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)
As the lights dimmed further and the previews began, I tried to focus on the screen rather than the symbol of Pierre’s control nestled firmly in my backside. For brief moments, I succeeded. The film was genuinely funny, with physical comedy and clever dialogue that occasionally pulled me out of my self-consciousness.
Then I laughed.
The first real laugh caught me by surprise, my body shaking with genuine mirth at the protagonist’s predicament. Instantly, I felt the plug move within me, the sensation shooting sparks of unwanted pleasure up my spine. I squirmed in my seat, trying to adjust to the feeling without being obvious.
“Est-ce que ça va?” whispered the elderly woman beside me, her concerned face illuminated by the screen’s glow.
“Oui, merci,” I whispered back, mortification washing over me in a hot wave. Had my discomfort been that noticeable?
I tried to sit perfectly still after that, but the film kept eliciting involuntary chuckles. Each time, the movement caused the plug to shift, reminding me of its presence, of Pierre’s ownership, of what awaited me later. By the film’s halfway point, I found myself in an impossible situation—torn between the genuine humor onscreen and the humiliating consequences of allowing myself to enjoy it.
A particularly funny scene had the entire audience erupting in laughter. I couldn’t help joining in, my body shaking with genuine amusement. The plug moved inside me, pressing against sensitive nerves, and to my horror, I felt a rush of wetness between my thighs. I was getting aroused—here, in a public cinema, surrounded by strangers, all because the plug in my bottom wouldn’t let me forget that I belonged to Pierre.
I crossed and uncrossed my legs, desperately seeking relief without actually touching myself. The friction of my thighs pressing together only made things worse, heightening my awareness of my nakedness beneath my skirt. What if I leaked onto the seat? What if someone noticed? The thought made me dizzy with shame.
When the film finally ended and the lights came up, I remained seated, waiting for the other patrons to leave. I didn’t trust my legs to carry me steadily, and I needed a moment to compose myself. I pressed my thighs together, willing the wetness between them to subside, trying to regain control of my breathing and my thoughts.
When the theater had emptied, I finally stood, smoothing my skirt with trembling hands. I made my way carefully to the exit, each step a reminder of what Pierre meant to do, how he intended to enjoy me. The walk back to my apartment seemed endless, and yet it ended much too soon. I desperately wanted to return to privacy but I feared what—or rather, who—might be waiting for me there.
By the time I reached my building, my body felt like a tightly wound spring. Every nerve ending seemed hypersensitive, my skin overheated with unwanted arousal and persistent embarrassment. The plug had become a constant presence in my consciousness, impossible to ignore even for a moment.
When the door finally opened to me, unlocking at the sight of my face, a marvelous scent hit me first—fresh herbs, lemon, and the unmistakable aroma of seared tuna. My stomach clenched, not with hunger, but with nervous anticipation.
Pierre stood in my tiny kitchen, arranging food on two plates. He looked completely at ease, as if he belonged there—as if he belonged anywhere his wealth and privilege allowed him access. He wore casual trousers and an open-collared shirt, his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms as he drizzled olive oil over the salad. The domesticity of the scene struck a discordant note against the memory of him whipping me, fucking me, inserting the plug that still stretched my bottom uncomfortably.
“Ah, Audrey,” he said, looking up with a smile that made my heart stutter in my chest. “Right on time. I’ve prepared lunch.”
I stood frozen in the doorway, uncertain how to respond. Should I greet him formally? Thank him for invading my apartment? Acknowledge the obscene fullness in my bottom that he had commanded?
Pierre solved my dilemma by gesturing to the small dining table he had set with proper linens and wineglasses. “First lunch,” he said, his eyes gleaming with promise, “then your bottom.”
CHAPTER 20
Pierre
I could tell that Audrey’s legs nearly gave out beneath her as my words registered. My bottom, I watched her eyes say, as clearly if I could read her mind. I saw in the blush that suffused her sweet face the recollection that the plug only represented preparation, a precursor of what I had made clear to her I truly intended.
Yes, I saw her realize, my sponsor means it.
Indeed I did. I meant to take the lovely girl’s final virginity before night fell, to claim the one place I had not yet put my rigid manhood in her delectable body.
“Come sit,” I instructed, carrying the plates to the table. “You must be hungry after your morning activities.”