Serenity

“I just get tired of it.  Like, after a couple months—”

“Four months is 120 days,” the coordinator corrects, rudely interrupting.

“Sure, sure,” she waves a dismissive hand through the air like dissipating an unwelcome odor, “but I’m just trying to figure out what’s so great about being sober.”  

Barely taking a breath, she launches into what’s been weighing so heavily on her mind.  “As I recall, rock bottom wasn’t so bad, even though technically, it wasn’t the best.  Yeah, so my friends hated me.  Didn’t talk to family, still don’t.  I had no job.  No home for a while.  But at least when I was drinking, I had some fucking fun.  Sometimes, I even liked myself.”

Everyone remains silent, maybe staring, but she doesn’t necessarily feel the weight of their eyes.  Not yet, at least.

Picking at the dry, dead skin of her cuticles, she feels the flesh tear as a bead of red wells up from the wound before she continues.  “I know I liked myself more when I was drinking—even if no one else did.  Drinking helped me put all the bullshit on the back burner and focus on the moment.  I remember feeling glorious, not invincible, but outstandingly content.  I just remember liking myself.”  

She says it with such clear obstinance, like she has authority over or expertise on being sober.  But, that’s not her area of study.  In fact, she’s a degenerate who relishes in being anyone, anything other than herself, especially her self.  Feels it in her bones, that she should be out of body so she can’t hurt anyone else.  Can’t hurt herself, hate herself.

Hardly a second has passed when she concludes, “Now… being sober, I don’t much like anything or anyone—especially me.  I don’t know.  Just wondering how to feel that good again.”  Quickly, she amends, “I guess, without drinking.”  

With a self-deprecating laugh, she muses aloud, “Kinda thinking maybe drinking is worth it.  At least, sometimes.  I don’t know.”  Not knowing why she’s said it, but it’s out there now, she waits with bated breath for what her fellow cohorts will say.  Head still down, frantically picking and pulling at the sores framing her nail beds.

“Drinking doesn’t cure depression.”

That is literally, and stupidly, the last fucking thing she expects.  Some sympathetic commiseration?  Some reliving fond memories of falling down laughing on the sticky sidewalk outside dive bars?  Some fucking respect that she had the goddamned guts to say out loud the fucking one thing that they all must be thinking, feeling?  Maybe not, but she’d had hope.  She’d had faith.

Pissed at the unfairness of it all, of her being as vulnerable as the fatted calf for sacrifice, she makes direct eye contact with the coordinator and venomously spits, “Look, I don’t want to get into all your instant gratification versus long-term whatever-the-fuck.  I’m just telling you how I see it.  Right now- shit!  Pretty much every goddamn day, I want to get blitzed out of my mind, dance like there’s no tomorrow, and get railed so hard I can’t walk straight.  I just miss the feeling.  Don’t even care what’s on tap, just give it to me and let me go—it’s the freest I’ve ever felt.  I don’t think anything will really make me feel that way again.”

It’s a deeply profound revelation, a pathetic one, too.  And, maybe it’s just for her.  Maybe no one else is on this journey with her.  She’s always felt alone, cast out.  This shouldn’t be any different.

Whatever-his-bitch-ass-name-is decides to bury her further in the dark, damp soil of her living death, “This is a safe space but—”

“No buts!  There are no buts!  That’s just how I’m feeling and I’m done fucking sharing.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she leans back in the uncomfortable steel of her folding chair.  Not even the chill of the backrest will have her sitting up straight to pay attention to the rest of the useless meeting.  Under her breath but loudly enough to be heard, she huffs, “Thanks for nothing.  Fucking asshat piece-of-shit never fucking listening.”

A soft, male chuckle across the circle of chairs doesn’t daunt her, doesn’t sway her in the slightest.  She’s checked out, and she shows it by violently pushing up from the chair and patting her pockets for her cigarettes and lighter before marching determinedly from the dimly-lit recreation room.

“I don’t think—”  The coordinator is abruptly cut off.

“Let her go,” her sponsor says behind her retreating back.  “She’s my responsibility, I’ll handle it after.”

She tries slamming the flimsy plywood of the door for effect when she exits, but of course, it doesn’t really work.  With the impotent, muted thump of the hollow door, she deflates.  It’s too cold outside for a smoke, especially since the courts have mandated she stay the full hour on the premises.  Biding her time, she peers up and down the wide hallway littered with doors.  Some have makeshift placards printed on white paper, others drawn in crayon on construction paper.  One door is even decorated for the season.

That’s the one she goes in, knowing good and well that this must be a room exclusively used by younger children.  She isn’t shocked to find a hodge-podge of furniture from a defunct teacher’s desk to a sturdy semi-circle table and a plethora of assorted mis-matched chairs ranging in size from toddler to pre-teen.  Finding the nearest chair most suitable for her size, she drags the legs across the unpolished industrial linoleum with a sustained, and resounding squeal.  

The raucous noise echoes the screaming of her thoughts, and it feels good.

Sitting primly on the olive-green monstrosity, she unlatches a window and lights up.  

“Oh, so you were a fun drunk…” says a baritone voice, skeptical if not downright disbelieving.  

In most cases, she would have jumped in fright.  She would have faced her demon head-on.  But not tonight.  Instead, she laughs bitterly, eyes trained on the void outside, unseeing.  “Probably not,” she admits, “just felt like laughing came easier.”  She pauses on an inhale, thinks for merely a split-second, and blows out the words with plumes of smoke, “Just… I felt, actually felt—ya know?”

She can detect the shift in the atmosphere as he gingerly snaps the door shut, cutting them off from the shuffling feet gathering in the more expansive hallway outside the room.  Group always meanders after, because they have nothing better to do than eat stale donuts, drink burnt coffee, and chat about anything but the pleasure they won’t be getting when they leave.  It’s always so fucking dire, and depressing.  She feels hopeless.

Finally, with her half-finished cigarette in hand, she looks up to find his face obscured in the shadows.  “Well, Sponsor, do you?  Do you know what I mean?” she meanly teases, knowing good and well he must have felt it and probably still does.  Knowing that he never chose to exert any power over her, he chooses not to even now.  Deranged as she is, at least she isn’t a pussy like him.  Well, not at this particular moment.

He says nothing, instead stuffs his hands in his pockets and fluidly plods his way closer.  With steps so heavy, she imagines she can feel the furniture rattling as the building quivers with his thinly-veiled strength.  She hates him at that moment; is envious of his ability to overcome.  What a tosspot, the fucking empty-headed dudebro who will assuredly live his dream of acting even if he never achieves A-list status.

“Cock-sucking toe-licker,” she insults under her breath.

But not quiet enough, apparently.  “So, what’s the bitterness?  Just missing that good fucking?  Need a reminder?”

Unthinking, she scoffs unintelligently, “Please, who is going to waste their time?  This is why whiskey water is required.”

As he drifts closer and closer, she can see the darkening of his fathomless eyes, the twitch under his right eye, the tick of his jaw clenching when his larynx bobs.  She can see it all, but understand it even less.

“What?”  She sounds almost accusing as he stops to stand directly in front of her.

“You remember the Serenity Prayer?” he benignly asks.

She repeats an unintelligent, “what?” feeling the sting of the cigarette burning down to the butt.  Without preamble, she takes one last, short puff before turning to stub out the cherry and tossing the detritus into the great glacial beyond outside the window.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he admonishes.

Just as the window closes, two thick arms wrap around her middle to bodily lift her from the chair.  With quite a fight, he whisks her across the room to the teacher’s desk, shoving her face-down atop.  In the scuffle, a couple chairs are upended and one of the paper-mache planets falls from a paperclip in the ceiling.

“Woah, everything okay?” inquires the nosey coordinator from the door.  She can’t see him, but she recognizes his sniveling voice.

Her sponsor, bearing down over her, turns to him.  “We’ll be fine, keep that door shut,” he barks.

She can’t hear the creaking of the hinges, and the coordinator calls her name, reaching out to her and offering an escape.  He clarifies, “I-I- are you sure?”  

Head down and sightless but for the feel of the air around her and the weighty hand in the middle of her back.  “I’m fine.  We’re just talking,” she justifies.

A matter of moments, that’s all it takes.  The door alienates them from the rest of their group.  She’s alone with her sponsor, with the man who should tell her all the reasons that being sober is the bee’s knees.  

“You tryin’ to tell me to accept things I can’t change?”  Her body tenses beneath him, under him.  “Is that what this is, you creep?”

“You’re courageous, courageous enough to change the things you can,” he whispers hotly in her ear.

Arousal shivers down her spine, her extremities tingling with unfettered energy.  “Yeah, and you wanna be the one to give me my come-to-Jesus moment?  You, the wise guy behind the curtain?”  She shakes out of his hold, though it's hardly an imprisonment.  Turning to face him, she hisses into his stoic expression, “Are you the one with all the answers?”

One side of his lips lifts, a goofily crooked grin that maybe could be construed as a smirk but the dimples and eye-creases make it hard to believe.  “Nah, I’m just here for me.”

“Selfish prick,” she prods, wanting him to feel the simmer of emotions boiling just beneath the placid surface.  His eyes narrow, though the depths shine with a kind of sadness, or sympathy.  She hates that most of all.  “I’m here for me, too, ya know,” she murmurs like an afterthought, wishing she’d kept that piece of herself hidden. And, protected.

“I know.”

She searches his face, but he gives nothing away.  This man with all his manic mood swings and leaps of logic is truly the biggest pain in the ass of her life.  Says the histrionic basketcase.

“What is this, Sponsor?”  It’s a snide barb more than a question, and they both know it.

He sighs heavily.  “You asked me to be your sponsor.”  His brow draws in, now furrowed in a gratifying and tempting way.  “I didn’t think you’d never call me by my name again.”  

She can’t help it, really, when she blurts next, “Well, I didn’t think you wouldn’t fuck me, so we’re even, huh?”

His hand shoots up, gently smacking her cheek before cupping it for a hair’s breadth.  Fingertips trail down her chin to spread around her throat, hand circling her sensitive neck.  The meaty mitt clasps her lightly, pulling her boldly into his torso as his head lowers to hers.

“You got a real smart mouth,” he mumbles, eyes trained on her lips, “how ‘bout you put it to better use.”

Not really a command, not even a request.  Just a moment shared between them when she pushes into the pressure on her throat and raises on her toes to crash her mouth into his.  It’s sloppy, open-mouthed, tongues lapping and seeking out the other.  It’s a mess and magnificently uncoordinated.  Teeth scrape flesh that swells beneath the assault on one another.  The pout of his bottom lip slips between her incisors when she bites down.

He groans into the kiss; she’s never been a gentle biter.  

“You’re a fucking menace,” she accuses with one last squeeze of his lip between her teeth.

He pulls back, “And you’re a fucking bitch.”  The hand holding her throat squeezes.  “Brats get punished.”

It’s a whirlwind, them knocking spiral notebooks and cans of dirtied writing implements to the floor.  A glass breaks, plastic paint brushes scattering across the floor.  Maybe the door to the room opens again.  Maybe she hears a gasp from an unsuspecting onlooker or maybe it’s him or her.  Nothing really seems to matter as the world around her shifts and upends in the most delightful of ways.

She’s slung across the desk belly-down, her head hangs over the open end while her knees bang into the metal sheeting on the other side.  Minor inconveniences hardly register as he uses his chin to push at the fabric of her shoulder, nipping at any exposed skin that appears.  His hands work quickly to slide beneath her, unbutton her jeans, and drag the cumbersome fabric over her hips and down, down to her ankles.  

Her panties speedily follow the descent.

“Fucking do you know the Serenity Prayer?” he’s breathing heavily in her ear.  “Do you?”  

He says it with such a sense of urgency that she snips back, “You got a religious kink or something?”

“Yeah, something,” he growls, palming the globes of her ass and making her hiss, enthralling.  The ache between her legs is suddenly absurdly violent.  She can’t ignore the almost instantaneous flood of excitement flowing from inside her like a dam breaking.  He offers, “I’ll fucking write it down if you don’t know.”

His teeth sink into the fleshy tendon of her neck as she keens, “I know it!”

“Good,” he hums, “even the best sluts need reminders.”

A pitiful, uncharacteristic mewl rips from her core.  “Remind me,” she trails off.

All of sudden, he rises.  Leaves her panting and neglected atop the tacky surface of cold compressed wood.  Rising on her elbows, looking down between her body and the desk, she’s about to riot when thick hands emblazoned with corded veins and sinew latch onto her hips and tug her backward.  An unintentional squeal rends the air, and she almost laughs.  Almost.

“Say it,” he demands.

“Oh, fuck,” she breathes, “gimme a sec.”

A hand between her shoulder blades pushes her into the surface of the desk, her cheek pressing into the surface.  “Say.  It.”  His voice is like gravel, kind of desperate in the way it grinds and grounds out.  “Fucking say it and don’t you dare fucking stop.”  

A tempered slapping sound emits from behind her, and she can imagine him jerking off to her exposed, sopping cunt.  But, she doesn’t have to imagine.  Inconspicuously, in her own opinion, she peers over her shoulder and tries to spy him pulling lazily at his cock.  But, her sponsor seems to have run out of patience.

The caterwauling of good-natured conversation just outside the door doesn’t stop him when one of his wide hands slams down on the meat of her ass with a resounding pop.  

It comes out like a snarl, “Fucking say it!”

“God grant me” a more sedated slap to the opposite cheek,“th-the serenity to accept” a heavy-handed lob to her thigh, “the things I cannot change,” another slap to her inner thigh that has her salivating, “the courage to cha-change” a pinch on the outside of her thigh accompanies the wallop to her ass, “the things I can,” a whack to her other thigh “and the wisdom” a twisting pinch closer to her pussy, “to know the difference.”

Two scathing whacks to her backside have her head spinning, her cunt clenching.  

“That’s not the whole thing,” he sneers.  

She lifts onto her elbows, forehead resting on the chill surface, unsure of what to say or do.  Rightfully so, she’s pissed at him for this bullshit.  For not just forcibly shoving his cock inside her needy cunt, filling her with his seed like the cumslut she is, like she deserves.  

“…living one day at a time,” he expertly orates, inflections and caesuras all in the appropriate and most poignant of places, “enjoying one moment at a time; taking this world as it is and not as I would have it; trusting that you will make all things right if I surrender to your will; so that I may be reasonably happy in this life and supremely happy with you forever.” He leans down over her, like his prayer is meant only for her, “Amen.”

She can feel his erection prodding at her entrance, the solid circumference bullying her covetous core with what it doesn’t have, not yet.  “Amen,” she repeats.  “But, I can’t remember all that.”

He chuckles darkly, “We’ll work on it.”  And suddenly, it’s as though it never happened.  Everything resets.  “Again,” he commands.

This time, he doesn’t hold back.  How could she have possibly known he’d been holding back? 

He rains down degrading praise in equal measure with substantial blows that will invariably leave lasting bruises.  If she for one moment thought this wasn’t exactly what she wanted, what she asked for, then maybe she’d have felt shame and embarrassment for the tears streaming down her face and the makeup smudging around her eyes.

He’s leading her through the verses, and it’s when she gets to “trusting that you will make all things right if I surrender to your will,” for a third time that he really unleashes all his pent up frustration on her.  

The wooden whistle of a twelve-inch ruler cuts through the air to connect sharply with her bare flesh.  She can feel the welts, blood gathering beneath the surface.  But under the onslaught of his cadence and her earnestness, the thin ruler cracks.  He doesn’t pause, dropping the broken instrument with a clatter, the ample span of his palm suffices. 

Defeating her to the quick; she is raw, almost like new.  Something about this passion, their shared intensity, bolsters her resolve.

She’s bawling, hiccuping, when she screams, “supremely happy with you foreverI”  She begs, “Amen!  Amen!”

He stops, the world in flux, but he stops. 

Taking in stuttering, staccato breaths, she waits and ponders the adrenaline coursing through her blood that leaves her hands trembling.  Worried, she begins to think that this is why they hadn’t done anything like this before.  It’s like having a bracing drink after days, weeks, months, years of going without.  It’s dangerous, she can see herself falling into this, just like all the warnings forbade.

She tries, tries to do the right thing for herself and for him, and for anyone who has ever felt this way before.  Stilted, she repeats, “G-god grant me the serenity–”

“Fucking cockslut,” he mumbles to himself.  This time, the slapping sound is louder, faster.  She continues to recite the prayer, the brutality of his self-abuse heard increasing and crystal-clear throughout.  

“…enjoying one moment at a time,” she says in dulcet tones, prompting her to blindly reach behind her. 

Her hand futilely seeks contact with him in the obscurity. 

Finding instead his sturdily pumping forearm, she clutches at it with abandon.  Closer, she wants him.  The air around them shifts as the distance between them closes.  Out in the hallway, it’s silent, but only minutes have passed since the end of the meeting.  They must be listening, and hell, maybe they should.  This right here, right now, feels momentous.  Feels like something to be shared.

“Amen,” she finishes as the final wet slap halts, “please.”

The bulbous head of his cock slides through her folds, in and out of the slick staining her pussy and thighs.  Slip, slip, noch at her entrance only to slip away again.  She’s straining, pushing into the palm of her hand holding her upright over the desk.  He moves into her, bodily shoves her hips into the sharp edge, eliciting an excited hiss from her.

Her refrain of “please, oh god, please,” is only met when they both hear a blunt knock like someone falling into the door.  He tries to slam his girth inside her, and it burns.  It burns in that delicious stretching of a way that has her fearing for a brief moment that she isn’t wet enough.  That he isn’t hard enough.  Has her anxieties sky-rocketing like they never have when she’s been drunk. 

She’s careening off the cliff of uncertainty when she hears him clear his throat before noisily spitting into his hand.  No, not into his hand.  Fuck.  He spits between them.  She dares to look over her shoulder and watch as a glob of saliva slowly falls.  It splats between them, warm but for the heat emanating from where they’re joined.  Working his hips, holding hers steady, he’s focused on dribbling his saliva at the apex of their thighs.

“You’re tight for a cumdumpster,” he grunts.

She should probably be seething.  Instead, she swoons, her head lolling until her chin rests on her chest.

“I’m gonna carve out a place for my-fucking-self,” his grip on her hips tightens, “cause this filthy pussy is mine.”  Another muted thump and the tap, tap, tap of scurrying bodies outside shows him ratcheting up his dirty talk.  “Fucking nasty slut, always actin’ like a brat.  You’re just begging to get stuffed.”  Incrementally, he shoves more of his unyielding shaft inside her.  “From now on, you come to me.  I stuff your dirty pussy.  I fill you with my cum.”  

Finally, at long last, he’s seated to the hilt inside her.  They’re both breathing erratically, but he seems to fall over her, into her.  His arms envelope her, holding her in place, skewered on his substantial cock.

Unbidden, she thoughtlessly supplies, “But, you’re my sponsor,” as her head rolls back to perch on one of his wide shoulders.

“You’re my responsibility.  Get it, you fucking spoiled-stupid, little bitch?”  The words contain so much vitriol, she shudders.  “And, if you’re gonna call me anything, it sure as hell isn’t Sponsor.”

She lifts an arm to claw a hand through his unruly hair, ripping at his scalp.  “What?  You wanna be my Daddy?”

“Whores love their Daddies,” he jeers.  “First, you gotta know what love is to share it, dumbass.”

Seeing red, she gyrates her hips violently.  “Wow, from the mouths of washed-up actors…”

One of his hands juts up under her shirt and bra to clamp over her tit, fingers needling and twisting one neglected nipple in recompense.  “Fucking one more… just one more time, and I’ll make you eat those fucking words, you twat.”

“Do it,” she prods, tacking on “asshole” at the end for good measure.

It’s a frantic scuffle.  They wrestle, still connected by his rabid erection and her weeping cunt.  Twisting, shifting, arms flailing.  Admittedly, he doesn’t have the easiest time subduing the fire-breathing hellion.  But, it’s almost like relief for them both when he cordons her arms behind her back using one iron-like grip to shove her down onto the desk.  Hardly a nanosecond passes before he’s bending his knees to pump into her.

“What a shitty cocksleeve, always mouthing off and never fucking where she belongs.”  He slams into her, the momentum jolting her forward till her bones hammer into the unforgiving edge of cold composite.  “Gotta break you, train you right.”  With each thrust, she shouts in agonizing ecstasy.  His free arm slithers down her thigh to lift a leg, one of her knees resting on the surface to spread her open, and maybe to alleviate the bruising pace. 

That hand continues to travel, from her knee to her thigh and inward.  The feeling so foreign yet familiar has her bowing her back to arch up.  He circles her clit before pinching, then repeatedly slaps the hood with the flat of his fingers.

“Yes, Daddy, fuck!” she screams.

“Shhh,” he chides, “you’re gonna make everyone jealous with all this nasty pussy you’re giving away for free.”

With a soul-crushing moan, she shouts, “Yes, yes, I want them to hear!”

“Fuck, my cocksleeve sure is insatiable.”  His arms fall away from her, dropping her summarily on the desk that wobbles precariously, the joints groaning with their exertions.  “No walking the next day, right?”

He asks the question like it’s rhetorical with a given answer.  And, it is.

His arms weave around her, between her hips and stomach; he’s lifting her ass higher into the air.  Her other leg jumps atop the desk, and it shakes scarily before he’s pounding into her; swinging her back and forth over his cock.  

“Tell them what Daddy’s doing to you, you filthy cockslut.”

Her hands clutch at the edge closest to her head, fumbling to stay grounded to the top while her legs quiver and sparks fly from the deepest parts inside herself to ignite the nerve endings throughout her body.  It’s all too much and not enough and she just wants to stop thinking. 

“Fu-fucking me,” she moans.

“Not.  Good.  Enough,” is punctuated by three brutal pumps that have the blood racing in her ears in an echoing chasm imploding on itself.

“Fuck, Daddy,” she rambles, “he’s fucking pounding my filthy pussy.  His pussy.  He’s stuffing his dirty cocksleeve like she deserves.”  Her tirade continues over the din of her thoughts inside and the bodies shoving around outside.  “Daddy’s gonna paint his slut’s face with his cum to show everyone,” before she belatedly adds, “and carry her home when he’s done!”

His affirmation of, “that’s fucking right, you perfect cumwhore,” is overshadowed by the alarming pace and strength of his thrusts.  

Her knees slip; they slide further apart into a pose she didn’t think her flexibility would allow, but that also forces his pistoning cockhead to bash into a spot inside her that whites out her vision.  She’s so close it hurts.  She can taste it in the back of her throat, rising up from parts unknown inside her.  She’s never been so close to coming with another person so hard while sober.  In.  Her.  Life.

“Fuck me, Daddy!  Use me up!  Oh god, yes, fuck!” is shouted along with the ringing of the desk legs periodically rising and falling to clang into the industrial floor.  She pushes up on her palms, fingers white-knuckled on the edge, and elbows locked with the effort of remaining upright.  Her shoulder blades press into his heaving chest as he plows into her mercilessly.  

It’s at that very moment she thinks maybe this is the best she’ll be able to get without drinking when one of his hands starts clumsily smacking at her clit.

Her orgasm starts in her toes, she’s never been so self-aware before. 

A tepid heat settles in the tips of her toes, and an effervescence bubbles up from her peripheral extremities.  It travels through her major arteries, gaining momentum and leaving razed fields of flesh and bone in their wake.  It’s a comforting chaos that disrupts all her senses.  Black spots dance before her eyes, she acutely smells stagnant deodorant and fresh sweat, the only sound she can focus on is his successive grunt, grunt, grunt as he fucks her.

He’s suddenly fumbling and she’s useless, a limp cocksleeve for her Daddy to dump his cum where he pleases.  Rolling her upper body over, he grabs her by the roots of her hair to pull her closer to his pelvis as he tugs at his angry, wet cock.  One, two, three strokes and viscous ropes of cum spew from the purple tip to shoot from her elbow to ears. 

It’s hardly a consideration as she watches his face contort in a delicious agony of primal well-being.

They’re catching their breath as she watches the cum sprayed on her clothes begin to absorb into the fibers, fanning out to saturate every nearby thread.  The stain sets as the rhythmic wringing of her inner walls dissipates, and she knows some of his cum is drying in her hair.  She couldn’t care less about snarls glued in her tresses, not when she wants another.

She wriggles atop the desk, the metal almost sounds like crunching beneath her.  Once fully facing him, she tries to push up to standing.  Oddly enough, her knees are like jelly as her muscles quiver with overuse.  Falling back on her ass, she doesn’t have time to think before there’s an anti-climatic crack heralding two of the desk legs snapping.  Like in slow motion, she feels herself falling.

And, there’s no romance-novel protagonist to save her when she’s in distress.

The desk, in the midst of crashing, seems to catapult her body forward like a ballistic missile tossed at a very wide-eyed sponsor cinching up his trousers.  

They’re sprawled on the floor, a tangle of limbs, with her cum-soaked hair stuck to her face and the bottom half of her clothes around her ankles, when the cavalry arrives.  Practically their entire group sees her naked ass.  Her sponsor is stuck in a loop of uproarious laughter, despite helping her straighten her attire.  It’s more than enough to have her fuming again.

When they finally get back to their feet, her dignity slightly appeased by her pants now being over her hips, she looks at the group then back at her sponsor.  “I’ll leave these unbuttoned for you, Daddy.  You have a promise to keep.”  

She galivants out of the room and passes the gawking bystanders while the coordinator chimes in, “Sponsors shouldn’t–”

Daddy, beaming grin splitting his face, counters, “Selfish, spoiled cunts love their punishments.”  Briskly walking to catch up with her stride, he cheekily amends, “We’ll catch ya Thursday."