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)
I heard voices. Somewhere behind me, off to the side, women were talking. The words drifted to me through the fog of pain and tears:
“That pussy should have been waxed before she came in.” That was Melissa, her tone sharp with professional irritation. “Didn’t anyone send her prep instructions?”
“Apparently not.” A voice I didn’t recognize—clipped, direct, faintly amused. The silver-haired woman, I guessed. Darlene. “It’s not the end of the world, but it’s annoying. We won’t get as much done today as we wanted. We can probably get her to the aesthetician this afternoon, though.”
They were talking about my pubic hair. They were standing somewhere behind me, watching Master Paul spank my bare bottom, and they were discussing my pubic hair with the detached professionalism of interior designers debating paint swatches. The humiliation hit me like a separate blow, distinct from the physical pain but just as devastating, and I buried my face deeper into the cushion and wailed.
“Eight,” Paul said, and his palm cracked down again, hard enough to make my whole body jerk.
“Please,” I choked. “Please, I’ll do it, I’ll take my clothes off, please stop…”
“Will you?”
He spanked me again.
“Oh… oh, God… it hurts so much. Yes! Yes, I’ll do it, I promise, please…”
“Good girl,” he said, and the warmth in those two words—the approval, the gentleness that lived alongside the iron—undid something inside me that I hadn’t known was knotted. I lay across his lap, sobbing and shaking, my bare bottom throbbing with a heat that radiated down my thighs and up my spine, and the words good girl settled over me like a blanket laid across a shivering body.
For a moment I thought he wouldn’t give me the final spank he had promised. I had just enough time to feel a fleeting moment of an utterly inappropriate emotion: disappointment. When I felt him press down again with his left hand to keep me in place, and shift his weight slightly as his right hand rose, the sob I let out had in it a conflict I didn’t want to think about.
Then his hand connected, and I shrieked at the agony, bucking over his huge thigh, clenching and unclenching my punished cheeks, not caring how immodest and even lewd I must look as I learned my humiliating lesson.
“Ten,” Master Paul said.
He helped me up. His hands were careful now, guiding me off his lap and onto my feet with a steadiness that compensated for my complete lack of it. My legs shook. My skirt fell back into place, and I reached back instinctively to pull up my panties, but Paul caught my wrist.
“Leave them,” he said. “You’re about to take them off anyway. Go ahead and strip for me.”
CHAPTER 9
Anne
I turned my back to Master Paul, though I knew it must look absurd, given that I would apparently have to stay naked as Darlene lit me. My fingers fumbled at the buttons of my blouse with the clumsy desperation of someone trying to undress in a burning building.
The tears hadn’t stopped—they ran silently down my cheeks now, no longer accompanied by sobs but persistent, a steady leak I couldn’t shut off. I got the blouse open and shrugged it off my shoulders, letting it fall to the studio floor behind me. My bra was white, plain, functional—the kind you buy in a three-pack at a department store—and I reached back with shaking hands to unhook it.
The bra came loose and I caught it against my chest with my left hand, for one last, futile second of coverage before letting it drop. My right hand drifted, involuntarily, to my bottom. The skin there still blazed—I could feel the heat radiating through the fabric of my skirt—and my fingers pressed against the curve of one cheek in that instinctive, self-soothing gesture that a spanked girl apparently can’t suppress. I rubbed in small circles, wincing, trying to ease the deep, throbbing ache that Master Paul’s hand had left behind.
“Oh,” Melissa said from somewhere behind me. Her voice had changed—no longer sharp with irritation but bright, almost electric, the way it had sounded in the conference room when she’d unveiled the Surrender Access Panty. “Oh, that’s perfect. Darlene, are you seeing this?”
“I see it.” Darlene’s voice, clipped and businesslike.
“It’s gorgeous, right?” Melissa continued, circling me like I was a sculpture she wanted to evaluate from every angle. “That right there… that gesture, the way she reached back without even thinking about it, the way her face looks while she does it… that’s the entire campaign in a single image. That’s the Her Secret Garden girl. She’s been disciplined, she’s feeling it, and she can’t help touching herself where it hurts. It’s vulnerable and intimate and slightly ashamed and completely authentic. You cannot direct that. You cannot fake that. Once we get her into lace, magic is going to happen. It’s exactly what I told Stuart: the sensors and the vibration modules have their place—but there’s no substitute for the real thing, when an expert dominant brings it out.”