Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
I give a little shrug. If he wants me to play the villain, I’ll do it. I’ll give him the performance of a lifetime. It’s going to be a little harder given the gag between my teeth, but you can say a lot without words.
I lift my middle fingers and hold them aloft, turning slowly so that each and every person here gets to appreciate my little birdies.
Whip!
I hear the cane slicing through the air. It lands square across my cheeks, above the tail, finding the very center of my ass in a brutal stroke that makes a cold shock rush through me. It’s not pain at first, but it’s not first for long.
It quickly becomes second and third and fourth and oh my God. There are tears in my eyes. I drop my fingers, and my hands go back to cover my ass. That’s a mistake. Touching the aftermath of the hard cane stroke makes it hurt even more.
“Goddamnit,” I curse against the gag. It’s an indecipherable sound, but everybody knows what I mean.
“On your knees,” Marcus demands.
I drop to my knees, keeping my back and thighs straight so I don’t have to bend at the place that hurts so badly. I know there’s no real avoiding pain tonight, or shame. He’s going to make sure I experience both as deeply as he is capable of making me feel them.
I am going to have my comeuppance, such as he sees it, inflicted upon me.
“You are my pet,” he lectures me. “And there is nothing you can do to change that. You are starting to understand that now, I think, but you will understand it entirely by the time I am done with you. Hands and knees. Now.”
I do as I am told again, even though I absolutely do not want to. Bending forward makes my skin feel as though it might very well tear along the cane-perforated line. I know I am being dramatic, but that damn implement is all too effective.
I don’t want to cry properly. I don’t want to break. I want to stay rebellious even if I have tears in my eyes. I want to put on a show that neither Marcus nor any of his Embassy mates will forget any time soon.
“Wag that tail, pet,” he says, tapping my flank with the tip of the cane.
I sway my hips back and forward, making the tail move. He is forcing me to display myself, and giving me no merciful quarter. If I resist, I will get another one of those harsh strokes—and I do not want another one.
“That’s a good girl,” he says. The note of approval is not quite there in his voice. It’s a perfunctory bit of praise, perhaps because he doesn’t want to be praising me at all.
He wants to be punishing me.
“You took the bait,” he says. “And the bait was to ruin my life, and yours, for some silly little notion of righteousness and freedom. Let me tell you, pet. Both of those things are illusions. Freedom doesn’t exist. We’re all in shackles on this planet. And righteousness? That’s an even more dangerous set of assumptions.”
This is a very philosophical lecture, but my body is responding even more than my brain. I don’t really care what he is saying. I care about what he is making me feel.
Insane or not, broken or not, he is nevertheless Marcus fucking Waterstone, and I have crossed him. Part of me wants to whimper like a frightened pup, lower my body close to the ground, and offer my belly in some effort to appease him. Another part of me wants to bite him, defend myself against him. But in the end, I have no choice but to obey.
I feel him lift the hem of my dress, sweeping it away as far as he can under the circumstances—those circumstances being the plug in my ass still very much attached to the tail.
He doesn’t need my ass though. He wants a different hole bared for his use—and he gets it.
I feel cooler air on my pussy, playing over my lips which are already wet. I wish I did not get aroused every time I am afraid and ashamed, but Marcus has trained me like a literal dog My desire is now a Pavlovian response to being punished.
“Look at this,” he says, bending down to run his fingers across my slit. He lifts them, gleaming, to the audience. “She likes this. She likes being caught and displayed.”
I gnaw on the gag, wishing he would show me something akin to mercy. But that’s not the point of this. The point of this is to draw it all out and make me feel every drop of shame that he is capable of making me feel.
“Fuck her!” A voice calls out from the crowd. It is a solitary voice at first, but it is quickly joined by a chorus of other voices calling for the same thing. These people want to see me take his cock. They want me to be used for their pleasure.