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As he looked out on the crowd, the bitch was pleased.
They were all looking up at him, alone before the microphone, their faces aglow in the candlelight. A room full of the powerful and the influential, some there because they admired him, liked him, supported him. Others because they just wanted to be seen making an investment.
As he scanned the crowd, he saw him. Seated at a front-row table, just off centre. His Sir.
A Bangladeshi man, still with the blush of youth in his late 20s but mature for his age. Very well dressed. Looked like he could be in real estate, maybe finance, maybe one of those young South Asians in the family business. He radiated a confidence that came with his smile and his look. Especially his eyes -- deep dark brown, soulful, with a capacity to express emotions in a glance. One moment, kind. In a blink, cruel.
The bitch knew what his sir was. Asian Alpha.
They were a generation apart, he presumably the mentor, the young man his willing student.
It was anything but. He was the Alpha's bitch.
After his stump speech, after asking for the money, he was ready for the final task. A hundred handshakes, thanks and smiles, literally the personal touch.
He moved through the crowd, through the alcoholic greetings and good wishes, moving his focus from person to person, convincing each that they had a special bond. Then, from the side, he felt it. He just knew, as he snapped his head around, that he was being watched. Monitored by Sir.
There were the eyes -- he knew them intimately - and this time they said 'come to me.'
With a too-short apology, he walked away from the crowd. He went to the eyes.
"Hello, Bitch."
So that was it. They were into the game they played in public. Talking dirty like they talked business.
Again: "Hello, Bitch." This time with a smile.
"Sir," he said in return. A short pause, a look in the eyes. "As you saw me up on the stage tonight, I hope you were remembering what I was doing last night. What you were doing to me."
The bitch was splayed across a bench, his ankles cuffed, his wrists bound, his ass elevated and his pussy exposed. Sir was focused on the muscled glutes that flexed tight with every lash of the whip.
"Those melons you call an ass aren't red enough." Another lash.
"Thank you, Sir," acknowledged the bitch. "That hurt me. There was no relief. I had to accept it until I could welcome it."
"That's my perverted bitch. "
To those watching them, it seemed like the older man, the mentor, was regaling the other with some absurd political story, exaggerating for effect as he spread his arms wide and back, chest pushed out, the shirt tightening around defined pecs. As the lapels of his jacket fell back, his subtly erect nipples could be seen though the crisp cotton.
He kept his arms extended just a little too long, so Sir could enjoy the presence of his muscle-bitch. A few who were glancing at them from the side might have wondered why he seemed to be displaying himself. A few knew why.
"Bitch," scoffed Sir with a downward sweep of his arm, as though dismissing the story he was being told. "Bitch, I want what's under that shirt. I want it now."
In a hotel stairwell, where at any time some door could open, the Alpha grabbed his bitch's shirt, and with a yank pulled it apart. Buttons went flying.
The chest of the older man was magnificent. Best of all were the nips, so prominent that, with work, they could be obscenely erotic. Sir would do that work.
But not this time. The bitch expected the pain to come through his chest at any moment, just as the pain had come through his ass last night. But instead, just two gentle strokes on the underside of each nip. And then another.
It was totally sensual; he was being played like an instrument. Sir was making love to him with two fingers.
He knew at any moment it could turn, when Sir would use his carefully cut nails, sharpened on the edges, to dig into the flesh, to induce the pain.
Sir knew what his bitch expected. "Not this time, Bitch. You get back to the ballroom. Work the crowd, more thanks to your supporters. Don't forget the volunteers."
He spat in the bitch's face, and then rubbed the spit into his cheeks, to leave his smell on him.
"But you might have to explain how you lost those buttons."