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)
“Please,” I whispered during one of those pauses, looking up at him. “Please, sir, let me—”
“Patience,” he said. His thumb wiped a tear from my cheek. “A girl who wants to worship properly doesn’t rush. She waits.”
I waited. My body screamed. Between my thighs, the ache had become so acute that I could feel my pulse beating there, heavy and insistent, each throb a reminder of the emptiness his cock had left inside me hours ago. My bare, shaved pussy felt swollen and oversensitive, the air against the exposed skin almost unbearable in its inadequacy—I didn’t want air, I wanted him, wanted the fullness and the stretch and the devastating possession of being entered by his rigid manhood.
He guided me back to him. I took him in my mouth with a gratitude that expressed itself as a moan, and I felt his hips shift in the chair—the first real sign of his own mounting urgency. His fingers tightened in my hair. His breathing changed, the deep, measured rhythm giving way to something shorter, more ragged.
Then he pulled me off completely.
The withdrawal was firm, his hand in my hair tilting my head back so that I looked up at him with my lips parted and shining and my chin wet. His cock stood between us, dark with his need, twitching faintly, and I could see the veins standing out along the shaft with a prominence that spoke of how close he was.
“Stand up,” he said.
I stood. My legs quaked violently, the muscles in my calves and thighs protesting the sudden change from kneeling, and I swayed in front of the armchair while the robe hung open around my body, hiding nothing. Master Paul’s eyes moved down my nakedness—my flushed chest, my hard nipples, the flat plane of my stomach, and lower, to the bare, glistening mound of my pussy. I watched his gaze settle there, and the hunger in his face made me dizzy.
“Tell me what you want,” he said.
“You,” I breathed. “I want you inside me. Please, sir.”
“Be specific.” His voice had dropped into that low, scraping register that seemed to emerge on its own when his control began to thin. “Tell me exactly how you want it.”
My face blazed. The words gathered in my throat like something too large to swallow, and the shame of what I was about to say made my stomach flip violently. But the need was greater than the shame. That was the lesson my body kept teaching me, over and over, with a persistence that had begun to feel like a new kind of life opening up in front of me.
“From behind,” I whispered. “Please, sir. I want you to take me from behind. I want to bend over for you and feel you…” My voice cracked. I reached back, out of sheer instinct, and took my still-burning cheeks in my hands. I squeezed them, parted them, and let out a little sob of arousal as I felt the effects of every humiliating thing the man I loved had done to me already today. “Please, Master Paul. Please bend me over and fuck me again like you did on the set. I’m begging you.”
The words left me and I stood there, naked and trembling and so aroused that I could feel the wetness sliding down my inner thigh. Master Paul rose from the chair in a single, fluid motion. His hands found my shoulders, turned me, and pressed me forward until my hips met the wide leather arm of the chair. The leather was warm where his body had been, and the heat of it against my bare stomach as I bent over felt like being pressed against his skin.
“Hands on the seat,” he said behind me. “Spread your feet.”
I gripped the worn leather cushion and widened my stance, and the position opened me completely—my welted bottom raised and presented, my freshly shaved pussy exposed between my parted thighs, the cool air of the apartment touching every wet, needy inch of me. The robe had fallen to the floor somewhere behind us, pooled around my ankles.
Then he was there. The blunt, hot pressure of his cock nudged against the entrance to my slick sheath, and I gasped and arched my back, tilting my hips upward in that instinctive offering my body had learned to make for him. He didn’t tease. He gripped my hip with one hand, guided himself with the other, and pushed into me with a single, deep, possessive stroke that drove the breath from my lungs and pressed my hipbones hard against the leather arm of the chair.
“Oh, God,” I choked. The angle felt overwhelming—deeper even than on the bed, the curve of his cock finding some spot inside me that made my vision swim and my fingers claw at the leather. Without the studio’s ambient noise, without Melissa’s murmured direction, without anything except the quiet apartment and the deepening gold light through the windows, every sound was magnified: the wet, obscene noise of his cock entering me, the creak of the chair beneath my weight, the broken little cries I couldn’t suppress.