I looked like exactly what I was: a girl who had been whipped.
My hands trembled as I tied the top, my nipples already hard from the combination of fear and that shameful arousal I couldn’t suppress. The white fabric was so thin it was almost transparent, and I knew it would become completely see-through the moment it got wet.
The coverup hung on the back of the door—a gauzy white thing that fell to mid-thigh. I pulled it on with shaking fingers, but it did almost nothing to hide the marks. The sheer fabric just made them look softer, more artistic somehow, like they’d been deliberately displayed rather than reluctantly covered.
“Oh, god,” I whispered to my reflection as I mechanically rubbed sunscreen all over. “I can’t do this. I can’t.”
But I knew I would. Because the alternative was another whipping, and my bottom couldn’t take that. Because Mike had commanded it, and I had learned that disobeying him only made things worse. Because some dark, twisted part of me wanted to do it—wanted to be displayed this way, marked and owned and utterly his.
“Two minutes,” Mike called from the other room.
I took a shuddering breath and opened the bathroom door. Mike was waiting, his expression unreadable as his eyes traveled over my body. I stood there trembling, my arms wrapped around myself, waiting for his verdict.
“Perfect,” he said softly, and the approval in his voice sent warmth flooding through my chest despite my terror. “Come here.”
I crossed to him on unsteady legs. He turned me around gently, lifting the hem of the coverup to examine his handiwork. His fingers traced one of the welts, and I whimpered at the tender touch.
“So beautiful,” he murmured. “My good girl, marked and ready to show the world who she belongs to.”
He let the coverup fall back into place and took my hand. “Let’s go.”
The walk through the resort felt endless. Every person we passed seemed to stare, though I couldn’t tell if that was real or just my paranoid imagination. The coverup swished against my thighs with each step, and I was hyperaware of how little it concealed. An older couple smiled at us as we passed, and I wanted to die. Could they see? Did they know?
The restaurant was exactly as Mike had described—a sumptuous buffet in an open-air pavilion overlooking the pool and ocean beyond. The other diners wore swimsuits or casual resort clothing. I kept my eyes down as Mike led me to a table near the edge of the pavilion, where the breeze carried the salt smell of the ocean. My face felt like it was on fire, and I was certain everyone was staring at my barely covered bottom, at the marks that stood out so clearly even through the sheer coverup.
“Sit,” Mike said, pulling out a chair.
I lowered myself carefully, wincing as my welted bottom made contact with the cushion. The pain was sharp and immediate. I shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt, but there wasn’t one.
Mike noticed, of course. He always noticed. A knowing smile played at his lips as he settled into his own chair across from me.
“Sore?” he asked quietly.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Good,” he said, and reached across the table to squeeze my hand. “That’s how you’ll remember to be a good girl today.”
A server appeared—a young woman in a crisp white uniform—and I tried to shrink into my chair. Had she seen? Did she know what the marks on my bottom meant? But her smile was professional and friendly as she took our drink orders, showing no sign of judgment.
“Let’s get our food,” Mike said, standing and putting out his hand to me.
“Can’t I…” I started. “Could you… get me something… sir?”
If I stayed seated, no one would see my backside, would they?
“No,” Mike told me. “You’ll choose your own breakfast. I want you to see what’s available.”
I forced myself to stand, my legs shaking so badly I had to grip the edge of the table for support. The pain in my bottom flared as I straightened, and I bit my lip to keep from whimpering. Mike took my hand and led me toward the buffet, and I felt every eye in the restaurant follow us.
Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe it was just my paranoid imagination. But I couldn’t shake the certainty that everyone could see the welts through my sheer coverup, that they all knew exactly what I was.
The buffet stretched along one wall of the pavilion—fresh tropical fruit, made-to-order omelets, pastries that looked like works of art. Under different circumstances I would have been delighted by the abundance. Instead, I could barely focus on the food, too conscious of standing there with my marked bottom on display.
“What looks good?” Mike asked, his hand resting possessively on my lower back.
I tried to concentrate on the options, but my mind kept circling back to the same terrible awareness. The coverup was so thin. The welts were so visible. Behind me, I heard voices—a couple, laughing about something. Were they looking at me? Judging me?
“I… I don’t know,” I whispered. “Maybe just fruit?”
