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)
She was being spanked by a man who loved her and knew her better than she knew herself. She was being punished for a rebellion she had engineered because she needed it quelled. She was being held over a white bed in a white studio in white lace panties with a hole cut in them, and every single person in this room—the man holding her wrist, the woman behind the camera, the producer at her monitors—understood exactly what was happening and exactly what it meant.
And the girl was crying, her bottom was burning, and she was wet. Her… her cunt… her naughty cunt was wet. Anne Chamberlain’s naughty little cunt had been wet since the changing area. It was getting even wetter now.
From that altitude, the shame and the arousal and the pain and the love braided themselves into something I could almost hold. Something I could almost name.
I held out longer than I would have thought possible. His hand punished me relentlessly, and the lace offered no protection. My arm, bent behind my back, ached past discomfort into something that felt like the physical expression of my own stubbornness. I held out through what felt like minutes, sobbing into the sheets, my free hand clawing at the white cotton, my legs kicking in short, futile spasms that accomplished nothing except to make the white panties shift against my bare, shaved pussy in a way that the Surrender line’s designers had surely intended.
Then his palm landed on the lower curve of my right cheek—the place where bottom met thigh, where the skin was tenderest and the nerve endings most concentrated—and the sound that left me wasn’t a sob. It was a scream.
CHAPTER 36
Anne
“I’ll obey you.” The words tore out of me before the echo of the scream had faded. “I’ll obey, I’ll obey, please, I’ll… please, sir, I’ll get over the bolster, I’ll—”
He released my wrist. Stepped back. The absence of his hand on my bottom felt almost as shocking as its presence had.
I pushed myself upright on unsteady arms. My legs barely held me when I straightened. The white lace panties had shifted during the spanking and I reached back automatically, reflexively, to adjust them, and my fingers found the oval cutout and its satin border and I snatched my hand away as if burned.
I climbed onto the bed.
The white sheets felt cool against my knees and my palms. The bolster lay across the middle of the mattress, white leather, cylindrical, patiently waiting to fulfill its shameful purpose. I crawled toward it. My burning bottom moved through the studio air and I was aware, with acute specificity, of how the white lace covered and did not cover me—the scalloped edges, the ribbon sides, the oval of absence framed in satin.
I thought I heard Melissa say something to Darlene, and although I hadn’t made it out clearly I felt absolutely certain she had said something like, “Tight on the cutout.” Heat flared in my cheeks, though an instant before I would have sworn they couldn’t get any hotter.
I lowered myself over the bolster.
It caught me at the hips, tilting me forward, raising my bottom into the air. My face found the white sheets on the far side and I turned my cheek against the cool cotton. My hands lay flat on the mattress ahead of me. My knees fell slightly apart. I pictured it from the camera’s point of view, and I saw just how unmistakably the position realized my degradation.
I heard Master Paul move to the foot of the bed. I felt the mattress compress as he settled his weight behind me.
“I’d already decided,” he said, in his low, measured tone that seemed to carry something ceremonial inside it, “to make this a kind of wedding night for you.”
The words reached me through the pounding of my pulse, and something happened in my mind and my body that had nothing to do with the scene.
Because I remembered him saying almost the same words, in his bedroom, in the dark, with his chest warm against my back and his arm across my waist. His voice had sounded even lower, then. It had almost seemed to come from inside my own body rather than from outside it. He had said: I want to make this a kind of wedding night for you, Annie. A real one. The kind a girl remembers.
I had been practically asleep. The words had worked on me the way he’d clearly intended them to, settling into the sediment of my half-conscious mind. But I had heard them, and I had felt something new in his voice when he said them: a weight that seemed personal… that seemed to exceed the scene he described.
I had opened my eyes in the dark of his apartment and looked at the ceiling and thought about the word wedding.