Chapter 14
Anne
My hands found the base of his shaft, slick now with my own saliva, and I stroked in time with my mouth, my small fists working the thick root while my lips and tongue attended to the upper half.
The wet sounds that filled the space between us were obscene—slurping, sucking, the liquid percussion of a girl learning to service a man’s cock—and each sound sent a fresh wave of humiliated arousal crashing through me.
“Now,” Master Paul said, and his voice had thickened, roughened at the edges in a way that made my stomach clench. “I want you to go lower. Take my cock out of your mouth and kiss down the shaft. All the way down to my balls.”
I pulled off him with a gasp. My breath came in ragged pants. I looked up at him. My face must have been a wreck, tear-streaked and flushed and shining with spit. His expression was one of dark, controlled hunger that made me feel simultaneously terrified and desperately, achingly needed.
“Hold that pose, Anne.”
Darlene’s voice cut through the humid fog of the moment with the clinical precision of a scalpel.
I froze—my face tilted up toward Master Paul, my hands still wrapped around the base of his shaft, my lips swollen and glistening, my cheeks wet with tears and saliva.
I couldn’t see Darlene from where I knelt, but I heard her moving somewhere to my left, heard the soft click-click-click of the shutter firing in quick succession.
“Don’t move,” she repeated. “That expression—stay right there. Eyes up at him, just like that.”
I stayed. I knelt there, holding a man’s rigid cock in both hands, looking up at him with what I could only imagine was the most debased, desperate, ruined face a girl had ever worn, and I held perfectly still while a woman I barely knew photographed me from multiple angles.
“God, this is good,” Darlene said, and I heard her shift position, circling around behind Master Paul’s hip to get what I assumed was a three-quarter view. “You know, it’s genuinely refreshing to watch a skilled trainer teach an innocent girl how to give head.”
“Right?” Melissa said. “That’s it, Anne. Okay, Paul… keep going… teach her how lick your balls properly.”
Master Paul pressed gently on the back of my head. With a little whine, I lowered my mouth to the shaft. My lips pressed against the underside, tracing the thick vein that ran its length, and I kissed my way downward—small, wet, open-mouthed kisses that left glistening marks on his skin.
When I reached the base, I hesitated. His testicles hung heavy and full beneath the shaft, and the intimacy of what he was asking me to do—to put my mouth there, to worship that part of him—made my face burn so hot I thought the tears on my cheeks might actually steam.
“Go on,” he said. “Take one in your mouth. Gently. Cup it with your tongue and suck. Softly. A man’s balls are sensitive—you treat them with care, but you don’t shy away from them. A girl who worships a cock worships all of it.”
I opened my mouth and took one of his testicles past my lips.
The skin was different here—softer, looser, with a warmth that felt almost feverish.
I cradled it on my tongue the way he’d told me to and suckled gently, and the sound Master Paul made—a low, guttural groan that seemed to rise from somewhere deep in his chest—sent a bolt of liquid heat straight between my legs.
“The other one,” he said, his voice strained now. “Same thing.”
I released the first and took the second, repeating the gentle suction, the cradling tongue, and this time I added something of my own—a small, swirling motion that I knew somehow would feel good, and Master Paul’s hand tightened in my hair.
“Christ,” he muttered. “Good girl. Now back up. Kiss your way back up the shaft and take me in your mouth again. Deeper this time. Show me you want it.”
I obeyed. My lips traced the return journey—up the shaft, over the ridge, around the swollen head—and then I sank down onto him with a determination that surprised me, taking him past the point where I’d gagged before, breathing through my nose the way he’d taught me, swallowing around his girth to open my throat.
Tears streamed from my eyes at the effort, but I held him there, my lips stretched wide, my jaw aching, my hands working the base, and I felt—beneath the discomfort, beneath the stretch and the strain—a swell of something that felt terrifyingly close to pride.
“That’s it,” Master Paul growled. “That’s a girl learning to worship. Faster now. Stroke me with your mouth. Use your tongue on the underside while you move.”
I found a rhythm. My head bobbed on his shaft, my lips dragging along the slick skin, my tongue pressed flat against the thick vein on the underside the way he’d told me, and the wet, obscene sounds of my mouth working him filled the bedroom set like a kind of music I’d never imagined myself making.
“Paul.” Melissa’s voice came from somewhere behind the lights, and even through the haze of what I was doing—of what I’d become, a girl on her knees with a cock in her mouth—I could hear the particular edge in it.
The producer’s edge. The woman who studied data and knew what sold.
“The talking. Can you go harder? Way harder? Our subscriber analytics are crystal clear—the verbal dominance is what’s driving engagement through the roof.
Don’t be nice about it. Be brutal. Tell her what she is. ”
There was a pause. The briefest pause, during which Master Paul’s hand shifted in my hair, his fingers tightening fractionally, and I felt the change in him before I heard it—a gathering, a decision, a door being opened that he’d been holding only slightly ajar.
“Such a naughty little whore,” Master Paul said, and his voice had dropped into something I hadn’t heard from him before.
Something that scraped along the floor of his register like a blade being dragged across stone.
His hand fisted in my hair—not gently now, not guiding, but gripping—and he held my head still with my lips stretched around the upper third of his shaft.
“Let me tell you something about this pretty little whore’s mouth of yours, Anne. ”
I whimpered around him. The sound vibrated against his flesh and I felt his cock twitch in response.
“This mouth,” he said, “is your face’s cunt.
That’s what it is. It’s a wet little cunt in your face, and right now it’s doing exactly what a cunt is made to do—taking a big cock and learning to like it.
Do you understand me? Every time I push into this warm, sweet hole, I’m fucking you.
I’m fucking your face the way I’m going to fuck your pussy once I’ve shaved it bare and made it ready for me. ”
The words detonated inside me, each one landing somewhere deeper than the last. My whole body shuddered.
A sound escaped me—muffled, desperate, keening—that rose from the very bottom of my belly and vibrated through the thick shaft filling my mouth.
My thighs clenched together so hard beneath the baby doll’s chiffon that my knees ached, and I felt—God help me, I felt—a fresh, humiliating rush of wetness spill from between my folds, hot and slick against my inner thighs.
He’d called my mouth a cunt. A cunt in my face. And my body had responded to those words the way a match responds to a striking surface: instantaneously, violently, with a flame that couldn’t be taken back.
“That’s what I thought,” Master Paul growled, and I knew he’d felt my whimper, felt the vibration of my shameful need against his cock.
His hips pressed forward, pushing another inch into my mouth, and his hand held my head immobile.
“You like hearing that, don’t you? You like knowing that your mouth is just another hole for a man to use.
A nice, warm, tight little hole that was made for a cock this size to fuck. ”
I squeezed my eyes shut. Tears ran freely down my cheeks, mixing with the saliva that coated my chin and dripped onto the lace bodice of the baby doll.
My hands quaked on the base of his shaft.
I couldn’t nod—his grip in my hair prevented it—but the sound I made, the long, shuddering moan that seemed to pour out of me without end, answered for me with a clarity that no words could have matched.
“Oh, that’s great,” Melissa said, her voice low and electric. “Darlene?”
“I’m getting everything,” Darlene replied.
I heard her moving—quick repositioning, the click of the shutter firing in bursts.
“The tears with the saliva, the way her throat is working—it’s extraordinary.
And the nightgown is catching everything.
The drool on the lace. It’s filthy and beautiful at the same time. ”
“Keep going, Paul,” Melissa said. “Don’t let up.”
Master Paul didn’t let up.
His hips began to move. Not the gentle, guided rhythm from before—this was something else entirely.
He thrust forward into my mouth with a force that pushed me backward on my knees, and only his fist in my hair kept me from toppling.
The head of his cock hit the back of my throat and I gagged—a wet, wretched sound that seemed to echo off the studio walls—and before I could recover, he pulled back and drove forward again, deeper, harder.
“Take it,” he snarled. “Open that throat. A girl with a face-cunt this pretty needs to learn how to take a man’s cock all the way down.
You think I bought you that nightgown so you could look pretty and keep your mouth shut?
No. I bought it so I could see you drooling all over it while I fuck your face. ”
He thrust again. And again. A brutal, relentless rhythm that turned my mouth into something that existed solely for his use, his pleasure, his satisfaction.
My jaw screamed. My throat spasmed around each invasion, producing sounds—gagging, choking, wet sucking sounds—that I would have found revolting an hour ago and that now seemed to flow from me as naturally as breathing.
Saliva poured from the corners of my stretched lips, running down my chin to fall onto the pink lace of the baby doll’s bodice, soaking the delicate fabric where it clung to my breasts.
“Look at me,” he commanded, and I forced my swollen eyes open, looking up at him through a blur of tears while he fucked my mouth with his cock.
His face above me held nothing but dark intent, his jaw set, his brown eyes burning down into mine.
“There she is. There’s my good little cunt-face.
You’re dripping, aren’t you? Between your legs.
I can see your thighs shaking. I can see the wet spot on the nightgown where your cunt is leaking all over the chiffon. ”
I was. I could feel it—the soaking evidence of my arousal, the way the thin fabric between my thighs had become drenched, clinging to my swollen folds with an obscene intimacy.
My hips rocked involuntarily, grinding against nothing, seeking friction that wasn’t there, and the motion made the chiffon shift and cling and I knew that the camera was capturing every detail of my body’s treacherous response.
Master Paul’s rhythm faltered. His thrusts grew shorter, harder, more urgent, and I could feel the change in his cock: the thickening, the added rigidity, the pulse that ran through the shaft like a second heartbeat accelerating toward something inevitable.
He pulled out of my mouth with a wet, obscene sound that left me gasping, my jaw hanging open. I knelt there, panting, wrecked, my face a ruin of tears and spit and smeared makeup, the baby doll soaked and clinging to my body.
“Melissa,” Master Paul said, his voice rough, his hand still fisted in my hair, his cock inches from my face, twitching with visible urgency. “Can I come on the nightgown?”
There was a beat of silence. Then Melissa’s voice, sharp with certainty: “Yes. Absolutely yes. Come on the nightgown. The lace, the bodice—ruin it. That’s the image. That’s the whole fucking thesis. The pretty thing he gave her, destroyed by what he made her do in it.”
“Darlene?” Master Paul asked.
“Ready,” Darlene said. “Tight on her face and chest. Go.”
Master Paul’s hand moved from my hair to the shaft of his cock. He gripped himself—his fist working in fast, brutal strokes—and with his other hand he tilted my chin up, forcing me to look at him, forcing my face into position like a canvas being angled toward the light.
“Keep your mouth open,” he ordered. “Eyes on me. Don’t you dare look away.”