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 took my time. The privacy of this moment seemed intense in and of itself. I felt the absence of direction, the knowledge that this was just us—just a no-longer-quite-innocent young woman and the experienced older man to whom she had just confessed her love. It made me want to stretch every second into something I could keep.
I kissed along the full length of him, my lips trailing from base to tip with a deliberateness that I hadn’t known I could muster. I traced the ridge of the swollen head with the tip of my tongue, tasting the salt of his skin and the faintest trace of myself still on him from what had happened in the studio, and the taste of us together made me moan against his flesh.
He had gotten fully hard by now. His cock stood thick and rigid, curving upward from his lap. I wrapped my fingers around the base and held him steady while I took the head into my mouth. My lips stretched around him. I felt the now-familiar, overwhelming fullness. I tried to sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch, feeling my jaw open and my throat begin to resist and then, remembering what he’d taught me yesterday, letting my throat relax. Softening. Opening. Trying so hard to allow my master deeper.
“That’s it,” Master Paul murmured above me. His hand found my hair, gathering the tangled strands into a loose grip at the back of my skull. He held me there. The pressure of his fingers against my scalp seemed like a tether as much as a command, and the restraint in his touch made me want to give him more.
I pulled back and sank down again, doing my best to establish a slow, worshipful rhythm. Each descent took him deeper into my mouth, and each time I withdrew I swirled my tongue around the head, tasting the bead of moisture that had gathered at the slit, trying to embrace its slight bitterness as a sign of my shameful service. My free hand found his inner thigh and rested there, feeling the muscles tense and release beneath my palm.
Minutes passed. The amber light shifted across the floor, deepening toward gold, and I knelt there in the warm silence of his apartment and served him with a focus so total it felt like meditation. The world outside his living room ceased to exist. There was only the weight of him on my tongue, the taste of him in my throat, the sound of his breathing—steady but deepening, the rhythm of his exhales growing slower and heavier as my mouth worked him.
“Slower,” he said at one point, when my rhythm had unconsciously quickened. His fingers tightened fractionally in my hair. “I didn’t tell you to rush.”
I slowed. The correction sent a pulse of heat through my belly that settled between my legs, and I felt myself clench, my body remembering what it felt like to have him inside me and mourning the absence. My swollen, still freshly shaved pussy throbbed against the cool air where the robe had fallen open completely, leaving me essentially naked on my knees, and I could feel the wetness beginning to gather again—that inexhaustible, traitorous slickness that my body produced in my master’s presence the way the sky produced rain.
“Look at me,” he said.
I raised my eyes without lifting my mouth from him. The angle forced me to gaze upward along the length of his torso, past the white T-shirt stretched across his broad chest, to his face. His brown eyes were dark with arousal, but what I saw in them went beyond the physical. He was watching me with a focus that felt truly reverent, as if the sight of me on my knees, serving him voluntarily, without cameras, without direction, without anything except the raw need I’d confessed to, was something he hadn’t expected. Something that moved him.
“Beautiful,” he said, and the word sounded like it had been pulled from somewhere deep. “You’re so beautiful like this, Annie.”
I whimpered around him. The tears came back—those simpler tears, the ones that had nothing to do with humiliation—and they slid down my cheeks while I held his gaze and took him deeper, deeper, until I felt the head of my master’s penis press against the back of my throat. My eyes watered from the stretch, but I didn’t pull away. I breathed through my nose and held him there, swallowing around his thickness, and the groan that rumbled through his chest was the most gratifying sound I’d ever heard.
He let me worship him for a long time. Long enough that my knees began to ache against the hardwood. Long enough that my jaw developed a fatigue that made each descent require conscious effort. Long enough that the light through the windows had shifted from amber to deep gold and the shadows in the apartment had lengthened. Through all of it, his hand remained in my hair—guiding occasionally, stilling me when I moved too fast, pulling me off entirely at one point so that I knelt there with swollen lips and desperate eyes while his cock glistened with my saliva inches from my face, denied the thing I wanted most.