The words landed on me while his cock was buried in my throat, and the casual way he said it—too good, as if my mouth had become an inconvenience to his self-control rather than a source of pride or a reason to praise me—made my pussy clench hard. At that the terrible panties sent a spike of friction through my folds so strong that my hips jerked against the armchair, the empty sheath between my legs betraying my desperate need to have my master’s hardness there instead of in my mouth.
“Absolutely,” Melissa said, rapid calculation in her voice, her producer’s mind focusing like a laser. “Dar, let’s get a close-up on her swallowing? Tight on her throat and mouth?”
“Already there.” Darlene replied in her clipped, efficient tone. “Camera two is on her face. I can punch in whenever you need.”
“Perfect. Paul, whenever you’re ready.”
The exchange happened above me and around me. I… me… Anne… the girl on her knees with a cock in her throat… she represented only the particular piece of equipment under discussion by the technicians who operated her. The sheer degradation of it burned through me like a fever, and the burn went straight to the place between my legs where the Surrender panties caught the resulting flood of wetness. They answered it, of course, with a maddening intensification of sensation that made me whimper around the shaft of my master’s demanding cock.
For a while longer, Master Paul maintained the pretense of reading. I heard pages turn. I felt the studied relaxation in his thighs beneath my hand, the feigned posture of a man absorbed in his novel while his girl serviced him on her knees.
But the pretense had begun to fray, and it made me burn all the hotter. My master’s breathing changed, getting deeper and slower. The controlled rhythm of his respiration developed hairline fractures that I could hear in a slight catch at the top of each inhale. His thigh tensed beneath my palm and didn’t fully release. The page-turning slowed, then stopped, and I heard him exhale through his nose in a way that sounded like a man losing an argument with his own body.
The novel closed with a soft, decisive sound. I heard it set down on the arm of the chair.
Then both his hands were in my hair.
“Be brutal,” I heard Melissa advise. “That’s what the audience wants.”
But I wasn’t even completely sureshehad actually said it, because it seemed to come from my body’s recesses as much as it came from somewhere else.
Master Paul’s fingers, though, told me Melissa probably had said the horrible thing, because they gathered the blonde strands at the back of my skull, threading through the tangles, forming a grip that was firm and absolute and left no ambiguity about who would control the rhythm now. My own hands stilled on his thigh and at the base of his shaft, suddenly irrelevant, because he was holding my head the way a man holds something he intends to use.
His hips shifted in the chair. I felt the change in angle as he tilted his lap upward, and the first thrust came from below—not the passive reception of my worship but an active, upward drive that pushed his cock deeper into my throat than my own rhythm had taken him. I gagged, briefly, the reflex flaring and then subsiding as my training caught it, and the sound I made around his shaft was wet and obscene. I could hear it carry clearly in the quiet of the den set.
“You’ve gotten so good at this, Annie,” Master Paul said. His voice had shed the last pretense of casual indifference. It sounded rough, thick with arousal. I felt a surge of wayward pride as I sensed how I had thinned his control to something that looked translucent in my suddenly abstract imagination.
My master thrust his swollen manhood up into my mouth again. His huge hands held my head steady while his hips drove higher. The rhythm he established belonged to him, not to me; harder, faster, deeper than the worshipful pace I’d maintained. “Such a good little cocksucker. You know what that means, don’t you?”
I couldn’t answer, of course, but my body still tried to. My mouth was full of him, my throat working around his thickness, my eyes streaming tears that ran down my cheeks and dripped onto my master’s lap. I looked up at him through the blur and found his brown eyes locked on mine with an intensity that felt like being held down by something heavier than hands.
“It means you’re ready,” he said. His hips drove upward and I felt the head of his cock press into the tight ring of my throat, stretching it, demanding entry, and I swallowed around him and let him in. “Your mouth learned. Your cunt learned. Tomorrow—” Another thrust, harder, and a grunt escaped him that made my pussy clench violently. “Tomorrow I’m going to take that sweet ass, Annie.”
My whole body went rigid, a full-length clench of terror and arousal so intertwined that I couldn’t have separated them with a scalpel. The memory of his thumb pressing against that forbidden place, circling, insisting, making promises his voice was now confirming, rushed through me like ice water and wildfire simultaneously.
“That tight little hole I’ve been training with my fingers,” he continued, his voice dropping. His hands tightened in my hair. His hips drove up again, and the lewd, wet, choking sound of his cock pushing into my throat filled the fictional den. “You’re going to open for me there the same way you opened everywhere else. Because you’re mine, Annie. Every hole. Every inch.”
A sob built in my chest and had nowhere to go except around the shaft that filled my mouth. The tears streamed freely now, hot and constant, and the responsive panties had become almost unbearable between my legs. Every pulse of arousal fed back to me as friction, every wave of shame amplified into sensation, the feedback loop spinning faster and faster with no release valve. My hands were occupied, my mouth was full, and my body was trapped in black lace and satin that wouldn’t let me forget for a single second what I was.
A good cocksucker… a cocksucking little whore who’s going to get it in the ass tomorrow.
“Put your hands behind you,” Master Paul commanded. His voice had gone ragged at the edges, the words coming between thrusts that had grown shorter, harder, more urgent. “Hold your little bottom for me. Take those pretty cheeks in your hands and spread them and think about what’s going to happen to you tomorrow.”
I released his thigh and the base of his shaft. My hands traveled behind my body, trembling violently, and found the curves of my bottom with the thin strip of the black panties between them. I gripped the soft, still-tender flesh—the welts from the belt still faintly raised beneath my fingertips—and I spread myself. The motion pulled the narrow back panel of the panties taut against my anus, pressing the fabric into the cleft, and the sensation of that deliberate pressure against the place he’d just promised to claim made a sound leave my throat, muffled around his thrusting manhood, that I could barely recognize as human.
I thought about it. I thought about his thickness pressing against that impossibly small opening. I thought about the stretch. The burn. The helpless, total vulnerability of being entered there by an enormous penis, in the place no one had ever touched beforehim, the place that felt like the last frontier of my modesty—the final territory his dominance hadn’t yet claimed.
The terror was real. The arousal was realer.
“That’s it,” Master Paul growled above me. His hips drove upward in three short, brutal thrusts that pushed his cock deep into my throat and held it there. His hands locked my head in place, fingers twisted in my hair, and I felt his shaft swell—that telltale rigidity, the final, impossible thickening that preceded his release. “That’s my girl. Holding her little ass open. Ready for her master.”
He came.
The first pulse hit the back of my throat with a force and a heat that made my eyes fly wide. I swallowed instinctively—the reflex my body had learned, the trained response of a mouth that understood its purpose—and felt the thick, hot flood slide down my throat in a rush that tasted of salt and musk and ownership. The second pulse followed immediately, and the third, each one accompanied by a guttural sound from above me that vibrated through his cock and into my jaw and down through my chest. I swallowed and swallowed, my throat working in rhythmic contractions around his pulsing shaft, the tears ran down my face, my hands gripped my own bottom behind me, the Surrender panties hummed their maddening friction against my swollen, desperate pussy, and I knelt there and took it all.
Every drop.
His hands loosened in my hair. His hips settled back into the chair. His cock softened fractionally in my mouth—still thick, still substantial, but the iron rigidity easing into something warmer, heavier. I held him there. I didn’t pull away. My lipsremained sealed around his shaft and my tongue cradled the sensitive underside, and I nursed the last traces of his release from him with small, gentle suctions that made his thigh twitch beneath my cheek.
