The words came out of my mouth before I’d consciously formed them.
“Please,” I gasped. “Please, Master… sir… may I… can I come… please, may I come, sir?—”
The begging felt as instinctive as breathing. As instinctive as the way my hips had tilted toward him this morning during the hug, as the way my thighs had clenched together while he inspected my spread bottom. My body understood something my mind was still catching up to: that the orgasm building inside me did not belong to me. It belonged to him. The way my cunt belonged to him, the way the hair he’d shaved away had belonged to him,the way every sob, blush, and drop of wetness I’d produced in the last forty-eight hours had belonged to him.
Master Paul didn’t answer immediately. He kept fucking me in deep, measured strokes that hit the end of me and made stars burst behind my clenched eyelids. The silence, the deliberate withholding of permission while my body screamed at the edge of release, felt like its own exquisite torture. I could sense the orgasm pressing against the inside of my skin like something trying to break free, and holding it back required every scrap of willpower I possessed, and I was running out.
“Please,” I sobbed again. “Please, sir, I can’t… I’m going to… please?—”
“Come for me,” Master Paul said. His voice was rough and dark and it fell on me like a benediction. “Come as many times as you want, Annie. Show me what this cunt can do when it has my cock inside it instead of your disobedient little fingers.”
The permission seemed to break everything open.
The first orgasm hit me with a force that arched my spine off the mattress despite the weight of him pressing my knees toward my ears. My inner walls clamped down on his cock in violent, rhythmic contractions that I could feel individually: each one a distinct, crushing pulse that radiated outward from my center and consumed my entire body. I screamed. Not a moan, not a whimper—a scream that tore itself from the deepest part of my chest and rang off the studio walls and the lights and the white sheets and I didn’t care, I didn’t care about the cameras or Melissa or Darlene or anyone because the pleasure was so enormous it had obliterated everything except the place where his body met mine.
He didn’t stop. He fucked me through it. He thrust his rock-hard cock through the clenching, screaming, and the way my legs shook in his grip. The continued stimulation, the relentless pressure of his cock against my swollen, spasming walls didn’t let the orgasm end. It rolled. It crested and broke and crested again, wave after wave, and somewhere in the middle of it a second orgasm collided with the first, or maybe it was still the first, or maybe the distinction had ceased to mean anything because my body had become a single, continuous convulsion of pleasure that had no beginning and no end.
I tried to count them. Some desperate, analytical part of my brain tried to keep a tally the way it might count laps or repetitions, but the orgasms blurred together, overlapping and compounding, each one triggered by the last, until my body was simply coming, continuously, a state of being rather than a series of events. My vision went white. My hearing dimmed to a roar. I was aware of Master Paul’s cock driving into me, of his hands on my legs, of the wet, obscene sounds our bodies made together, but these perceptions arrived as if from a great distance, filtered through the all-consuming reality of what my cunt was doing.
Then he pulled out.
The withdrawal was sudden and total. One moment he filled me completely, the next I was empty, and the emptiness after that fullness felt like a wound. I clenched over and over, spasming in the aftermath, and a sound left me that was half sob, half protest, a wretched little noise that communicated the frustration of being left hollow.
His hands found my hips. He flipped me over with the same casual, overwhelming strength he’d used to carry me across the studio—one fluid motion that rotated my body on the mattress and deposited me face down, the white sheets pressing againstmy flushed cheeks, the ruined scrap of red lace fluttering against my thigh. His hands gripped my hips and pulled them upward, positioning me on my knees with my face buried in the covers and my welted, belt-striped bottom raised and presented behind me.
On my knees. Face down. My back arched, my bare pussy exposed, the garter belt and stockings framing the obscene offering of my body like a crimson border around a painting that had no business existing.
“Have you ever been fucked like this, Anne?” Master Paul’s voice came from behind me, rough and low, and I felt the blunt, hot pressure of his cock nudging against my entrance. “On your knees, face in the mattress? Like a bitch in heat?”
The words sent a shudder through my body so violent that my elbows buckled and my chest dropped lower against the sheets. My vision swam. The arousal that the orgasms had only partially sated roared back to full force at the image his words painted—me, on my knees, like an animal, made to present myself to be mounted and used.
“N-no,” I sobbed into the covers. My voice was muffled and wrecked and barely recognizable as my own. “No, sir. I’ve never… no one has ever?—”
CHAPTER 26
Anne
He thrust into me.
The angle was different in this position: deeper, somehow, so much deeper, the head of his cock reaching places inside me that the previous position hadn’t found. I screamed into the mattress, my fingers twisting in the sheets, my toes curling against the rumpled cotton behind me.
The stretch was immediate and brutal. My body, still trembling from the chain of orgasms, opened for him with a wet, yielding surrender that I felt in my soul as much as in my flesh.
And then I felt his lap come up against my whipped bottom. The contact sent a shockwave through every welt, every stripe, every burning line his belt had painted across my skin. The tender, punished flesh of my bottom pressed against the hard planes of his hips and thighs each time he bottomed out inside me.
The collision of sensations—the searing sting on the surface along with the devastating fullness within—made me feel likeI was being disciplined from both directions simultaneously. His cock punished me from the inside while his lap reminded my whipped skin of its lesson from the outside. Together they created a single, overwhelming experience of being used and punished and trained that stripped away every last pretense I had left.
I was being fucked like an animal. Face down. Ass up. My welted bottom presented to the man who’d whipped it, burning against his muscular thighs with every thrust. The degradation of it pressed down on me like a physical weight—the position, the sounds I couldn’t help making, the wet, obscene noise of his cock driving into my soaked pussy, the way my body rocked forward with each impact and then pushed back, seeking more, always seeking more, because the girl who’d been too shy to touch herself through her underwear three days ago was now on her knees begging for a man’s cock with her whole body.
“That’s it,” Master Paul growled behind me. His hands gripped my hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh above the garter belt, holding me in place while he drove into me with strokes that seemed to reach my ribcage. “That’s what a naughty little bitch looks like when she’s getting what she needs.”
The word… a word somehow much worse thancuntand thus also much better, for this lewd purpose at least. It seemed to blossom inside me, hot and red. My face burned against the sheets. My eyes squeezed shut.
The humiliation felt total, absolute, a full-body immolation that consumed me from the crown of my head to the soles of my curled feet. He’d called me a bitch. On camera. While I knelt with my face in the mattress, my whipped ass in the air, and his cock buried inside me to the hilt.
And my pussy clenched so hard around him that he grunted.
“Oh, God,” I sobbed into the sheets. “Oh God, oh God?—”
