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)
“Now,” Master Paul said, and his voice had thickened, roughened at the edges in a way that made my stomach clench. “I want you to go lower. Take my cock out of your mouth and kiss down the shaft. All the way down to my balls.”
I pulled off him with a gasp. My breath came in ragged pants. I looked up at him. My face must have been a wreck, tear-streaked and flushed and shining with spit. His expression was one of dark, controlled hunger that made me feel simultaneously terrified and desperately, achingly needed.
“Hold that pose, Anne.”
Darlene’s voice cut through the humid fog of the moment with the clinical precision of a scalpel. I froze—my face tilted up toward Master Paul, my hands still wrapped around the base of his shaft, my lips swollen and glistening, my cheeks wet with tears and saliva. I couldn’t see Darlene from where I knelt, but I heard her moving somewhere to my left, heard the soft click-click-click of the shutter firing in quick succession.
“Don’t move,” she repeated. “That expression—stay right there. Eyes up at him, just like that.”
I stayed. I knelt there, holding a man’s rigid cock in both hands, looking up at him with what I could only imagine was the most debased, desperate, ruined face a girl had ever worn, and I held perfectly still while a woman I barely knew photographed me from multiple angles.
“God, this is good,” Darlene said, and I heard her shift position, circling around behind Master Paul’s hip to get what I assumed was a three-quarter view. “You know, it’s genuinely refreshing to watch a skilled trainer teach an innocent girl how to give head.”
“Right?” Melissa said. “That’s it, Anne. Okay, Paul… keep going… teach her how lick your balls properly.”
Master Paul pressed gently on the back of my head. With a little whine, I lowered my mouth to the shaft. My lips pressed against the underside, tracing the thick vein that ran its length, and I kissed my way downward—small, wet, open-mouthed kisses that left glistening marks on his skin.
When I reached the base, I hesitated. His testicles hung heavy and full beneath the shaft, and the intimacy of what he was asking me to do—to put my mouth there, to worship that part of him—made my face burn so hot I thought the tears on my cheeks might actually steam.
“Go on,” he said. “Take one in your mouth. Gently. Cup it with your tongue and suck. Softly. A man’s balls are sensitive—you treat them with care, but you don’t shy away from them. A girl who worships a cock worships all of it.”
I opened my mouth and took one of his testicles past my lips. The skin was different here—softer, looser, with a warmth that felt almost feverish. I cradled it on my tongue the way he’d told me to and suckled gently, and the sound Master Paul made—a low, guttural groan that seemed to rise from somewhere deep in his chest—sent a bolt of liquid heat straight between my legs.
“The other one,” he said, his voice strained now. “Same thing.”
I released the first and took the second, repeating the gentle suction, the cradling tongue, and this time I added something of my own—a small, swirling motion that I knew somehow would feel good, and Master Paul’s hand tightened in my hair.
“Christ,” he muttered. “Good girl. Now back up. Kiss your way back up the shaft and take me in your mouth again. Deeper this time. Show me you want it.”
I obeyed. My lips traced the return journey—up the shaft, over the ridge, around the swollen head—and then I sank down onto him with a determination that surprised me, taking him past the point where I’d gagged before, breathing through my nose the way he’d taught me, swallowing around his girth to open my throat. Tears streamed from my eyes at the effort, but I held him there, my lips stretched wide, my jaw aching, my hands working the base, and I felt—beneath the discomfort, beneath the stretch and the strain—a swell of something that felt terrifyingly close to pride.
“That’s it,” Master Paul growled. “That’s a girl learning to worship. Faster now. Stroke me with your mouth. Use your tongue on the underside while you move.”
I found a rhythm. My head bobbed on his shaft, my lips dragging along the slick skin, my tongue pressed flat against the thick vein on the underside the way he’d told me, and the wet, obscene sounds of my mouth working him filled the bedroom set like a kind of music I’d never imagined myself making.
“Paul.” Melissa’s voice came from somewhere behind the lights, and even through the haze of what I was doing—of what I’d become, a girl on her knees with a cock in her mouth—I could hear the particular edge in it. The producer’s edge. The woman who studied data and knew what sold. “The talking. Can you go harder? Way harder? Our subscriber analytics are crystal clear—the verbal dominance is what’s driving engagement through the roof. Don’t be nice about it. Be brutal. Tell her what she is.”