Then he had his massive penis all the way inside me.
The fullness felt total, and unlike anything else my master had done to my body. It reached places his cock had never reached in my pussy, nerve endings that had no experience with such obscene matters, and the sensation they produced was something that existed outside the vocabulary of pleasure or pain—something older, more fundamental, a feeling of having been claimed at a depth that made every previous act of possession seem preliminary.
“Good girl,” he said above me, and his voice had shed everything except the truth. “My good girl. You’re taking all of me. It’s time to fuck this sweet ass properly.”
He began to move.
It was slow at first. The same patient, incremental rhythm he’d applied to everything tonight, giving my body time to translate each new sensation before introducing the next. I gripped the sheet with my bound hands and breathed and felt the burn transmute, degree by degree, into something that still contained the burn but contained other things too—a kind of sensation I didn’t have a name for but without being pleasurable made me feel good.
“Good girl,” Master Paul growled again, and I understood. “Such a sweet, tight little asshole. My cock feels so good, Annie. Just take it now.”
Good. It feels good.To serve… to please… to submit. Even when it hurts so much. I screamed as he fucked me, then, and I kept screaming and sobbing, and his cock kept fucking me. It felt good to scream, to let it out, because I knew my master wouldn’t stop—because my master knew exactly what I needed.
Then I blinked as I caught sight of Penelope, standing to the side of the set, watching the scene. I hadn’t realized until that moment how detached I’d become, with Master Paul’s help. My reaction to my boss’s presence on set when I was having my anal virginity taken for the camera, though, told me that the real Anne had traveled a zillion miles into space.
From that distance, my mind said, very calmly,Oh, look. It’s my boss.
Then,What’s that look on her face?
Then,Oh, my God… is she…jealous?
She obviously was. I understood it with a calm that should have been impossible. Master Paul’s had buried his cock to the hilt in my bottom and his rhythm had begun to build, moving toward something I could feel gathering in the tension of his thighs against mine, in the slight roughening of his breathing, in the way his hands on my hips had tightened from guidance into grip.
Penelope Gallagher stood at the edge of the set’s white light with her arms crossed and her perfect posture and her expression doing everything it could to be professional, to be merely observational, to be the face of a senior executive monitoring the progress of an asset in the field. And failing. The mask hadslipped by some fraction of an inch that I, from my extraordinary distance, could read with complete clarity.
She wanted to be me.
She wanted to be the girl laid over the bolster with her wrists cuffed and her punished bottom in the air and a cock like a truncheon moving inside it. Not only that, though. I could tell Penelope wanted to be the girl that Master Paul had chosen.
A bit of wickedness moved through me. I felt small and warm and thoroughly disproportionate to the situation, and I loved it. I held it in my chest like a coal while Master Paul drove deep into my most private place. His hands locked down on my hips with a force that said he was very close now. I thought, with a serenity that would have astonished me five days ago:She can watch.
Something about that idea, of me consenting my boss to watch my anal defloration… of meinvitingher to watch… made me clench harder than I had yet this morning. The discomfort of Master Paul moving in my tightest channel seemed to transform more fully into desperate need in my pussy. I squeezed with my thighs and bucked my hips, trying to rub my clit against the bolster through the panties. I let out a desperate whimper as I felt an orgasm suddenly just out of reach.
“Do you want to come, you little whore?” my master’s voice growled above me.
The jealousy on Penelope’s face grew more marked. Two circles of pink had appeared on her cheeks.
“Yes… sir… please…” I managed to gasp. “Please.”
Suddenly my master’s skillful right hand had passed between my hip and the bolster, and he had my pussy in his grasp. Onesqueeze, enhanced I felt certain by the nature of the fabric, was all it took. I closed my eyes but I still saw Penelope’s envy, and it made the climax that ripped through me all the greater. I screamed in pleasure mingled with pain as Master Paul’s penis fucked my bottom all the way through it, my anus held much too open as I felt my orgasm go on and on.
Then my master grunted low in his chest, as if my coming had pleased his cock too much to resist his own, and I sobbed as I felt the thick shaft grow even more rigid in my anus.
The first pulse of his release hit so deep inside me that the sensation existed in territory I had no prior map for. It seemed like heat, pressure, and a fullness beyond fullness. The sound I made was something I couldn’t have called a moan or a sob, but both at once. His hips drove forward and held, grinding against my punished cheeks, and I felt each subsequent pulse of his ejaculation with an intimacy that seemed total. It bypassed every layer of learned response and reached something more fundamental: the simple, overwhelming fact of being claimed completely… owned so fully that my master’s possession extended to places the light had never reached.
Penelope’s presence on set flickered and went out like a candle in a closed room.
There was only this. His weight above me, his cock inside me, and his release flooding the place he had taken. My own bound hands pressed into the white sheet. I could feel the tears drying on my cheeks. The sound of his breathing slowed by degrees from the urgent rhythm of his finish toward something deeper and more settled.
He stayed inside me for a long moment after the last pulse. I could feel his heartbeat there—or I imagined I could. It seemedpossible, from this particular position on the far side of every threshold I had ever possessed, to feel a man’s heartbeat through his cock.
Then he spoke.
“Annie.” His voice had shed everything. The scene’s fiction, the measured authority, the careful calibration of a man who knew the precise effect of every word he chose. What remained sounded to me like Master Paul’s real voice, the one from the dark apartment, from the kitchen with the copper pots. “My Annie.”
“Yes,” I breathed into the sheet. “Yes, sir.”
“Marry me.”
