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)
She stopped in front of the armchair. Close enough that I could smell her—the faint sweetness of her skin beneath the studio’s makeup, and beneath that, the heady, lewd fragrance of the sweet little cunt I had so thoroughly sampled the previous night.
“I’m proud of you,” I told her, keeping my voice low and intimate.
* * *
Anne
I swallowed hard. A new flare of heat seemed to travel upward from my neck all the way to my scalp.
“Proud… sir?” I managed to whisper.
“Proud,” Master Paul repeated. He leaned back in the wingback chair and regarded me with an expression that combined warmth and something more evaluative. “Yes, Annie. Proud. Do you know why?”
I shook my head. The motion made the corset shift fractionally against my nipples, and the responsive fabric answered with a whisper of friction that sent a pulse of heat straight down through my belly. I pressed my lips together to keep the whimper inside.
“Because I didn’t have to whip you to get you into that lingerie,” he said. His voice was quiet, conversational, as if we were discussing something as mundane as the weather. “I didn’t even have to spank you. You put it on because I told you to put it on. You did it without a single word of protest.” He paused, letting the observation settle into the space between us. “Three days ago, I would have needed my belt to get you to stand in front of me looking like this. Today, all I needed was to tell you what I wanted.”
My face burned and my eyes stung as I realized how absolutely right he was. Worse, the rightness of it felt like standing in front of a mirror that showed me something I wasn’t ready to see.
I had put on the lingerie. I had fastened the corset with Amy’s help and stepped into the tiny panties and looked at myself in that mirror—the dark, deliberate creature with hard nipples and shuddering thighs—and I had walked onto this set without being threatened. Without being bent over and given the belt first. Without needing anything except his expectation.
“You look,” Master Paul said, and his eyes moved down my body with that slow, thorough sweep that made every inch of skin he surveyed feel like he had just touched me there, “exactly the way a young woman who belongs to her suitor should look. Standing in his study. Wearing what he chose for her. Ready for whatever pleasure he chooses.”
My breath caught. The word belongs opened something inside my mind and my body—a door I’d been pushing against for days, leaning my weight into it. At my master’s words it swung wide and the light that poured through was blinding.
“I want you to think about what that means, Annie.” His voice dropped lower, more intimate, the register he used when he wanted his words to reach the deepest part of me. “A young woman who belongs to her suitor doesn’t need to be forced into obedience. She chooses it. She puts on the lingerie because she understands that her body is his to dress and his to undress. She stands before him in black lace because she wants him to see what’s his.” He tilted his head slightly, studying my face. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes, sir.” The words came out without hesitation, without the stammer that had characterized my earlier attempts at compliance. They came from the same place that had produced may I please worship your cock in his apartment—that deep, instinctive well of certainty that existed beneath all the shame and the confusion and the tears. “Yes, sir. I want to be yours.”
For a moment I thought I saw a flicker of that vulnerability I’d seen in his apartment, and I felt a surge of helpless, perverse affection for the man who had trained me as his sex toy. When it was replaced by the controlled warmth of a man who had heard exactly what he needed to hear, the affection didn’t dissipate: rather, it grew in the face of my master’s dominance.
“Good.” He picked up the leather-bound novel from the arm of the chair. He opened it to a page he’d marked with a ribbon and settled it against his knee with the casual ease of a man preparing for a quiet evening of reading. Then he looked up at me over the top of the book, and the contrast between the domestic ordinariness of the gesture and the dark hunger still visible in his eyes made my stomach flip.
“I’m going to see how much you’ve learned,” he said. “Kneel at my feet. Take out my cock and suck it while I read.”
The instruction was delivered in the same tone he might have used to tell me to fetch him a glass of water. Conversational. Unhurried. As if what he was asking me to do was the most natural thing in the world—a girl on her knees, her master’s manhood in her mouth, while he occupied himself with a novel.