Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 68525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
I let out a little sob, because as he spoke, and as I looked more closely at the palace, and as I lost sight of it because the car turned from the encircling rim road to follow one of its spokes towards Gravamir House, his hand worked its way further and further up between my thighs. When he touched my pussy, twining his fingers in the curly hair and pressing two of their tips between my outer lips, I cried out softly, a forlorn, fading sort of cry.
Out the window, the view had become much more limited. The rim road had traveled through what had seemed a sort of park, perhaps laid out in that open way so as to display the glories of the city to their best effect. We had exited the open space soon after turning, and the car drove down a street with buildings on either side—not the palaces yet, but smaller structures with big front windows and signs that seemed to tell of shops inside, full of beautiful clothing and rich food of kinds I had never seen before.
“I’m going to dress you in panties from that store right there,” the baron said, pointing to a window where something in the shape of a woman—a mannequin, I suddenly remembered from my school reading—wore underwear of a sort I had never imagined. Hot blood flowed into my cheeks at the sight of those tiny panties and the little breast halter that matched them. “After we get this wet little quim of yours properly bared.”
My master emphasized his last words with a gentle squeeze, as if to make certain I knew what part of me he meant. The bodily sensation of the pressure and the friction seemed to combine with the embarrassing ideas the baron had introduced to my already-reeling mind… the idea of having my pussy hair removed, somehow… of what that would mean, if I was indeed made to wear the panties I had seen on the mannequin… of what I would look like, down there, how visible my private parts would be through the delicate, decorated fabric… of how it all must have something to do with the thing I didn’t understand… the terrifying but also helplessly fascinating prospect of fucking.
The fingertips between my thighs went further, found the opening there. I cried out much louder than I had a moment before, because I felt myself clench, and I felt my wetness flow onto my master’s fingers as he moved them in and out of me.
“Absolutely charming,” I heard Mistress Franla’s voice say. “You’ll want her bared as soon as I get her settled in her room, I imagine?”
“Of course,” the baron said. “They named her very well, I must say. I don’t think I’ve ever fingered a quim quite as wet as this one.”
“Show me, my lord, if you please,” the mistress said. “Look at me, Chalondra.”
I heard the breath rushing in and out of my mouth, felt it moving in and out of my lungs. I felt my hips jerk, my bottom move over the leather seat, reawakening the soreness in my backside from the paddle’s bruises. A tiny, whimpering noise came from my throat as I sensed how I had moistened the surface beneath me, and to my chagrin I felt my pussy clench hard around my master’s probing fingers. My back arched and that brought the tension in my upper arms and shoulders to a point where I couldn’t think of anything else… of anything but how I belonged to the man who had his hand between my thighs, casually and speculatively exploring the most private, most sensitive part of my body.
And I had to look at my new mistress. I had to. She had the device that would make those cuffs around my wrists send unbearable agony to my pussy, in place of the terrible pleasure and the desperate need the baron’s fingers had brought. My eyes had closed at some point, surely when my master had reminded me that Wetquim described me with such dreadful accuracy. With another whimper, because the baron’s fingers had just withdrawn, I opened them.
I could feel how pleading the expression on my face must look, as I turned my eyes to Mistress Franla and truly saw her for the first time. Ten years older than I, I guessed, her skin white as milk, her eyes a piercing blue and her tightly bound hair golden. She gazed back at me steadily, a very slight smile playing around the corners of her eyes without curving her lips more than a millimeter.
“Look at his lordship’s fingers,” she instructed, and I realized that my master had done as my mistress had requested: his right hand rose between us, just at the bottom of my field of vision.
I felt my face pucker into a mask of pitiful beseeching. A sob escaped my lips. I didn’t understand, or I didn’t want to understand, but I had the sudden sense that to look down, and see the evidence of my wayward need on my master’s hand, represented a kind of obedience that could change everything about who I thought I was. I shook my head, pleading wordlessly with Mistress Franla for her to spare me the shame, but knowing she would never grant such a mercy.