Chapter 12: Gallery Debut and Remote Control
The black dress was a second skin, a liquid prison of silk and constraint. It clung to every unnatural curve Bambi now possessed, the deep plunge of the front presenting the swollen mounds of her breasts like offerings on a platter. The back was nonexistent, a bare sweep of skin from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine, where the fabric gathered just above the cleft of her ass. Every step in her towering heels sent a tremor through her, a reminder of the other, more intimate confinement.
The vibrator was a persistent, plastic presence inside her, a blunt, unignorable fullness. It was off. For now.
Selene adjusted the thin silver collar around Bambi’s neck, her fingers cool and precise. “Remember the rules. You smile. You nod. You say nothing unless I prompt you. You are an accessory. A very expensive, very decorative accessory. And you do not come until I allow it.” Her violet eyes held Bambi’s glassy blue ones. “The moment you disgrace me, the punishment will be biblical. Understood?”
“Yes, Mistress.” Bambi’s voice was a breathy whisper. The ache was already there, a low, humming need between her legs amplified by the mere thought of the device inside her.
The gallery was a cavern of whispers and money. Light bounced off marble and crystal, glinting on champagne flutes. Eyes followed them—Selene, a blade of elegance in crimson, and Bambi, her obscene shadow. The stares were a physical touch: curious, leering, disdainful. Bambi felt them like licks against her exposed back. She kept the vapid smile plastered on her face, her mind a happy, empty loop of stand straight, tits out, smile.
Selene conversed with a man in a tailored suit, discussing chiaroscuro. Her hand, resting casually on her clutch, moved.
A low, deep buzz ignited in Bambi’s core.
It was a gentle vibration, a soft internal purr. Her breath hitched. Her knees softened. She clenched around it, instinctively trying to trap the sensation, to intensify it. A tiny, desperate sound escaped her painted lips.
Selene didn’t even glance at her. She simply released the button.
The silence inside her was suddenly more oppressive than the noise had been. The absence was an agony. Bambi shifted her weight, the movement making her breasts sway heavily beneath the tight silk. A fresh trickle of warmth seeped from her cunt, slick against the plastic.
The evening became a symphony of controlled torment.
A burst of moderate pulses while Selene admired a violent abstract. A teasing, rapid flutter as she accepted a glass of champagne she never drank. Each time, Bambi’s body would tense, her pupils would dilate, a faint sheen of sweat blooming on her chest. Each time, Selene would stop, leaving her stranded on a plateau of unsatisfied need.
“Your companion is… remarkably responsive to art,” an elderly woman remarked dryly, noting Bambi’s flushed cheeks.
“She’s a purely sensory creature,” Selene replied, her smile cutting. “The visuals overwhelm her simple nervous system.”
During a lull, Selene guided Bambi to a dimmer corner, partially shielded by a towering bronze sculpture. The music and chatter faded to a distant murmur. Here, the air was cooler on Bambi’s feverish skin.
“You’ve been very good,” Selene murmured, her back to the room, shielding Bambi from view. Her hand was inside her clutch. “A good toy deserves a reward.”
She pressed the button.
This was not a tease.
The vibrator roared to life at its maximum setting. A brutal, jackhammering intensity that obliterated all thought.
Bambi’s body bowed. A silent scream stretched her mouth wide. Her hands slapped back against the cold gallery wall for support, her head lolling. The dress strained over her shuddering breasts. Inside, the device was a merciless drill, battering her g-spot with frenzied, electrical precision. Her cunt flooded, a hot gush of arousal soaking the thin fabric of her thong, the excess trickling down her inner thighs. The climax ripped through her with vicious speed, a seizure of pleasure that locked her muscles and stole the air from her lungs. It wasn’t a wave; it was a demolition.
Through the blinding white static, she heard Selene’s voice, a crisp note in the chaos. “Thank me.”
Gasping, her body still jerking with aftershocks, Bambi forced the words through numb lips. “Th-thank you, Mistress. Thank you for letting this dumb cunt come.”
The vibrator stopped.
Bambi sagged against the wall, trembling, a mess of sweat and silk and cooling come. Selene produced a small handkerchief, wiped Bambi’s upper lip, then discreetly blotted between her legs through the dress.
“Presentable,” Selene decreed. “We’re leaving.”
The limousine interior was a tomb of quiet luxury. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows. The moment the door sealed, cutting off the outside world, the atmosphere shifted.
Selene sat back, crossing her legs. She set the clutch, with its remote, on the seat beside her. “You may touch yourself.”
For a second, Bambi didn’t comprehend. The permission hung in the air, more potent than the command to stop.
Then a frantic, starving energy possessed her. Her hands, clumsy in their urgency, shoved the tight skirt of the dress up around her waist. The ruined thong was pushed aside. Her fingers dove into her soaked, swollen flesh.
She was already hypersensitive from the forced orgasm. The touch of her own fingers, slippery with her mess, was almost painful in its intensity. She circled her clit, her movements jerky and desperate, two fingers plunging into her slack, used hole. A high, keening whine filled the car.
“Look at you,” Selene said, her voice devoid of warmth. “A hero. Fingering your wrecked pussy in the back of a car like a common slut. Do you even remember your own name?”
“Bambi!” she moaned, arching her back, her tits straining against the silk. “I’m Bambi, I’m your slut, please, I need more, I need—”
“You need what?”
“I need to come again! Please, Mistress, let me come! I’ll be good, I’ll be so good, just let me!” Her hips pistoned against her own hand. The smell of sex, thick and pungent, filled the enclosed space.
Selene watched, a scientist observing a compelling experiment. She let the desperation build, let the begging dissolve into sobs, let Bambi’s movements become a frantic, losing race. Just as Bambi’s breath hitched on the final precipice, Selene leaned forward.
She didn’t touch the remote. Instead, she placed her heeled shoe on the seat, resting her calf beside Bambi’s shaking thigh.
“Come on my boot,” Selene commanded. “Scream when you do it.”
It was the final, perfect degradation. Bambi’s eyes, wide and wild, locked onto the polished leather. She shifted, grinding her dripping cunt against the cool, hard surface of Selene’s shoe. The pressure was alien, unforgiving, and utterly devastating. She rubbed herself like a bitch in heat, her fluids smearing the pristine leather, her clit throbbing against the arch.
The orgasm took her with a violence that felt like being split in two. A raw, guttural scream tore from her throat, unheard by the soundproofed city. Her body convulsed, her vision tunneling to a point of dark, shattering release. She ground herself to a shuddering, spent heap against the shoe, her makeup streaked, her mind a void of pure, used sensation.
Selene slowly withdrew her foot, examining the glistening streak left on the leather with a faint, critical smirk.
“Clean it,” she said.
Whimpering, Bambi lowered her head and began to lick her own mess from the boot, her tongue making slow, obedient passes. The limousine glided on, carrying them deeper into the night, and further from anything that had ever been Marcus Vance.