Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“Good,” he murmured. “Keep standing still.”
His hands returned to my shoulders and slid inward, following the lace edge of the bodice across my upper chest. I felt his fingertips graze my collarbones, felt them trace the neckline of the baby doll where it dipped between my breasts, and my breath hitched—a small, audible catch that I couldn’t suppress.
Master Paul… Paul… my accepted suitor… didn’t acknowledge it. His hands continued their inventory, moving down over the lace cups that held my breasts, not cupping them but… assessing them. Feeling the weight of them through the fabric the way a tailor might check the drape of a garment, his palms flat, his fingers spread, and I felt my nipples harden against his hands with a swiftness that shamed me terribly.
He felt it too. I knew he felt it because his hands paused—just for a heartbeat, just long enough for his palms to register the stiffened peaks pressing against them through the lace—and then moved on, sliding down over my ribcage, over the gathered empire waist, onto the sheer chiffon that covered my stomach and hips.
“The baby doll suits you,” he said, and his voice had that quality again—the low, resonant register that bypassed my ears and arrived somewhere in my chest. “The color. The way it falls. You look like exactly what you are, Anne. A modest girl who’s been put in something immodest by a man who wants to see what’s underneath.”
His hands reached the hem. The chiffon ended just below the curve of my bottom—I could feel the edge of it brushing against my upper thighs—and his fingers found that edge and lifted it. Slowly. Gathering the fabric upward, inch by inch, until the cool air of the studio touched my bare rear cheeks and I knew that everyone behind me—Melissa, Darlene, the technicians, anyone—could see the evidence of what had happened to me on the living room set. The redness from Master Paul’s huge hand. The heat that I could still feel throbbing in both cheeks, a deep, pulsing ache that hadn’t faded.
“There it is,” he said quietly. His hand—his bare hand, warm and wide—settled on my right cheek, and I flinched and then immediately pushed back into his palm. Both reactions happened simultaneously and I wanted to die. “A well-spanked bottom. You took your punishment, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes… Master Paul.”
His thumb traced a slow circle on my burning skin. The sensation was extraordinary—pain and pleasure so intertwined that I couldn’t separate them, the tenderness of bruised flesh meeting the warmth of his hand, and my body interpreted the combination as something that sent a fresh pulse of wetness between my legs.
“Call me sir, the way a New Modesty girl does her future husband.”
I swallowed so hard it hurt a little.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered, my mouth feeling somehow dry despite the way it seemed to keep watering.
“Turn around,” he said. “Face me.”
I turned. The baby doll’s hem fell back into place, the chiffon settling over my hips like a whisper. I looked up at him—I had to look up, he was so much taller—and his brown eyes held mine for a moment before they began to travel downward. Over my face, my neck, the lace bodice where my nipples were still visibly hard, my stomach, and then lower, to the place where the sheer pink chiffon did nothing—absolutely nothing, really—to conceal what lay beneath it.
He looked at my pussy.
He looked at it with focused, unhurried attention, and I stood there and let him, because the word submissive was still sitting on my shoulders like a hand, and because my body had decided, apparently without consulting me, that being looked at by this man was something it wanted more than dignity.
“Lift the nightgown,” he said. “Hold it up above your waist. I want to see you properly down there—down where I’m going to put my cock.”
My lips parted and a tiny, whimpering sound emerged. My breath came in little pants.
“Sir…” I pleaded, suddenly no longer needing to remember that I was playing a part.
“Do it,” Master Paul said, his eyes narrowing slightly.
My hands moved before my mind gave permission. I gathered the chiffon in both fists and lifted it, bunching it against my stomach, and the air touched me everywhere—my thighs, the soft blonde hair between them, the warm, slick folds that I knew, with a certainty that burned like acid, were visibly wet.
Master Paul looked. He took his time about it. His gaze moved over the triangle of pale hair, over the shape of me beneath it, and his expression didn’t change—didn’t soften, didn’t harden, didn’t betray anything beyond that same clinical, thorough assessment. Then he reached out.
His knowing hand cupped my pussy.
I gasped. The sound came out high and broken, almost a squeak, because his palm was suddenly there—warm and dry against the most intimate part of my body, his fingers curving down between my thighs, his palm pressing flat against my mound. He held me like that for what felt like an eternity—just held me, not moving, not stroking, simply… possessing. Taking the measure of me in his hand the way he’d taken the measure of my wrist.