Chapter 13
Paul
I watched a complex tangle of emotions flit across Anne’s lovely face.
Her green eyes had gone wide, pupils blown so dark they nearly swallowed the color.
In them I could read news bulletins about the war she was fighting—the modesty against the hunger, the good girl against the girl on her knees, the twenty years of being told to look away against the reality that she couldn’t look away, not now, not from this.
Her lips parted. Her breathing came in those shallow little pants I’d already learned to recognize as the sound of Anne Chamberlain’s body overriding Anne Chamberlain’s mind.
She was confused. Genuinely, deeply confused—not about what was happening, but about what she felt about what was happening…
really, how she felt about how deeply it all made sense to her.
I’d seen that particular confusion hundreds of times in my career, and it never failed to move me both on an emotional level and on a physical, cock-stiffening one.
The confusion of a girl who has spent her whole life constructing an identity around modesty and restraint, only to discover that the deepest, truest part of her responds to being put on her knees in front of a man’s erect cock with a flood of arousal so intense it terrifies her.
Anne’s confusion didn’t arise on an intellectual level. It was existential for her. The ground had begun to move under her feet, and in her face I could see the sudden vertigo of realizing that the person she had always thought she was might not be the person she actually was.
Underneath the confusion, though… underneath the wide eyes and the quivering lips and the tears still drying on her cheeks…
I could see Anne’s need. It radiated from her like heat from a stove.
The way she knelt with her weight slightly forward, her body unconsciously inclining toward me.
The way her gaze kept dropping to my cock and then jerking back up to my face, as if she could discipline her eyes into obedience even while the rest of her had surrendered.
The way her thighs shifted beneath the pink chiffon, pressing together, releasing, pressing together again—that rhythmic, helpless self-stimulation she might not even know she was doing.
This girl had never been this close to a penis.
Not really. Whatever fumbling encounters she’d had with the boyfriend her file hypothesized—Chad, or Joe, or Kevin, the anxious college boyfriend who’d managed to deflower her technically, without ever actually reaching her—those didn’t count.
Those had been the sexual equivalent of reading about swimming in a textbook.
Anne Chamberlain had never knelt at a man’s feet, looked up at his hard cock, and felt the gravity of it—the sheer, animal reality of male arousal directed at her, demanding something from her, expecting something from her.
She felt it now.
“Give me your hand,” I said.
Her right hand lifted from her lap as if pulled by a string. It trembled visibly with a fine, continuous tremor that ran from her shoulder to her fingertips. She extended it toward me with the hesitant, reaching motion of someone touching a surface they suspect might burn them.
I took her hand, a little roughly, to satisfy both my own dominant instincts and Melissa’s note about the viewers’ preferences.
Anne’s slender fingers were cold and damp with nervous sweat, and they felt impossibly small in mine.
I guided them forward, closing the distance between her fingertips and the shaft of my cock with a deliberate, unhurried motion that gave her time to feel every inch of that closing gap—time to anticipate, to dread, to want.
Her fingers made contact.
The sound she made went straight through me.
A tiny, strangled intake of breath—not quite a gasp, not quite a whimper, but something between the two that somehow communicated shock, wonder, and fear in equal measure.
Her fingertips rested against the underside of my shaft, barely touching, as if the lightest possible contact was all she could manage before her nervous system overloaded.
“Wrap your hand around it,” I told her. “Feel how hard it is. That’s what you do to a man, Anne. That’s what your body—your submission—does to the cock that’s going to own you.”
“Oh, God…” she whispered. “Please… I don’t…”
* * *
Anne
My fingers curled. Slowly, one by one, like a flower closing in reverse. My hand couldn’t close around it completely. My fingers were too small, Master Paul’s girth too substantial.
I felt my eyes go wide as I understood just how big my fictional suitor’s cock had gotten, how well-endowed he was. Fresh heat rushed into my cheeks. My lips moved a tiny bit, as if to speak, but no sound emerged for a long moment, until finally I whispered, “It’s so…” and didn’t finish.
“Big,” Master Paul supplied, in a voice that made me swallow hard. In his tone I could tell that he wanted to make me confront the reality of it, inside the fiction of the ‘narrative arc’ Melissa seemed intent on creating.
“Yes,” he continued. “It is. And it’s going to be inside you, Anne. Inside that tight little cunt that’s never had anything close to this size thrusting in it. But not yet. First, you’re going to learn what it means to worship a penis.”
Fresh tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, the tears of a girl overwhelmed by sensation, by proximity, by the dawning comprehension that the thing she was holding in her shaking hand was going to reshape her understanding of her own body.
“Both hands,” Master Paul commanded. “Hold it with both hands. Get to know it.”
My left hand came up to join the right, and now I held the huge, rigid shaft in both palms, my small fingers arranged along the length of him like a girl cradling something precious and dangerous.
My grip felt unsteady; my hands kept tightening and then loosening as if I couldn’t decide between holding on and letting go.
“Move your hands,” my suitor instructed. “Slowly. Stroke from the base to the head and back. Feel the shape of it. Feel how the skin moves. Feel the veins under your fingers. That’s one way to make a man’s cock feel good.”
I obeyed. My hands slid upward along Master Paul’s length with a tentative, exploratory motion that I could tell was, to him, very obviously the first time I’d ever done this.
I wondered if in his heart he held sympathy for me, or only hungry lust. I let out another tiny whimper as I realized some wanton part of me hoped he felt only the impatient need to make me service his hardness.
My thumbs traced the ridge beneath the head, and my demanding fictional suitor let out a low, controlled exhale.
I felt my cheeks go pink again as I understood that my touch had affected Master Paul that way—the real man as well as the story character.
My eyes darted up to his face at the sound, and the expression I saw there—a dark, hard look of predatory appreciation—made my tummy flip.
“That’s it,” he growled. “Good girl. Now lean forward. Put your mouth on me.”
My hands stilled. I felt my eyes go wide again in that deer-in-the-headlights look I knew I’d worn when I had first walked into the studio. A protest formed behind my lips, an automatic I can’t that seemed to live in my throat as a kind of reflex.
“I’ve never—” I started.
“I know you haven’t,” he replied, his voice low but not gentle. “That’s why I’m going to teach you. Open your mouth, Anne. Press your lips against the head. Just that. Just a kiss.”
I leaned forward. The distance between my lips and the swollen head of his cock was only inches, but crossing those inches felt like crossing a border into a country I’d never visited, a country whose language I didn’t speak but whose customs my body seemed to understand with a fluency that terrified me.
My lips parted. I closed my eyes—I couldn’t do this with my eyes open, couldn’t watch myself doing it—and pressed my mouth against the tip of Master Paul’s long, hard manhood.
The skin was impossibly soft. I registered that first: the contrast between the rigid hardness beneath and the silk-smooth skin that covered it.
Warm. Alive. I could feel Master Paul’s pulse against my lips, a slow, steady throb.
The taste was faint but clean and slightly salty, mixed with something darker and naughtier that made my heart race.
“Oh, my God,” Melissa breathed from somewhere behind me and to the right. Her voice was hushed but carried clearly in the studio’s acoustics, the way voices resound in a cathedral. “Darlene, tell me you’re getting this.”
“Every frame,” Darlene replied, and I heard the soft, rapid-fire click of her old-fashioned camera—that mechanical hummingbird sound that had become the soundtrack to my humiliation.
“The angle from here is extraordinary. The way she’s kneeling with both hands wrapped around him and her lips just barely touching the tip—it’s like a fucking Renaissance painting. ”
“Good,” Master Paul said above me. “Now open wider. Take the head into your mouth. Let your lips stretch around it.”
I opened. The head slid past my lips and into my mouth.
The cock stretched me immediately as my jaw tried to widen to accommodate its girth, my lips pulling taut around the flared ridge.
A sound escaped me, muffled now, vibrating against his flesh: a whimper that seemed somehow to come into my throat from down between my legs.
“That’s it,” Master Paul murmured. His hand came to rest on the top of my head—not pushing, just resting there with a weight that communicated ownership.
His fingers threaded into my hair, loosening the ponytail I’d tied that morning so carefully.
“Now use your tongue. Swirl it around the head. Feel the ridge, feel the little opening at the top. Learn about what a cock feels like in your mouth.”
I obeyed. My tongue traced the contour of him—the smooth dome, the ridge where the head met the shaft, the tiny slit where I tasted that faint salt again, stronger now.
Master Paul’s breath changed above me; another of those slow, deep exhales through his nose that told me I was doing something right.
The knowledge that my mouth was giving this strong, commanding man pleasure sent a pulse of heat through my belly that made my thighs press together beneath the chiffon.
“Deeper,” he said. “Take more of me. Relax your jaw and slide forward. Breathe through your nose.”
I tried. The shaft pushed past the halfway point of my tongue and I felt the first flutter of panic—the instinct to pull back, to gag, to protect myself from the intrusion. My throat tightened and I made a choking sound that sent fresh tears spilling down my cheeks.
“Easy.” His voice was firm but not cruel. His hand on my head held me in place—not forcing his penis deeper, but preventing me from retreating. “Breathe. Through your nose. That’s it. Swallow once. Good. Now hold still and let yourself adjust.”
I breathed. I swallowed. The panic subsided, replaced by a fullness that felt enormous and intimate and strangely grounding, as if having my mouth stretched around Master Paul’s cock had anchored me to something solid in a world that had been spinning since I’d walked through the studio door.
“Jesus Christ,” Melissa said, her voice catching on the words in a way that stripped away the professional veneer entirely.
“Look at her. Look at that face. Darlene—the way her lips are stretched around him, the tears on her cheeks, the way her eyes are squeezed shut—she looks like a fucking angel choking on sin. That is the hottest thing I have ever seen in a studio. That little mouth trying to take that massive cock—it’s obscene. It’s perfect.”
I whimpered deep in my chest as I tried to ignore the humiliating commentary. Master Paul’s hand moved gently atop my head, as if to soothe my nerves.
“Now pull back,” he instructed. “Slowly. Let your lips drag along the shaft. Keep a tiny bit of suction—like you’re sucking on a straw, but gentler. That’s the stroke, Anne. Back and forth. Find a rhythm.”
I pulled back until just the head remained between my lips, then slid forward again, taking him deeper this time.
The rhythm felt clumsy at first—too fast, then too slow, my jaw already aching from the stretch—but Master Paul’s hand guided me with subtle pressure, speeding me up or slowing me down with the lightest touch against my scalp.
“Use your hands on what you can’t reach with your mouth,” he said. “Both hands on the base. Stroke while you suck. Let your spit coat the shaft—don’t be precious about it. A girl worshipping a cock should be messy.”