He looked at my pussy.
He looked at it with focused, unhurried attention, and I stood there and let him, because the wordsubmissivewas still sitting on my shoulders like a hand, and because my body had decided, apparently without consulting me, that being looked at by this man was something it wanted more than dignity.
“Lift the nightgown,” he said. “Hold it up above your waist. I want to see you properly down there—down where I’m going to put my cock.”
My lips parted and a tiny, whimpering sound emerged. My breath came in little pants.
“Sir…” I pleaded, suddenly no longer needing to remember that I was playing a part.
“Do it,” Master Paul said, his eyes narrowing slightly.
My hands moved before my mind gave permission. I gathered the chiffon in both fists and lifted it, bunching it against my stomach, and the air touched me everywhere—my thighs, the soft blonde hair between them, the warm, slick folds that I knew, with a certainty that burned like acid, were visibly wet.
Master Paul looked. He took his time about it. His gaze moved over the triangle of pale hair, over the shape of me beneath it, and his expression didn’t change—didn’t soften, didn’t harden, didn’t betray anything beyond that same clinical, thorough assessment. Then he reached out.
His knowing hand cupped my pussy.
I gasped. The sound came out high and broken, almost a squeak, because his palm was suddenly there—warm and dry against the most intimate part of my body, his fingers curving down between my thighs, his palm pressing flat against my mound. He held me like that for what felt like an eternity—just held me, not moving, not stroking, simply… possessing. Taking the measure of me in his hand the way he’d taken the measure of my wrist.
“You’re wet,” he said. Not a question. A statement of fact, delivered with the same calm he’d used to count my spanking.
“I…” My voice shook so badly the word barely formed. “I know. I’m sorry, sir.”
“Don’t apologize for what your body needs,” he said. His fingers shifted—just slightly, just enough to part the outer folds, to feel the slickness that had gathered there—and I made a sound that I’d never heard myself make before. Something between a moan and a plea, low and liquid and utterly without dignity.
His middle finger traced the length of me. From the opening—where I clenched involuntarily, desperately, around nothing—upward through the wet, swollen folds to my clitoris, which he found with the same unerring skill Penelope had shown, and circled once. Just once. A single revolution that made my knees buckle, my hands clench in the chiffon, and white light burst behind my eyes.
Then he pulled his hand away and held it up between us. His fingers glistened.
“Look,” he said.
I looked. I saw my own arousal shining on his fingers in the studio lights, and the visual evidence of what my body was doing—what it had been doing since the conference room, since the paddling, since the moment this man had said my name in his deep, warm voice—hit me with a force that made tears spill down my cheeks again.
“That’s honest,” he said. “That’s what I want from you, Anne. Honesty.” He lowered his hand and wiped his fingers on the silk of his robe—a gesture so casually proprietary, so matter-of-fact in its intimacy, that my stomach clenched. “Now let me look at you more closely. Sit on the edge of the bed, then lie back and hold your legs nice and wide for me.”
CHAPTER 12
Anne
I sat. The mattress was soft beneath me, the white sheets cool against the backs of my thighs where the nightgown rode up. I placed my hands on either side of my hips and looked up at Master Paul, who stood before me, waiting.
“Lie back and open,” he said.
I lay back, grateful not to have to see Master Paul for the moment, but rather only the ceiling of the studio high above me. I parted my knees. Slowly, fighting my own muscles, which wanted to clamp shut like a door against an intruder.
“Knees up,” he said brusquely, like an impatient bridegroom. “Hold them in your hands.”
With a tiny, keening whimper, I obeyed.
The chiffon pooled atop my tummy, and Master Paul reached down and swept it up, tucking it against my ribs, and then I was lying on a white-sheeted bed in a pink baby doll with my legsspread open and my pussy fully exposed to a man who crouched down between my thighs and brought his face close enough that I could feel his breath on me.
I couldn’t stop thinking about his cock.
It was absurd. It was the worst possible thing to be thinking about while he—a man I’d known for less than an hour, despite having seen his frighteningly large penis—examined my most intimate anatomy with the clinical focus of a doctor.
No, not a doctor… doctors don’t look at you like that. They don’t…inspectyou.
For Master Paul had begun toinspectme down there with a particular combination of authority and hunger that he wore so naturally it might have been part of his face. The image of his erect manhood wouldn’t leave me, though. The glimpse I’d stolen of it before he’d put on the robe… the sheer size of him, the thickness, the way he’d hung heavy and half-hard as if even at rest his body carried more sexual presence than any man I’d ever seen… it had embedded itself in my brain like a splinter, and every time I tried to focus on something else, my mind circled back to it.
