Anne
I spoke against her, my words muffled and wet. “He said it wouldn’t do. He said he’d bought me a beautiful nightgown and this was what he found.” I licked her, three long strokes. “He said a girl preparing herself for her suitor’s use should have thought about what he’d want to see.”
“More,” Penelope gasped. Her hips had begun to rock in earnest now, grinding against my mouth with increasing urgency. “What else? What words did he use?”
“He called it my…” I swallowed. My face was burning. “My cunt. He said ‘This little cunt is going to be shaved.’”
“Oh, God,” Penelope breathed, and her hand fisted in my hair so hard it hurt. “And then what? After the inspection?”
“He made me kneel,” I said, pulling back just enough for the words to form before pressing my mouth to her again. My tongue found her clit and circled it twice, three times, before I continued. “On the floor. In front of him. He opened his robeand he was… he was so hard. So big. Bigger than anything I’d ever…”
“Tell me,” Penelope demanded, her voice ragged now.
I licked her in long, slow strokes while I gathered the words. “He made me hold it. Both hands. I couldn’t even get my fingers all the way around. And then he told me to… to worship it. He said that’s what the word was.Worship.”
“Mmm.” The sound vibrated through Penelope’s thighs against the sides of my face. “How?”
“He taught me to kiss it,” I whispered against her. “Down the shaft. All the way to his… his balls. He made me take each one in my mouth and suck on them. Gently. He said a girl who worships a cock worships all of it.”
Penelope’s hips jerked. “Christ. Keep going. Keep licking me and keep talking.”
I obeyed. My tongue moved between her tender inner lips while I spoke between strokes, the words tumbling out of me now with less resistance, as if the act of confessing to Penelope while my mouth was on her had opened some valve I couldn’t close.
“And then he made me take him in my mouth again. Deeper. He held my head and he started to… to thrust. Hard. He called my mouth a…” I pressed my face against her and licked her clit in tight, desperate circles. “He called it my face’s cunt. He said it was just another hole for him to use.”
“Oh, fuck,” Penelope breathed. Her hand was shaking in my hair now, and the motion of her hips had become rhythmic and urgent, rocking against my tongue with an abandon that felt almost violent.
“He fucked my face,” I said, and the words came out in a rush, hot and muffled against her swollen flesh. “He held my hair and he just… used me. My jaw was screaming and I was gagging and crying and drooling all over the nightgown and he didn’t stop. He told me I was his good little… his good little cunt-face. He said I was dripping. He could see it through the chiffon.”
Penelope made a sound—half moan, half something more feral—and her thighs clamped against my ears so hard that her voice went muffled for a moment before she released the pressure.
“And when he finished,” I continued, my tongue working faster now, driven by the escalating tension in Penelope’s body, “he pulled out and he… he came on me. All over me. On my face. On the nightgown. The lace. He ruined it. There was so much of it, and it soaked through the fabric and you could see my…” I swallowed against her. “You could see everything through the lace after that. And then he pressed himself against my lips and made me lick him clean.”
“Shut up,” Penelope said.
The words came out sharp and sudden, slicing through the humid, confession-thick air of the office like a blade. Her hand tightened in my hair—not guiding now but gripping, holding my face against her with a force that flattened my nose against her pubic bone and sealed my mouth to her clit.
“Stop talking and make me come,” she growled. “Right now. Hard and fast on my clit. Don’t you dare stop until I tell you to.”
My tongue found the swollen nub and worked it with everything I had—fast, tight circles alternating with the suckling pressure she’d taught me, my lips sealed around her, my jaw aching from the morning’s abuse but moving anyway because Penelope hadtold me to and because stopping was not something my body seemed capable of anymore.
My hands came up to grip her thighs, steadying myself as her hips bucked against my face with increasing violence, and I held on and licked and sucked and pressed my tongue against her with a desperation that felt less like obedience and more like drowning—like she was the surface and pleasing her was the only way up.
Penelope came with a sound I’d never heard a woman make. It started low… a guttural, shuddering groan that seemed to begin somewhere beneath her diaphragm… and then it rose, climbing through registers until it broke into something high and fractured and raw, a cry that filled the office and bounced off the glass walls and the mahogany desk and the tasteful watercolors and made all of it, the corporate décor, the professional veneer, the expensive suit around her ankles, seem like a costume that had finally been torn away.
Her thighs clamped around my head. Her hand in my hair pulled so hard that tears sprang to my eyes. Her hips thrust upward against my mouth in three sharp, convulsive bucks, and I felt the flood of her against my tongue, hot and slick and copious, a rush of wetness that coated my chin, ran down my neck, and soaked the collar of my cream blouse.
Her inner muscles clenched palpably, her stomach going rigid beneath the silk shell, and she held me there, pressed against her through the aftershocks, through the shuddering descent, through the long exhale that followed… until her grip finally loosened and her thighs fell open and I could breathe.
I knelt there, panting, my face glazed with her musky need. My lips tingled and my body vibrated with an arousal so acute itfelt like pain. Between my own legs, the throbbing had become a pulse that seemed to radiate outward from my center and consume my entire lower body, a need so urgent and so specific that I could feel the shape of it, the exact dimensions of the emptiness it demanded be filled.
Penelope’s head lolled against the back of her chair. Her chest rose and fell in deep breaths. Her eyes were closed. For perhaps thirty seconds she didn’t move, didn’t speak, and I knelt at her feet and pressed my thighs together and tried not to think about how desperately, how devastatingly, how completely I needed to be touched.
Then Penelope opened her eyes. She looked down at me—flushed, disheveled, her burgundy silk panties still pulled to one side, her expression carrying the languid satisfaction of a woman thoroughly pleasured. She smiled. It was a warm smile. A genuine one, even. But behind the warmth I could see the machinery turning, the calculations being made.
“Good girl,” she said softly. “That was lovely, Anne. You’re a very talented little thing.”
She reached for her phone on the desk. Her movements were unhurried and almost lazy. They seemed like the movements of a woman who had nowhere to be and nothing to prove. She unlocked the screen with her thumb and typed something, her manicured nails clicking faintly against the glass. I watched her compose a text message, my heart hammering, my thighs still pressed together in that futile, treacherous compression that accomplished nothing except making me more aware of how swollen and wet and desperate I was.
