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)
He hadn’t said it casually. He hadn’t used it the way he used the fictional language of the scene—strategically, with an eye to the effect of words on a submissive girl’s nervous system. He had said wedding the way a man says something he has been thinking about privately, something that has been living in him for longer than the conversation that finally surfaces it.
I had lain there in the dark with his arm across my waist and I had felt, with a certainty so absolute it bypassed all the rational objections my mind could have raised, that this man would ask me to marry him. Not in a scene. Not in the fictional language of a wealthy suitor and his young bride.
In a restaurant, or in his kitchen with copper pots overhead, or in the dark of his apartment with the city murmuring beyond the windows. He would ask me in the real world, in his own voice, and the answer he would get would not be a character’s answer.
The joy of that knowledge had moved through me like sunlight through glass; gentle, pervasive, warming everything it touched. I had turned my face into the hollow of his throat and breathed him in and felt the joy settle into my chest alongside the fear of what the morning would bring, and somehow the two had coexisted there without canceling each other out.
They coexisted now. I lay over the bolster with my punished bottom raised and the white lace panties framing my anus with their terrible little oval. I felt both things simultaneously, the joy and the terror, and the paradox of it… the fact that knowing he might one day be my husband made it somehow terribly arousing to be bent over a bolster… to wait with my spanked backside offered for him to use me in the most humiliating possible way… the contradiction seemed like the most comprehensively shameful thing I had yet discovered about myself.
“But because of how you’ve behaved tonight,” Master Paul said from behind me, and his hands settled on my hips with a possession that made my breath catch, “it’s going to be a very special kind of wedding night.” His thumbs traced the ribbon sides of the panties, following the lines of them from my hipbones down across the lace panels that covered my spanked cheeks. “The kind that naughty little sluts earn for themselves.”
I whimpered into the sheets.
His hands began to move.
He touched me through the white lace with a leisurely pace that constituted its own punishment. His thumbs moved again, along the scalloped edges of the back panel, following the curves of each cheek. His palms pressed against the fullness of my bottom with a proprietary firmness that communicated the same thing his hands always communicated: this belongs to me and I will attend to it, and enjoy it, and use it, as I see fit. He squeezed, gently, so that the soreness of the spanking flared under his fingers and I made a sound I hadn’t intended.
“Still so tender,” he observed, with a satisfaction that made my face burn. “Good. I want you to feel every single thing I do to you tonight.”
His right hand traveled down. The tips of his fingers found the front panel of the panties through the gap between my thighs, pressing the lace against my pussy with a light, exploratory pressure, and the responsive fabric—still doing its quiet, diabolical work, amplifying everything—answered his touch by pressing more insistently against my folds. I gasped as my hips tried to push back against his hand of their own accord.
“There it is,” he said softly. “Feel how wet you are, Annie.” His fingers moved in a slow circle against the front panel, the lace sliding against my bare pussy lips and the hood of my tingling clit until I let out a whimper of desperate need.
“Your sweet little cunt,” he continued in his low, hypnotic voice, “is absolutely soaking through this lace. You know why, don’t you?”
I shook my head against the sheets. A lie, and we both knew it.
“Because you’re thinking about what’s coming.” His fingers pressed more firmly, and the responsive fabric answered with a spike of sensation that dragged another helpless sound out of me. “That tight little hole I’ve been training is thinking about my cock. That’s what’s making you this wet. That’s what’s making my good girl drip right through her pretty wedding panties.”
The shame of it—the fact that he was right, that my body had been broadcasting its own terrible excitement since the moment I’d stood in the changing area holding the white lace and understood its purpose—rolled through me in a wave so hot it made my eyes water.
His fingers withdrew from between my thighs. I felt him move and then both his hands were on my bottom again, this time parting the rear panel of the panties carefully, his thumbs finding the inner edges of my punished bottom cheeks inside the oval cutout and drawing them gently apart. The cool studio air touched the exposed place between my cheeks and I made a sound into the sheets that I would not have been able to describe.