Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“Do you want to come, you little whore?” my master’s voice growled above me.
The jealousy on Penelope’s face grew more marked. Two circles of pink had appeared on her cheeks.
“Yes… sir… please…” I managed to gasp. “Please.”
Suddenly my master’s skillful right hand had passed between my hip and the bolster, and he had my pussy in his grasp. One squeeze, enhanced I felt certain by the nature of the fabric, was all it took. I closed my eyes but I still saw Penelope’s envy, and it made the climax that ripped through me all the greater. I screamed in pleasure mingled with pain as Master Paul’s penis fucked my bottom all the way through it, my anus held much too open as I felt my orgasm go on and on.
Then my master grunted low in his chest, as if my coming had pleased his cock too much to resist his own, and I sobbed as I felt the thick shaft grow even more rigid in my anus.
The first pulse of his release hit so deep inside me that the sensation existed in territory I had no prior map for. It seemed like heat, pressure, and a fullness beyond fullness. The sound I made was something I couldn’t have called a moan or a sob, but both at once. His hips drove forward and held, grinding against my punished cheeks, and I felt each subsequent pulse of his ejaculation with an intimacy that seemed total. It bypassed every layer of learned response and reached something more fundamental: the simple, overwhelming fact of being claimed completely… owned so fully that my master’s possession extended to places the light had never reached.
Penelope’s presence on set flickered and went out like a candle in a closed room.
There was only this. His weight above me, his cock inside me, and his release flooding the place he had taken. My own bound hands pressed into the white sheet. I could feel the tears drying on my cheeks. The sound of his breathing slowed by degrees from the urgent rhythm of his finish toward something deeper and more settled.
He stayed inside me for a long moment after the last pulse. I could feel his heartbeat there—or I imagined I could. It seemed possible, from this particular position on the far side of every threshold I had ever possessed, to feel a man’s heartbeat through his cock.
Then he spoke.
“Annie.” His voice had shed everything. The scene’s fiction, the measured authority, the careful calibration of a man who knew the precise effect of every word he chose. What remained sounded to me like Master Paul’s real voice, the one from the dark apartment, from the kitchen with the copper pots. “My Annie.”
“Yes,” I breathed into the sheet. “Yes, sir.”
“Marry me.”
The silence that followed lasted perhaps two seconds. I heard Melissa make a small, involuntary sound somewhere beyond the white light. I heard nothing from Darlene’s position, but I felt, even through the extraordinary removal of my current state, the quality of attention that her camera directed at the back of my head.
I understood what this was. I understood it with the same part of my mind that had understood the oval cutout in the white lace panties, the bolster, the whole elaborate machinery of the scene we had been building since the bedroom set’s lights came up. The proposal belonged to the fiction. The wealthy suitor, his young soon-to-be-fiancée, the mock ‘special’ wedding night that had been made into something else by her disobedience—it all closed this way, with this question, spoken by the man astride me with his cock still buried in the tight place he’d just claimed.
I understood all that.
I also understood, with the same absolute and wordless certainty with which I had lain in the dark of his apartment and heard wedding in his voice and known, that this question was not only fictional.
“Yes,” I said. My voice didn’t waver. It came from the same deep, still place that had produced I want to be yours in the den, the same place that had produced all of me, everything when he’d pressed his thumb against my anus and made shameful promises. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”
I heard a sound from beyond the set that was unmistakably Melissa losing her professional composure for a fraction of a second before recovering it. Then I heard her say, in a voice that was trying very hard to be a producer’s voice and almost succeeding: “Darlene, are we still—”
“Still rolling,” Darlene said. “We’re not done.” Flat and certain, the voice of a woman who had not taken her eye from the viewfinder. “Stay on her while he pulls out.”
Master Paul’s hands moved to my lower back. A slow, warm pressure, steadying. Then he withdrew.
The sound that I made as he pulled free of my body was quiet and involuntary and entirely beyond my ability to govern. The withdrawal felt like a reversal of something geological—the slow, inexorable departure of something that had altered the landscape by its presence. And then his manhood was gone from inside me. I lay over the bolster in the white light and my face burned as I felt his seed begin to trickle warmly out of me.