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)
“What did I just see?” My master’s voice, my suitor’s voice… it had gone very quiet. Very controlled. The kind of quiet that precedes something seismic. “Did you just squeeze your thighs together, you little whore? Did you just try to make that disobedient little cunt feel good while I was inspecting you?”
“I… I couldn’t… I didn’t mean…”
Two more strokes. Fast, sharp, overlapping. I shrieked into the mattress.
“You can’t help yourself, can you?” Another crack of the belt. I screamed, squirmed, sobbed. “You can’t stop trying to get yourself off for five minutes. Five minutes with your cheeks whipped and spread open and you’re still trying to come.” He stepped back. I heard the belt drop onto the dresser with a heavy, leather slap. “That’s it. We’re shaving you right now. This cunt clearly can’t wait until it’s been properly bared.”
His hands found my hips and pulled me upright. The jeans, still bunched around my knees, tangled with my sneakers as I stumbled, and he steadied me with one broad hand on my waist while I stood there, dazed and sobbing, my training panties stretched between my thighs and my welted bottom burning in the open air. My T-shirt had ridden up almost to my bra. I was a wreck—a tear-streaked, belt-whipped, dripping wreck—and he was already moving me toward the edge of the set.
“Darlene,” Master Paul said over his shoulder. “Bathroom. Now.”
“Already moving,” Darlene replied. I heard the rapid, efficient sounds of equipment being repositioned and Darlene’s voice calling instructions to a technician whose name I didn’t catch.
Master Paul pulled my jeans the rest of the way down and off, and the training panties followed, stripped away with ease to leave me standing in nothing but the white T-shirt and the training bra. He took my elbow and walked me across the studio floor. I stumbled beside him, barefoot now, my bottom throbbing with every step, the cool air of the studio playing across my welted skin and the soaking, needy flesh between my thighs.
The bathroom set lay twenty feet from the bedroom set, separated by the usual maze of light stands and cable runs and equipment cases. Darlene’s team had already been working on it; the white subway tile gleamed under carefully calibrated lighting and the claw-foot tub sat at the center like an altar, its porcelain curves catching the light. There was a wide counter with a vessel sink, a large mirror mounted above it, and a padded stool positioned beside the tub. Everything was white. Pristine. Clinical. The kind of bathroom that belonged in a bridal suite or a very expensive spa.
Master Paul stopped me at the threshold of the set. His hand left my elbow and went to the counter beside the sink, where I saw that someone—Amy, probably—had laid out a collection of items with meticulous care. A can of shaving cream. A razor with a fresh blade. A small pair of scissors. A white towel. A basin of water that steamed faintly in the studio air.
And next to these implements, folded with apparent reverence, sat something red.
Master Paul picked it up and let it unfold, holding it in front of me by the hanger.
I recognized the lingerie. From the Surrender line, of course. Not like the training underwear. Not like the pink baby doll either, though. This was something else entirely—something designed not to conceal or to cover or even to train but to display. To offer.
The bra was structured, underwired, crafted from intricate crimson lace. The cups were sheer—completely sheer—the lace pattern the only thing between bare skin and the eye of whoever looked at it, and the pattern was designed to frame rather than cover, the scalloped edges cutting across where my nipples would sit, leaving them visible through the delicate web of thread.
A matching garter belt, also crimson, with four dangling straps and tiny gold clasps. And the panties—if they could be called panties—were a narrow triangle of the same red lace, connected by ribbons so thin they would sit on my hipbones like lines drawn in silk, with a back that was nothing more than a single string.
“This,” Master Paul said, holding the lingerie at my eye level, “is what you’re going to wear once you’re bare between your thighs.”
I stared at the red lace. It shimmered under the studio lights, and the contrast between what I was wearing—or what remained of what I was wearing, the plain white T-shirt and the utilitarian training bra—and what I would be wearing made my head swim. The training underwear had been about containment. About discipline. About being covered up properly for a suitor who demanded modesty and awareness of his rights.
This lingerie was about being seen. About being offered. About being displayed like a gift that had been partially unwrapped and arranged for the pleasure of the man who owned it.