“Easy.” His voice was firm but not cruel. His hand on my head held me in place—not forcing his penis deeper, but preventingme from retreating. “Breathe. Through your nose. That’s it. Swallow once. Good. Now hold still and let yourself adjust.”
I breathed. I swallowed. The panic subsided, replaced by a fullness that felt enormous and intimate and strangely grounding, as if having my mouth stretched around Master Paul’s cock had anchored me to something solid in a world that had been spinning since I’d walked through the studio door.
“Jesus Christ,” Melissa said, her voice catching on the words in a way that stripped away the professional veneer entirely. “Look at her. Look at that face. Darlene—the way her lips are stretched around him, the tears on her cheeks, the way her eyes are squeezed shut—she looks like a fucking angel choking on sin. That is the hottest thing I have ever seen in a studio. That little mouth trying to take that massive cock—it’s obscene. It’sperfect.”
I whimpered deep in my chest as I tried to ignore the humiliating commentary. Master Paul’s hand moved gently atop my head, as if to soothe my nerves.
“Now pull back,” he instructed. “Slowly. Let your lips drag along the shaft. Keep a tiny bit of suction—like you’re sucking on a straw, but gentler. That’s the stroke, Anne. Back and forth. Find a rhythm.”
I pulled back until just the head remained between my lips, then slid forward again, taking him deeper this time. The rhythm felt clumsy at first—too fast, then too slow, my jaw already aching from the stretch—but Master Paul’s hand guided me with subtle pressure, speeding me up or slowing me down with the lightest touch against my scalp.
“Use your hands on what you can’t reach with your mouth,” he said. “Both hands on the base. Stroke while you suck. Let your spit coat the shaft—don’t be precious about it. A girl worshipping a cock should be messy.”
CHAPTER 14
Anne
My hands found the base of his shaft, slick now with my own saliva, and I stroked in time with my mouth, my small fists working the thick root while my lips and tongue attended to the upper half. The wet sounds that filled the space between us were obscene—slurping, sucking, the liquid percussion of a girl learning to service a man’s cock—and each sound sent a fresh wave of humiliated arousal crashing through me.
“Now,” Master Paul said, and his voice had thickened, roughened at the edges in a way that made my stomach clench. “I want you to go lower. Take my cock out of your mouth and kiss down the shaft. All the way down to my balls.”
I pulled off him with a gasp. My breath came in ragged pants. I looked up at him. My face must have been a wreck, tear-streaked and flushed and shining with spit. His expression was one of dark, controlled hunger that made me feel simultaneously terrified and desperately, achingly needed.
“Hold that pose, Anne.”
Darlene’s voice cut through the humid fog of the moment with the clinical precision of a scalpel. I froze—my face tilted up toward Master Paul, my hands still wrapped around the base of his shaft, my lips swollen and glistening, my cheeks wet with tears and saliva. I couldn’t see Darlene from where I knelt, but I heard her moving somewhere to my left, heard the soft click-click-click of the shutter firing in quick succession.
“Don’t move,” she repeated. “That expression—stay right there. Eyes up at him, just like that.”
I stayed. I knelt there, holding a man’s rigid cock in both hands, looking up at him with what I could only imagine was the most debased, desperate, ruined face a girl had ever worn, and I held perfectly still while a woman I barely knew photographed me from multiple angles.
“God, this is good,” Darlene said, and I heard her shift position, circling around behind Master Paul’s hip to get what I assumed was a three-quarter view. “You know, it’s genuinely refreshing to watch a skilled trainer teach an innocent girl how to give head.”
“Right?” Melissa said. “That’s it, Anne. Okay, Paul… keep going… teach her how lick your balls properly.”
Master Paul pressed gently on the back of my head. With a little whine, I lowered my mouth to the shaft. My lips pressed against the underside, tracing the thick vein that ran its length, and I kissed my way downward—small, wet, open-mouthed kisses that left glistening marks on his skin.
When I reached the base, I hesitated. His testicles hung heavy and full beneath the shaft, and the intimacy of what he was asking me to do—to put my mouth there, to worship that part ofhim—made my face burn so hot I thought the tears on my cheeks might actually steam.
“Go on,” he said. “Take one in your mouth. Gently. Cup it with your tongue and suck. Softly. A man’s balls are sensitive—you treat them with care, but you don’t shy away from them. A girl who worships a cock worships all of it.”
I opened my mouth and took one of his testicles past my lips. The skin was different here—softer, looser, with a warmth that felt almost feverish. I cradled it on my tongue the way he’d told me to and suckled gently, and the sound Master Paul made—a low, guttural groan that seemed to rise from somewhere deep in his chest—sent a bolt of liquid heat straight between my legs.
“The other one,” he said, his voice strained now. “Same thing.”
I released the first and took the second, repeating the gentle suction, the cradling tongue, and this time I added something of my own—a small, swirling motion that I knew somehow would feel good, and Master Paul’s hand tightened in my hair.
“Christ,” he muttered. “Good girl. Now back up. Kiss your way back up the shaft and take me in your mouth again. Deeper this time. Show me you want it.”
I obeyed. My lips traced the return journey—up the shaft, over the ridge, around the swollen head—and then I sank down onto him with a determination that surprised me, taking him past the point where I’d gagged before, breathing through my nose the way he’d taught me, swallowing around his girth to open my throat. Tears streamed from my eyes at the effort, but I held him there, my lips stretched wide, my jaw aching, my hands working the base, and I felt—beneath the discomfort, beneath the stretchand the strain—a swell of something that felt terrifyingly close to pride.
“That’s it,” Master Paul growled. “That’s a girl learning to worship. Faster now. Stroke me with your mouth. Use your tongue on the underside while you move.”
I found a rhythm. My head bobbed on his shaft, my lips dragging along the slick skin, my tongue pressed flat against the thick vein on the underside the way he’d told me, and the wet, obscene sounds of my mouth working him filled the bedroom set like a kind of music I’d never imagined myself making.
“Paul.” Melissa’s voice came from somewhere behind the lights, and even through the haze of what I was doing—of what I’d become, a girl on her knees with a cock in her mouth—I could hear the particular edge in it. The producer’s edge. The woman who studied data and knew what sold. “The talking. Can you go harder? Way harder? Our subscriber analytics are crystal clear—the verbal dominance is what’s driving engagement through the roof. Don’t be nice about it. Be brutal. Tell her what she is.”
There was a pause. The briefest pause, during which Master Paul’s hand shifted in my hair, his fingers tightening fractionally, and I felt the change in him before I heard it—a gathering, a decision, a door being opened that he’d been holding only slightly ajar.
