Her fingers made contact.
The sound she made went straight through me. A tiny, strangled intake of breath—not quite a gasp, not quite a whimper, but something between the two that somehow communicated shock, wonder, and fear in equal measure. Her fingertips rested against the underside of my shaft, barely touching, as if the lightest possible contact was all she could manage before her nervous system overloaded.
“Wrap your hand around it,” I told her. “Feel how hard it is. That’s what you do to a man, Anne. That’s what your body—your submission—does to the cock that’s going to own you.”
“Oh, God…” she whispered. “Please… I don’t…”
* * *
Anne
My fingers curled. Slowly, one by one, like a flower closing in reverse. My hand couldn’t close around it completely. My fingers were too small, Master Paul’s girth too substantial.
I felt my eyes go wide as I understood just how big my fictional suitor’s cock had gotten, how well-endowed he was. Fresh heat rushed into my cheeks. My lips moved a tiny bit, as if to speak, but no sound emerged for a long moment, until finally I whispered, “It’s so…” and didn’t finish.
“Big,” Master Paul supplied, in a voice that made me swallow hard. In his tone I could tell that he wanted to make me confront the reality of it, inside the fiction of the ‘narrative arc’ Melissa seemed intent on creating.
“Yes,” he continued. “It is. And it’s going to be inside you, Anne. Inside that tight little cunt that’s never had anything close to this size thrusting in it. But not yet. First, you’re going to learn what it means to worship a penis.”
Fresh tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, the tears of a girl overwhelmed by sensation, by proximity, by the dawning comprehension that the thing she was holding in her shaking hand was going to reshape her understanding of her own body.
“Both hands,” Master Paul commanded. “Hold it with both hands. Get to know it.”
My left hand came up to join the right, and now I held the huge, rigid shaft in both palms, my small fingers arranged alongthe length of him like a girl cradling something precious and dangerous. My grip felt unsteady; my hands kept tightening and then loosening as if I couldn’t decide between holding on and letting go.
“Move your hands,” my suitor instructed. “Slowly. Stroke from the base to the head and back. Feel the shape of it. Feel how the skin moves. Feel the veins under your fingers. That’s one way to make a man’s cock feel good.”
I obeyed. My hands slid upward along Master Paul’s length with a tentative, exploratory motion that I could tell was, to him, very obviously the first time I’d ever done this. I wondered if in his heart he held sympathy for me, or only hungry lust. I let out another tiny whimper as I realized some wanton part of me hoped he felt only the impatient need to make me service his hardness.
My thumbs traced the ridge beneath the head, and my demanding fictional suitor let out a low, controlled exhale. I felt my cheeks go pink again as I understood that my touch had affected Master Paul that way—the real man as well as the story character. My eyes darted up to his face at the sound, and the expression I saw there—a dark, hard look of predatory appreciation—made my tummy flip.
“That’s it,” he growled. “Good girl. Now lean forward. Put your mouth on me.”
My hands stilled. I felt my eyes go wide again in that deer-in-the-headlights look I knew I’d worn when I had first walked into the studio. A protest formed behind my lips, an automaticI can’tthat seemed to live in my throat as a kind of reflex.
“I’ve never—” I started.
“I know you haven’t,” he replied, his voice low but not gentle. “That’s why I’m going to teach you. Open your mouth, Anne. Press your lips against the head. Just that. Just a kiss.”
I leaned forward. The distance between my lips and the swollen head of his cock was only inches, but crossing those inches felt like crossing a border into a country I’d never visited, a country whose language I didn’t speak but whose customs my body seemed to understand with a fluency that terrified me. My lips parted. I closed my eyes—I couldn’t do this with my eyes open, couldn’t watch myself doing it—and pressed my mouth against the tip of Master Paul’s long, hard manhood.
The skin was impossibly soft. I registered that first: the contrast between the rigid hardness beneath and the silk-smooth skin that covered it. Warm. Alive. I could feel Master Paul’s pulse against my lips, a slow, steady throb. The taste was faint but clean and slightly salty, mixed with something darker and naughtier that made my heart race.
“Oh, my God,” Melissa breathed from somewhere behind me and to the right. Her voice was hushed but carried clearly in the studio’s acoustics, the way voices resound in a cathedral. “Darlene, tell me you’re getting this.”
“Every frame,” Darlene replied, and I heard the soft, rapid-fire click of her old-fashioned camera—that mechanical hummingbird sound that had become the soundtrack to my humiliation. “The angle from here is extraordinary. The way she’s kneeling with both hands wrapped around him and her lips just barely touching the tip—it’s like a fucking Renaissance painting.”
“Good,” Master Paul said above me. “Now open wider. Take the head into your mouth. Let your lips stretch around it.”
I opened. The head slid past my lips and into my mouth. The cock stretched me immediately as my jaw tried to widen to accommodate its girth, my lips pulling taut around the flared ridge. A sound escaped me, muffled now, vibrating against his flesh: a whimper that seemed somehow to come into my throat from down between my legs.
“That’s it,” Master Paul murmured. His hand came to rest on the top of my head—not pushing, just resting there with a weight that communicated ownership. His fingers threaded into my hair, loosening the ponytail I’d tied that morning so carefully. “Now use your tongue. Swirl it around the head. Feel the ridge, feel the little opening at the top. Learn about what a cock feels like in your mouth.”
I obeyed. My tongue traced the contour of him—the smooth dome, the ridge where the head met the shaft, the tiny slit where I tasted that faint salt again, stronger now. Master Paul’s breath changed above me; another of those slow, deep exhales through his nose that told me I was doing something right. The knowledge that my mouth was giving this strong, commanding man pleasure sent a pulse of heat through my belly that made my thighs press together beneath the chiffon.
“Deeper,” he said. “Take more of me. Relax your jaw and slide forward. Breathe through your nose.”
I tried. The shaft pushed past the halfway point of my tongue and I felt the first flutter of panic—the instinct to pull back, to gag, to protect myself from the intrusion. My throat tightened and I made a choking sound that sent fresh tears spilling down my cheeks.
