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)
She felt it now.
“Give me your hand,” I said.
Her right hand lifted from her lap as if pulled by a string. It trembled visibly with a fine, continuous tremor that ran from her shoulder to her fingertips. She extended it toward me with the hesitant, reaching motion of someone touching a surface they suspect might burn them.
I took her hand, a little roughly, to satisfy both my own dominant instincts and Melissa’s note about the viewers’ preferences. Anne’s slender fingers were cold and damp with nervous sweat, and they felt impossibly small in mine. I guided them forward, closing the distance between her fingertips and the shaft of my cock with a deliberate, unhurried motion that gave her time to feel every inch of that closing gap—time to anticipate, to dread, to want.
Her fingers made contact.
The sound she made went straight through me. A tiny, strangled intake of breath—not quite a gasp, not quite a whimper, but something between the two that somehow communicated shock, wonder, and fear in equal measure. Her fingertips rested against the underside of my shaft, barely touching, as if the lightest possible contact was all she could manage before her nervous system overloaded.
“Wrap your hand around it,” I told her. “Feel how hard it is. That’s what you do to a man, Anne. That’s what your body—your submission—does to the cock that’s going to own you.”
“Oh, God…” she whispered. “Please… I don’t…”
* * *
Anne
My fingers curled. Slowly, one by one, like a flower closing in reverse. My hand couldn’t close around it completely. My fingers were too small, Master Paul’s girth too substantial.
I felt my eyes go wide as I understood just how big my fictional suitor’s cock had gotten, how well-endowed he was. Fresh heat rushed into my cheeks. My lips moved a tiny bit, as if to speak, but no sound emerged for a long moment, until finally I whispered, “It’s so…” and didn’t finish.
“Big,” Master Paul supplied, in a voice that made me swallow hard. In his tone I could tell that he wanted to make me confront the reality of it, inside the fiction of the ‘narrative arc’ Melissa seemed intent on creating.
“Yes,” he continued. “It is. And it’s going to be inside you, Anne. Inside that tight little cunt that’s never had anything close to this size thrusting in it. But not yet. First, you’re going to learn what it means to worship a penis.”
Fresh tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, the tears of a girl overwhelmed by sensation, by proximity, by the dawning comprehension that the thing she was holding in her shaking hand was going to reshape her understanding of her own body.
“Both hands,” Master Paul commanded. “Hold it with both hands. Get to know it.”
My left hand came up to join the right, and now I held the huge, rigid shaft in both palms, my small fingers arranged along the length of him like a girl cradling something precious and dangerous. My grip felt unsteady; my hands kept tightening and then loosening as if I couldn’t decide between holding on and letting go.
“Move your hands,” my suitor instructed. “Slowly. Stroke from the base to the head and back. Feel the shape of it. Feel how the skin moves. Feel the veins under your fingers. That’s one way to make a man’s cock feel good.”
I obeyed. My hands slid upward along Master Paul’s length with a tentative, exploratory motion that I could tell was, to him, very obviously the first time I’d ever done this. I wondered if in his heart he held sympathy for me, or only hungry lust. I let out another tiny whimper as I realized some wanton part of me hoped he felt only the impatient need to make me service his hardness.
My thumbs traced the ridge beneath the head, and my demanding fictional suitor let out a low, controlled exhale. I felt my cheeks go pink again as I understood that my touch had affected Master Paul that way—the real man as well as the story character. My eyes darted up to his face at the sound, and the expression I saw there—a dark, hard look of predatory appreciation—made my tummy flip.
“That’s it,” he growled. “Good girl. Now lean forward. Put your mouth on me.”
My hands stilled. I felt my eyes go wide again in that deer-in-the-headlights look I knew I’d worn when I had first walked into the studio. A protest formed behind my lips, an automatic I can’t that seemed to live in my throat as a kind of reflex.
“I’ve never—” I started.
“I know you haven’t,” he replied, his voice low but not gentle. “That’s why I’m going to teach you. Open your mouth, Anne. Press your lips against the head. Just that. Just a kiss.”
I leaned forward. The distance between my lips and the swollen head of his cock was only inches, but crossing those inches felt like crossing a border into a country I’d never visited, a country whose language I didn’t speak but whose customs my body seemed to understand with a fluency that terrified me. My lips parted. I closed my eyes—I couldn’t do this with my eyes open, couldn’t watch myself doing it—and pressed my mouth against the tip of Master Paul’s long, hard manhood.