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)
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 it spanking—with his belt—but could you call an ordinary spanking, with his hand, a whipping? 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 with me… 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 they printed it, 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.”
A jolt of shame went through me, so strong that it felt for a moment like my whole body had caught fire. Christian hadn’t spoken in an accusing or a stern way, really—not even in a disappointed sort of voice. He hadn’t even suggested, in his tone, that I might receive extra lashes for my failure to follow an instruction he hadn’t given.