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 sat on the edge of the bed. My hands found each other in my lap and held on, and the gesture felt familiar—I’d been doing it for two days now, desperately grabbing onto myself as if my hands could anchor me against a current that kept pulling me further from shore.
My heart had started to pound. A deep, heavy slamming against the inside of my ribs that I could feel in my temples, my fingertips, and the hollow of my throat. Each beat seemed to push more blood between my legs, feeding the swollen, aching need that had taken up permanent residence there. The training panties’ gusset pressed against me with every heartbeat, keeping me terribly aware second by second of exactly how aroused I was.
“Rolling,” Darlene said quietly.
I heard footsteps in the mock hallway. The confident, measured stride of a man who owned the space he moved through. The bedroom door opened, and Master Paul walked in.
He wore a charcoal suit. The jacket was unbuttoned, the tie loosened, the top button of his white shirt undone—the dishevelment of a man who had just come from a long day of travel and important meetings. He carried a leather briefcase that he set on the dresser with a deliberate, unhurried motion, and then he turned to face me.
His eyes found mine across the set. Brown and piercing and seeing everything.
“Hi,” I said. My voice came out small.
Master Paul didn’t answer immediately. He stood by the dresser, hands in his pockets, and he looked at me the way he’d looked at me yesterday when he’d inspected me in the baby doll. His face wore a slow, thorough attention that made me feel like he was reading a message written on my skin. His gaze moved from my face to my posture to my hands clasped white-knuckled in my lap to the way my knees were pressed together, and I watched something shift in his expression. A tightening around the jaw. A darkening of the eyes.
“Stand up,” he said.
I stood. My legs felt unreliable beneath me.
“Come here.”
I crossed the distance between the bed and the dresser on trembling legs. I stopped in front of him, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, close enough that I could smell cedar and warm skin and the faint, masculine scent of his cologne. My heart was beating so hard I was certain he could hear it.
Master Paul looked down at me for a long, terrible moment. Then he spoke, and his voice was quiet and even and carried the particular weight of a man who already knew the answer to the question he was about to ask.
“Anne. Did you touch yourself last night while I was away?”
The floor tilted. The room seemed to contract around me until there was nothing in it except his face and his voice. My lips parted. A sound came out: not a word, just a breath, a tiny exhalation that carried the ghost of a protest.
His eyebrows rose fractionally. Waiting.
“I…” The word caught in my throat like a fishhook. My eyes dropped to his tie. To his collar. To the triangle of chest visible beneath the loosened button. Anywhere but his eyes, because meeting his eyes while I said this would kill me.
“Look at me,” he said.
I looked at him. The tears had already started—I could feel them building behind my eyes, hot and pressurized, and I blinked against them with the futile determination of someone trying to hold back a tide with their hands.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, sir.”
The words hung in the air between us.
“Yes, sir, what?” His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t harden. It stayed exactly where it was—low, controlled, and patient. The patience seemed worse than anger would have, because anger would have let me hide behind indignation. Patience made me stand in the open with nowhere to go.
“Yes, I… I touched myself.” My voice cracked on the last word. A tear spilled over and tracked down my cheek. “I played with my…” I swallowed. The word felt enormous in my mouth, too big to pass through my lips, but he was waiting and his eyes were holding mine and I couldn’t look away. “I played with my pussy.”
The confession left me hollow. I stood there, emptied out, my face burning, tears sliding down both cheeks now, my hands hanging at my sides because I’d forgotten what to do with them.
Master Paul’s expression didn’t change. He studied me for another long moment. I watched him take in my tears, my blush, and my fear. Then he spoke with a quietness that seemed to fill the entire room.
“That pussy,” he said, “is mine now.”
My stomach dropped through the floor.
“You seem to have forgotten that, Anne. While I was away, working, providing for your future, building a life for us—you forgot who your little cunt belongs to.” He paused. The pause lasted three heartbeats. I counted them against the inside of my ribs. “So let me remind you. That cunt is not yours to play with whenever you feel like it. It belongs to me. To your suitor. To the man who’s going to marry you and take you to his bed and make you his wife. And a girl who plays with her suitor’s property without permission…” He reached up and took hold of his tie. He pulled it loose from his collar in a single, slow motion and draped it over the dresser. “…needs to be corrected.”