Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 80699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
She had taken her hands away from her privates, but instead of getting out of bed, or even covering herself, Leah had taken hold of the backs of her knees again. She spread herself for me even more widely, offering her smooth, closed pussy and her tiny anus to the camera.
“Sir…” she whispered. “I want to be your good girl.”
Leah
The next morning it seemed like a dream; one of those dreams that you can’t even decide about, whether it was a good one or a bad one—a nightmare, even. That feeling lasted until around 9:30, when the apartment told me I had a package at the front desk.
I liked the pink, Christian had written on the card, in block letters that seemed somehow to convey his easy arrogance, but I’d rather have you in these this evening.
A new set of white, lacy lingerie. This time, including a garter belt and nylons. The thong had even less material to it than the one I had bought for myself.
Along with it, green pumps. To match the green silk slip dress that looked as expensive as most of the cars driven by the citizens of Harristown.
Those stores didn’t even open until, like, 10:00. Had Christian called them up and asked them to open for him, so that he could have these things delivered to me?
“Oooh,” said a girl coming off the elevator, clearly headed for work—probably in just such a fashionable boutique. “Someone’s got a luxury sponsor. I hope you’re not sore tomorrow, sweetie.”
I turned to look at her, my face blazing, and saw no malice in her laughing eyes. She seemed a few years older than me. When she noticed the redness in my cheeks, her expression changed to sympathy.
“You get used to it,” she said, her voice kind. “Just try not to lord it over the rest of us. Remember that it probably won’t last very long, so enjoy it while it does.”
I couldn’t stop thinking about the girl’s words and wondering about her experience—whether she had ever had a luxury sponsor, whether she had had a sponsor who dominated her and trained her the way Christian had begun to train me.
Whether she had ever had her pussy closed, so that every time she went to the bathroom, scalding heat filled her cheeks at the humiliating sensation, followed closely by a terrible warmth between her thighs.
It probably won’t last very long, I said to myself as I endured my second session with Patty the aesthetician. The idea seemed like it made sense, and I could see it reflected in all the wisest posts on the Selecta Arrangements forums.
Patty very kindly hadn’t said anything about the closure of my pussy, though my face went scarlet when I saw her eyes widen a little at her first glimpse of the smooth seam that had covered over the pinkness of my inner lips. It made the terrible, humiliating punishment feel almost normal, and that felt like it went along with the easy-come-easy-go idea the other girl had left in my head. Sometimes a man gives you a lot of money, seals up your pussy, and then he moves on, and you move on, too.
It probably won’t last very long, I said to my reflection in the mirror that evening as I put on the lingerie, and then the dress. It seemed to help, a little. It seemed to tamp down the seething mixture of luxury and vanity and degradation that rose in me as I donned the panties that seemed to claim the valley between my bottom cheeks with their narrow rear strap, while their mesh lace front showed much too clearly the bare, closed cleft of my private lips.
The bra, the garter belt, the nylons, the dress, the heels… all of it a wrapping Christian had chosen to clothe his pretty whore in, so that she would look expensive and valuable on his arm and at his table. Before he ripped off the wrapping so that he could play with her, much too roughly, and for his enjoyment alone.
It probably won’t last very long. It seemed like good advice… like the best advice. It even made me think of Christian not just as a sponsor but as a sort of fairy godfather. I told myself, in an instant, as I walked out my apartment door, the story of how my sponsor had come into my life and despite all the shame and harsh discipline had gotten me started on the road to independent, successful adulthood.
Then, the story continued as I stepped off the elevator, feeling simultaneously like a million dollars and like a two-dollar whore, her fairy godfather went away, and she lived happily ever after.
The moment I saw Christian standing in the lobby, dressed in an impeccable dark suit and looking at me with a dazzling smile on his lips, I knew that story wouldn’t do it. Like the girl in that old movie, I wanted the real fairytale—even if the prince turned into a beast at night, or something like that.