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At 8:45, while I was watchingMoongliderfor the eighth or ninth time and trying to get my head around the idea that on Monday I would startworkingfor the company that had made it, my apartment said, “Alert. Event in fifteen minutes. Do you want to hear details?”
Truthfully, I had paid something less than half my attention toMoonglider, as incredible a film as Christian Guzman had made. The rest of my headspace had gone, of course, to the thought of what I would have to do at 9:00. No, I had known even before my apartment had spoken up,before9:00. Since 8:37 or so I hadn’t stopped checking the time on my phone three times a minute—at least.
“No,” I told the apartment, hearing shakiness even in the monosyllable.
I looked around at the living room, then over the breakfast bar into the kitchen: everything seemed tidy. I felt my mouth twist to the side as ambiguous emotions and sensations rose in various parts of my body. The notion that housework could take on such a dismayingly erotic dimension hadn’t occurred to me before I had guiltily begun to clean my apartment, the ghostly imprint of Christian’s firm hand haunting my backside and, worse, the place he had closed up between my legs.
I had laid my new bra and panty set out on my bed. I looked down at the two tiny pieces of clothing, feeling the blood mount into my cheeks just at their sheer…smallness. So much of Christian’s money for two little pieces of, yes, extremely pretty, minutely decorated pink fabric.
The heat in my cheeks grew a little. Pink, not white. I hadn’t even really thought about that decision until this moment. I had chosen pink, in my trip to the lingerie store after my meeting with Rebecca, because for a redhead, obviously. And because I liked pink. I remembered looking down at the see-through bra and the slightly less see-through thong that I had even told myself I was buying them in pink to please myself, rather than Christian.
Pink, not white.Because my sponsor had taken my virginity. The terribly warm pussy sealed behind my private lips belonged to Christian, now: he had claimed it one week ago tonight, with his rigid, thrusting penis.
I cast my eyes up to the corners of the room, searching in vain once again for the cameras. Had my keeper already started watching? Did he enjoy seeing his bed girl look down in embarrassment at her naughty new underwear?
I found I had taken my lower lip between my teeth. I became much too conscious of my breasts, inside the old t-shirt I had put on so that I could watch the movie without thinking about the clothes my sponsor had bought me—both the outfit I had worn to meet Rebecca and the things I had laid out on the bed as soon as I got back.
Looking down, I saw that my nipples had tented the fabric. I couldn’t help crossing my arms, utterly self-conscious despite being alone in my bedroom. Then I couldn’t help what my fingers did, squeezing just a little because the need that tingled there simply wouldn’t let me do anything else.
“Alert,” said the apartment. “Event in ten minutes. Do you want to hear the details?”
Did it know somehow that I hadn’t started getting undressed? A new wave of hot shame traveled through my body. I wrinkled my nose and started to take off my t-shirt.
I put my t-shirt and jeans away carefully, once I had donned the lingerie. I looked at my phone: 8:57. I stood hesitating for a moment, and then I did what I had refused to do for the past seven minutes: I turned to look at myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door.
The feeling of not belonging to myself, of somehow beingcaptured—by the mirror, by the apartment… by Christian—made me bite my lip and frown deeply. My hands, shaking, went to cover myself, the same way I had tried to do that first night, when my sponsor had spanked me for trying to hide my body from his eyes.
That memory brought a deep blush, and along with the embarrassment came the recollection of the ambiguous pride I couldn’t help feeling at the knowledge Christian found me worthy of his degrading use. I saw myself through his eyes for a moment, as I looked at the sexy redhead in the mirror, her hands bashfully over the places that belonged to her master.
That girl knew she had no choice but to serve as a fuck toy for a wealthy man’s enjoyment, and yet she still pretended she had some shred of modesty left. That girl had let that man seal up her pussy, so that he could train her anus properly before he let her have his hardness where she needed it most.
The apartment said, “Alert. Event beginning now.”
I let out a little whimper through my nose. I turned away from the mirror and scrambled onto the bed. I half expected Christian’s voice to come over the speaker, reprimanding me for my tardiness, but silence reigned in my bedroom now. I lay on my bed and I pulled my knees up, taking their backs into my hands. I had a moment of extreme self-consciousness as I realized I would have to tell this story all by myself, and then—half to my alarm and half to my delight—the story started to take hold.
Somehow, it seemed, I had learned from Mary the photographer and Christian the movie producer how to tell the tale of a submissive bed girl. I pulled my knees back further, arching my back so that I could lift my hips a little, too.
This is her pussy, my mind said.You can almost see it through the lacy front of her thong. Her master fucked her there last week, but she disobeyed him, and so he decided to teach her a terrible lesson.
Really, said a voice at the back of my mind, no one had to teach me how to tell this kind of story, did they? It had lain hidden inside me for a very long time.
My fingers trembled as I worked my hands down the backs of my thighs, slowly and with seeming reluctance.
This wayward girl knows that she must display herself properly to her unseen master, if she wishes to have her pussy opened again, and fucked by his beautiful penis.
At that thought, that new thought of the beauty of Christian’s cock, my hips jerked and I let out a little cry of need. I had the feeling suddenly that he, wherever he was watching my shameful display, must know exactly what I had just pictured: his hardness, looming over me, ready to enjoy my mouth. Almost frantically my right hand started to rub my closed pussy through the lace of my panties.
She knows what she must do… the most important thing… her finger for the first time in the smallest place, the most private place… the place her master’s cock will go next…
CHAPTER31
Christian
I watched Leah’s sexy lesson at home in bed, my laptop next to me and my hard cock in my hand. These video feeds from Selecta had, of course, all sorts of bells and whistles in terms of allowing a platinum member to peer into the black box of the megacorp’s ‘world-beating’ biometric algorithms.
If I had wanted to, I could have seen graph lines going across the arousing view of Leah on her bed, claiming to tell me about her skin’s electrical conductivity, her vagina’s humidity, and the tension in her muscles, all of which—according to Selecta, anyway—presented an exhaustive, ongoing measure of how needy my rebel’s sweet, nearly virginal pussy had gotten.
