What would it feel like?
The question bloomed in the dark, humid space between my thoughts, fed by the sensation of his breath on my shamefully aroused flesh. Kevin’s penis had been average, I supposed, though I had no basis for comparison at the time. It had been the only penis I’d ever seen in person, and I hadn’t even really seen it up close. Seeing it had provoked in me a mild curiosity and nothing more—a kind ofoh, so that’s what that looks likedetachment that I’d mistaken for maturity but now recognized, with a lurch of understanding, as the absence of desire.
I hadn’t desired Kevin. I hadn’t desired Kevin’s body, or his hands, or his earnest, anxious penis. I’d gone through the motions of sex with him the way I went through the motions of studying for an exam in a subject that didn’t interest me: dutifully, competently, without any of the fire that I had begun to understand was supposed to make it matter.
Master Paul’s cock was different. The thought of it, the image of it—thick and veined and heavy, curving slightly to the left with a weight that suggested solidity, substance, something that would fill a space inside me that I hadn’t known was empty until this very moment—made my inner muscles clench involuntarily, a reflexive squeeze around nothing that sent a fresh wave of slickness between my folds.
I could feel it happening. I could feel myself getting wetter while he looked at me, and the knowledge that he could see it, that his face was close enough to see every shameful detail of my arousal, made me want to press my knees together and disappear.
But I held them open. I held them open because he’d told me to, and because the hand on my shoulders—the invisible one, the one that had settled there when I’d whispered the wordsubmissive—pressed down a little harder every time I thought about closing them.
“Darlene’s ready.” Melissa’s voice cut through the humid fog of my thoughts. “Bathroom’s lit, but she wants to get the bedroom inspection first while the energy’s fresh. She says the light in here is perfect right now—something about the color temperature matching Anne’s skin tone.”
I heard footsteps. The click of equipment being repositioned. The soft, mechanical whir and click of an old-fashioned film camera taking stills.
“Don’t move, Anne,” Master Paul said without looking up from between my thighs. “Stay exactly as you are.”
“Rolling,” I heard Darlene call, and then she appeared at the periphery of my vision—a flash of silver hair and black clothing, moving with silent efficiency. She circled the bed, and I heard the shutter fire in rapid succession; a quiet, precise series of sounds, like a hummingbird’s wings.
“Gorgeous,” Darlene murmured. I couldn’t tell if she was talking about me or the light. “Can you get her to shift her hips left about an inch? The nightgown is catching the key light beautifully along the lace, but I want more of it pooled at her waist so the contrast with the bottom reads.”
“Anne,” Master Paul said. “Shift your hips to the left.”
I shifted. The movement was tiny, barely perceptible, but it changed the way the chiffon fell across my stomach, and Darlene made a small, satisfied sound as she moved back toward one of the video cameras.
“There. Perfect. The pink against the red—it’s incredible. And her pussy lips just peeking out… Melissa, come look at the monitor.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Melissa appear beside Darlene, and I heard them conferring in low voices while I lay there, legs spread, holding my knees in my hands like a girl at the gynecologist’s office… if the gynecologist’s office were a pornography studio and the gynecologist were a man whose cock I couldn’t stop imagining thrusting his rigid penis inside me.
“Oh, that’s stunning,” Melissa said, and her voice carried that electric quality again—the creative fervor that seemed to override everything else in her. “The baby doll reads so innocent against the spanking marks. See how the pink of the fabric picks up the pink of her cheeks? It’s like the nightgown and the punishment are part of the same palette. Darlene, can you get a wider shot that shows the full length of the baby doll and the bottom together? I want the viewer to see the whole story in one frame—the pretty nightgown he chose for her, and what happened when she didn’t cooperate.”
“Already on it,” Darlene said. She moved from the video camera and raised her Nikon. The shutter whirred again. Darlene disappeared, and I felt her move behind me, shooting over my shoulder and down the length of my body—the lace bodice, the bunched chiffon, my parted thighs, and Master Paul’s dark head between them.
“Anne, you’re doing beautifully,” Melissa called. “Don’t change anything. Whatever you’re feeling right now, keep feeling it.”
What I felt seemed a combination of arousal and mortification so intense that the two had fused into a single, undifferentiated sensation that occupied my entire body. I was a girl on a bed in a pink nightgown with a well-spanked bottom being photographed while a man old enough to be my father examined her pussy. That was what I was. That was what I wasfeeling.
Master Paul’s fingers parted… parted…me. My pussy. Not roughly, but with the same deliberate, thorough touch he’d used standing. This time, though, he spread me open with both hands, his thumbs pressing gently against my outer labia, drawing them apart so that the inner folds, swollen and glistening, were fully exposed to his gaze, the studio lights, and Darlene’s cameras.
I made a sound. A thin, reedy whimper that seemed to come from somewhere deep in my chest.
“Hmm,” he said. The sound was low, contemplative, and carried a note of displeasure that made my stomach drop. His thumbs moved through the pale blonde hair that covered my mound, and he shook his head slowly. “This won’t do.”
He said it loudly enough for the room to hear. I understood—some part of me understood, even through the haze—that we had definitely entered the scene. The rehearsal had become the performance, or perhaps there had never been a meaningful difference between the two.
“This hair,” he said, and his voice had taken on a harder edge, the authority that had been tempered with warmth now stripped of its softness. “Look at this. I buy you a beautiful nightgown. I bring you into our bedroom. I want to see my future wife’s body, and this is what I find?”
His fingers tugged lightly at the hair between my legs—not painfully, but with enough force to make me gasp and squirm on the white sheets.
“Sir, I… I didn’t know you wanted me to?—”
“You didn’t think,” he corrected. “A girl who’s preparing herself for her husband’s bed should have thought about what he’d want to see when he looked between her legs. Should have thought about whether he’d want to find a bush down here, or whether he might prefer to see his wife’s bare, pretty pussy, smooth and ready for him.”
I started to cry again. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes and ran sideways into my hair as I lay there, holding my knees open, while Master Paul scolded me for the state of mypubic hair with a conviction that made it feel entirely real: not a scene, not a performance, but a genuine expression of a man’s authority over a girl’s body that I had failed to honor.
From somewhere off set, Melissa’s voice came, low but audible: “Paul… more. Push harder. Our data is showing HSG viewers want the men way more dominant than anyone was expecting. Like, significantly more. Don’t hold back.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Master Paul’s hands tightened on my thighs, and when he spoke again, his voice had dropped to something that was almost a growl: rough-edged, uncompromising, carrying a weight of masculine authority that pressed against my chest like a physical force.
