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)
“Say it, Anne.” His thrusts had become harder, more urgent, the measured rhythm giving way to something rawer. His lap slammed against my welts and I shrieked. “Tell me what you are.”
“I’m—” The word caught in my throat. My face burned so hot I thought the sheets might scorch. The humiliation felt like a living thing, a creature that had wrapped itself around my chest and was squeezing, and the squeeze felt indistinguishable from the pleasure. “I’m your bitch,” I sobbed. “I’m your bitch, sir. I’m your… I’m… oh, God… Master… I’m… I’m your little bitch.”
Saying it aloud—hearing the words in my own wrecked, sobbing voice—triggered something I wasn’t prepared for. A cascade… a chain reaction. My pussy clamped down on him with a force that made him groan, and the orgasm that followed was so violent it felt like my body was trying to turn itself inside out.
I screamed into the mattress and my hips bucked back against him, driving him deeper, and the impact of his body against my welted bottom sent a supernova of pain-pleasure through my nervous system that made my arms give out completely. I collapsed flat against the sheets, my chest pressed into the mattress, my back arched, my punished bottom still raised and impaled on his cock.
“That’s it,” Master Paul said through gritted teeth, and his hands clamped down on my hips with an iron grip that locked me in place. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t rock forward, couldn’t squirm away, couldn’t do anything except take it as he drove into me with a ferocity that shook the bed frame. The wet, percussive sound of his body meeting mine filled the studio—flesh against flesh, his hips against my welts, his cock plunging through the slick, clenching grip of my pussy with a relentlessness that felt like it would break me.
He was close. I could feel it in the way his rhythm changed—the strokes becoming shorter, harder, more urgent, his cock swelling inside me with a rigidity that stretched my already stretched walls even further. His breathing had gone just slightly ragged, the controlled cadence of his voice replaced by harsh, guttural exhalations that I felt against the back of my neck as he bent over me, his chest pressing against my spine, his weight pinning me flat against the mattress.
“Going to come inside you,” he said against my ear, and his voice was wrecked, stripped of all professional veneer, raw in a way I’d never heard from him. “Going to fill this tight little cunt up, Annie. Going to come inside my bitch’s pussy.”
“Yes,” I sobbed, my mind flashing on a memory about the male contraceptive the Institute trainers all took regularly. “Yes, please, please come inside me, sir, please—”
He drove into me one final time. His hardness went so deep I felt him press against the very end of me. His hands locked my hips in place with a grip that would leave bruises shaped like his fingers. His cock pulsed inside me. I felt each hot, flooding surge as he emptied himself into me. The sensation of being filled with his release triggered one last orgasm that ripped through my body in an instant.
My vagina clenched around him in convulsive, rhythmic spasms that seemed to pull him deeper, milk him, drain him, and I heard myself making sounds that weren’t words, weren’t sobs, weren’t screams, just raw, animal vocalizations that the girl who’d worn polka-dot panties two days ago would never have believed could come from her own throat.
Master Paul’s muscular body came to rest above me as he finished coming. His weight pressed me into the mattress, heavy and warm and encompassing, and his cock remained inside me, still twitching with the last pulses of his orgasm, and I could feel his release pooling where our bodies joined—hot and thick and marking me on the inside the way his belt had marked me on the outside.
We lay there. Breathing. His face was in my hair, his breath hot against the back of my neck, my face was in the sheets, and the studio was very quiet except for the sound of two people trying to remember how lungs worked.
“Cut,” Melissa said softly from somewhere that sounded like another planet. “Oh, my God. Cut.”
How I got to Master Paul’s apartment, afterwards… I couldn’t have narrated it. It seemed to exist only in fragments in my mind. Once he had carried me across the threshold and laid me in his enormous bed, I remembered some of it: being wrapped in a soft robe—not the studio’s standard-issue terrycloth but something heavier, warmer, that smelled like my master.
I remembered Amy, earlier, pressing a bottle of water into my hands and the cool glass against my lips. I remembered Master Paul’s hand on the small of my back as he guided me through a door I’d never noticed at the rear of the studio, into a corridor, then an elevator, then into a parking garage where a dark sedan waited.