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 contrast was remarkable: my dark, heavy flesh against her bare, pale, impossibly soft cunt. Every detail visible. Every point of contact exposed. No hair to soften the image, no covering to blur the reality of what I was doing to her body. Just my cock, hard and relentless, buried to the hilt in a girl whose pussy looked like it had been unwrapped just for me.
I pulled back slowly. Watched the shaft emerge, glistening with her, the ridged underside dragging against her inner walls in a way I seemed to feel in every nerve ending I possessed. Then I thrust forward again, hard, and Anne’s back arched off the mattress. The sound she made, a high, broken cry that cracked in the middle, vibrated through the air and settled somewhere inside me.
Christ.
I’d fucked hundreds of girls. It simply represented the arithmetic of eleven years of working at the Institute, training submissive women through the particular curriculum that Selecta’s clients demanded. I’d fucked girls who were tighter. Girls who were wetter. Girls whose bodies had been trained by previous handlers to grip and milk and perform with the mechanical precision of a well-tuned instrument. I had maintained absolute control through all of it. Control constituted the foundation of everything I did—the bedrock upon which my authority rested, the quality that separated a master trainer from a man who merely fucked.
I was losing control now.
The realization came as a bodily thing: a tremor that started deep in my groin and radiated outward through my hips, my lower back, and the muscles of my thighs. Anne’s pussy was doing something to me that I had no framework for. She was impossibly tight—the tightness of a girl whose body had seldom been stretched on a man’s hardness.
It wasn’t just the tightness, though. It was the way her inner walls seemed to respond to me. Each thrust produced a rippling contraction along my entire length, a pulsing, involuntary grip that felt less like friction and more like her body was trying to pull me deeper, hold me there, keep me inside her with a muscular desperation that matched the desperation on her face.
I thrust again, even harder. I watched my cock disappear into the bare, shaved cleft of her and felt her vagina clench around me with a force that made me grunt with helpless pleasure. I felt my jaw tighten.
I looked back up at her eyes. Green, wet, enormous. Looking at me with an expression that combined terror and trust and a naked hunger. She wasn’t performing. She wasn’t acting. She wasn’t doing any of the things that trained girls did when they wanted to please the camera or the man above them. Anne was simply there. Present, open, shaking… and the authenticity of her surrender had begun to dismantle me.
* * *
Anne
The pain felt immediate and sharp. It felt nothing like losing my virginity to Kevin; that had comprised an awkward, fumbling discomfort, a pinch and a burn that had faded into a vague, disappointing pressure. This was something else entirely.
Master Paul’s manhood was thick and hard and relentless, and my body, for all its desperate wetness, for all the hours and hours of arousal that had turned the empty sheath between my thighs into something slick and hot and aching to be filled, wasn’t prepared for the sheer size of him entering me at this angle. He split me open. The stretch burned along the entrance of my pussy and radiated inward, deep, a fullness so total it felt like it was rearranging my insides, pushing against walls that had never been asked to accommodate anything like this.
He thrust again and I cried out. The sound that left me was raw and broken and carried none of the performative quality that some part of my mind—the part that still remembered cameras existed—might have worried about. It was purely animal. Purely real. The cry of a girl being entered by something too big for her, something that demanded she yield more space than she thought she had.
And I welcomed it.
The pain felt like a continuation. It was the belt on my bottom, the confession on my lips, the razor on my mound, the training panties, and every other thing that had been done to me in the name of making me his. The pain said: this is what it means to be taken. This is what it means to belong to a man who doesn’t ask permission because your body already gave it, because your body has been giving it since the moment he put you over his knee and you felt yourself get wet.
Master Paul held my knees pinned back and drove into me again, deeper, and the third thrust felt worse and better simultaneously—worse because the stretch intensified, the head of his cock pressing against something deep inside me that sent a shockwave of sensation radiating through my entire core, and better because my body was beginning to open for him. My inner walls, clenching and resisting and then yielding, seemed to be learning him the way my mouth had learned him yesterday—through force, surrender, and the slow, terrible education of being used.