“Cut,” Melissa said. Her voice sounded different—thicker, slightly unsteady, as if she’d been holding her breath. “That was… really, really good. Did you get her throat while she swallowed?”
“Got everything,” Darlene confirmed from behind her camera. Her voice still sounded professional, but I thought I detected something taut beneath it, as if even her professional distance had been tested by what she’d just filmed. “The swallow is pristine. And the hands behind her we got a fantastic shot of her ass from below—I think there’s a thumbnail there for you.”
My hands. Still behind me. Still holding my own bottom open in an offering that no one had told me to stop making. I released myself with a jolt of fresh humiliation, my fingers cramping as they uncurled from the soft flesh, and I felt the panties settle back inside my cleft with a whisper of fabric that made me shudder.
Master Paul’s hand found the crown of my head. He stroked my hair—long, slow passes from my forehead to the nape of my neck, as if taming me after a moment of animal wildness. I closed my eyes and leaned into his touch, his softening cock still resting against my lower lip, and the tenderness after the roughness made my chest ache.
“Good girl,” he murmured. The words were quiet enough that I wasn’t sure the microphones caught them. They were for me. Just for me. “Such a good girl, Annie.”
I pressed my forehead against his thigh and breathed. The corset held me upright even now, the boning refusing to let me slump, and the responsive lining continued its quiet torment against my nipples. The panties continued their maddening work between my legs, too. I knelt there in all that engineered arousal with my master’s shameful taste coating my throat and his hand in my hair and his words—tomorrow I’m going to take your ass—echoing through my body like a bell that wouldn’t stop ringing.
Tomorrow.
The word sat inside me like a stone, heavy and smooth and impossible to ignore. I thought about the progression—the way my body had been opened, systematically, over the course of four days. My mouth first, learning to accept his size, learning to soften and yield and swallow. Then my pussy, stretched and filled and fucked until it had learned to grip and milk and come on command. Each threshold had felt impossible until I crossed it, and each crossing had revealed a girl on the other side who was more his than the girl who’d stood before it.
There was one threshold left.
CHAPTER 34
Anne
The next day we shot on the bedroom set. Master Paul had talked it all through with me at his apartment the previous night, both the terrifying scene we would film and the implications of what I’d already accomplished. Among other things, he told me Penelope had texted him.
“She’s a bit annoyed that she’s apparently lost her secretary,” he had told me. “I told her that we’re nearly done, but after how incredibly you’ve done with this assignment she’ll be lucky to get you back at all—you’re going to have a lot of new opportunities with Melissa. You’ve also got a share of the Surrender line revenue—we both do—so you’re going to be able to take your time making a decision if that’s what you want.”
Then he had told me about what I would have to wear for today’s scene, and everything I would have to do, and have done to me. As I looked at what Amy had set out for me in wardrobe, though, I couldn’t seem to remember any of it.
I remembered him telling me. I remembered the low rumble of his voice in the darkened bedroom, his chest warm against my back, his arm heavy across my waist while he walked me through every detail of what this morning would hold. I remembered the careful, methodical way he’d described each element—the way a man might talk someone through a difficult hike before attempting it, pointing out where the footholds were, where the drops came, where she’d need to trust her body and where she’d need to trust him. I remembered feeling safe in the dark, feeling held, feeling the information settle into me like sediment through water, each piece finding its place on the bottom of my mind.
I remembered falling asleep while he was still talking. Or maybe he’d finished. The boundary between his voice and my dreams had dissolved at some point, his words becoming the texture of sleep itself, and I’d drifted off with my face pressed into the hollow of his throat and his hand stroking my hair in those long, slow strokes that made my eyelids impossible to keep open.
I remembered all of that. The feeling of it. The safety.
What I couldn’t remember—standing here now in the curtained changing area with the single garment from the Surrender line laid out before me on the small table—was what he’d actually said.
The bedroom set was white. That much I remembered, and I could see a slice of it through the gap in the curtain to remind me: white sheets, white pillows, a white upholstered headboard that caught the studio lights and seemed to glow. The set looked bridal. Virginal. The kind of bedroom that existed in a very specific fantasy about a very specific kind of first night.
On the table in front of me, Amy had put the white panties, neatly folded, but not in a way so as to conceal their most important feature.
I stared at them. My hands had found each other, fingers interlocking in the same old desperate, white-knuckled grip.
Lace. Bridal lace: the delicate, expensive kind, with a scalloped edge and the faintest shimmer of silk thread woven through the pattern. The tiny key-and-lock emblem of the Surrender line was embroidered in white-on-white near the left hip, almost invisible, a secret sewn into the fabric. The front panel was a relatively modest, florally decorated triangle that would cover my pussy. The sides were thin ribbons, like those of the black pair, designed to sit on my hipbones.
But the back.
My eyes fixed on the back of the panties, where my gaze had arrived the moment I saw them. My breath had stopped and the blood had drained from my face before rushing back in a scalding wave that reached my hairline.
The lace continued over the curves that would cover my bottom into a panel that would conceal each cheek—demure, almost innocent in its coverage compared to the thongs I’d worn in previous scenes. But in the center, where the fabric would sit over the cleft between my cheeks, there was an opening.
A deliberate, finished, beautifully constructed oval cutout framed by a border of the same scalloped lace as on the waistband and leg holes, positioned with anatomical precision over the place where my anus would lie hidden—but also, thanks to the panties, exposed—between my bottom cheeks.
The opening was perhaps two inches long and an inch wide. Its edges were reinforced with a delicate satin binding that would sit against the skin, on either side of my most private place, framing it, presenting it, the way a setting on an engagement ring presents a diamond. The craftsmanship seemed exquisite. Someone had designed this with care, with intention, with a clear and specific understanding of what a man would want access to while his young bride lay before him in white lace on their wedding night.
A man’s penis, even one as big as my master’s, could enter through that opening. That was its purpose. That was its only purpose. The panties were designed so that a girl could wear them—could look bridal and innocent and covered—while a man pushed his cock through the lace-framed oval and into her bottom.
Master Paul had told me about these. I knew he had. Somewhere in the dark warmth of his bedroom, with his voice low and his hand in my hair, he had described these panties to me and I had listened and felt safe. I could feel the ghost of that safety like a handprint on my skin, the impression left by something that had touched me and moved on.
And what he had said reminded me of Melissa’s first presentation of the Surrender line to Penelope, when one of the slides had shown a pair of panties like this one. So I knew, somewhere, that I had understood. Or I had thought I understood.
