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)
The second orgasm slammed into me before the first had finished. It rode the tail of the aftershocks like a wave overtaking a wave, and this time my voice broke free—a strangled, guttural cry that I smothered against my forearm, biting down on my own skin hard enough to leave marks. My hips bucked against my hand with a force that was almost violent, my body chasing something it had only just discovered existed, something it now understood with a terrible, instinctive certainty.
Then I thought about his belt.
The image materialized with the same hallucinatory vividness as the shaving fantasy. On my mind’s sex-show stage, Master Paul pulled the leather belt from around his waist with a slow, deliberate motion, the buckle clinking, the leather hissing through the loops of his trousers. He would double it over. He would hold me down—one huge hand on the small of my back, pressing me flat against the mattress or the desk or whatever surface he’d chosen to punish me on—and he would bring the folded belt down across my bare bottom with a crack that would echo off the walls.
The third orgasm tore through me on the heels of that crack. I was sobbing now—actually sobbing, my face pressed into my pillow, my hand working between my legs with a frantic, graceless desperation that bore no resemblance to the gentle, exploratory circles of ten minutes ago. This was not exploration. This was something wild and consuming and utterly beyond my ability to moderate. Each orgasm seemed to feed the next, stoking the fire rather than quenching it, and my clit had become so swollen and sensitive beneath my fingertip that every stroke bordered on too much and simultaneously was not enough.
I imagined the belt striping my thighs. I imagined him making me count, demanding that I acknowledge each stroke while my body writhed and my voice broke and my tears soaked whatever surface my face was pressed against. I imagined the welts rising on my skin, red and hot, and I imagined him pausing between strokes to run his hand over the marks, to feel the heat of them, to check the wetness between my legs that would betray me the way it always betrayed me.
This is what happens to a girl who touches her cunt without permission.
I heard the words in his voice… that low, scraping growl that he’d used when Melissa had told him to push harder. The words existed only in my imagination, but my body didn’t know that or didn’t care because the fourth orgasm crashed over me with a force that made my vision go white behind my clenched eyelids.
My legs drew up toward my chest and my toes curled so hard they cramped. I heard myself keening into the pillow, a high, thin, animal sound that Mrs. Loomis absolutely heard through the wall and that I was powerless to suppress.
I tried to stop. I pulled my hand away and pressed both palms flat against the mattress, fingers spread, as if I could anchor myself through sheer physical commitment to a different posture. My chest heaved. My pulse hammered in my ears. The ache between my legs pulsed with each heartbeat, urgent and unfinished, and the absence of my own touch felt like a cruelty worse than anything Master Paul had inflicted.
I lasted maybe eight seconds before my hand went back and my fingers found the slick, swollen center of myself as if it were a magnet, and this time I didn’t circle or stroke—I pressed, hard and direct, the pad of my middle finger bearing down on my clit with a pressure that made me cry out, and I rocked my hips against my own hand the way I’d rocked them on my knees in the studio, grinding, seeking, taking what my body demanded I take.
I thought about him whipping me and then fucking me. His belt and then his cock. The punishment and then the possession. The leather cracking across my welted bottom and then the impossible thickness of him pressing against the entrance to my body—my bare pussy, shaved smooth, nothing between his flesh and mine—and pushing inside me while I sobbed and begged and opened for him because my body would open, because it was made to open, because submissive was not just a word but a physical fact written into the architecture of my cunt.
The fifth orgasm obliterated me.
It was different from the others—deeper, slower, rolling through my body in long, shuddering waves that seemed to originate not just between my legs but everywhere, in my chest and my throat and the backs of my knees and the tender, aching place in my chest where something had cracked open today and could not close again. My inner muscles clenched in slow, powerful contractions that I could feel individually, each one a distinct pulse of pleasure that radiated outward like ripples. My mouth hung open against the pillow. No sound came out.