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)
And what he had said reminded me of Melissa’s first presentation of the Surrender line to Penelope, when one of the slides had shown a pair of panties like this one. So I knew, somewhere, that I had understood. Or I had thought I understood.
But standing here, looking at the actual object, the safety felt very far away and the reality felt very close.
I reached for the hem of my top and pulled it over my head. The cool studio air hit my bare skin and I felt my nipples tighten immediately. I stood there in my bra and looked at the panties on the table. I felt something stir in my chest that was not fear, not arousal, and not the simple, trained compliance that had dressed me in black satin and heat-responsive lace without argument.
Resistance. Rebellion.
Small at first. A tightening at the base of my throat, like a word that didn’t want to be swallowed. I unclasped my bra and set it aside, stepped out of my underwear, stood completely bare in the curtained changing area, stared at the white lace thing on the table, and felt the defiance grow.
I knew what it was for. The oval opening, its satin-bound edges so carefully finished, so perfectly positioned—I knew what would be pushed through it. Master Paul had told me. I had the ghost of his voice telling me, the warmth of his chest, the safety of his arm. I had all of that, and I still looked at the panties and felt my stomach turn over with something that was half terror and half a wild, irrational desire to throw the delicate white thing across the room and walk out of the curtained space in nothing but my bare skin and my dignity and tell Melissa that there had been a mistake.
I picked them up. The lace was weightless in my hands, impossibly fine, the satin binding around the oval cutout smooth under my thumb. I held them and breathed and waited for the feeling to pass.
It didn’t pass.
I stepped into them anyway. I drew them up my legs, over my calves, past my knees, up my thighs. The lace settled against my hips and the front panel covered my mound. The ribbon sides sat on my hipbones exactly as someone, Melissa herself probably, had designed them to sit. I reached behind me and adjusted the back panel over my bottom, feeling the fabric conform to the curves of each cheek, feeling the edge of the oval cutout settle across the cleft with an accuracy that turned my face scarlet even though there was no one to see it.
The opening framed me there. I could feel its edges—the border of satin against my skin on either side—and the fact that I could feel it so clearly, the fact that the absence of fabric in that specific location registered so acutely against my bare flesh, made the purpose of the garment feel more real than even looking at it had. I was wearing panties with a hole in them. A deliberate, beautiful, exquisitely crafted hole that had been put there so that a man could push his cock through it and into my bottom.
My master expected me to let him do exactly that.
The resistance, instead of quieting, seemed to gather mass.
I reached for the white dressing gown Amy had left folded on the chair beside the table. It was heavier than a studio robe: thick cotton with a satin lapel, the kind of thing that suggested a honeymoon suite in a hotel rather than a changing room. It fell to mid-thigh when I wrapped it around myself and belted it, and the weight of the fabric against my bare legs felt almost protective.
I stood with my hands at the belt. My heart had begun to hammer in my chest. I understood, with a clarity that arrived all at once and fully formed, that I would misbehave.
Not because I was afraid—or not only because I was afraid. Not because I hadn’t been told. Not because I didn’t understand what this scene was, what it meant, what my master had planned for me with the thoroughness and care he brought to everything. I understood all of that. I had the ghost of his voice telling me all of it in the dark.
I was going to misbehave because some part of me—the part that had learned, over five days, exactly what happened when I pushed against the limits my master set—needed him to make me. Needed the rebellion to be met with something stronger than rebellion, needed to feel his authority close around me the way the corset’s boning had closed around my ribs: firm, unyielding, reshaping me into the form he required. I wanted the resistance to be quelled. I wanted it done to me, wanted to have the naughty, frightened, resistant girl in the white dressing gown subdued by the man who knew better than she did what she needed.