Page 55 of The Billionaire's Wayward Virgin

I had tried that on a couple of similar occasions, when evaluating the possibilities an associate member might present, but I found the various lines distracting at best and confusing at worst. Thankfully, the feed also gave me the option of condensing all of that into a single number they calledOA: overall arousal.

Leah’s overall arousal currently stood at eight, out of ten, as she began to rub her closed pussy through her panties. The number, discreetly placed in the upper right corner of my screen, changed briefly to9, corresponding it seemed to me with a naughty little thrust of her hips and a soft cry of what sounded like desperation that reached me with crystal clarity via the excellent sound system.

I pumped my cock a little harder, enjoying to the fullest the heady feeling I always got when a bed girl in my training followed my shameful orders and found helpless pleasure in her obedience. Leah’s trim legs hovered in the air, her bare feet kicking just a little, in gentle time with the lewd squirming of her bottom as she pleasured herself. I felt a pang of pity for her as the number in the upper right of the screen descended to8, and then to7, obviously because the parts of her pussy that stood in such desperate need of her fingertips lay hidden behind the barrier of her sealed outer lips.

Leah’s left hand moved downward, trembling visibly. With my fingertip on my laptop’s trackpad, feeling almost as if I could touch my fuck toy’s needy private parts that way, I zoomed in to watch as she used her own fingertips to rub quickly over the narrow strap that covered the tiny bud of her virginal bottom hole.

A shudder went through her whole body. I heard, on the audio, Leah say something very softly.

“No… no…”

I moved the camera to show her adorable face in close-up. Her cheeks had gone bright red, and she kept whispering the word, telling herself that she didn’t do the degrading thing of her own accord, even as she willingly carried out my dark command.

“No… no… please… sir, no… I don’t…”

I shifted the view again, so that I could see it happening: my rebel, so wonderfully, obviously thinking of me and of what I meant to do tomorrow night, how I would claim her most intimate place with my thrusting hardness… touching herself there through her panties… moving her hips in obscene imitation of a girl with a penis inside her.

“Pull the panties aside, Rebel,” I said, pumping my cock harder and faster. I could have spoken to her over the apartment’s speakers, if I had wanted to. Perhaps I would, one day. Tonight, though it turned me on much more to know I could give silent commands to this amazing, independent and yet deeply submissive, young woman.

Her overall arousal number had jumped to eight again, clearly at the touch of her fingers on her forbidden rear entrance and the thought of the training she must undergo. I watched Leah’s right hand obey the order I had issued, as if she could read my mind from miles away: she pulled the gusset of her naughty panties over, and she ran her fingers down to take hold of the thong’s narrow back to tug it over her right ass cheek.

She gave a little cry as she replaced her left hand’s fingertips, directly on the enticing, wrinkly button of her anus. Her overall arousal rose to nine, and then, to my delight, to ten. Leah moaned. Her right hand rubbed frantically up and down, obviously pressing so hard on her hidden clit that I decided she must be thinking of my hand spanking her there.

At the same time, further down, her middle finger pushed, gently at first, against the sweet little flower I had told her I meant to pluck.

“That’s it, Rebel,” I murmured, feeling the seed begin to seethe in my scrotum and trying to time my climax properly. “Show me where you need the most training.”

Leah’s breathing had become very labored, every exhalation a whimper of shame and need. When the tip of her middle finger pressed into the narrow opening of her adorable pink asshole, she gave a heartrending cry. The10in the upper corner of my screen flashed, which meant that Selecta’s algorithm had just measured her arousal as having reached a higher level than it had previously observed from her before.

Then, to my surprise, it went red, and a bell chimed in her bedroom—an alarm I had set when I started watching. Leah’s hands froze. Over the audio feed I heard the apartment tell her, “Pre-orgasm detected. Sponsor Christian G has instructed you not to climax.”

Leah let out a wrenching sob. I moved the camera up so I could see her face, a look of need, frustration, and shame so vividly etched on her eyes, her forehead, her nose, her mouth, that I came instantly, shooting my semen in hot jets onto my belly and thinking of how my rebel had looked with a man’s white seed on her face for the first time.

She had taken her hands away from her privates, but instead of getting out of bed, or even covering herself, Leah had taken hold of the backs of her knees again. She spread herself for me even more widely, offering her smooth, closed pussy and her tiny anus to the camera.

“Sir…” she whispered. “I want to be your good girl.”

* * *

Leah

The next morning it seemed like a dream; one of those dreams that you can’t even decide about, whether it was a good one or a bad one—a nightmare, even. That feeling lasted until around 9:30, when the apartment told me I had a package at the front desk.

I liked the pink, Christian had written on the card, in block letters that seemed somehow to convey his easy arrogance,but I’d rather have you in these this evening.

A new set of white, lacy lingerie. This time, including a garter belt and nylons. The thong had even less material to it than the one I had bought for myself.

Along with it, green pumps. To match the green silk slip dress that looked as expensive as most of the cars driven by the citizens of Harristown.

Those stores didn’t even open until, like, 10:00. Had Christian called them up and asked them to open for him, so that he could have these things delivered to me?

“Oooh,” said a girl coming off the elevator, clearly headed for work—probably in just such a fashionable boutique. “Someone’s got a luxury sponsor. I hope you’re not sore tomorrow, sweetie.”

I turned to look at her, my face blazing, and saw no malice in her laughing eyes. She seemed a few years older than me. When she noticed the redness in my cheeks, her expression changed to sympathy.

“You get used to it,” she said, her voice kind. “Just try not to lord it over the rest of us. Remember that it probably won’t last very long, so enjoy it while it does.”

I couldn’t stop thinking about the girl’s words and wondering about her experience—whether she had ever had a luxury sponsor, whether she had had a sponsor who dominated her and trained her the way Christian had begun to train me.

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