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I heard him coming up behind me. Even the knowledge of his nearness set my tummy fluttering and made my nipples tingle. Then, suddenly his hands were on me, from behind. His left hand seized my throat, delicately but firmly. His right hand pressed at the silk of my dress, between my thighs, so that through the thin fabric of the dress and the lace of my panties and the sealed lips of my pussy I could still feel his lewd, possessive touch where I needed it the most.
I whimpered softly as his warm breath whispered against my right cheek. His lips pressed against my ear, and my hips bucked at the jolt of arousal the sensation brought.
“Shh, Rebel,” he murmured. “You did a good job cleaning up. No extra punishment for that.”
My face puckered almost painfully with the urgency of my shame and need. Somehow the almost-brutal firmness of Christian’s hand in training me had made any little concession he gave to my obedience a moment of piercing relief and joy—as well as a reminder that my master had made clear that if he chose he would whip me anyway, just because I needed it and he enjoyed bestowing harsh discipline on his bed girl’s bare bottom and her naughty pussy.
“Thank you, sir,” I breathed, not even thinking about how compliant I must sound, how committed to learning my place as Christian’s sexual servant, despite him calling meRebel. I searched inside myself, and I found the rebel, down deep, still independent and still willing to rebel: she would return, I promised myself. Just not tonight.
His hands moved, and he stepped back a little. He took my wrists into his grasp and lowered them to my sides.
“Let’s get you out of your dress,” he said, releasing my hands and beginning to unzip the back of the gorgeous garment.
I closed my eyes. I couldn’t bear to see the girl in the window having her naughty underwear shown to the voyeuristic gaze of every passerby who happened to glance upward.
“No, Leah,” Christian said, his voice stern. “Open those beautiful eyes. I want you to watch.”
I let out a little sob. Of course he wanted me to watch; I had already understood the point, hadn’t I? And I knew what would happen if I disobeyed: the little tremble of panic that in some crazy, paradoxical way sent a thrill to my clit showed that I knew. My keeper would punish me for that in addition to what I already had coming.
My eyes opened, and I saw in the plate glass the well-dressed man helping the girl to shrug the beautiful dress to the floor, in a pool of green silk around her ankles. I saw the girl’s lacy white lingerie, the evidence that she had known, as she had prepared herself for her evening with her billionaire keeper, that she would have to yield her body’s most intimate places to his gaze and his use.
Christian took hold of my wrists again, and raised my hands back to their submissive position on the back of my neck. Then he stepped away for a moment. Confused, I turned my head to find that he had moved to the corner of the living room, where for the first time I noticed a seam in the wall, traveling up from the floor and over and back down, almost in the shape of a door.
“Apartment,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder at me, with a strict expression in his eyes that made my face go hot and my attention go back to the lewd image in the window’s reflection. “Open furniture compartment.”
I heard a click, and then I felt, thanks to my skin being so exposed, a subtle puff of air. I risked a look back over at the corner, to see that a door had indeed swung outward. Christian had already begun to pull something out of the little closet, a low piece of furniture—a hassock, or an ottoman, or maybe a special sort of coffee table with padding on the top, designed by Selecta for what I instantly suspected, and dreaded, must represent its primary purpose.
I turned back to the window before Christian could catch me looking again. In the reflection I could see him, anyway, carrying the thing lightly though it looked massive, bringing it over toward me and finally setting it just behind me.
“Get up on here on your hands and knees, Rebel,” my master told me. “It’s time for your whipping.”
In the window I saw his hands go to his belt buckle. I had started to feel detached, that now-familiar floating, the moment we had walked into the apartment, but the sight of Christian starting to unfasten his belt, knowing what he meant to do with it, sent my mind soaring off into the stars.
I turned around to face him, and found his eyes locked on mine though in my peripheral vision I could see that his hands were continuing to free the long, supple black belt from the loops at his waist. My panicked mind went in what felt like a billion different directions at once, the vast majority of them absurd: when a man whipped you with his belt, clearly he might also call itspanking—with his belt—but could you call an ordinary spanking, with his hand, awhipping? I couldn’t decide…
…nor could I figure out, as I almost unconsciously started to climb up onto the table thing… the… the whipping table… the fucking hassock… did Selecta make the thing specially for Christian—for Christian to punish me and to fuck me?
Because it seemed the perfect height for him to do as he chose—not just with any fuck toy who might live in this apartment and receive his luxury-level allowance, but withme…as if Selecta had measured the length of his legs, and of my thighs, in order to position my ass and my pussy precisely… exactly where they should be for my keeper to discipline me and use me in complete comfort. Had theyprintedit, somehow? There, in the little secret closet that my master knew about, but I hadn’t?
I had clambered onto the fucking table—that phrase, despite all my confusion, had decided to burn itself into my brain as the only truly appropriate one—as I tried to sort through the absurd ideas my mind had tried to throw up as defenses. On my hands and knees, just as Christian had commanded, I looked up at him.
He had his belt in his hands. My eyes went from his face to the long, black strip of stout leather. His gaze back at me didn’t waver as he doubled the belt, the buckle in his fist, and wound it once around that hand.
“Please,” I whispered, barely even realizing the word had emerged from my mouth, my voice apparently operating of its own volition, “Please, sir… don’t whip me?”
I felt my hips spasm as I heard myself, my bottom pushing out as if in offering, even as I pled for mercy. Observed from my mind’s place far away, the girl in the naughty white underwear clearly knew she deserved to have her sponsor’s belt across her disobedient backside—and she obviously understood that she had the good fortune to belong to a man who wouldn’t relent, no matter how pathetically his fuck toy begged him to show leniency.
“Turn around,” Christian said in a flinty voice. “Face the window.”
I gave him a final look of woe, a theatrical pout of protest against the injustice of getting my butt whipped, just for being a little hesitant to let him show my submission to the whole city. My keeper just lowered his chin and narrowed his eyes, in a way my body had already learned to respond to with a sharp increase in my heart rate and, much worse, a hard clench between my thighs. Fearful that I l had already earned more lashes of my master’s belt, I lowered my head and started to turn atop the fucking table, until my backside faced Christian.
“Look at me,” he commanded. I started to turn my head back over my shoulder, but Christian added, “No. In the window.”
Feeling a new rush of blood to my face, I turned to the broad, dismayingly reflective surface. I saw the whole tableau, as if a film director had set the scene and I viewed it through the cinematographer’s viewfinder. A pretty young woman poised for a whipping, dressed so shamefully that any observer would think she had earned her punishment simply for wearing such provocative lingerie. A gorgeous man with his doubled belt dangling from his strong right hand.
His eyes, looking back into hers through the mirroring surface.
“Next time I put you in a garter belt,” Christian said, “you’ll wear your panties outside the suspender straps.”
