Chapter 22
Paul
I took my time lowering Anne’s jeans to reveal the training underwear. The white cotton emerged inch by inch as I worked the denim down over her hips, and the effect was exactly what I’d hoped for.
The training panties sat high on her waist, their boy-short legs extending to mid-thigh, covering her completely in plain, unadorned white that made her look like something between a schoolgirl and a penitent.
Against the casual defense of the jeans and T-shirt she’d been wearing, this underwear told a different story entirely—the story of a girl whose most intimate places had been claimed, contained, and placed under authority.
I eased the jeans down to her knees and let them bunch there.
I didn’t take them all the way off. The restriction was deliberate: denim tangled around her knees would limit her movement, hobble her, remind her with every instinctive attempt to shift her stance that she was not free to go anywhere I hadn’t put her.
“Hands on the mattress,” I repeated. “Flat. Don’t move them.”
Her palms pressed harder into the white sheets.
I could see the tendons standing out on the backs of her hands, the knuckles bloodless with pressure.
She had drawn her shoulders up toward her ears in a defensive posture I’d come to recognize—the body’s attempt to make itself smaller, to take up less space, to present less surface area to whatever was coming.
I stepped back to look at her. The white cotton stretched across her bottom, pulled taut by her bent-forward posture, and through the fabric I could see the lovely shape of her—the twin curves, the shadowed cleft between them, the way the gusset disappeared between her thighs.
The cotton had already darkened at the center.
Even from two feet away, in the studio’s carefully calibrated lighting, I could see the spreading stain of her arousal soaking through the training panties’ gusset.
I let the belt hang at my side. The leather made a faint creaking sound as it shifted in my grip.
“Do you know what these panties are, Anne?”
Her voice came out thin, muffled by the fact that her head was bowed between her rigid arms. “Training… training panties, sir.”
“That’s right. Training panties. For girls who need to be trained.
Girls whose bodies haven’t learned yet who they belong to.
” I reached out with my free hand and traced the waistband where it sat against the small of her back.
She flinched at the contact, with a full-body tremor that started at the point of touch and radiated outward.
“You’re wearing them because you have an accepted suitor.
Plain. White. Modest. The kind of underwear a girl wears when her suitor wants her covered up properly.
When he wants her to learn what it means to belong to a man. ”
I hooked my thumb under the waistband.
“And now I’m going to take them down. Because a girl who played with her suitor’s cunt while he was away doesn’t deserve to keep her panties up.”
I pulled them down. Slowly. The same deliberate pace I’d used with the jeans, peeling the white cotton over the swell of her bottom with a care that was itself a form of cruelty—giving her time to feel every inch of exposure, every centimeter of skin that passed from covered to bare.
The fabric clung to her pussy as it descended, reluctant to release the wetness that had glued it to her folds, and when it finally peeled free, the soft, wet sound it made was audible in the quiet of the set.
I heard Darlene’s shutter click twice in rapid succession.
Anne’s bare bottom presented itself to me in the studio light.
Pale, unblemished, the skin smooth and fair, with the faintest ghost of pink still visible from yesterday’s hand spanking.
Her thighs pressed together with a force that made the muscles in her legs visibly shake, and between the tops of those clenched thighs I could see the glistening of her arousal, a slick shine that caught Darlene’s key light and threw it back like a signal.
I doubled the belt in my hand. I adjusted my grip—the buckle end wrapped twice around my fist, the folded leather extending about eighteen inches from my palm.
The width was good. The suppleness was good.
This was a belt I’d broken in over years of use, and the leather had developed the particular pliancy that allowed accuracy without excessive severity.
I could lay a stripe exactly where I wanted it, with exactly the force I intended, and the sound it would produce…
that sharp, flat crack of leather meeting bare skin…
would carry its own psychological weight independent of the sting.
“I’m going to whip you until I think you’ve had enough,” I said. “The way you so clearly played with your little cunt until you were fully satisfied.”
* * *
Anne
I felt my face twist into a penitential pout that brought its own wave of humiliation burning through my body as I remembered that the cameras were capturing everything.
The idea that my suitor—my master—would whip me until he thought I had gotten what I deserved brought another clench between my thighs even as terror surged in my chest.
The first stroke landed before I was ready for it.
The sound reached me first. I heard a flat, explosive crack that split the quiet of the set like a gunshot.
Then the pain arrived, a fraction of a second behind, blooming across both cheeks in a line of white-hot fire that felt nothing like his hand.
His hand had been deep, thudding, a blunt percussion that sank into the muscle.
The belt was something else entirely. The belt felt like a blade of sensation, thin and exact and searingly bright, that painted itself across the fullest part of my bottom and seemed to burn there, pulsing, radiating outward like ripples on water.
And then he kept whipping me, over and over.
I screamed. Not a whimper. Not a gasp. A scream—high and sharp and utterly involuntary—that tore itself from my throat before I could clench my teeth against it.
My fingers clawed at the sheets. My hips jerked forward, pressing my lap into the edge of the mattress, and the motion pulled the bunched denim of my jeans taut around my knees, reminding me with brutal efficiency that I couldn’t go anywhere.
“Stay in position,” Master Paul said behind me. His voice was calm though he continued to bring the belt down in a terrible, steady rhythm. Measured. The voice of a man performing a necessary task with professional attention.
He moved the lashes lower, catching the crease where the bottom of my cheeks met the tops of my thighs—that tender strip of skin that seemed to have been designed by some cruel architect specifically for this purpose.
The pain was different here: sharper, more intimate, closer to the parts of me that were swollen and wet and screaming for attention.
I sobbed. My forehead dropped to the mattress and I pressed my face into the white sheets and sobbed while the stripes burned itself into my flesh.
“Paul.” Melissa’s voice came from somewhere behind the lights, low and charged. “If you’re feeling it, it’s a good time to get hyper-dominant.”
The next lashes landed squarely across the center of my bottom, overlapping the first, and the intersection of fresh pain on already punished skin produced a sound from my throat that I didn’t recognize as human.
My back arched. My toes curled inside my sneakers.
The tears had started up again, arriving all at once, a flood that soaked into the white sheets beneath my face.
“Tell me, sweetheart,” Master Paul said, the rhythm of the belt never faltering, “does this feel as good as playing with your cunt?”
My whole body clenched—every muscle from my scalp to my toes seizing in a spasm that was part shame, part agony, and part the desperate need that lived in the same dark, molten place that had produced five orgasms last night.
“Answer me.” More lashes, higher now, catching the fleshiest curve of my bottom with a crack that echoed off the studio walls. “When you had your fingers between your legs last night, in the dark, rubbing that disobedient little cunt—did it feel better than having your butt whipped for it?”
“Yes!” I sobbed into the sheets. “Yes, sir… but I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—”
“Are you?” Three more strokes. They landed diagonally, crossing the earlier welts at an angle that made me shriek and stamp my feet uselessly against the floor, the jeans around my knees turning the motion into a pathetic, hobbled shuffle.
“I don’t believe you, Anne. I think you liked playing with yourself so much that you couldn’t stop.
I think you came, didn’t you? I think you lay there in your bed and rubbed your little cunt until you came, and then you did it again. And again.”
I couldn’t breathe. The accuracy of his words—the way he described exactly what I’d done, as if he’d been standing in the corner of my bedroom watching—felt like its own kind of nakedness, an exposure more devastating than the bareness of the bottom he was whipping.
My fingers twisted in the sheets so hard I could feel the fabric cutting into my knuckles.
“How many times?” he asked. His voice had dropped into that register I’d heard yesterday, the one Melissa had unlocked: the blade-on-stone growl that scraped along the floor of his chest. “How many times did you come, Anne?”
Three more strokes fell. I wailed.
“How many?”
“F-five,” I choked out, and the word tasted like ashes. “Five times. I came five times, sir.”
Master Paul stopped whipping me. The silence that followed was worse than the belt.
I could feel him standing behind me, the heat of his presence against my punished skin, and I could feel the weight of that number settling over both of us.
Five times. A girl who had never brought herself to orgasm in her life had come five times in one night, thinking about the man who now stood behind her with a belt in his hand.
“Five,” Master Paul repeated. The word came out quiet, almost contemplative, and that quietness terrified me more than shouting would have. “Five times, you used my property without permission.”
“Yes, sir.” Barely a whisper.
“Then I think five more minutes of the belt is appropriate. Don’t you?”
I sobbed. I pressed my face deeper into the sheets and sobbed, and I nodded, because what else could I do?
I had earned this. My body had earned this, with its wanton, insatiable need, and the part of me that had whispered he would punish me at the crest of last night’s climax understood with a terrible, crystalline clarity that this was exactly where that whisper had been leading.
He began to whip me again, and I screamed as the new lashes fell across the tops of my thighs. I sobbed into the mattress. My hips bucked forward, my knees tried to buckle, and the jeans held me in place like shackles.
“I want you to think about something while I finish,” Master Paul said, and his voice had taken on a new quality now—something darker, more possessive, something that made my stomach drop even as the pain blazed across my skin.
“I want you to think about what’s going to happen after I shave you.
After I take every bit of hair off that cunt and make you smooth and bare and mine. ”
Five more lashes. Lower. The crease again. I wailed.
“I’m going to fuck you, Anne.”
The words landed with more force than the belt. My entire body went rigid. The sob caught in my throat and became something else—a strangled, broken sound that contained equal parts terror and a hunger so raw it frightened me.
“I’m going to lay you down on this bed,” he continued, the belt cracking over and over across my bottom while he spoke, as if punctuating his own sentence with leather, “and I’m going to spread your legs apart, and I’m going to push my cock into that tight little cunt, and I am going to enjoy every inch of it.
Every single inch. I’m going to feel how wet you are.
I’m going to feel how tight you are. And you’re going to lie there and take it and know that this—this—is what your body was made for.
Not your fingers in the dark. My cock. Inside you.
Filling you up until there’s no room left for disobedience. ”
The next lashes were the hardest. They landed squarely across both cheeks with cracks that seemed to split the air, and the pain that followed was so complete, so total, that my vision went white.
I collapsed forward onto the mattress, my arms giving out beneath me, my face buried in the sheets, my body shaking with sobs that came from somewhere so deep inside me I wasn’t sure they’d ever stop.
The pain wasn’t the worst part, though. The worst part was what the pain did to the rest of me.
Each stroke of the belt had sent shockwaves through my lower body, and those shockwaves had found the swollen, aching center of my need and amplified it.
The agony on the surface of my skin and the desperate, liquid want beneath it had become indistinguishable; two aspects of a single, overwhelming sensation that had colonized my entire body.
I was dripping. I could feel it—the evidence of my shameful arousal running down my inner thighs, hot and slick, making the skin there glisten in the studio lights, I felt certain. The belt had punished my bottom and my body had responded by flooding my pussy with proof that it wanted more.
“Now,” Master Paul said, and his voice had gone quieter, more controlled, more dangerous. “Reach back. Both hands. I want you to take hold of your cheeks and pull them apart.”