The girl in the mirror looked wanton. Not the Sunday-school girl in training panties. Not the ponytailed intern in polka dots. This naughty girl was flushed from her forehead to her chest, her blonde hair falling loose around her shoulders—the ponytail had come undone at some point during the belting, I realized, and no one had fixed it.
My green eyes were bright with tears that hadn’t quite dried, ringed with the faint smudge of mascara. The red lingerie against my fair skin looked like something painted there by a hand that understood exactly what it wanted to reveal.
And between this girl’s thighs, visible through the sheer red lace triangle, the bare mound of her freshly shaved pussy showed through the pattern like a secret written in skin. Smooth. Pale. Completely, devastatingly exposed. Even the cleft of my private lips could be glimpsed through the translucent scarlet fabric.
I heard his footsteps returning.
Master Paul appeared at the threshold of the bathroom set, and his stride broke for a fraction of a second when he saw me. Just a fraction—a momentary hitch in his step, a slight widening of his eyes—before the controlled mask reassembled itself. But I’d seen it.
I’d seen the moment when the sight of me in the red lingerie had pierced whatever professional armor he wore, and the knowledge that I could do that to him—that my body, bare and displayed and offered in crimson lace, could make this man falter—sent a rush of something through me that felt dangerously close to power.
Then he had crossed the tile toward me, and the power evaporated, replaced by the familiar, overwhelming awareness of how much larger he was than me, how much stronger, how completely he could do whatever he wanted with my body and how completely my body wanted him to.
He didn’t speak. He bent and scooped me up—one arm beneath my knees, the other behind my back—and lifted me against his chest as if I weighed nothing. My arms went around his neck byinstinct, my face found the hollow of his throat, and I breathed him in while he carried me across the floor, his now-familiar scent almost comforting even as it provoked a wayward flare of arousal between my thighs.
I could feel his heartbeat against my ribs. It was faster than I’d expected. Steady, but fast.
“Oh, my God,” Melissa said as he carried me past the monitors. Her voice was hushed, almost reverent. “Oh, my God, what a shot. Darlene, tell me you’re getting that—him carrying her—the red against his suit—her face in his neck?—”
“I’m getting it,” Darlene confirmed from somewhere I couldn’t see. “B-camera tracking. Keep moving, Paul. Don’t stop.”
He carried me onto the bedroom set. The white sheets had been smoothed, the pillows rearranged, and the lighting had shifted—softer now, warmer, the key light positioned to cast a golden glow across the bed that made the white cotton look like cream. He set me down on the mattress with a care that contrasted violently with everything his belt had done to me fifteen minutes earlier, lowering me onto my back and settling my head against the pillows.
Then he stood over me.
He stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at me. The angle, with him towering above and me lying below in red lace with my legs slightly parted and my newly bare pussy visible through the sheer triangle of fabric, created a geometry of dominance so explicit it made me dizzy.
Master Paul’s eyes moved down my body with a deliberateness that made every inch of skin he looked at feel like it was being touched.
“I chose well,” he said. “You look incredible in that lingerie.”
“Paul.” Melissa’s voice came from behind the monitors, low and charged. “Keep talking to her. Be dominant. Tell her what you’re going to do. Own her.”
His hands went to his belt and he unfastened it. The clink of the buckle sent a Pavlovian jolt of fear and arousal through my body so powerful that my hips lifted off the mattress. But he wasn’t reaching for the belt to use on me, to teach me another terrible lesson. He was undressing.
The trousers came down. The shirt came off. And then he stood over me in nothing but his shorts, and the sight of his body—the broad, muscled chest, the dark hair, the flat stomach, the unmistakable ridge of his erection straining against the fabric—made my mouth go dry and my pussy clench so hard that the lace pressed against my bare folds and I whimpered.
He pulled the shorts down, his cock sprang free, and I saw it for the first time since yesterday, when it had been in my mouth, when it had been too close and too overwhelming to really look at. From this angle it looked much too big. Thick and hard and flushed dark with blood, the head swollen and glistening faintly, curving upward toward his stomach with a heaviness that made my inner walls contract around nothing.
He knelt on the bed, between my spread knees. His weight pressed the mattress down on either side of me, and his hands found my thighs and pushed them further apart with a firmness that brooked no negotiation.
Then his hands closed around the red lace between my legs. I gasped as both fists took the left side of the front panel in their grasp.
He didn’t pull the panties down. He didn’t slide them to the side. He gripped the delicate fabric in his fist and he ripped it, and the sound the lace made as it tore—a soft, decisive shredding, the tiny threads snapping one after another—sent a bolt of something through my body that was so far beyond arousal it needed a different word. The ruined panties fell away from my pussy in tatters, and he left them there, the torn crimson lace around my right thigh like a flag of surrender.
My shaved pussy lay bare beneath him. Exposed. Smooth and glistening and swollen and completely, utterly his.
“Oh, fuck,” Melissa breathed as Master Paul’s hands found the backs of my knees.
He pushed them up. Not gently. Not with the careful, incremental pressure of a man giving a girl time to adjust. My master folded me in half with the decisive, proprietary force of a man who owned the thing he manipulated.
He pressed my knees back toward my ears until my hips tilted upward and my freshly shaved pussy was presented to him at an angle that felt like the most explicit thing my body had ever been made to do. The red garter belt dug into my waist. The stockings pulled taut against the suspender clasps. My welted bottom lifted off the sheets, and the cool air of the studio hit every inch of bare, swollen, desperately needy flesh between my thighs.
I whimpered as he took his right hand from the back of my knee and used it to adjust the position of his huge, rigid penis. Expertly he lodged the head just inside the entrance to my slick, aching sheath. The whimper became a moan of helpless anticipation. Master Paul moved his hand back to my knee, pressing me open even further. He looked into my eyes, and the hunger I saw made me feel faint.
Then he thrust himself into me.
CHAPTER 25
