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)
Then he had told me about what I would have to wear for today’s scene, and everything I would have to do, and have done to me. As I looked at what Amy had set out for me in wardrobe, though, I couldn’t seem to remember any of it.
I remembered him telling me. I remembered the low rumble of his voice in the darkened bedroom, his chest warm against my back, his arm heavy across my waist while he walked me through every detail of what this morning would hold. I remembered the careful, methodical way he’d described each element—the way a man might talk someone through a difficult hike before attempting it, pointing out where the footholds were, where the drops came, where she’d need to trust her body and where she’d need to trust him. I remembered feeling safe in the dark, feeling held, feeling the information settle into me like sediment through water, each piece finding its place on the bottom of my mind.
I remembered falling asleep while he was still talking. Or maybe he’d finished. The boundary between his voice and my dreams had dissolved at some point, his words becoming the texture of sleep itself, and I’d drifted off with my face pressed into the hollow of his throat and his hand stroking my hair in those long, slow strokes that made my eyelids impossible to keep open.
I remembered all of that. The feeling of it. The safety.
What I couldn’t remember—standing here now in the curtained changing area with the single garment from the Surrender line laid out before me on the small table—was what he’d actually said.
The bedroom set was white. That much I remembered, and I could see a slice of it through the gap in the curtain to remind me: white sheets, white pillows, a white upholstered headboard that caught the studio lights and seemed to glow. The set looked bridal. Virginal. The kind of bedroom that existed in a very specific fantasy about a very specific kind of first night.
On the table in front of me, Amy had put the white panties, neatly folded, but not in a way so as to conceal their most important feature.
I stared at them. My hands had found each other, fingers interlocking in the same old desperate, white-knuckled grip.
Lace. Bridal lace: the delicate, expensive kind, with a scalloped edge and the faintest shimmer of silk thread woven through the pattern. The tiny key-and-lock emblem of the Surrender line was embroidered in white-on-white near the left hip, almost invisible, a secret sewn into the fabric. The front panel was a relatively modest, florally decorated triangle that would cover my pussy. The sides were thin ribbons, like those of the black pair, designed to sit on my hipbones.
But the back.
My eyes fixed on the back of the panties, where my gaze had arrived the moment I saw them. My breath had stopped and the blood had drained from my face before rushing back in a scalding wave that reached my hairline.
The lace continued over the curves that would cover my bottom into a panel that would conceal each cheek—demure, almost innocent in its coverage compared to the thongs I’d worn in previous scenes. But in the center, where the fabric would sit over the cleft between my cheeks, there was an opening.
A deliberate, finished, beautifully constructed oval cutout framed by a border of the same scalloped lace as on the waistband and leg holes, positioned with anatomical precision over the place where my anus would lie hidden—but also, thanks to the panties, exposed—between my bottom cheeks.
The opening was perhaps two inches long and an inch wide. Its edges were reinforced with a delicate satin binding that would sit against the skin, on either side of my most private place, framing it, presenting it, the way a setting on an engagement ring presents a diamond. The craftsmanship seemed exquisite. Someone had designed this with care, with intention, with a clear and specific understanding of what a man would want access to while his young bride lay before him in white lace on their wedding night.
A man’s penis, even one as big as my master’s, could enter through that opening. That was its purpose. That was its only purpose. The panties were designed so that a girl could wear them—could look bridal and innocent and covered—while a man pushed his cock through the lace-framed oval and into her bottom.
Master Paul had told me about these. I knew he had. Somewhere in the dark warmth of his bedroom, with his voice low and his hand in my hair, he had described these panties to me and I had listened and felt safe. I could feel the ghost of that safety like a handprint on my skin, the impression left by something that had touched me and moved on.