Chapter 30
Anne
We ate at his small kitchen table. The food was so much better than anything I’d made for myself in my tiny apartment that I practically cried when I took my first bite. Our dinner conversation felt easy in a way that surprised me.
He asked about my childhood. I told him about growing up in a small town outside of Columbus, about my mother who worked two jobs and my father who’d left when I was seven, about the scholarship I’d lost and the bills that had led me to Selecta’s door.
When I stumbled over the part about my father, his hand found mine across the table and held it.
“You deserved better,” he said simply.
After dinner, while he washed the dishes and I dried them—standing beside him at the sink in his T-shirt, our hips almost touching—I felt the need rise again.
Heat bloomed between my thighs when for a second I thought he might put his hand on my bottom, under the T-shirt, just to hold it, as a reminder.
Along with that helpless, instantaneous response came the warmth in my face, of course; shame that only reinforced the arousal.
From there it came on like weather: a darkening of the internal sky, a pressure building behind my navel, a warmth spreading further down that had nothing to do with the hot water and everything to do with the man beside me.
My bare, shaved pussy throbbed with a pulse that seemed synchronized to his movements—the flex of his forearms as he scrubbed a pan, the shift of his shoulders beneath the gray cotton, the way his hands moved through the soapy water with the same competence they’d moved through everything else, including me.
I put down the dish towel. I turned toward him and pressed myself against his side, my face finding the hollow beneath his shoulder, my hips tilting forward in that embarrassing but involuntary offering.
“Sir,” I whispered against his shirt. “Please. I want you again.”
His wet hand found the back of my neck. He held me there, pressed against him, and I felt his chest expand with a slow, measured breath.
“You’re too sore, Annie.”
“I’m not,” I protested, even though I was.
The tenderness between my legs was real.
The deep, bruised ache pulsed with every step, reminding me that my poor little pussy had been thoroughly, comprehensively fucked twice yesterday and once today by my master’s enormous cock.
But the ache felt like a door rather than a wall; something I wanted to push through, not stop at.
“You are,” he said, with the quiet certainty that I had learned to recognize as final. “Your body needs time to recover. I won’t damage what’s mine through impatience.”
The word mine sent the usual cascade through my nervous system: heat, clench, blush, want.
“But I need—” My voice cracked. The need felt urgently physical. I didn’t know how to contain it. Three days ago I’d been a girl who’d never brought herself to orgasm. Now I felt like an addict, and the drug was standing at the kitchen sink with dish soap on his hands.
Master Paul turned off the water. He dried his hands on the towel I’d abandoned. Then he picked me up—the same effortless lift, one arm beneath my knees, the other behind my back—and carried me to his bedroom.
He laid me on the dark gray sheets. He pulled his T-shirt off my body with a gentleness that made my skin prickle, leaving me bare on his bed, my nipples hardening in the cool air, my shaved pussy glistening in the low light of the bedside lamp.
He looked down at me with an expression that combined hunger and restraint in equal measure—the look of a man who wanted to devour something and had decided to savor it instead.
“Open your legs,” he said.
I opened them. The motion felt different here than it had on the studio floor or the bathroom set or bent over his armchair.
Here, in his bed, in the quiet of his apartment with the city murmuring beyond the windows, spreading my legs for him felt like an act of trust so complete it left me breathless.
He lay down between my thighs. His broad shoulders pressed my legs apart, widening me further than I’d opened on my own, and his face hovered inches from my bare, aching center.
I could feel his breath against my shaved skin—warm, steady exhalations that played across my needy folds and made my hips lift off the mattress.
“Stay still,” he said, and his breath moved against me as he spoke, and I whimpered. “Put your hands behind your knees and spread yourself nice and wide so I can taste you properly.”
I felt my chin go from side to side, as if I somehow had the strength to refuse any command, let alone this one, my master gave me. At the same time, though, my hands found the backs of my thighs, then slid up. I whimpered as I spread myself, offered my needy little cunt to the man who owned it.
Then his mouth was on me.
The first touch of his tongue against my bare pussy made my entire body arch off the bed.
Without hair, without any barrier between his mouth and my flesh, the sensation was so direct, so acute, that it felt like being touched for the first time.
His tongue moved through the folds of my pussy with a slow, deliberate thoroughness that communicated the same message his cock had communicated earlier: this belongs to me, and I will use it how I choose.
He didn’t rush. He explored me with his mouth the way he’d explored me with the razor—methodically, attentively, learning the topography of my skin with his lips and his tongue.
He traced the outer edges of my folds, kissed the crease where my thigh met my pussy, ran the flat of his tongue along the full length of my slit with a pressure that was firm enough to part me, but not firm enough to reach the places that screamed for contact.
“Please,” I gasped, my hands leaving my knees and finding his hair, forgetting my obedience. “Please, sir, I need—”
“I know what you need.” His voice vibrated against my flesh. He pulled his face away. “Put those hands where they belong. Lie back and take what I give you.”
With a sob I grabbed my knees again, and I lay back. I took what he gave me.
He gave me a slow, transformative education in the capacity of my own body for pleasure. His tongue found the bare, exposed nub of my clit and circled it with a pressure so precise it felt calculated, as if he’d mapped the exact nerve pathways that led from that tiny point to the base of my spine.
The pleasure built in slow, rolling waves that crested without breaking, each one higher than the last, carrying me upward toward something shattering while his hands held my thighs just below my own desperately gripping fingers.
He pressed me down against the mattress and his mouth worked me with a patient, inexorable authority that told me he would make me come on his terms, at his pace, when he decided I was ready.
He alternated between my clit and deeper, longer strokes that parted my inner folds and tasted me fully.
His tongue pressed inside me—not deep, not the way his cock had reached, but intimate in a different way, a way that felt like being known rather than being taken.
The gentleness of it undid me in places the roughness hadn’t reached.
I lay on his bed and felt tears slide down my temples into my hair while his mouth moved against my bare pussy with a tenderness that felt at the same time like sheer dominance.
Then he raised his face.
The absence of his mouth made me gasp. The cool air rushed against the slick, needy flesh he’d been tasting, and I whimpered at the loss, my hips chasing upward toward the warmth that had been taken from me.
My eyes flew open and I found him there between my thighs, his chin glistening, his brown eyes dark and focused and locked on mine with an intensity that pinned me to the mattress more effectively than his hands ever had.
“You’re going to come now, Annie,” he said.
Not a question. Not an invitation. A statement of fact in the same voice that had told me my cunt was his, the same voice that had told me to keep stirring, the same voice that had reshaped the architecture of my entire life in three days.
He said it the way a man might say the sun will rise tomorrow, and my body believed him before my mind had finished processing the words.
His hands left my thighs and found my hipbones.
He pressed me down—hard, harder than before, his broad palms flattening my pelvis against the mattress with a force that eliminated every possibility of movement.
I was pinned. Fixed in place like a butterfly under glass, my legs spread wide around his shoulders, my hands still clutching the backs of my knees because he’d told me to hold them there and I couldn’t have disobeyed, even if I’d wanted to.
Then his mouth returned to me, and the difference was immediate.
Where before he’d been exploratory, patient, mapping me with the careful attention of a man surveying a landscape, now he was deliberate and relentless.
His tongue found my clit with unerring skill and pressed against it—not circling, not teasing, but bearing down with a flat, firm, rhythmic pressure that sent the first shockwave crashing through my body before I’d drawn a full breath.
His lips closed around the swollen nub and he sucked, gently at first and then harder, and the pleasure that detonated at the point of contact was so sharp and so total that my vision whited out.
I came.
The orgasm ripped through me with a violence that arched my spine despite the force of his hands holding my hips down.
My inner walls clenched around the aching emptiness where his cock had been…
where it belonged. The contractions radiated outward through my belly and my thighs and my chest until my entire body was a single, convulsing nerve.
“Master!” I screamed. “Oh, God… Master… Master… Master…”