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)
But my fingers didn’t stay in the hair. They moved through it and past it. They found the hot, wet lips again. This time my body showed not the slightest hesitation. This time my middle finger slid between the inner lips and found my clitoris with the same unerring accuracy that Master Paul had demonstrated, as if my body had memorized the coordinates in the interval since the last touch and now guided my hand there with the efficiency of a homing device.
I circled. Slowly at first, the way Penelope had taught me. I made small circles, gently, without pressing too hard. The pleasure unfurled through my core. My free hand, which had been covering my mouth, moved to my breast. Through the thin cotton of my pajama top, I felt my nipple… hard, aching, so sensitive. I squeezed it between my thumb and forefinger, and the two sensations, clit and nipple, sent a shock through me that made my spine curve.
I thought about my master shaving me.
I couldn’t help it. The image rose unbidden, fully formed, as vivid as if I were watching it on one of the studio monitors: the white tile of the bathroom set, the careful lighting, the mirror positioned at its calculated angle. Me, sitting on the edge of the tub or standing with my legs apart or however he would position me—I didn’t know the logistics, couldn’t picture the specific geometry, but I could picture him.
Master Paul’s hands between my thighs. The razor. The sound it would make—would it make a sound? A soft, scraping whisper as the blade moved through the fine blonde hair? Would I feel the individual hairs being cut, or would there just be the sensation of the blade against my skin, cool and skillful, while he held me open with one hand and shaved me bare with the other?
My fingers moved faster. The circles tightened, and I felt the pleasure concentrate itself. It narrowed from a diffuse warmth to something pointed and urgent that seemed to gather in a single, exquisite spot beneath my fingertip. My hips moved against my hand in a rhythm that matched the circling, a gentle undulation that I recognized, with a distant flush of humiliation, as the same motion I’d made on my knees in front of Master Paul in my helpless search for friction.
I imagined him looking at me… at my cunt… while he shaved me. Those brown eyes, focused and unhurried, watching the hair fall away in soft wisps. He would watch my skin appear beneath it, pale and sensitive, untouched by light or air or a man’s gaze.
He would watch me become bare for him. Watching me become his, in a way that felt more intimate than anything his cock had done to my mouth, because at least my mouth would grow sore and recover. My hair would grow back, but he could shave me again… he would shave me again. He would keep me bare. He would maintain my submission between my thighs so that I felt it every moment of every day.
A moan escaped through my clenched teeth. I pressed harder against my clit, abandoning the gentle circles for something more desperate—a back-and-forth motion, rapid and firm, that sent waves of pleasure crashing through my whole body with an intensity that made my vision blur even though my eyes were already closed. My pajama bottoms were around my upper thighs now. I’d pushed them down without deciding to, my free hand acting on its own imperative to remove the barrier between my skin and the air, to make myself more bare, more accessible, more like what Master Paul wanted me to be.
Then the thought arrived. It seemed to slide into my mind sideways:
What will Master Paul do when he finds out I was touching myself?
My fingers stuttered on my clit. My whole body clenched—stomach, thighs, the inner muscles that gripped around nothing—and the pleasure didn’t diminish. It intensified. Because the thought wasn’t a deterrent. The thought was fuel.
He would punish me.
The orgasm hit me like a wall of water. It crashed through my body with a violence that I had no framework for, no preparation against, no defense. My back arched off the mattress so sharply that only my heels and shoulders touched the sheets. My mouth opened in a silent scream—silent because somewhere in the depths of the convulsion my throat had locked shut, every muscle in my body seizing simultaneously in a spasm of pleasure so total it obliterated thought. My fingers pressed hard against my clit and my inner walls clenched in rhythmic, pulsing contractions around the emptiness inside me, and I came, I came, I came—the word itself seeming to explode in my skull like a flashbulb, white and blinding.
I saw Master Paul’s hand coming down on my bare bottom. I saw it with a clarity that seemed to transcend imagination—the broad palm, the controlled arc of his arm, the impact that would send shockwaves through my punished flesh. He would bend me over. He would bare me. He would spank me for touching myself, for disobeying, for being the desperate, wanton, dripping little cunt girl who couldn’t keep her fingers off herself for a single night.