“Paul.” Melissa’s voice cut through the haze from somewhere beyond the lights, low and electric with intensity. “Keep calling her that. She loves it. Look at her—she’s clenching every time you say it. It’s just what all our market studies are showing.”
The mortification of hearing Melissa narrate my body’s responses… of knowing my reactions could be read on a monitor, analyzed, directed… it made me want to crawl under the mattress and disappear. Part of me, anyway.
But it also fed the terrible fire. Knowing they couldseewhat his words did to me, that the evidence of my shameful arousal was visible on camera, that Melissa was actively encouraging my master to degrade me further—all of it poured gasoline on whatever was burning between my legs.
“You hear that, Annie?” Master Paul’s hips slammed against my welted bottom and I shrieked at the collision of pleasure and pain. “Everyone can see what a desperate little bitch you are. Coming on my cock with your whipped ass in the air.”
He thrust again, even deeper, and his lap ground against the welts on the underside of my cheeks. The sting made my vision flash white. “This is what happens to a girl who can’t keep her fingers off her cunt. She gets bent over and fucked until she learns who she belongs to.”
The next orgasm hit me like a freight train. It slammed through my body with no warning, no build; one moment I was drowning in humiliation and the next I was convulsing around him, my inner walls clamping down in vicious, rhythmic spasms that torea scream from my throat so raw it seemed to shred something in my chest.
My fingers ripped at the sheets. My back arched. My entire body shook as if electrified, and through it all Master Paul kept thrusting, kept driving his thick cock through my clenching, spasming pussy. The continued stimulation didn’t let the orgasm end. It stretched and deepened into something that felt less like pleasure and more like being taken apart at the molecular level.
“Good girl,” he growled. “Good little bitch. Come on my cock. That’s what it’s for.”
The word again.Bitch.I sobbed and came harder, my face twisted against the sheets in an expression I was grateful the cameras couldn’t fully see, though I knew Darlene probably had an angle that captured almost everything.
The degradation and the pleasure had fused into something I couldn’t separate, couldn’t parse, couldn’t resist. Every time he called me that word, my body responded with another violent contraction, another wave of shame-drenched ecstasy that left me more wrecked than the one before.
His hips slapped against my welted bottom with an accelerating rhythm. Each impact sent twin shockwaves of stinging pain and electric pleasure through my core. My whipped bottom burned with every collision, a fresh reminder layered on top of a fresh reminder, and the cumulative effect was a sensation of being perpetually punished—his cock inside me, his body against my welts, his voice calling me names that made me want to die and come simultaneously.
“Such a wet little bitch,” Master Paul said, and his voice had gone rougher, lower, the controlled authority beginning to fray at the edges in a way I hadn’t heard before. “Soaking my cock. Dripping all over the sheets. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? This is what you were rubbing your little cunt for last night.”
“Yes,” I wailed. The confession was ripped from me the way the orgasms were ripped from me: involuntarily, completely, from somewhere deeper than thought. “Yes, sir, this is what I wanted, I wantedyou, I wanted your cock, I’m sorry, I’m sorry?—”
“Don’t be sorry.” His grip on my hips tightened, his fingers pressing bruises into my flesh. “Be grateful.”
Another orgasm started inside me. This one felt different: slower, deeper, a rolling wave that started at my clit where the base of his shaft ground against it and traveled upward through my belly and my chest and my throat until it emerged as a long, keening moan. My inner walls milked him in slow, powerful contractions that I could feel individually, each one gripping the full length of his cock and then releasing, gripping and releasing, in a rhythm that seemed to synchronize with my heartbeat.
“Paul.” Melissa again, her voice tight with something that sounded like awe. “One more notch?”
Master Paul’s response came immediately, as if he’d waited for the precise moment when his next command would have the maximum effect.
“Say it, Anne.” His thrusts had become harder, more urgent, the measured rhythm giving way to something rawer. His lap slammed against my welts and I shrieked. “Tell me what you are.”
“I’m—” The word caught in my throat. My face burned so hot I thought the sheets might scorch. The humiliation felt like a living thing, a creature that had wrapped itself around my chest and was squeezing, and the squeeze felt indistinguishable from the pleasure. “I’m your bitch,” I sobbed. “I’m your bitch, sir. I’m your… I’m… oh, God… Master… I’m… I’m your little bitch.”
Saying it aloud—hearing the words in my own wrecked, sobbing voice—triggered something I wasn’t prepared for. A cascade… a chain reaction. My pussy clamped down on him with a force that made him groan, and the orgasm that followed was so violent it felt like my body was trying to turn itself inside out.
I screamed into the mattress and my hips bucked back against him, driving him deeper, and the impact of his body against my welted bottom sent a supernova of pain-pleasure through my nervous system that made my arms give out completely. I collapsed flat against the sheets, my chest pressed into the mattress, my back arched, my punished bottom still raised and impaled on his cock.
“That’s it,” Master Paul said through gritted teeth, and his hands clamped down on my hips with an iron grip that locked me in place. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t rock forward, couldn’t squirm away, couldn’t do anything except take it as he drove into me with a ferocity that shook the bed frame. The wet, percussive sound of his body meeting mine filled the studio—flesh against flesh, his hips against my welts, his cock plunging through the slick, clenching grip of my pussy with a relentlessness that felt like it would break me.
He was close. I could feel it in the way his rhythm changed—the strokes becoming shorter, harder, more urgent, his cock swelling inside me with a rigidity that stretched my already stretched walls even further. His breathing had gone just slightlyragged, the controlled cadence of his voice replaced by harsh, guttural exhalations that I felt against the back of my neck as he bent over me, his chest pressing against my spine, his weight pinning me flat against the mattress.
“Going to come inside you,” he said against my ear, and his voice was wrecked, stripped of all professional veneer, raw in a way I’d never heard from him. “Going to fill this tight little cunt up, Annie. Going to come inside my bitch’s pussy.”
“Yes,” I sobbed, my mind flashing on a memory about the male contraceptive the Institute trainers all took regularly. “Yes, please, please come inside me, sir, please?—”
He drove into me one final time. His hardness went so deep I felt him press against the very end of me. His hands locked my hips in place with a grip that would leave bruises shaped like his fingers. His cock pulsed inside me. I felt each hot, flooding surge as he emptied himself into me. The sensation of being filled with his release triggered one last orgasm that ripped through my body in an instant.
My vagina clenched around him in convulsive, rhythmic spasms that seemed to pull him deeper, milk him, drain him, and I heard myself making sounds that weren’t words, weren’t sobs, weren’t screams, just raw, animal vocalizations that the girl who’d worn polka-dot panties two days ago would never have believed could come from her own throat.
Master Paul’s muscular body came to rest above me as he finished coming. His weight pressed me into the mattress, heavy and warm and encompassing, and his cock remained inside me, still twitching with the last pulses of his orgasm, and I could feel his release pooling where our bodies joined—hot and thick andmarking me on the inside the way his belt had marked me on the outside.
We lay there. Breathing. His face was in my hair, his breath hot against the back of my neck, my face was in the sheets, and the studio was very quiet except for the sound of two people trying to remember how lungs worked.
“Cut,” Melissa said softly from somewhere that sounded like another planet. “Oh, my God. Cut.”
