Chapter 37
Anne
The first press of the silicone against the place his thumbs had prepared felt nothing like his thumbs. The size of it seemed like its own argument, and my body’s initial answer was a clenching refusal so complete that I heard myself whimper with the effort of it.
“Breathe out,” he said. “The way you just learned.”
I breathed out. The way I’d learned, from his thumbs—the softening, the yielding, the surrender that went deeper than muscle. The silicone pressed forward by a fraction.
“Good. Again.”
I breathed out again. Another fraction. The stretch burned and I arched against it. My bound hands clawed at the sheet and I made a sound that the studio walls caught and held.
“Christ,” I thought I heard Melissa say—but again, I might have imagined it, as well as the soft murmur of agreement I thought I heard from the direction of Darlene’s position next to the camera.
“That’s it,” Master Paul said, in a voice that seemed to have a quality that didn’t come only from the fictional scene—the voice from the dark bedroom, the voice that said wedding. “That’s my girl. Feel it, Annie. Feel your ass opening… learning to take the cock.”
He worked the dildo with the same patience he’d worked his thumbs.
Slow and incremental and absolutely implacable, advancing by degrees so small that each one felt survivable even as their accumulation became something vast and overwhelming.
My body screamed and softened and screamed again and softened further.
I pressed my forehead into the mattress between my restrained forearms and I breathed and breathed and breathed.
The fullness, when it had progressed far enough to constitute a genuine intrusion, became something I had no reference point for.
It hurt so much, but I could accept it, somehow.
And it didn’t lie so very far from pleasure, either.
Something deeper than the burn had begun to pulse with each fractional advance.
“Please.” My voice came from somewhere I didn’t recognize. “Please, sir. Please. I can’t… sir… it’s too much, it’s—”
“You can,” he said.
“I can’t take any more of it, I need… please, sir, please, I need—” I pressed my face into the sheet. “I need you. Please. Please give me your cock instead. Please. I want you, I want you inside me, please, sir… Master… please—”
The advance stopped.
Stillness. The fullness held me, immense and inescapable; I breathed around it in short, ragged increments, and waited.
“That’s what I was waiting for,” he said softly.
The dildo withdrew, slowly, and the sensation of its absence was almost as overwhelming as its presence had been. I lay over the bolster and shook and felt the cool air where the heat of it had been, and I heard him set it aside on the mattress with a sound that seemed very final.
Then I heard his belt. The buckle. The sound of his zipper, and the quiet of a man preparing himself. I turned my face against the sheet and closed my eyes. I felt the tears sliding sideways across the bridge of my nose.
The mattress dipped. His weight settled astride me.
His thighs bracketed my hips, the fabric of his evening trousers rough against the outside of my bare thighs below the white lace.
His hands found my hips. His thumbs traced the ribbon sides of the panties one final time, a gesture that felt almost ceremonial.
My suitor… my master… still fully clothed. Astride me, his long, hard penis jutting in my mind’s eye: ready… ready…
Ready to fuck. Ready to fuck my ass.
The head of his cock pressed against the place framed by the terrible oval.
“Breathe out,” he said.
I breathed out.
My master entered my anus for the first time.
The sound that came out of me as I felt the stretch and the burn had a quality unlike anything I had produced in the five days of this… this what? This journey… this adventure… this exploration of my wanton need…
It sounded involuntary and ragged and stripped of every performance quality, the sound of a body meeting something it had never met before and being remade by the encounter. My bottom, I felt in that moment, would never be the same after a penis so big and hard had used it.
My bound hands pressed into the mattress above my head. I arched my back and, though the corset of the previous day’s scene wasn’t there to hold me, something else held me—Master Paul’s hands on my hips, his thighs against mine, the absolute, settled authority of his presence above and behind me.
As I felt that control, an instinct from far below my awareness responded to it. I squirmed. I tried to crawl up the bed in full knowledge that all I could do with my muscles was tell my master that he hadn’t tamed me completely.
“You’re not going anywhere, you little slut,” he said.
His voice sounded low and slightly strained with the effort of his own restraint.
The strain, with its evidence that this was costing him too, that my body was doing something to his control, sent a pulse of dark warmth through the burn.
“Stay right here with me, Annie. You’re not getting off this bed until you’ve got my seed up this naughty backside. ”
I stayed. I sobbed. I wailed in discomfort.
He advanced slowly. The burn deepened and I pressed my forehead into the sheet. I breathed with the ragged discipline of a girl who had learned, over five days, that her body could be trusted to expand beyond what her mind believed possible.
Each inch felt like a renegotiation between what I thought I could bear and what he knew I could.
Each time I thought I’d reached the limit, his hands on my hips communicated something—a steadying pressure, a fractional pause, a warmth that moved through his palms and into my skin like a message sent below the threshold of language.
Then he had his massive penis all the way inside me.
The fullness felt total, and unlike anything else my master had done to my body.
It reached places his cock had never reached in my pussy, nerve endings that had no experience with such obscene matters, and the sensation they produced was something that existed outside the vocabulary of pleasure or pain—something older, more fundamental, a feeling of having been claimed at a depth that made every previous act of possession seem preliminary.
“Good girl,” he said above me, and his voice had shed everything except the truth. “My good girl. You’re taking all of me. It’s time to fuck this sweet ass properly.”
He began to move.
It was slow at first. The same patient, incremental rhythm he’d applied to everything tonight, giving my body time to translate each new sensation before introducing the next.
I gripped the sheet with my bound hands and breathed and felt the burn transmute, degree by degree, into something that still contained the burn but contained other things too—a kind of sensation I didn’t have a name for but without being pleasurable made me feel good.
“Good girl,” Master Paul growled again, and I understood. “Such a sweet, tight little asshole. My cock feels so good, Annie. Just take it now.”
Good. It feels good. To serve… to please…
to submit. Even when it hurts so much. I screamed as he fucked me, then, and I kept screaming and sobbing, and his cock kept fucking me.
It felt good to scream, to let it out, because I knew my master wouldn’t stop—because my master knew exactly what I needed.
Then I blinked as I caught sight of Penelope, standing to the side of the set, watching the scene.
I hadn’t realized until that moment how detached I’d become, with Master Paul’s help.
My reaction to my boss’s presence on set when I was having my anal virginity taken for the camera, though, told me that the real Anne had traveled a zillion miles into space.
From that distance, my mind said, very calmly, Oh, look. It’s my boss.
Then, What’s that look on her face?
Then, Oh, my God… is she… jealous?
She obviously was. I understood it with a calm that should have been impossible.
Master Paul’s had buried his cock to the hilt in my bottom and his rhythm had begun to build, moving toward something I could feel gathering in the tension of his thighs against mine, in the slight roughening of his breathing, in the way his hands on my hips had tightened from guidance into grip.
Penelope Gallagher stood at the edge of the set’s white light with her arms crossed and her perfect posture and her expression doing everything it could to be professional, to be merely observational, to be the face of a senior executive monitoring the progress of an asset in the field.
And failing. The mask had slipped by some fraction of an inch that I, from my extraordinary distance, could read with complete clarity.
She wanted to be me.
She wanted to be the girl laid over the bolster with her wrists cuffed and her punished bottom in the air and a cock like a truncheon moving inside it. Not only that, though. I could tell Penelope wanted to be the girl that Master Paul had chosen.
A bit of wickedness moved through me. I felt small and warm and thoroughly disproportionate to the situation, and I loved it.
I held it in my chest like a coal while Master Paul drove deep into my most private place.
His hands locked down on my hips with a force that said he was very close now.
I thought, with a serenity that would have astonished me five days ago: She can watch.
Something about that idea, of me consenting my boss to watch my anal defloration…
of me inviting her to watch… made me clench harder than I had yet this morning.
The discomfort of Master Paul moving in my tightest channel seemed to transform more fully into desperate need in my pussy.
I squeezed with my thighs and bucked my hips, trying to rub my clit against the bolster through the panties.
I let out a desperate whimper as I felt an orgasm suddenly just out of reach.