Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 76329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
“Two.”
A cry escaped me then, a strangled sound that seemed to come from someone else. The pain was unlike anything I’d experienced before—not just the physical sensation, which was intense enough, but the emotional impact of being disciplined this way, bent over and helpless while a man I barely knew administered punishment to my nearly naked body.
Somehow the spanking from Theodore, the photographer, didn’t compare. To my distress, I had enough room in my thoughts to figure out why: because I liked Pierre, admired him… and because I knew he intended to claim me with the rigid manhood I suddenly felt desperate to see, so that I could make certain—crazy as it made me feel to long for it—that his cock had gotten hard as he punished me.
“Three.”
The third stroke landed directly across the thin strip of fabric covering my most intimate parts. The leather strands somehow found their way beneath the thong, striking my tender flesh with precise cruelty. I yelped, my hips bucking involuntarily.
“Four.”
By the fifth stroke, tears had sprung to my eyes, blurring my vision. I gripped the couch cushions desperately, my knuckles white with tension. Each impact of the martinet sent surges of heat radiating through my body, pain transforming into something more complex with every passing second.
“Five.” Pierre’s voice remained steady, controlled.
The sixth stroke fell directly on the upper thighs, where the skin was more sensitive than my bottom. I cried out loudly, my legs trembling as they struggled to support me.
“Six.”
I sobbed uncontrollably now, my tears dampening the couch beneath me. The pain from the martinet had built into a fiery blaze across my bottom and thighs, each new stroke layering over the previous until my entire lower body felt aflame.
“I’m going to take your panties down, now,” Pierre announced. “I want to see your pretty con.”
Panic surged through me.
“No!” I cried, flinging my hand back in a desperate attempt to protect myself from this final humiliation. “Please, don’t!”
Pierre caught my wrist easily, bending it behind my back in a firm hold that wasn’t painful, but left me completely helpless. I felt his other hand at the waistband of my thong, his fingers sliding beneath the delicate lace.
“This is happening, Audrey,” he said, his voice low and determined. “You need to understand this new life of yours.”
With one smooth motion, he pulled the thong down to just above my knees, surely exposing my pussy and even my anus to his gaze. I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to bear the thought of being so completely revealed to him.
The feeling of having my panties pulled down by a man—by Pierre—created a terrible conflict within me. On one level, the humiliation felt excruciating, worse than anything I’d experienced before. I felt like a naughty child being punished, stripped of both clothing and dignity. Yet beneath that shame, something primitive and undeniable stirred—a dark excitement, a forbidden thrill that made my breath catch and my pulse race.
My pussy clenched involuntarily, a betrayal so intimate I wanted to die of shame. Behind me, Pierre chuckled, the sound both knowing and triumphant.
“I can see how badly your pussy needs a man’s cock in it,” he observed, his voice thick with satisfaction. “It’s practically weeping for attention. But you must learn obedience before you’re fucked for the first time.”
His crude words should have disgusted me, should have made me fight harder against this degradation. Instead, they sent a fresh surge of need between my legs.
“I’m going to whip you until you say you’ll put the babydoll nightgown on,” Pierre continued, running one finger lightly down the cleft of my buttocks, making me shiver uncontrollably. “When you do that, you will earn the right to suck my cock, which has gotten very, very hard as I’ve whipped you.”
The martinet whistled through the air again, landing with precise cruelty across my now bare bottom. Without the minimal protection of the thong, the pain was even more intense, the leather strands finding every sensitive spot with unerring accuracy. I howled, my body bucking against the unyielding arm of the couch.
“Seven,” Pierre counted calmly.
To my horror, my mouth began to water as I thought about Pierre’s unseen cock. The idea of putting my lips around his hardness, of tasting him, of feeling him thrust into my mouth—sent a shameful ripple of desire through my entire body. I’d never sucked a man before, never even seen an erect penis except in anatomical diagrams or glimpsed in movies. The thought should have disgusted me, or at least frightened me. Instead, I found myself wondering how big he was, how he would taste, what sounds he would make as I pleasured him with my mouth.
Then, even worse, after the next lash from the martinet, Pierre put his hand between my thighs. The sudden contact with my most intimate place made me gasp, my body jerking in surprise.