“From behind,” I whispered. “Please, sir. I want you to take me from behind. I want to bend over for you and feel you…” My voice cracked. I reached back, out of sheer instinct, and took my still-burning cheeks in my hands. I squeezed them, parted them, and let out a little sob of arousal as I felt the effects of every humiliating thing the man I loved had done to me already today. “Please, Master Paul. Please bend me over and fuck me again like you did on the set. I’m begging you.”
The words left me and I stood there, naked and trembling and so aroused that I could feel the wetness sliding down my inner thigh. Master Paul rose from the chair in a single, fluid motion. His hands found my shoulders, turned me, and pressed me forward until my hips met the wide leather arm of the chair. The leather was warm where his body had been, and the heat of it against my bare stomach as I bent over felt like being pressed against his skin.
“Hands on the seat,” he said behind me. “Spread your feet.”
I gripped the worn leather cushion and widened my stance, and the position opened me completely—my welted bottom raised and presented, my freshly shaved pussy exposed between my parted thighs, the cool air of the apartment touching every wet, needy inch of me. The robe had fallen to the floor somewhere behind us, pooled around my ankles.
Then he was there. The blunt, hot pressure of his cock nudged against the entrance to my slick sheath, and I gasped and arched my back, tilting my hips upward in that instinctive offering my body had learned to make for him. He didn’t tease. He gripped my hip with one hand, guided himself with the other, andpushed into me with a single, deep, possessive stroke that drove the breath from my lungs and pressed my hipbones hard against the leather arm of the chair.
“Oh, God,” I choked. The angle felt overwhelming—deeper even than on the bed, the curve of his cock finding some spot inside me that made my vision swim and my fingers claw at the leather. Without the studio’s ambient noise, without Melissa’s murmured direction, without anything except the quiet apartment and the deepening gold light through the windows, every sound was magnified: the wet, obscene noise of his cock entering me, the creak of the chair beneath my weight, the broken little cries I couldn’t suppress.
He fucked me slowly at first. Long, measured strokes that withdrew almost completely before driving back in to the hilt, his hips meeting my welted bottom with each thrust and sending fresh waves of stinging heat through the bruised skin. The collision of tenderness and sting—the soreness of my punished cheeks against the hard planes of his body—kept me suspended between pain and pleasure in that place I was beginning to understand as the essence of what I needed.
“This is what you asked for,” Master Paul said behind me, his voice low and rough and intimate in a way I didn’t think it had ever been on set. “This is what my girl wants. To be bent over and taken.”
“Yes,” I sobbed. “Yes, Master, this is what I want, this is?—”
His rhythm quickened. The chair rocked beneath me, its legs scraping faintly against the hardwood, and I clung to the seat cushion and let the pleasure build in rolling waves that started where his cock split me open and radiated upward through my belly and my chest. My bare, shaved mound pressed againstthe leather arm with each thrust, the friction of the warm hide against my hypersensitive clit sending jolts through my nervous system that made my thighs shake.
Then I felt his thumb.
It pressed against the tight, puckered opening above where his cock moved inside me—the place he’d touched on the set, the place he’d told me he would claim. The pad of his thumb rested there with a pressure that was exploratory rather than invasive, a firm, circling touch that made every nerve ending in that forbidden spot fire simultaneously. I gasped. My whole body went rigid, a full-length clench of surprise and something much, much darker.
“Feel that?” His voice was low, rough with exertion, his hips still driving into me in deep, punishing strokes. His thumb pressed a fraction harder, not entering, justinsisting, making its presence known against that impossibly sensitive ring of muscle. “Remember what I told you. This is mine too, Annie. Every part of you. And you’re going to take me here soon. You’re getting ready for it every time you serve me.”
A sound left me that I had no name for. It contained, in its single meaningless syllable, the full scope of my terror and my want. His thumb circled slowly, patiently, while his cock filled me from the other side, and the dual sensation—the relentless fullness inside my pussy and the insistent pressure against my virgin anus—created a feeling so overwhelming that my arms gave out. My chest collapsed against the seat of the armchair, my face pressing into the warm leather that smelled like him, and I sobbed with a pleasure so acute it had become indistinguishable from anguish.
“You’ll open for me,” he said, his thumb still circling, still pressing. “The way you opened your throat. The way you opened this sweet cunt. Slowly. Willingly. Because you’re mine, and mine meansallof you.”
“Yes,” I sobbed into the leather. “Yes, sir. All of me. Everything.”
He came inside me for the second time that day, his cock buried to the hilt, his thumb pressed against my anus, his body curved over mine like something sheltering and claiming simultaneously. I felt each pulse of his release flooding my insides, hot and possessive, and the sensation triggered one final orgasm that left me boneless and shaking and draped over his armchair like something that had been wrung out and hung up to dry.
We stayed like that for a long time. His weight against my back. His softening cock still inside me. His thumb, mercifully, had lifted from that terrifying, electric spot between my cheeks, and his hand now rested on the small of my back with a tenderness that made my throat ache.
Eventually he gathered me up. Carried me back to the bed. Wrapped himself around me in the darkening apartment while the last of the gold light faded from the windows and the city sounds rose faintly through the glass.
I slept in his arms, and I didn’t dream of anything at all.
CHAPTER 29
Paul
The next morning I woke before Anne did.
I lay there for several minutes, watching the early light find the angles of her face, and I let myself feel the full weight of what had begun to happen to me. I had shown her a vulnerability yesterday that I felt not the slightest desire to take back today. I could feel my life rearranging itself around the shape of this girl sleeping in my bed with her lips slightly parted and one hand curled beneath her chin.
I got up and made coffee. By the time Anne joined me in the kitchen, blushing and unable to meet my eyes at first, I had decided how to handle the thing that had arisen between us like a force of nature: a tectonic shift that had somehow occurred with the speed of a tornado.
I put down my own mug and poured one for Anne. I put it on the counter instead of handing it to her, watching her eyes follow it hungrily. Then I took her in my arms.
“This first,” I said softly, into her hair. “Then, coffee.”
I felt her body collapse into mine.
“What…” she started. “Master…”
Just the sound of those two syllables from Anne’s mouth made my chest swell.
