Bad Pet (His Pet)

My body is held down, weighted by desire.

“You will not come yet, pet. You’ve been naughty and need to earn it.”

“Yes, sir,” she breathes.

With one hand, I rub and massage my pet’s breasts while the other slide’s down between the pommel horse and her belly. As I reach her crotch, I push her legs apart, exposing all of my pet to my desires. Using my thick fingers, I rub her clit, feeling the results of my actions in the increased tension of her pussy. Holding off is getting harder.

I twist my cock, this way and that, pushing into her walls, finding those tiny points of pleasure that made my skin tingle. When satisfied with our connection, I speed up. My breath comes in measured pants like I’m jogging. I’m always in control of everything. His cock rubs her on the inside. The friction burns and tingles. The heat grows as my balls tighten.

“More,” she cries incoherently.

Pulling back, I smack her hard on the rub. “No requests, pet.”

She ignores me. “I need more. Pinch my nipples.”

Her pleading gets her another smack.

“I’m going to come!” she yells.

I push in deep. “No, pet. Bad, pet!”

Yet, at that point, I’m too far gone to care. When her pussy starts to clench around me, I let go, filling the condom with loads of jizz and letting my body rock against hers.

She didn’t follow my orders, but the night was worth it.

Chapter Three - Sloane

My stomach churns as I look out the little oval-shaped window onto the tarmac. The baggage handlers are still filling the cargo hold and running around like ants in highly reflective jumpsuits. I can tell they are hurrying. Maybe that means we will get off the ground soon.

I sigh, take another sip of an almost empty glass of white wine and twist my cup watching the contents swirl. It’s only been fifteen minutes, and I already need another refill.

Flying isn’t my favorite thing to do. I hate it, in fact. The roar of the engines, while that may be exciting for some, it just makes me want to curl into a little ball and cry. When the airplane starts moving, that’s when my stomach drops, and I can’t loosen my grip on the armrests. I swear on some flights, I’ve done damage to the upholstery.

My uncle David teased me whenever we took his private jet when I was a kid. He’d make me sit in the seat just above the engine, so it was twice as loud, and play plane crash movies on the projector he had set up. Dad and David would laugh their asses off as I curled into a ball as much as I could and covered my ears with my hands. Mom would tut at them, but she really wouldn’t press. Even if I gave her a pleading look, she would shrug her narrow shoulders and nag me to sit up straight, or my posture would suffer.

Taking the last sip of my wine, I straighten my shoulders at the memory. Outside my little window, the baggage men have left, but still, the plane doesn’t move. As far as I am concerned, this flight — this trip in general — cannot be over fast enough. The flight is only a little over an hour. Honestly, I wanted to rent a limo and drive from Manhattan to Washington DC but Kane, my boss, said no. Instead, he explained that it was imperative that I be at the Pentagon by this evening. The whole future of McKenzie Tech depended on it. Or so he says.

I think that Kane has been exaggerating a bit lately. Lack of sleep from the new baby seems to make him stressed out and more apt to panic. Before the baby, he was a pretty self-assured guy. Having kids changes people.

That’s why I’ve chosen not to have them.

I check my watch. We’ve been stuck on the tarmac for forty-five minutes already. At least, I’m in first class, and it looks like no one has bought the seat next to me. So, I have a bit of room to relax and spread out. I also have some privacy.

Reaching down, I pull a couple of plastic surgery brochures out of my purse then look around to make sure none of the other passengers are watching. After opening the first one, I dump the rest onto the empty seat next to me. The shiny paper is covered with photos of attractive women smiling and looking at ease. Trying to ignore the endless sea of pretty faces, I look over the meat of the information — the doctor’s credentials. If I’m going to have work done, it better be by one of the best doctors in the world.

I’m sick of being called long-faced, or horse-faced, or any of those other comments that are spoken about women like me whose faces are a bit rectangular. Even as a kid, I was teased. Some of my peers said that my face resembled a croquet mallet, just like the ones we used to use to play on my father’s lawn. Such comments ruined the game for me.