“This little cunt,” he said, “is going to be shaved.”
The word hit me like a slap.
Cunt.
No one had ever said that word to me. No one had ever said itaboutme, about the specific, desperately aroused part of my body that his hands were currently holding open. The word sounded crude and raw and shocking, and it seemed to hit the center of my nervous system like a stone thrown into still water, sending concentric rings of sensation outward through my entire body.
The sensation, to my dismayed humiliation, was arousal.
Not discomfort. Not offense. Not the righteous indignation of a young woman being degraded. Arousal: pure, savage, obliterating need that surged through me with such force that I felt my inner walls clench and a fresh rush of wetness spill from my opening onto the white sheets beneath me. My hips jerkedinvoluntarily, a tiny upward thrust toward his hands, toward his face, toward the word he’d just used, and I heard myself make a sound—a moan, low and throaty and completely beyond my control—that told everyone in the studio exactly what that word had done to me.
The shame struck instantaneously. It crashed over me in a wave so hot I thought my skin might actually catch fire. I had just moaned—moaned—at having my private part called a cunt. On camera. In front of Melissa and Darlene and the technicians and whoever else was watching. My body had responded to the crudest, most degrading word in the English language the way other girls’ bodies might respond to being told they were beautiful, and there was no hiding it, no explaining it away, no pretending it was anything other than what it so obviously was.
Master Paul saw it all. I could feel his gaze on me. He could see the fresh wetness, the clenching, and the flush that had spread from my cheeks down my neck and across my chest. He saw it, and something shifted in his expression—a deepening of that hunger I’d noticed before, a predatory focus that made me feel like prey that had just revealed the exact location of its hiding place.
“Get up,” he said. His voice was quiet now, but the quietness was worse than the growl. It carried the promise of something. “On your knees. On the floor, in front of me.”
I scrambled off the bed. My legs barely held me—they shook so violently that I stumbled as my feet hit the floor, and I caught myself on the edge of the mattress before sinking to my knees on the braided rug beside the bed. The baby doll settled around me, the chiffon pooling on the floor, and I knelt there with my hands in my lap and my heart slamming against my ribs so hard I could see my own chest shaking.
Master Paul stood. He rose from his crouch between my thighs with the fluid ease of a man whose body obeyed him absolutely, and he stepped in front of me, close enough that my face was level with the belt of his silk robe. I could see the sash knotted at his waist. I could see the dark hair of his chest through the open collar. I could smell him—that cedar scent mixed with something else, something muskier, something that made my mouth water in a way that shocked me.
“Look at me,” he said.
I tilted my head back. His face was high above me, framed by the studio lights, and from this angle—kneeling, small, looking up—he seemed gigantic. Monumental. A man shaped by decades of authority over girls like me, and every line of his body communicated that authority with a clarity that bypassed my rational mind entirely and spoke directly to whatever primitive, quaking thing lived at the core of me.
“A girl whose hygiene needs correction,” he said, “should understand what she’s being prepared for. You’re going to be shaved bare so that your cunt is ready for me. But first, I think you need to see what you’re being made readyfor.”
His hands went to the sash of the robe. He pulled the knot loose with a single, unhurried motion, the silk fell open, and there it stood.
His cock.
Not half-hard this time. Not the glimpse I’d stolen before, the peripheral flash that had seared itself into my memory. I saw the full, unhidden reality of it, inches from my face, and the reality seemed much more than the glimpse had prepared me for. The rigid shaft was thick—thicker than I’d estimated, thickerthan anything I’d imagined fitting inside a human body—and long, curving slightly upward with a heaviness that spoke of blood and heat and need. The head, with its fluted curve and a glistening bead of moisture in its little slit, seemed to swell with an arrogant command to serve my master’s pleasure.
“I’m going to teach you to worship my manhood properly, girl,” Master Paul growled. “I’m going to teach you what happens when a man has to wait to fuck a smooth, innocent cunt the way he deserves.”
CHAPTER 13
Paul
I watched a complex tangle of emotions flit across Anne’s lovely face. Her green eyes had gone wide, pupils blown so dark they nearly swallowed the color. In them I could read news bulletins about the war she was fighting—the modesty against the hunger, the good girl against the girl on her knees, the twenty years of being told to look away against the reality that she couldn’t look away, not now, not from this.
Her lips parted. Her breathing came in those shallow little pants I’d already learned to recognize as the sound of Anne Chamberlain’s body overriding Anne Chamberlain’s mind.
She was confused. Genuinely, deeply confused—not about what was happening, but about what she felt about what was happening… really, how she felt about how deeply it all made sense to her. I’d seen that particular confusion hundreds of times in my career, and it never failed to move me both on an emotional level and on a physical, cock-stiffening one. The confusion of a girl who has spent her whole life constructing anidentity around modesty and restraint, only to discover that the deepest, truest part of her responds to being put on her knees in front of a man’s erect cock with a flood of arousal so intense it terrifies her.
Anne’s confusion didn’t arise on an intellectual level. It was existential for her. The ground had begun to move under her feet, and in her face I could see the sudden vertigo of realizing that the person she had always thought she was might not be the person sheactuallywas.
Underneath the confusion, though… underneath the wide eyes and the quivering lips and the tears still drying on her cheeks… I could see Anne’s need. It radiated from her like heat from a stove. The way she knelt with her weight slightly forward, her body unconsciously inclining toward me. The way her gaze kept dropping to my cock and then jerking back up to my face, as if she could discipline her eyes into obedience even while the rest of her had surrendered. The way her thighs shifted beneath the pink chiffon, pressing together, releasing, pressing together again—that rhythmic, helpless self-stimulation she might not even know she was doing.
This girl had never been this close to a penis. Not really. Whatever fumbling encounters she’d had with the boyfriend her file hypothesized—Chad, or Joe, or Kevin, the anxious college boyfriend who’d managed to deflower her technically, without ever actually reaching her—those didn’t count. Those had been the sexual equivalent of reading about swimming in a textbook. Anne Chamberlain had never knelt at a man’s feet, looked up at his hard cock, and felt the gravity of it—the sheer, animal reality of male arousal directed at her, demanding something from her, expecting something from her.
She felt it now.
“Give me your hand,” I said.
Her right hand lifted from her lap as if pulled by a string. It trembled visibly with a fine, continuous tremor that ran from her shoulder to her fingertips. She extended it toward me with the hesitant, reaching motion of someone touching a surface they suspect might burn them.
I took her hand, a little roughly, to satisfy both my own dominant instincts and Melissa’s note about the viewers’ preferences. Anne’s slender fingers were cold and damp with nervous sweat, and they felt impossibly small in mine. I guided them forward, closing the distance between her fingertips and the shaft of my cock with a deliberate, unhurried motion that gave her time to feel every inch of that closing gap—time to anticipate, to dread, to want.
