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 bra came next. I slid my arms through the straps and reached behind to fasten it, and when I looked down at myself the breath left my body. The sheer crimson lace lay against my breasts like a whisper, and through the intricate pattern my nipples were visible—pink and hard and straining against the delicate web of thread, the scalloped edges cutting across them exactly as I’d feared, framing rather than covering, presenting them as if the bra’s entire purpose was to say look here.
Then, the panties. The narrow triangle of red lace. I stepped into them and drew them up my legs, and when the fabric settled against my freshly shaved pussy, the sensation made a sound escape me—a soft, involuntary moan that I couldn’t have suppressed if someone had offered me a million dollars. The lace sat directly against bare skin. No hair between my flesh and the delicate thread. Every fiber of the pattern pressed against nerve endings that had been hidden for years and were now screaming with new awareness, and the feeling was so acute, so intimate, that my knees nearly buckled.
Finally I pulled on the matching nylons, shivering as I rolled them up my calves, then over my knees and up my thighs. Again, I felt contained, but in a very different way from the containment of the training underwear. Trying not to think about what would soon happen, in the bedroom, I fastened the suspenders to the tops of the stockings.
I stood on the white tile of the bathroom set in the red lingerie and looked at myself in the large mirror above the sink.
The girl in the mirror looked wanton. Not the Sunday-school girl in training panties. Not the ponytailed intern in polka dots. This naughty girl was flushed from her forehead to her chest, her blonde hair falling loose around her shoulders—the ponytail had come undone at some point during the belting, I realized, and no one had fixed it.
My green eyes were bright with tears that hadn’t quite dried, ringed with the faint smudge of mascara. The red lingerie against my fair skin looked like something painted there by a hand that understood exactly what it wanted to reveal.
And between this girl’s thighs, visible through the sheer red lace triangle, the bare mound of her freshly shaved pussy showed through the pattern like a secret written in skin. Smooth. Pale. Completely, devastatingly exposed. Even the cleft of my private lips could be glimpsed through the translucent scarlet fabric.
I heard his footsteps returning.
Master Paul appeared at the threshold of the bathroom set, and his stride broke for a fraction of a second when he saw me. Just a fraction—a momentary hitch in his step, a slight widening of his eyes—before the controlled mask reassembled itself. But I’d seen it.
I’d seen the moment when the sight of me in the red lingerie had pierced whatever professional armor he wore, and the knowledge that I could do that to him—that my body, bare and displayed and offered in crimson lace, could make this man falter—sent a rush of something through me that felt dangerously close to power.
Then he had crossed the tile toward me, and the power evaporated, replaced by the familiar, overwhelming awareness of how much larger he was than me, how much stronger, how completely he could do whatever he wanted with my body and how completely my body wanted him to.
He didn’t speak. He bent and scooped me up—one arm beneath my knees, the other behind my back—and lifted me against his chest as if I weighed nothing. My arms went around his neck by instinct, my face found the hollow of his throat, and I breathed him in while he carried me across the floor, his now-familiar scent almost comforting even as it provoked a wayward flare of arousal between my thighs.
I could feel his heartbeat against my ribs. It was faster than I’d expected. Steady, but fast.
“Oh, my God,” Melissa said as he carried me past the monitors. Her voice was hushed, almost reverent. “Oh, my God, what a shot. Darlene, tell me you’re getting that—him carrying her—the red against his suit—her face in his neck—”
“I’m getting it,” Darlene confirmed from somewhere I couldn’t see. “B-camera tracking. Keep moving, Paul. Don’t stop.”
He carried me onto the bedroom set. The white sheets had been smoothed, the pillows rearranged, and the lighting had shifted—softer now, warmer, the key light positioned to cast a golden glow across the bed that made the white cotton look like cream. He set me down on the mattress with a care that contrasted violently with everything his belt had done to me fifteen minutes earlier, lowering me onto my back and settling my head against the pillows.
Then he stood over me.
He stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at me. The angle, with him towering above and me lying below in red lace with my legs slightly parted and my newly bare pussy visible through the sheer triangle of fabric, created a geometry of dominance so explicit it made me dizzy.