Mike said, his voice low and filled with promise, “you’re going to wear that microkini to the beach. And everyone will see what a naughty girl you are, with your whipped bottom on display. I’m looking forward to it.”
I shuddered at the thought, a mix of humiliation and arousal coursing through me. Mike set the mirror aside and returned to stand behind me. I felt something cool and firm press against my anus, and I realized with a jolt of panic that it was the large plug.
“No, please,” I begged, even as my body clenched in anticipation. “I can’t?—”
“Shh, sweetheart,” Mike murmured, pressing the plug firmly against my tight opening. “You can take it. Your body knows how.”
The pressure increased, and I screamed as the plug began to stretch me, the burn intense and overwhelming. Tears streamed down my face, but even as I sobbed, I felt another perverse wave of gratitude wash over me. This was what I needed, what I deserved.
Why?demanded the remaining logical part of my brain. How could I—how could anyone—possibly deservethis?
Mike pushed the plug deeper, and I felt my body yield further than I had imagined possible.
My brain tried to answer the question. The cheating? But I felt like I had paid for that: hadn’t I felt forgiven, after Mike had spanked me the first time?
More pressure. “Oh, god,” I sobbed. “Oh, please. Sir… please…”
“Shh, Laura,” Mike said. “You’re so close.”
What I deserve.
Not because I’m just a billionaire’s fuck toy, a little slut, a dirty whore. Or… maybe not just because of that… because I had definitely become those shameful things… those… those wonderful things…
