Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
“Mike,” I whispered, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “I can’t. She’ll see.”
“Sir,” he corrected, his voice taking on a dangerous quality.
I swallowed hard. “Sir,” I said, “please? Um… when we get to… wherever we’re going? I want to… you know, be a good girl, but… Not here?”
He leaned forward, his lips brushing my ear. “That’s the point, Laura. You belong to me. If I want you to suck my cock at forty thousand feet, you will. If I want Elena to see that I own a little slut with a sealed pussy and a plugged asshole, she will. Do you understand?”
My heart hammered so hard I thought it would break my ribs. I wanted to say no. I wanted to say, Absolutely not, I am not giving a blowjob on an airplane with the flight attendant right there. But all that came out was a pathetic little whimper.
He sat back, hands on his thighs, and waited.
I sat there frozen, every part of my body locked up with mortification. My hands twisted around each other, my knees pressed together as if I could hold myself in place by sheer force of will. The plug in my bottom felt like a declaration of servitude. Mike just watched, his gaze steady and expectant, the kind of stare that made it clear I had only two options: obey, or face the consequences.
I couldn’t tell how long I sat there, staring at the embroidery on the armrest and willing myself to move. My knees were welded together and my hands were locked in a death grip, knuckles white. Mike didn’t repeat the command. He just waited, letting the silence stretch, until I could hear the thump of my own pulse in my ears.
I wanted to do it. Or—I didn’t want to, but I needed it. Needed to be made to, so I could blame him instead of myself. I needed him to make me, to force me past the line so I wouldn’t have to cross it on my own.
So I didn’t move.
Mike let it go for at least another thirty seconds, which felt like a year. Then, without a word, he reached over, grabbed my wrist, and hauled me bodily across his lap. I yelped, legs kicking reflexively, my face pressed against the expensive leather of the couch. He held me there, one arm pinning my waist, the other sliding up my skirt with businesslike efficiency.
The cool air hit my thighs, and then my whole ass was bared—the skirt shoved up to my ribs, leaving my bottom completely exposed except for the base of the plug, marking me as a naughty girl in training to serve a man in the most shameful possible way.
I heard myself whimper. The position was familiar now, but the context—the airplane, the knowledge that Elena was somewhere in the front of the cabin, the possibility she could walk in at any second—made it a thousand times worse.
Mike ran his palm over my bare cheeks, fingers tracing the base of the plug. “You had a choice, Laura,” he said, his voice not angry, but flinty and ultra-dominant. “You chose this.”
Then he spanked me. Hard.
The first blow landed square on the left cheek, a sharp, ringing smack that lit up the nerves all the way to my toes. He didn’t wait for my reaction before delivering the next, and the next, alternating sides with a rhythm that was almost mechanical. The plug changed everything—each impact drove it deeper, made the fullness inside me pulse with each slap. I gasped, tried to twist away, but his arm kept me locked in place.
He didn’t say a word. Just kept spanking me, methodical and implacable, until I was sobbing into the armrest. The pain was sharp, but what made it unbearable was the shame, the certainty that Elena could hear every smack, every helpless little sound I made. I wondered if she was standing in the galley, listening, or if she would come in to offer more champagne and see my bare, punished ass over my sponsor’s knee.
When I was reduced to hiccupping, the spanking stopped. Mike let me hang there for a moment, his hand resting on the back of my thigh, then lifted me up and set me on the floor between his knees. My face was so hot I could have boiled water with it. I didn’t dare look at him. I just stared at the bulge in his pants, which was even more obvious now.
“Try again,” said Mike, voice low. “You can do it. I believe in you.”
My hands moved on their own, trembling as I reached for his zipper. I knew the ritual now—how to pull it down, how to draw the fabric aside and reach through to find the slit in the briefs, how to free his cock and hold it steady as I took the flared head between my lips. I could feel the heat of him even before I touched my tongue to it, the skin tight and smooth, the weight of him immense in my palm.