Chapter 36
Anne
“I’ll obey you.” The words tore out of me before the echo of the scream had faded. “I’ll obey, I’ll obey, please, I’ll… please, sir, I’ll get over the bolster, I’ll—”
He released my wrist. Stepped back. The absence of his hand on my bottom felt almost as shocking as its presence had.
I pushed myself upright on unsteady arms. My legs barely held me when I straightened.
The white lace panties had shifted during the spanking and I reached back automatically, reflexively, to adjust them, and my fingers found the oval cutout and its satin border and I snatched my hand away as if burned.
I climbed onto the bed.
The white sheets felt cool against my knees and my palms. The bolster lay across the middle of the mattress, white leather, cylindrical, patiently waiting to fulfill its shameful purpose.
I crawled toward it. My burning bottom moved through the studio air and I was aware, with acute specificity, of how the white lace covered and did not cover me—the scalloped edges, the ribbon sides, the oval of absence framed in satin.
I thought I heard Melissa say something to Darlene, and although I hadn’t made it out clearly I felt absolutely certain she had said something like, “Tight on the cutout.” Heat flared in my cheeks, though an instant before I would have sworn they couldn’t get any hotter.
I lowered myself over the bolster.
It caught me at the hips, tilting me forward, raising my bottom into the air.
My face found the white sheets on the far side and I turned my cheek against the cool cotton.
My hands lay flat on the mattress ahead of me.
My knees fell slightly apart. I pictured it from the camera’s point of view, and I saw just how unmistakably the position realized my degradation.
I heard Master Paul move to the foot of the bed. I felt the mattress compress as he settled his weight behind me.
“I’d already decided,” he said, in his low, measured tone that seemed to carry something ceremonial inside it, “to make this a kind of wedding night for you.”
The words reached me through the pounding of my pulse, and something happened in my mind and my body that had nothing to do with the scene.
Because I remembered him saying almost the same words, in his bedroom, in the dark, with his chest warm against my back and his arm across my waist. His voice had sounded even lower, then.
It had almost seemed to come from inside my own body rather than from outside it.
He had said: I want to make this a kind of wedding night for you, Annie. A real one. The kind a girl remembers.
I had been practically asleep. The words had worked on me the way he’d clearly intended them to, settling into the sediment of my half-conscious mind.
But I had heard them, and I had felt something new in his voice when he said them: a weight that seemed personal…
that seemed to exceed the scene he described.
I had opened my eyes in the dark of his apartment and looked at the ceiling and thought about the word wedding.
He hadn’t said it casually. He hadn’t used it the way he used the fictional language of the scene—strategically, with an eye to the effect of words on a submissive girl’s nervous system.
He had said wedding the way a man says something he has been thinking about privately, something that has been living in him for longer than the conversation that finally surfaces it.
I had lain there in the dark with his arm across my waist and I had felt, with a certainty so absolute it bypassed all the rational objections my mind could have raised, that this man would ask me to marry him. Not in a scene. Not in the fictional language of a wealthy suitor and his young bride.
In a restaurant, or in his kitchen with copper pots overhead, or in the dark of his apartment with the city murmuring beyond the windows. He would ask me in the real world, in his own voice, and the answer he would get would not be a character’s answer.
The joy of that knowledge had moved through me like sunlight through glass; gentle, pervasive, warming everything it touched.
I had turned my face into the hollow of his throat and breathed him in and felt the joy settle into my chest alongside the fear of what the morning would bring, and somehow the two had coexisted there without canceling each other out.
They coexisted now. I lay over the bolster with my punished bottom raised and the white lace panties framing my anus with their terrible little oval.
I felt both things simultaneously, the joy and the terror, and the paradox of it…
the fact that knowing he might one day be my husband made it somehow terribly arousing to be bent over a bolster…
to wait with my spanked backside offered for him to use me in the most humiliating possible way…
the contradiction seemed like the most comprehensively shameful thing I had yet discovered about myself.
“But because of how you’ve behaved tonight,” Master Paul said from behind me, and his hands settled on my hips with a possession that made my breath catch, “it’s going to be a very special kind of wedding night.
” His thumbs traced the ribbon sides of the panties, following the lines of them from my hipbones down across the lace panels that covered my spanked cheeks.
“The kind that naughty little sluts earn for themselves.”
I whimpered into the sheets.
His hands began to move.
He touched me through the white lace with a leisurely pace that constituted its own punishment.
His thumbs moved again, along the scalloped edges of the back panel, following the curves of each cheek.
His palms pressed against the fullness of my bottom with a proprietary firmness that communicated the same thing his hands always communicated: this belongs to me and I will attend to it, and enjoy it, and use it, as I see fit.
He squeezed, gently, so that the soreness of the spanking flared under his fingers and I made a sound I hadn’t intended.
“Still so tender,” he observed, with a satisfaction that made my face burn. “Good. I want you to feel every single thing I do to you tonight.”
His right hand traveled down. The tips of his fingers found the front panel of the panties through the gap between my thighs, pressing the lace against my pussy with a light, exploratory pressure, and the responsive fabric—still doing its quiet, diabolical work, amplifying everything—answered his touch by pressing more insistently against my folds.
I gasped as my hips tried to push back against his hand of their own accord.
“There it is,” he said softly. “Feel how wet you are, Annie.” His fingers moved in a slow circle against the front panel, the lace sliding against my bare pussy lips and the hood of my tingling clit until I let out a whimper of desperate need.
“Your sweet little cunt,” he continued in his low, hypnotic voice, “is absolutely soaking through this lace. You know why, don’t you?”
I shook my head against the sheets. A lie, and we both knew it.
“Because you’re thinking about what’s coming.
” His fingers pressed more firmly, and the responsive fabric answered with a spike of sensation that dragged another helpless sound out of me.
“That tight little hole I’ve been training is thinking about my cock.
That’s what’s making you this wet. That’s what’s making my good girl drip right through her pretty wedding panties. ”
The shame of it—the fact that he was right, that my body had been broadcasting its own terrible excitement since the moment I’d stood in the changing area holding the white lace and understood its purpose—rolled through me in a wave so hot it made my eyes water.
His fingers withdrew from between my thighs.
I felt him move and then both his hands were on my bottom again, this time parting the rear panel of the panties carefully, his thumbs finding the inner edges of my punished bottom cheeks inside the oval cutout and drawing them gently apart.
The cool studio air touched the exposed place between my cheeks and I made a sound into the sheets that I would not have been able to describe.
“So pretty,” he said quietly. It didn’t sound like a line. It sounded like a man looking at something he’d been thinking about for longer than the scene. “Every part of you is pretty, Annie.”
I heard a click and then a wet noise that my body seemed to recognize more surely than my brain: lube, squeezed and spread. Then his thumb, cool and slick, pressed against me there, and the world narrowed to a single point.
He worked slowly. Methodically. With the same patient thoroughness he’d brought to everything he’d done to my body since the first day in the studio—as if he would spend as much time on my sexual education as required to make me the fuck toy he wanted.
The pad of his thumb circled and pressed, circled and pressed, and I felt the muscle yield by degrees so small I couldn’t track them consciously, only felt the cumulative evidence of them in the deepening fullness of the sensation, the way my hips had begun to tilt upward of their own accord, offering him easier access despite the defiance of every shred of dignity that still remained to me.
He added a second thumb. Pressed. Stretched. I gripped the sheets, breathed through my nose, and thought about copper pots and dark apartments and his voice in the dark saying wedding, and the thought sent a pulse of heat through me so strong that my inner walls clenched around nothing.
“Good,” he murmured. “You’re opening nicely for your first time really being trained. Such a good girl when she stops fighting herself.” A pause. More pressure. “I think you’re ready to receive your punishment now.”
The word punishment pulled me back from the warm, floating place his hands had been sending me toward.
“Sir—”
“Don’t.” The single syllable, quiet and absolute. His thumbs withdrew, and I felt him move off the bed entirely. “Stay exactly where you are.”
I stayed. The oval of the cutout framed me in the cool air. I pressed my forehead into the sheets and tried to control my breathing while I listened to him cross the room. The sound of a drawer opening. A pause. The sound of his footsteps returning.
He came around to the side of the bed. I turned my face and saw it.
My mind simply refused the information for a full two seconds.
It was black, a sharp contrast to everything else on this set.
Black silicone, smooth and gleaming under the studio lights, shaped with an anatomical fidelity that left absolutely no ambiguity about its purpose.
It was enormous. Larger than him—larger than the cock that had already seemed impossible when he’d first pushed it into my mouth—and he held it in one hand with the casual ease of a man displaying a piece of evidence.
“This,” Master Paul said, “is what naughty little sluts get on their wedding night when they misbehave.”
My hands flew back behind me before I’d decided to move them. Both palms pressed against the curves of my bottom in a gesture that was purely, hopelessly instinctive—a child’s reflex, covering what was about to be hurt. My fingers found the satin border of the cutout and protected it.
“No,” I heard myself say. “No, sir, please, that’s—that’s too big, I can’t—”
“Hands,” he said.
I shook my head. My palms pressed harder against my own cheeks.
He set the dildo down on the bed beside me.
I heard him open something else—a softer sound, the clink of small hardware—and then his hands closed around both my wrists.
Not roughly. Not with the controlled force he’d used when he’d bent me over the side of the bed.
Gently, almost tenderly, he drew my hands forward and together, and I felt leather close around first one wrist and then the other; soft, wide cuffs that buckled with a precision that told me they’d been prepared in advance, ready for exactly this eventuality.
He left my bound wrists on the mattress in front of my face.
I stared at them. The leather was cream-colored against my skin, the buckles small and silver and perfectly fitted, and the fact that my hands were now together and in front of me and entirely useless for the protection of my bottom made the back of my throat close around something that wasn’t quite a sob.
He had known. He had known I would throw my hands back. He had the cuffs ready. Of course he had.
“There,” he said, from behind me again. His hand stroked down my spine—one long, warm pass from between my shoulder blades to the small of my back, the touch of a man soothing an animal that needed to be reminded of his presence.
“Let’s begin, now that you can’t interfere with your punishment or my pleasure. ”