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’m not ready,” I said. “I’m not ready for you in my… I’m not ready, sir, I’m—”
He moved so fast that the transition between standing beside me and having my wrist in his grip didn’t fully register. One moment he was at my side; the next his hand had closed around my wrist and the dressing gown’s belt had been yanked open. The heavy cotton slid off my shoulders before I’d processed that he’d reached for it. It caught at my elbows for a fraction of a second and then it was gone, puddled somewhere on the white floor of the set behind me, and I stood in nothing but the white lace panties and felt the cool studio air on every inch of bare skin.
His hand was already on my back, between my shoulder blades, pressing forward, bending me over the side of the bed. I went because I had no choice. My master’s strength was absolute and always had been. My palms hit the white sheets and my face turned sideways against the mattress and then his hand came down on my bottom.
Hard. Without preamble, without count, without the measured deliberateness of the belt. His open palm met the white lace over my right cheek with a crack that split the studio silence, and then the left, and he simply kept spanking me as I writhed in his grip. I threw my right hand back, but he captured it quickly and easily in his own right hand, then transferred it to his left, bending it hard behind my back.
The pause in the spanking lasted two seconds, if that. Then my master—my wealthy suitor, who expected to fuck my bottom tonight—resumed my terrible lesson. The man I loved, and who might even love me, punished me mercilessly with his broad, open hand, teaching me obedience even to the most shameful of commands.
The spanking didn’t slow. His palm fell again and again on the white lace, alternating cheeks. The sound of it filled the white bedroom set like the room had been built for exactly this purpose. The white sheets, the white bolster, the white light—all of it a stage for the education of a girl who had thought she could refuse.
“When you’re ready,” he said in a voice that sounded almost level, almost conversational, the words arriving between the hard, fast cracks of his hand, “to get yourself over that bolster, you tell me. Then I can punish you properly.” A pause of just one stroke, no more. “Which will also serve to get that bottom of yours a good deal readier for what’s coming.”
I didn’t understand immediately. My mind felt fragmented by pain and shame and the relentless percussion of his hand on my bottom. The words arranged themselves only slowly, like pieces of something I had to assemble while the room spun.
Readier. A good deal readier.
He didn’t mean the spanking constituted the punishment. He meant the spanking represented the prelude to the punishment, and the punishment itself would do something to me… to my bottom… that the spanking would not.
I had assumed, in the dim, terrified corner of my mind where assumptions had been forming since the changing area, that I would get the belt. That he would take it from around his waist and use it on my lace-covered cheeks until I cried too hard to resist any further. I had braced myself for the belt, constructing a kind of architecture around the anticipation of it, a framework that told me this is what happens, this is the shape of it, this ends when he’s finished whipping your bottom and then you obey.
But the belt would not make me readier for his huge, hard penis in my bottom. The belt only represented punishment.
Whatever he intended must be both.
“No,” I sobbed into the white sheets. “No, please, I—”
His hand fell four more times in rapid succession, hard enough that the sound cracked off the studio walls. I writhed in his grip. The arm bent behind my back screamed with the strain and the tears came freely now, hot and fast, soaking into the white cotton beneath my face.
Master Paul had expected my rebellion. That knowledge arrived with the same strange, clarifying force that his hand had been delivering to my bottom since the moment he’d stripped the dressing gown from my shoulders. He had anticipated the resistance. He had probably expected the exact words I’d used, the desperate offer to kneel for him, the trembling claim that I wasn’t ready. I could feel the expectation in his steadiness—in the absolute, unhurried authority of his grip and his rhythm, in the fact that nothing I had done or said had altered his course by a single degree.
The understanding didn’t diminish the pain—his hand was enormous and merciless and my bottom burned under the white lace with a heat that seemed to penetrate through to the bone. It didn’t diminish the fear of what readier meant. But it created, in the space around the pain and the fear, a kind of distance. A detachment that felt less like dissociation and more like altitude—as if I had risen high enough above the burning, writhing girl bent over the side of the bed to observe her with a clarity I couldn’t have accessed from inside her skin.