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)
He must have sensed something in my body, because one of his hands left my hip and came around beneath me. His fingers found my clit.
I cried out. The contrast felt so intense that for a second I thought I might lose my mind. His cock kept driving into my bottom while his fingers played my pussy with merciless expertise, and suddenly every sensation braided together—pain, shame, fullness, need, punishment, reward—until there was no separating any of it.
“Oh, God… oh, sir…”
“That’s it,” he said roughly. “Take it, you little ass whore.”
My whole body started to shake. My bottom spasmed around him. My pussy clenched on nothing. His fingers kept working my clit with maddening precision, and the orgasm built with terrifying speed, fed by everything I had tried not to want.
When it hit, I screamed into the mattress and came so hard I thought I might pass out. At the same instant I felt him thrust deep and go still, then pulse inside me. The hot, buried climax of him in my ass sent a second shudder through me. I lay there sobbing and shaking while he finished, unable to do anything but feel.
* * *
The week that followed seemed less like a sequence of days than like an ongoing, developing condition of my body. Porter’s simple but terrible instructions took over my life. I was not allowed panties. I was not allowed pants. Skirts only, with nothing at all beneath them, so that from the moment I got dressed in the morning until the moment he undressed me again at night I was constantly aware of my own exposure.
Walking became indecent. Sitting became an exercise in helpless lust. A gust of air on the sidewalk felt like a reminder from him. The brush of my skirt between my thighs made me think of his rules, his hands, his eyes. Sometimes at work I would reach for a cup or bend to open the refrigerator and feel, all at once, the nakedness under my clothes as if he had touched me in public.
It made it almost impossible to think of anything but Porter.
That didn’t mean I stopped trying to think about other things. I listened when he talked about the bill. I watched his face when he came home from meetings with senators and donors and various other men and women of the district to whom power came naturally. Sometimes over dinner—at which I was always dressed only in bra and garter belt, if not simply nude—he would tell me how the negotiations were going.
Badly, mostly.
The billionaire whose money supported so much of Porter’s lobbying effort had begun making noises about shifting focus. Senators drifted, postured, hedged. Gowry remained interested in whatever interested him, which was not, apparently, helping disabled people unless something more appetizing to him came attached.
Porter never complained. He stated facts. But I learned to hear the additional tension in his silences, in the extra stillness that came over him when a call had gone poorly.
Then he would turn to me, and no more talk of legislation was allowed to interfere with his dominant pleasure.
He fucked my mouth on the nights when he wanted quiet obedience from me, my hands behind my back or at my sides while he used my lips and throat as if they existed for his convenience. He fucked my pussy when he wanted to watch me lose myself more quickly. And he fucked my ass often enough that the terror of it became something more complicated: still fear, certainly, but fear laced with anticipation and an awful kind of pride in my increasing ability to take him.
I felt certain it would have been enough to satisfy any normal woman, if not to make her never want sex again.
It had the opposite effect on me, though.
During the day, when he was gone and I was left alone in the apartment or sent out into the city with no underwear under my skirt and his rules wrapped around me like invisible hands, I wanted to touch myself more than I ever had in my life. I would stand behind the counter of the café making coffee and suddenly think of his hands spreading me open for his thrusting hardness, in my pussy and then in my bottom. I would cross my legs on the sofa while watching TV and feel the pressure in exactly the wrong way. I would remember his voice through the speaker, or the way he had told me that masturbating without permission meant the cane, and the forbidden quality of the thought would only make it worse.
Sometimes I managed not to. Sometimes I paced, or read, or took a shower with stern deliberate efficiency and my hands nowhere they ought not to go. Sometimes I lay on the bed and simply ached.