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 was. I could feel it—the soaking evidence of my arousal, the way the thin fabric between my thighs had become drenched, clinging to my swollen folds with an obscene intimacy. My hips rocked involuntarily, grinding against nothing, seeking friction that wasn’t there, and the motion made the chiffon shift and cling and I knew that the camera was capturing every detail of my body’s treacherous response.
Master Paul’s rhythm faltered. His thrusts grew shorter, harder, more urgent, and I could feel the change in his cock: the thickening, the added rigidity, the pulse that ran through the shaft like a second heartbeat accelerating toward something inevitable.
He pulled out of my mouth with a wet, obscene sound that left me gasping, my jaw hanging open. I knelt there, panting, wrecked, my face a ruin of tears and spit and smeared makeup, the baby doll soaked and clinging to my body.
“Melissa,” Master Paul said, his voice rough, his hand still fisted in my hair, his cock inches from my face, twitching with visible urgency. “Can I come on the nightgown?”
There was a beat of silence. Then Melissa’s voice, sharp with certainty: “Yes. Absolutely yes. Come on the nightgown. The lace, the bodice—ruin it. That’s the image. That’s the whole fucking thesis. The pretty thing he gave her, destroyed by what he made her do in it.”
“Darlene?” Master Paul asked.
“Ready,” Darlene said. “Tight on her face and chest. Go.”
Master Paul’s hand moved from my hair to the shaft of his cock. He gripped himself—his fist working in fast, brutal strokes—and with his other hand he tilted my chin up, forcing me to look at him, forcing my face into position like a canvas being angled toward the light.
“Keep your mouth open,” he ordered. “Eyes on me. Don’t you dare look away.”
CHAPTER 15
Anne
I kept my mouth open. I kept my eyes on him. I knelt there, ruined and burning with a need so intense it felt like it might consume me entirely, and I watched his face as his orgasm gathered—the tightening of his jaw, the darkening of his eyes, the single, sharp intake of breath through his nose.
Master Paul… my fictional suitor… my… my… oh, God, my master… he came.
On me… on my face… on my chest… all over…
The first rope of it hit my chin and splashed down onto the lace bodice of the baby doll, a thick, white streak that stood out against the blushing pink fabric like a brand. The second landed across my collarbones, hot and startling, and dripped down into the gathered lace where it cupped my breasts. The third—and there was so much of it, more than I’d imagined a man could produce—fell across the chiffon at my stomach, soaking into the sheer fabric so that it clung to my skin beneath in a way that made the nightgown look like something that had been worn through a rainstorm of pure, animal desire.
Master Paul’s breath came in heavy, controlled, growling exhales. His hand slowed on his shaft, squeezing the last drops from the tip, and he guided the head of his cock to my lower lip—pressing it there, smearing the residue across my mouth with a possessive, unhurried motion that made me whimper.
“Lick it clean,” he said quietly.
My tongue emerged, as if it were a separate creature under the spell of its master’s command. I licked the head of his cock—tasting him, tasting the salt and musk and the strange, intimate bitterness of his release—and I cleaned him the way I somehow knew he wanted me to, with small, careful, reverent strokes of my tongue while tears continued to track silently down my devastated face.
“Fuck,” Darlene breathed, and the word carried genuine awe. “Melissa, come look at the monitor. The cum on the nightgown—the way it’s soaking through the lace—you can see her nipples through it now. It’s like the nightgown is dissolving. So good.”
I knelt there, Master Paul’s softening but still frighteningly big cock resting against my cheek, his hand cradling the back of my head now with a tenderness that seemed impossible given what had just happened, and I felt the warm weight of his release soaking through the baby doll against my skin. The lace clung to my breasts, translucent and probably ruined. The chiffon at my stomach had become a second skin, sheer and stained and hiding nothing.
I should have felt destroyed. I should have felt used, degraded, reduced to something less than human by what had just been done to me and—more damningly—by what I had so willingly done, and allowed.
Instead, kneeling there in my ruined pink nightgown with a man’s seed cooling on my skin and the taste of him still coating my tongue, I felt a strange, terrible calm settle over me. It felt like what I’d always imagined it might feel like after an earthquake: an eerie stillness when the ground has stopped moving but you can still feel the tremor in your bones. I always supposed that you would know, with the kind of certainty that lives beneath language, that the landscape had been permanently rearranged.