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)
So badly that I would do anything. Obey any command. Submit… yield despite the rebellious spirit he had brought out in me… submit even to… to that.
The tip of my sponsor’s hardness pressed inward, just a millimeter. My hips bucked again in that mortifying, needy motion, begging him with my body to take me, use me, possess me. I closed my eyes at the rush of heat to my cheeks, and I whispered my question.
“What rules?”
CHAPTER 20
Leah
“Very simple ones, Rebel,” Christian replied, his voice calm but a little thick, I thought, with his arousal. “You will obey me. In particular you will keep yourself ready for me to use you when and as I please.”
My wayward hips jerked again, and I let out a little cry of mortification at the way my body had betrayed me—deeply mingled with the sheer alarm his words evoked in me. Terror of what it meant: my obvious, disastrous craving for the monstrous ‘rules’ my sponsor had just laid out.
He had called them simple, and he had spoken the truth. Could I even really call them rules? Of course: I didn’t have a choice, because Christian had named them that. They were rules, because I had not the slightest doubt that any deviation from them would provoke disciplinary measures that terrified me even as my treacherous body longed for them against all reason.
His left hand stroked the skin of my back. He had somehow turned every inch of my body, even the parts I would never have called erogenous, into a network of lewd desire. The gentle caress just above my tailbone made me whimper and push back, press my desperate pussy against the teasing knob of my keeper’s penis.
The humiliating idea that I might deflower myself that way—that Christian had such sexual power over me that he could make me impale myself on his hardness and take my own virginity—floated into my mind. Instantly I felt the qualm that if I managed to do that I would steal from him his triumph over my innocence… that Christian wouldn’t stand for it… that he would punish me, not let me come, spank my pussy even harder… close my pussy… seal me up so that no one could fuck me there.
The idea changed my whimper into a pitiful moan, and the moan became little noises I emitted with each breath as my master moved his cock up and down gently between my private lips, pushed it in a little and pulled it out again.
“You only have to say two words, Leah. I know you can do it.”
His patronizing tone brought a humiliating new wave of arousal. I thought I knew what words he meant, but my brain refused to function properly.
“Wh-what words?” I asked, my voice sounding small and pleading to my ears. I could hear the desperation, the yearning for pleasure. The thought that Christian must hear it too, and that he clearly had enough experience disciplining and enjoying wayward young women to know even better than I did what it meant, only redoubled the heat between my thighs.
“Yes,” he said softly, “and sir. So, Rebel… do you want me to sponsor you? Your apartment’s computer system is listening. It will take care of the rest.”
I looked at myself in the picture window, and I could see the lights of LA through the reflection, too. The lights meant that anyone could watch what my sponsor was doing to me: in fact they might already have watched him strip me and punish me. Soon they would watch him take my virginity.
Because he wanted it that way: he wanted as much of Los Angeles to know he kept a nineteen-year-old fuck toy as cared to possess the information. Like the Oscar statuette somewhere on a shelf, in his office probably, I represented a trophy—one that would hopefully provide him with even more pleasure than the statuette did.
The surge of degrading pride I felt at that idea took me by surprise. My mind tried to compensate, as if some part of me wanted to make it up to myself: really, said this second thought, to be a trophy girlfriend just meant that I would have a place in this glittering city—in Christian’s glamorous business.
Sure, that place had a level of shame attached to it, but they didn’t talk about the casting couch for no reason, did they? I didn’t think I could make it as an actress, nor did I even want to try, but I knew I could write, and Christian seemed to find me an engaging conversation partner as well as a responsive…
A responsive what? Lover… No: that word didn’t represent the function I would serve for Christian, if I uttered those fateful words.
Trophy. Yes.
Fuck toy. Lightning seemed to crawl across my skin.
Trainee. Fuck toy trainee… trophy kept bed girl.