“You’re fine,” he murmured. “Look around. Really look.”
I forced myself to scan the beach. There were other women in revealing swimsuits—bikinis that showed nearly as much as my microkini, though admittedly none quite so minimal. And their bodies weren’t perfect either. Some had stretch marks, some had cellulite, some were older or heavier than me. They seemed comfortable in their skin, though, in a way I’d never felt.
And then I saw her. A woman maybe twenty-five, lying on her stomach on a beach chair. Her bottom was marked—not as extensively as mine, but unmistakably. Faint pink lines that could only be from a cane, I knew from experience. She adjusted her position, and I caught a glimpse of something else: a thin chain around her ankle with what looked like a small lock.
My breath caught. She was like me. Owned. Marked. And she was here, sunbathing as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“See?” Mike said quietly. “You’re not alone, sweetheart.”
He led me to a pair of lounge chairs that had been reserved for us, positioned to face the ocean but also visible to much of the beach. My heart hammered as he gestured for me to lie down.
“On your tummy,” he said, his voice somehow both commanding and gentle, as if he understood my conflict, but had no intention of letting me give into it.
This was it. This was where everyone would see.
I lowered myself onto the chair carefully, the cushion soft against my front, but offering no relief to my vivid sense of my bottom’s visibility. The position put my welted cheeks on full display, the tiny string of the microkini doing absolutely nothing to conceal Mike’s handiwork.
“Good girl,” Mike said, settling into the chair beside me. “Now just relax and enjoy the sun.”
Relax. As if that were possible when I could feel eyes on me, when I knew people were looking at the evidence of my terrible lesson in obedience. I buried my face in my arms and tried to breathe.
But as the minutes passed, something strange happened. The sun was warm on my back and bottom, the ocean breeze was pleasant, and gradually I became aware that the world hadn’t ended. People walked past—I imagined that some glanced and some didn’t—but no one pointed or laughed or called me names. The beach continued its lazy rhythm around us.
After maybe twenty minutes, I heard Mike order drinks from a passing server, and I risked a glance in his direction. He looked utterly relaxed, his sunglasses on, one hand resting casually on the arm of his chair. Like displaying his marked girlfriend was the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe, I thought with a flutter in my chest,for him it is.
I lowered my face back into my arms and tried to let the tension drain from my body. The warmth of the sun felt good on my welted bottom, almost soothing despite the tenderness. I became aware of the sound of waves, of someone laughing somewhere down the beach, of a couple arguing good-naturedly about whether to swim now or later.
Normal sounds. A normal day at the beach.
At a resort I could never afford in my wildest dreams, if I weren’t a billionaire’s fuck toy.
And I was lying here in the midst of this wealth and luxury with my punished bottom on display, marked as property, sealed and plugged and waiting to be deflowered by the man who owned me.
My pussy warmed at the thought, and I bit my lip. The constant ache of arousal had become almost background noise, but it surged to the forefront whenever I thought about what Mike had promised. Today. He would open the seal. He would finally claim my virginity properly, pushing that enormous cock into the place that had been saved for him.
The drinks arrived, and Mike pressed a cold glass into my hand. Some kind of tropical cocktail, sweet and strong. I sipped it gratefully, the alcohol helping to ease the knot of tension in my stomach.
“How are you doing?” Mike asked.
“Okay,” I whispered, surprised to find it was mostly true. “I’m… okay.”
“That’s my girl.” His hand found the small of my back, stroking gently. The touch was affectionate rather than sexual, but it still made my breath catch. “You’re being so brave.”
Brave. Was that what this was? It didn’t feel brave. It felt terrifying and humiliating and overwhelming. But underneath all that, there was something else. Pride. The same dark, confusing pride I’d felt when Mike had praised me for taking his cock in my bottom last night.
I was pleasing him. Being a good girl for him. And that mattered more than the stares or the whispers or my own mortification.
Time passed in a strange blur. Mike went for a swim at some point, and I watched him from my chair, my eyes tracing the lines of his body as he moved through the water. He was beautiful—tall and athletic, his movements confident and controlled. And he was mine. Or rather, I was his, but somehow that meant he belonged to me too, in some way I didn’t fully understand yet.
When he returned, water dripping from his hair and body, he settled back into his chair and picked up his phone. I watched him scroll through something, his expression focused, and felt a surge of curiosity about what he was looking at. Work emails? The sensor data from my perineal monitor? Something else entirely?
“Sir?” I ventured quietly.
He looked up from his phone, one eyebrow raised. “Yes, sweetheart?”
I hesitated, suddenly unsure what I’d meant to ask. My mind felt fuzzy from the sun and the cocktail and the constant low-level arousal that had become my normal state. “What are you looking at?”
