Page 31
Absolutely fucking not.
This is not happening.
I am not her good boy who enjoys getting his ass whipped.
I try to think about other things. Engines. Root canals. The frosted-haired guy on the television eating foods that shouldn’t exist in the quantities he consumes them. Anything. Anything to make this stop.
It doesn’t stop.
If anything, fighting against it only makes it feel even better.
Fuck.
“So you’re doing well?” Molly says to June, and her voice is warm, genuinely pleased. “You’re settling in okay?”
“I’m great,” June says. “Really great. I mean, I’m exploring new things, meeting new people, finding out what I like. It’s been great for me.”
“That’s wonderful,” Molly says. “I’m glad. You deserve to feel safe and happy.”
“Thanks,” June says, and for a moment her voice drops out of the performance and into something real. “That means a lot.”
They chat for another minute. Molly asks about the apartment, about whether June needs anything. June handles it all with surprising ease, keeping up the breezy, confident front while I sit on the floor and try very hard to think about anything other than the fact that I‘m half-naked and cuffed and there’s something happening in my boxers that I cannot control and I absolutely cannot let anyone notice.
Finally, Molly moves toward the door.
“I’ll let you get back to it,” she says. “But call me if you need anything, okay? Or if you want to talk. About anything.”
“I will,” June says.
“And take care of your sub. He looks like he needs it. Poor little bitch.”
The door closes.
June stands there for a moment, practically naked and holding the whip, staring at the closed door. Then she lets out a long, shaky breath and turns to look at me.
“That was…”
“Humiliating,” I say. Even though there are a lot of other less-negative words that spring to my mind. “The word you’re looking for is humiliating.”
“I was going to say impressive.” She crosses toward me and sets the whip down on the table. “You really committed to the bit.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“You barked.” She’s smiling now, an actual smile, the kind that reaches her eyes. The smile I so rarely saw, but really fucking like. “You actually barked for me.”
“Are you going to uncuff me, or are you going to stand there gloating?”
“I’m going to gloat for another second, and then I’m going to uncuff you.” She kneels beside me, reaching for the cuffs on my ankles. “Thank you. For going along with it. I know that was something else.”
She stops.
Her hands are still on the ankle cuff, but her eyes have moved.
Up my legs.
To my boxers.
To the specific, undeniable, absolutely humiliating situation that is currently making itself known through thin cotton fabric.
