Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
His grip on the backs of my knees never slackened. It was part of the fucking, part of the lesson. He was not simply inside me. He was making me remain exactly the shape he wanted, my vagina angled exactly how it felt best to his manhood to thrust, while he used me.
I tried to hold his gaze because he had told me to, but it kept breaking. Every few thrusts my eyes would flutter shut or my head would turn helplessly to one side, and each time his voice would come, low and stern.
“Eyes on me.”
I obeyed. That made it worse. Or better. I couldn’t tell anymore.
He watched me take him, his eyes moving down to see how his thick, hard shaft claimed me. His gaze moved up again to watch my mouth fall open, then down to take in my little breasts in the white lace bra, shifting with each thrust. There was no room for pretense under that gaze. No room to imagine that this was accidental, or mutual in some simple equal way, or anything but what it was: a man using the body of the girl he had paid to fuck.
My pussy tightened and tightened around him as if it were trying to keep him there, and the thought of that was so humiliating that tears pricked my eyes again. He seemed to feel every little contraction.
“That’s right,” he murmured. “You feel what this is.”
I did. God, I did.
After some time—seconds, minutes, I truly couldn’t have said—he changed the angle of his thrusting just slightly, and the sensation went through me so sharply that I sobbed. My whole body strained under his hands.
He slowed for only a moment.
“What kind of girl are you?”
The question struck with the force of ritual now. He had made it into one. A phrase designed to strip away every refuge.
I shook my head once, miserably, though whether I meant no or please don’t make me say it I didn’t know.
He gave me one deeper thrust. “Answer.”
My voice broke on the words. “I’m… I’m the kind of girl who needs it in the ass.”
He held me for one suspended second after that, folded and open and burning with humiliation.
Then he withdrew.
The emptiness in my pussy made me gasp. Before I could process it, I felt the blunt, slick pressure of him lower, farther back, at the small, tight place that had brought so much dread, and helpless, mortifying need, for the last few days.
My whole body went rigid.
“No,” I whispered, though I knew exactly how weakly it sounded.
His thumb stroked once over my clit, not enough to soothe, only enough to remind. “If you behave yourself,” he said, “and let me into this little bottom properly, you may play with yourself while you’re getting it. I may even let you come.”
I made a broken sound. The promise itself was humiliating. Permission to touch myself while he did this to me.
He began to press.
The insistence of that heavy hardness at a place so much smaller, so much more frighteningly intimate, made panic flash through me. I tried to pull away though there was nowhere to go, no way to close myself.
“Please,” I sobbed. “It hurts.”
“Yes,” he said.
He pushed a little farther. Fire opened at my rear in a thin unbearable line. I cried out and my hands flew to the bedspread, clutching at nothing.
“It hurts,” I said again, uselessly.
His voice remained calm, even. “You need to learn that your sponsor’s pleasure matters more than your comfort.”
Something in me split then, the same strange division that had happened before under too much sensation, too much command. Part of me stayed there in the bed, sobbing and exposed and being slowly opened by his cock. Another part drifted upward and away, cool and observant and horrified by its own clarity.
Because from that detached place, his words made a terrible kind of sense.
He supported me now. He housed me. He fed me. He cared for me in the severe, impossible way that was his. The arrangement existed for his pleasure as much as for my survival—more, if I was being honest—and if this was what pleased him, then of course I must take it. Of course I must let him use this part of me too. What had the training yesterday been for if not this? What had the lessons, the plug, the words, the shame, the orgasms, been preparing me to accept?
The reasoning slid into me almost as inexorably as he was trying to. I heard myself sob once more, deeply, from somewhere far below that detached rationality.
Then I stopped fighting. I simply let go of the muscular refusal, let my body cease arguing with the fact of him. The little ring of muscle yielded by fractions. His cock entered farther. The stretch grew wider, hotter, almost blindingly intense.