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)
The skin was impossibly soft. I registered that first: the contrast between the rigid hardness beneath and the silk-smooth skin that covered it. Warm. Alive. I could feel Master Paul’s pulse against my lips, a slow, steady throb. The taste was faint but clean and slightly salty, mixed with something darker and naughtier that made my heart race.
“Oh, my God,” Melissa breathed from somewhere behind me and to the right. Her voice was hushed but carried clearly in the studio’s acoustics, the way voices resound in a cathedral. “Darlene, tell me you’re getting this.”
“Every frame,” Darlene replied, and I heard the soft, rapid-fire click of her old-fashioned camera—that mechanical hummingbird sound that had become the soundtrack to my humiliation. “The angle from here is extraordinary. The way she’s kneeling with both hands wrapped around him and her lips just barely touching the tip—it’s like a fucking Renaissance painting.”
“Good,” Master Paul said above me. “Now open wider. Take the head into your mouth. Let your lips stretch around it.”
I opened. The head slid past my lips and into my mouth. The cock stretched me immediately as my jaw tried to widen to accommodate its girth, my lips pulling taut around the flared ridge. A sound escaped me, muffled now, vibrating against his flesh: a whimper that seemed somehow to come into my throat from down between my legs.
“That’s it,” Master Paul murmured. His hand came to rest on the top of my head—not pushing, just resting there with a weight that communicated ownership. His fingers threaded into my hair, loosening the ponytail I’d tied that morning so carefully. “Now use your tongue. Swirl it around the head. Feel the ridge, feel the little opening at the top. Learn about what a cock feels like in your mouth.”
I obeyed. My tongue traced the contour of him—the smooth dome, the ridge where the head met the shaft, the tiny slit where I tasted that faint salt again, stronger now. Master Paul’s breath changed above me; another of those slow, deep exhales through his nose that told me I was doing something right. The knowledge that my mouth was giving this strong, commanding man pleasure sent a pulse of heat through my belly that made my thighs press together beneath the chiffon.
“Deeper,” he said. “Take more of me. Relax your jaw and slide forward. Breathe through your nose.”
I tried. The shaft pushed past the halfway point of my tongue and I felt the first flutter of panic—the instinct to pull back, to gag, to protect myself from the intrusion. My throat tightened and I made a choking sound that sent fresh tears spilling down my cheeks.
“Easy.” His voice was firm but not cruel. His hand on my head held me in place—not forcing his penis deeper, but preventing me from retreating. “Breathe. Through your nose. That’s it. Swallow once. Good. Now hold still and let yourself adjust.”
I breathed. I swallowed. The panic subsided, replaced by a fullness that felt enormous and intimate and strangely grounding, as if having my mouth stretched around Master Paul’s cock had anchored me to something solid in a world that had been spinning since I’d walked through the studio door.
“Jesus Christ,” Melissa said, her voice catching on the words in a way that stripped away the professional veneer entirely. “Look at her. Look at that face. Darlene—the way her lips are stretched around him, the tears on her cheeks, the way her eyes are squeezed shut—she looks like a fucking angel choking on sin. That is the hottest thing I have ever seen in a studio. That little mouth trying to take that massive cock—it’s obscene. It’s perfect.”
I whimpered deep in my chest as I tried to ignore the humiliating commentary. Master Paul’s hand moved gently atop my head, as if to soothe my nerves.
“Now pull back,” he instructed. “Slowly. Let your lips drag along the shaft. Keep a tiny bit of suction—like you’re sucking on a straw, but gentler. That’s the stroke, Anne. Back and forth. Find a rhythm.”
I pulled back until just the head remained between my lips, then slid forward again, taking him deeper this time. The rhythm felt clumsy at first—too fast, then too slow, my jaw already aching from the stretch—but Master Paul’s hand guided me with subtle pressure, speeding me up or slowing me down with the lightest touch against my scalp.
“Use your hands on what you can’t reach with your mouth,” he said. “Both hands on the base. Stroke while you suck. Let your spit coat the shaft—don’t be precious about it. A girl worshipping a cock should be messy.”
CHAPTER 14
Anne
My hands found the base of his shaft, slick now with my own saliva, and I stroked in time with my mouth, my small fists working the thick root while my lips and tongue attended to the upper half. The wet sounds that filled the space between us were obscene—slurping, sucking, the liquid percussion of a girl learning to service a man’s cock—and each sound sent a fresh wave of humiliated arousal crashing through me.