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Leah’s lovely lips parted, and her chest rose with a sharp intake of breath. Again I felt the strange—crazy, even—strength of the connection I had sensed even the first time I had looked at her profile. During our conversation at the bar and on the walk home, it had built into the beginnings of real affection. Ilikedthis girl—really, I knew, I had started tofall forthis girl—in a way I hadn’t experienced in years. Maybe ever.
And it seemed like I could read her mind. With the tiniest twinge of guilt, I remembered, vividly, what the surveillance cameras had shown me this morning—her intimate photo session. Leah R helplessly masturbating for the camera and coming with her panties around her knees and her bottom thrust out.
I had seemed to see it from behindhereyes, as well as mine: I had felt I could experience her naughty story along with her. Now I had a similar feeling. Leah’s little gasp meant, I somehow knew with absolute conviction, that she had gotten very wet—even clenched, down there—at the words merely implied in my smile:good girl.
* * *
Leah
He had seen it, and his eyes seemed to say that he found it pleasing… my body’s primal, involuntary response to his smile. I couldn’t help it, then: I kept talking, because something in me demanded that I keep Christian’s happiness with me, his evident pleasure at my obeying him, going. I had to stop him from punishing me… I had to make sure he thought of me as a good girl.
“They’re… they’re really… um… pretty?”
It sounded so lame, but despite my urge to do as he had told me, in desperate hope of avoiding the promised spanking, I found that my modesty still made it impossible even to say the wordpantiesagain. Good girls didn’t talk about their panties. The paradox seemed to engulf me and to make the heat coursing through my body even more intense.
“Are they?” Christian asked softly. I felt his hands tighten, just a little around my wrists, as if to warn me against trying to get out of the task he had set. “What color are they?”
I looked down at my little white hands and his big brown ones, at the way his encircled my tiny wrists completely, his forefinger and his thumb overlapping as he kept me in place, unable to raise my hands to fend him off.
“Wh-white,” I whispered, hardly even able to get the word out and realizing as I spoke it how much meaning Christian might read into the color. I had chosen white for that very reason, hardly even thinking about it but knowing in the back of my mind how it would symbolize my innocence and my virginity.
“An appropriate choice,” he said. I felt my forehead crease hard, and I looked up into his dark eyes to see that while his smile remained on his lips, his gaze had taken on another aspect, one that made my heart jump. Something about the knowledge I had pretty white underwear on seemed to have brought out a kind of hunger in his eyes.
He wants to see them, said a voice in my head, and then,He’s going to see them, whether you want him to or not.
My breath puffed in and out of my nose as the meaning of Christian’s words sank in. He knew, somehow, about my virginity… or—I thought desperately—maybe he had guessed? The assurance, bordering on arrogance, in his face, though, said that it wasn’t a guess, or even an assumption: he meant to fuck a virgin tonight, and his wolfish anticipation of claiming me with his hardness seemed to gleam in his eyes.
“What else, Leah?” he asked. His mouth crooked up again, in evident pleasure at this little game. “Are they… lacy?”
He brought his face a little closer to mine, bending his head down and tilting it a little to the side. His hands pushed my wrists further apart, and then with what seemed an expert movement, he quickly changed his grip so that he could raise my hands and press them into the wall, imprisoning me still further. My lips parted, my breathing becoming even rougher and more rapid.
“Yes,” I breathed, as if his body’s proximity to mine, his lips’ closeness to mine, had drawn the word from my chest like a magic spell. Then I followed it with a tiny whimper, because I knew what happened next, and I knew that when it did a new, mysterious part of the story, much stranger and darker than I could ever have expected, would begin.
Gently at first, and then with growing urgency, Christian kissed me. He held me firmly in place against the wall, and he moved his lips over mine, explored my mouth with his tongue. I had thought kissing like that could only happen in the movies, and I had never understood the way so many girls in films and shows seemed to respond to kisses with such arousal. Christian taught me: I felt my hips jerk, my backside move against the wall in a mortifying display of his power over me.
He broke the kiss. He looked into my eyes, the smile and the hunger harmonizing into a look that made me swallow hard;possessivenessseemed to radiate from his face, as if Christian had no doubt that he had just acquired me, and had every intention of taking his time to enjoy the new piece of property he had purchased.
“A thong?” he asked. “And is there a matching bra?”
I closed my eyes as a humiliating sob rose from my throat. I nodded.
“Good girl,” Christian said. Such simple words: how could they have such a profound effect on me—on my heart and my body at once? I opened my eyes, and saw the same possessive expression that made me want to close them again. I had to keep looking, though: I needed to plead, to beseech with my gaze.
“So…?” I whispered. “So please… please, don’t… you know?”
“Oh, Leah,” Christian said. “You’re going to learn, very soon, that I keep my word. You were a good girl, but before that you were a naughty one. I’m not going to punish you as severely as I would have if you had completely refused to tell me about the lingerie you bought with my money. You still have a spanking coming, though.”
At these calm words, delivered so evenly and with such easy conviction, my body rebelled against his. As I started to struggle, trying to pull my wrists out of his grasp, I thought of my impression from a moment before that a strange new part of my story had begun: what rose up inside me in response to Christian’s assurance he would punish me proved just how strange, and just how dark.
“No!” I yelled. “No… no way!”
I had started to shake my head violently, but I snuck a glance at Christian’s face. I absolutely needed to know how he would react. Part of my mind realized that my urgent interest in this arrogant billionaire’s response meant that my resistance didn’t mean what my independent streak wanted it to. That idea, however, had no chance of winning out in my head: I felt like I couldn’t live without knowing how Christian was taking my sudden rejection of his calling me a good girl.
Because Iwasn’ta good girl. I had spent all my life so far—it felt like, anyway—pretending to obey the rules, but not actually complying with anyone’s notions of how I should act, in my heart. Sure, the most actual rebellion—the greatest degree of independence—I had ever mustered in my nineteen-plus years had been my unsuccessfully gaming the New Modesty system. But in my heart, as I heard those losers in Harristown knocking on my door and I had sat in the dark pretending not to be home, I had gloried in my sticking it to the Man, in the guise of the Midwestern men who thought they could make a dutiful wife out of me.
I had come to LA sure that I would learn from my failure with the New Modesty, and have the guile to outwit this new Selecta Arrangements program. I could still do it, too. I could get this rich dude’s money and ghost him. All I had to do was go over his knee for a spanking. I probably wouldn’t even have to spend my most precious asset, my virginity.
I had thought for a moment back there that I did want Christian to be my first—what’s not to like about losing it to the billionaire movie producer who made your favorite film? Not now, though: his clear determination to punish me like a naughty little girl had called up a part of me that had never emerged in this way before. I couldn’t obey him: I couldn’t belong to him that way, because…
