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)
“Oh, fuck,” Melissa breathed from behind the monitors. “Paul, talk to her. Tell her she’s yours.”
“You feel that?” Master Paul’s voice came from above me, low and rough, and his hips drove forward again with a force that pushed me further into the mattress. “That’s what your cunt was made for, Annie. Not your fingers. My cock.”
I sobbed. My hands gripped his forearms even tighter where they held my legs back, and I felt the corded muscle there with a desperation that left white marks on his skin. He was so deep inside me that I could feel him in my stomach, or thought I could—the fullness so complete that the boundary between pleasure and pain had dissolved into a single, blinding sensation that pulsed with every heartbeat.
He began to fuck me for real. Not gently. Not the way Kevin had moved inside me, almost apologetically, as if asking with every careful stroke if this was okay. Master Paul fucked me the way he’d whipped me: with authority, with rhythm, with certainty. Each thrust drove the full length of him into me until he withdrew and only the swollen head remained inside, stretching the entrance of my pussy in a way that made me gasp, before plunging back in with a force that sent the bed frame creaking against the studio floor.
The pleasure built with a speed that terrified me. It rose from somewhere beneath the pain, feeding on it, intertwined with it so completely that I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. My inner walls clenched around him with each stroke—tight, rhythmic contractions that I couldn’t control, that my body performed on its own as if his cock had activated some mechanism I’d never known I possessed. The base of his shaft ground against my bare clit on every down-stroke, the friction of his flesh against my newly shaved skin so intense, so direct, that each contact sent a jolt through my nervous system like an electric shock.
I would come very soon. I could feel it gathering with the same tidal force that had taken me last night in my bed, the same wave that had crested and broken five times while I rubbed myself in the dark. This loomed much bigger, though. This was a tsunami. When it arrived, it would leave nothing standing.
The words came out of my mouth before I’d consciously formed them.
“Please,” I gasped. “Please, Master… sir… may I… can I come… please, may I come, sir—”
The begging felt as instinctive as breathing. As instinctive as the way my hips had tilted toward him this morning during the hug, as the way my thighs had clenched together while he inspected my spread bottom. My body understood something my mind was still catching up to: that the orgasm building inside me did not belong to me. It belonged to him. The way my cunt belonged to him, the way the hair he’d shaved away had belonged to him, the way every sob, blush, and drop of wetness I’d produced in the last forty-eight hours had belonged to him.
Master Paul didn’t answer immediately. He kept fucking me in deep, measured strokes that hit the end of me and made stars burst behind my clenched eyelids. The silence, the deliberate withholding of permission while my body screamed at the edge of release, felt like its own exquisite torture. I could sense the orgasm pressing against the inside of my skin like something trying to break free, and holding it back required every scrap of willpower I possessed, and I was running out.
“Please,” I sobbed again. “Please, sir, I can’t… I’m going to… please—”
“Come for me,” Master Paul said. His voice was rough and dark and it fell on me like a benediction. “Come as many times as you want, Annie. Show me what this cunt can do when it has my cock inside it instead of your disobedient little fingers.”
The permission seemed to break everything open.
The first orgasm hit me with a force that arched my spine off the mattress despite the weight of him pressing my knees toward my ears. My inner walls clamped down on his cock in violent, rhythmic contractions that I could feel individually: each one a distinct, crushing pulse that radiated outward from my center and consumed my entire body. I screamed. Not a moan, not a whimper—a scream that tore itself from the deepest part of my chest and rang off the studio walls and the lights and the white sheets and I didn’t care, I didn’t care about the cameras or Melissa or Darlene or anyone because the pleasure was so enormous it had obliterated everything except the place where his body met mine.
He didn’t stop. He fucked me through it. He thrust his rock-hard cock through the clenching, screaming, and the way my legs shook in his grip. The continued stimulation, the relentless pressure of his cock against my swollen, spasming walls didn’t let the orgasm end. It rolled. It crested and broke and crested again, wave after wave, and somewhere in the middle of it a second orgasm collided with the first, or maybe it was still the first, or maybe the distinction had ceased to mean anything because my body had become a single, continuous convulsion of pleasure that had no beginning and no end.