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)
He said it loudly enough for the room to hear. I understood—some part of me understood, even through the haze—that we had definitely entered the scene. The rehearsal had become the performance, or perhaps there had never been a meaningful difference between the two.
“This hair,” he said, and his voice had taken on a harder edge, the authority that had been tempered with warmth now stripped of its softness. “Look at this. I buy you a beautiful nightgown. I bring you into our bedroom. I want to see my future wife’s body, and this is what I find?”
His fingers tugged lightly at the hair between my legs—not painfully, but with enough force to make me gasp and squirm on the white sheets.
“Sir, I… I didn’t know you wanted me to—”
“You didn’t think,” he corrected. “A girl who’s preparing herself for her husband’s bed should have thought about what he’d want to see when he looked between her legs. Should have thought about whether he’d want to find a bush down here, or whether he might prefer to see his wife’s bare, pretty pussy, smooth and ready for him.”
I started to cry again. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes and ran sideways into my hair as I lay there, holding my knees open, while Master Paul scolded me for the state of my pubic hair with a conviction that made it feel entirely real: not a scene, not a performance, but a genuine expression of a man’s authority over a girl’s body that I had failed to honor.
From somewhere off set, Melissa’s voice came, low but audible: “Paul… more. Push harder. Our data is showing HSG viewers want the men way more dominant than anyone was expecting. Like, significantly more. Don’t hold back.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Master Paul’s hands tightened on my thighs, and when he spoke again, his voice had dropped to something that was almost a growl: rough-edged, uncompromising, carrying a weight of masculine authority that pressed against my chest like a physical force.
“This little cunt,” he said, “is going to be shaved.”
The word hit me like a slap.
Cunt.
No one had ever said that word to me. No one had ever said it about me, about the specific, desperately aroused part of my body that his hands were currently holding open. The word sounded crude and raw and shocking, and it seemed to hit the center of my nervous system like a stone thrown into still water, sending concentric rings of sensation outward through my entire body.
The sensation, to my dismayed humiliation, was arousal.
Not discomfort. Not offense. Not the righteous indignation of a young woman being degraded. Arousal: pure, savage, obliterating need that surged through me with such force that I felt my inner walls clench and a fresh rush of wetness spill from my opening onto the white sheets beneath me. My hips jerked involuntarily, a tiny upward thrust toward his hands, toward his face, toward the word he’d just used, and I heard myself make a sound—a moan, low and throaty and completely beyond my control—that told everyone in the studio exactly what that word had done to me.
The shame struck instantaneously. It crashed over me in a wave so hot I thought my skin might actually catch fire. I had just moaned—moaned—at having my private part called a cunt. On camera. In front of Melissa and Darlene and the technicians and whoever else was watching. My body had responded to the crudest, most degrading word in the English language the way other girls’ bodies might respond to being told they were beautiful, and there was no hiding it, no explaining it away, no pretending it was anything other than what it so obviously was.
Master Paul saw it all. I could feel his gaze on me. He could see the fresh wetness, the clenching, and the flush that had spread from my cheeks down my neck and across my chest. He saw it, and something shifted in his expression—a deepening of that hunger I’d noticed before, a predatory focus that made me feel like prey that had just revealed the exact location of its hiding place.
“Get up,” he said. His voice was quiet now, but the quietness was worse than the growl. It carried the promise of something. “On your knees. On the floor, in front of me.”
I scrambled off the bed. My legs barely held me—they shook so violently that I stumbled as my feet hit the floor, and I caught myself on the edge of the mattress before sinking to my knees on the braided rug beside the bed. The baby doll settled around me, the chiffon pooling on the floor, and I knelt there with my hands in my lap and my heart slamming against my ribs so hard I could see my own chest shaking.