Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 76329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
I swallowed hard, my heart pounding, as I watched anger flash in his eyes, and then a smile curve his lips. My mouth went very dry.
“I’m disappointed, Audrey, but not surprised,” Pierre said, his voice dangerously soft. “Take off your dress and lay yourself over the arm of the couch for a whipping.”
Terror gripped me, my legs suddenly weak beneath me. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. I’d planned to negotiate, to establish boundaries before anything happened.
“Please,” I stammered. “I wanted to talk first—about boundaries and what I’m comfortable with—”
“Take. Off. The. Dress,” Pierre repeated, each word like a chip of ice. “Now.”
I backed away, bumping into the wall behind me. “I’ll yell for security if you try anything,” I threatened weakly, my voice betraying my fear. “You said… and the app… it said… there are safety protocols—”
“I’m happy to pay for the dress if I have to rip it off you,” Pierre replied calmly, taking a step toward me. “But you broke the one rule I gave you, and you’re going to have a whipping in the nude, one way or another. Selecta approves of that, as you already know.”
My breath caught in my throat. He was right—I had agreed to the terms, had read the consent forms explaining that physical correction was a standard element of SA relationships. The perineal sensor would have recorded my arousal during Theodore’s spanking, would have noted how wet I’d become afterward. Selecta knew exactly what my body wanted, even when my mind protested.
“Please,” I whispered, but my hands were already moving to the zipper at the back of my dress. I already loved this dress… how could I let this… this brutal man ruin it? The sound of the fabric sliding down my body seemed impossibly loud in the silence between us.
Pierre stood watching, his expression now unreadable as I slipped the dress off my shoulders. It fell to the floor in a pool of green fabric, leaving me standing in nothing but the white thong, my breasts bare and vulnerable under his steady gaze. My nipples hardened instantly, betraying me once again.
“Well, my dear,” he said, the left side of his mouth curving into a teasing half-smile. “At least your panties are appropriate. That adorable con of yours looks ravishing in the pretty lace. I can’t wait to open you up on my cock.”
CHAPTER 13
Audrey
His casual lewdness transfixed me with shame. Paralyzed by humiliation, I stood frozen in the center of the living room as Pierre’s words hung in the air between us. My virginity clearly represented something he had bought and paid for. My body flushed hot, then cold at the thought. The abstract idea that the special premium for my defloration lay within my grasp didn’t seem to have anything to do with the electric tension of the here and now.
Pierre reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his phone. With casual authority, he tapped the screen several times, his eyes never leaving mine. To my astonishment, a panel in the entertainment center across the room slid open silently, revealing a hidden compartment I hadn’t known existed.
“Selecta provides for a sponsor’s convenience in amazing ways,” Pierre informed me, his tone conversational, as if we were discussing something as mundane as the weather. “Look in the compartment and bring me what you find there.”
I hesitated, my feet seemingly rooted to the floor. What horrors might be concealed in that secret space? Some instrument of torture? Some humiliating sexual device? My imagination ran wild, conjuring images that made my stomach clench with dread—and, shamefully, with that persistent, unwanted arousal.
“Now, Audrey,” Pierre commanded, his voice hardening. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
My legs trembled as I forced myself to move toward the entertainment center. Each step felt like wading through molasses, my nearly naked body hyper-aware of Pierre’s gaze following my movements. I felt the cool air against my bare breasts, the snug fit of the thong between my buttocks, the wetness gathering embarrassingly between my thighs.
When I reached the compartment, I peered inside cautiously. What I saw made my blood run cold.
A whip—no, not exactly a whip, but something similar—lay nestled against black velvet. It had a polished wooden handle about ten inches long, from which emerged multiple slender leather strands, perhaps a dozen in all. The leather was supple looking, well oiled, the color of dark honey.
“It’s called a martinet,” Pierre explained from behind me, as if sensing my confusion. “A traditional French implement of discipline. Quite effective for correcting willful behavior.”
I recoiled instinctively, taking a step back. My breathing had become shallow, my pulse racing wildly. This couldn’t be happening. This elegant, sophisticated man couldn’t possibly intend to whip me with that cruel-looking instrument.
“I think I’ll begin to whip you in the panties,” Pierre continued calmly. “They give such easy access to your naughty bottom.”