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)
I established a rhythm. Slow, worshipful, deliberate—the way he’d taught me. Each descent took him deep, my lips traveling down the thick shaft until my nose pressed against the dark hair at his base and my throat constricted around the swollen head. Each withdrawal was gradual, my tongue swirling along the underside, tracing the prominent vein, circling the ridge of the head before I sank down again. My free hand found the base of his shaft and held him steady, my fingers unable to fully encircle his girth, and the other hand rested on his inner thigh where I could feel the muscle tense and release beneath my palm.
Minutes passed. Pages turned. The warm light pooled across the rug and the leather chair and the tableau we made together—the man reading, the girl kneeling, the slow, wet sounds of devoted oral service filling the quiet den. The corset held me upright through all of it, the boning preventing the slump of fatigue that would have rounded my shoulders, keeping me presented even in submission. My nipples ached against the responsive fabric. My pussy throbbed against the tiny panties, each pulse of arousal answered by a whisper of friction that kept me hovering at the edge of a need I couldn’t address.
And somewhere in the middle of it I felt another shift inside me, and a thought emerged.
I had gotten good at this.
The realization arrived not as a thought, but as a bodily knowledge. My jaw had found the precise angle that accommodated his size without strain. My throat opened for him with a practiced ease that would have been unimaginable three days ago. My tongue knew exactly where to press, exactly how much pressure to apply to the sensitive spot just below the ridge of his head, exactly when to swirl, when to flatten, and when to simply hold still and let the wet heat of my mouth do its work. My rhythm was steady, confident, unhurried—the rhythm of a girl who understood her humiliating task and trusted her ability to perform it.
I was a good little cocksucker.
CHAPTER 33
Anne
The thought hit me like a slap. My face, already flushed from exertion and arousal, blazed hotter. My eyes stung. Because the confidence itself had its own degradation attached.
As if to confirm my shameful pride, Master Paul’s voice rumbled above me, speaking to Melissa.
“She’s too good. Mind if I finish in her mouth?”
The words landed on me while his cock was buried in my throat, and the casual way he said it—too good, as if my mouth had become an inconvenience to his self-control rather than a source of pride or a reason to praise me—made my pussy clench hard. At that the terrible panties sent a spike of friction through my folds so strong that my hips jerked against the armchair, the empty sheath between my legs betraying my desperate need to have my master’s hardness there instead of in my mouth.
“Absolutely,” Melissa said, rapid calculation in her voice, her producer’s mind focusing like a laser. “Dar, let’s get a close-up on her swallowing? Tight on her throat and mouth?”
“Already there.” Darlene replied in her clipped, efficient tone. “Camera two is on her face. I can punch in whenever you need.”
“Perfect. Paul, whenever you’re ready.”
The exchange happened above me and around me. I… me… Anne… the girl on her knees with a cock in her throat… she represented only the particular piece of equipment under discussion by the technicians who operated her. The sheer degradation of it burned through me like a fever, and the burn went straight to the place between my legs where the Surrender panties caught the resulting flood of wetness. They answered it, of course, with a maddening intensification of sensation that made me whimper around the shaft of my master’s demanding cock.
For a while longer, Master Paul maintained the pretense of reading. I heard pages turn. I felt the studied relaxation in his thighs beneath my hand, the feigned posture of a man absorbed in his novel while his girl serviced him on her knees.
But the pretense had begun to fray, and it made me burn all the hotter. My master’s breathing changed, getting deeper and slower. The controlled rhythm of his respiration developed hairline fractures that I could hear in a slight catch at the top of each inhale. His thigh tensed beneath my palm and didn’t fully release. The page-turning slowed, then stopped, and I heard him exhale through his nose in a way that sounded like a man losing an argument with his own body.
The novel closed with a soft, decisive sound. I heard it set down on the arm of the chair.
Then both his hands were in my hair.
“Be brutal,” I heard Melissa advise. “That’s what the audience wants.”
But I wasn’t even completely sure she had actually said it, because it seemed to come from my body’s recesses as much as it came from somewhere else.