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)
“You’re wet,” he said. Not a question. A statement of fact, delivered with the same calm he’d used to count my spanking.
“I…” My voice shook so badly the word barely formed. “I know. I’m sorry, sir.”
“Don’t apologize for what your body needs,” he said. His fingers shifted—just slightly, just enough to part the outer folds, to feel the slickness that had gathered there—and I made a sound that I’d never heard myself make before. Something between a moan and a plea, low and liquid and utterly without dignity.
His middle finger traced the length of me. From the opening—where I clenched involuntarily, desperately, around nothing—upward through the wet, swollen folds to my clitoris, which he found with the same unerring skill Penelope had shown, and circled once. Just once. A single revolution that made my knees buckle, my hands clench in the chiffon, and white light burst behind my eyes.
Then he pulled his hand away and held it up between us. His fingers glistened.
“Look,” he said.
I looked. I saw my own arousal shining on his fingers in the studio lights, and the visual evidence of what my body was doing—what it had been doing since the conference room, since the paddling, since the moment this man had said my name in his deep, warm voice—hit me with a force that made tears spill down my cheeks again.
“That’s honest,” he said. “That’s what I want from you, Anne. Honesty.” He lowered his hand and wiped his fingers on the silk of his robe—a gesture so casually proprietary, so matter-of-fact in its intimacy, that my stomach clenched. “Now let me look at you more closely. Sit on the edge of the bed, then lie back and hold your legs nice and wide for me.”
CHAPTER 12
Anne
I sat. The mattress was soft beneath me, the white sheets cool against the backs of my thighs where the nightgown rode up. I placed my hands on either side of my hips and looked up at Master Paul, who stood before me, waiting.
“Lie back and open,” he said.
I lay back, grateful not to have to see Master Paul for the moment, but rather only the ceiling of the studio high above me. I parted my knees. Slowly, fighting my own muscles, which wanted to clamp shut like a door against an intruder.
“Knees up,” he said brusquely, like an impatient bridegroom. “Hold them in your hands.”
With a tiny, keening whimper, I obeyed.
The chiffon pooled atop my tummy, and Master Paul reached down and swept it up, tucking it against my ribs, and then I was lying on a white-sheeted bed in a pink baby doll with my legs spread open and my pussy fully exposed to a man who crouched down between my thighs and brought his face close enough that I could feel his breath on me.
I couldn’t stop thinking about his cock.
It was absurd. It was the worst possible thing to be thinking about while he—a man I’d known for less than an hour, despite having seen his frighteningly large penis—examined my most intimate anatomy with the clinical focus of a doctor.
No, not a doctor… doctors don’t look at you like that. They don’t… inspect you.
For Master Paul had begun to inspect me down there with a particular combination of authority and hunger that he wore so naturally it might have been part of his face. The image of his erect manhood wouldn’t leave me, though. The glimpse I’d stolen of it before he’d put on the robe… the sheer size of him, the thickness, the way he’d hung heavy and half-hard as if even at rest his body carried more sexual presence than any man I’d ever seen… it had embedded itself in my brain like a splinter, and every time I tried to focus on something else, my mind circled back to it.
What would it feel like?
The question bloomed in the dark, humid space between my thoughts, fed by the sensation of his breath on my shamefully aroused flesh. Kevin’s penis had been average, I supposed, though I had no basis for comparison at the time. It had been the only penis I’d ever seen in person, and I hadn’t even really seen it up close. Seeing it had provoked in me a mild curiosity and nothing more—a kind of oh, so that’s what that looks like detachment that I’d mistaken for maturity but now recognized, with a lurch of understanding, as the absence of desire.
I hadn’t desired Kevin. I hadn’t desired Kevin’s body, or his hands, or his earnest, anxious penis. I’d gone through the motions of sex with him the way I went through the motions of studying for an exam in a subject that didn’t interest me: dutifully, competently, without any of the fire that I had begun to understand was supposed to make it matter.