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 bit my lip hard. A soft, mewling whine came from my nose as I remembered the little bulb with the narrow tip, the nozzle my mistress had used, in the shower, to squirt the warm, soapy water into my bottom. The heat rushed into my cheeks once again as the shameful sensation came back—the intrusion that felt much too good—much too right, even… the pleasant warmth… the urge to let go… finally, at Mistress Franla’s command, the mortifying delight of expelling the cleansing fluid, as a sob of humiliation burst from my chest.
She had done it three times before she had pronounced me ready. She hadn’t told me why, or what ready might mean, with respect to that most private part of my anatomy.
The fingertip pushed. Ready for this? I wondered urgently. Ready for my master’s finger?
I cried out. My hips jerked again, this time in another direction. I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. I needed the darkness behind their lids to accompany the terrible darkness of my sudden need to impale myself on my master’s finger, as if I wanted to show him how clean Mistress Franla had gotten me.
“No, Chalondra,” he said, his voice suddenly strict. “Open those lovely eyes this instant.”
“Oh… oh, Great…” I couldn’t add the Vion. It came clear to me in that moment that I had been taught, growing up, to swear by the name of the world that had predetermined my destiny as a bed girl, a pleasure girl, bought by a nobleman who apparently wanted me only for the satisfaction of his shameful whims.
I squeezed my eyes more tightly closed.
“Do I need to spank you, Wetquim?” his deep voice became much more gentle, much more intimate.
I shook my head, but I didn’t open my eyes.
“Yes,” he mused. “Yes, I do. Let’s get these pretty panties down. Not all the way, of course. I like a girl with her underwear around her thighs when she kneels before me.”
I started to struggle as my master’s words brought image after degrading image to my mind’s eye. Mistress Franla held me tighter, bent my arms further to keep me precisely in place, and I sobbed with the discomfort of her strong hold.
The fingertip that had invaded my bottom hole withdrew. The fingers that had found my wetness and lingered inside the aching hole of my pussy pulled away, drawing a whimper of mortifying frustration from my throat. I felt those fingers take firm hold of the panties’ lace-decorated waistband and pull them down, over my hips, away from my pussy, out of my bottom’s shadowy cleft.
He dressed me in them, so he could pull them down. No one had ever taken down my underwear, whether with my consent or without it. I could hardly have said why, but the idea of a man—the man who owned me—pulling down my panties and leaving them halfway down my thighs in a tangle that covered nothing, that only served to remind me my master had bared me… it had a terrible power.
The bondage of my legs that the beautiful lacy panties exercised bore no real resemblance to the restraints Mistress Franla had bound me in, when I sat in the training chair. I guessed I could have ripped the delicate garment to shreds simply by moving my legs with enough vigor. But the whisper of the snow-white fabric over my thighs as I shifted in my vain resistance sent an electric thrill of irresistible, shameful need through my whole body.
Then everything seemed to shift and move around, my body above all. I had to open my eyes because it seemed like otherwise I might fall into an abyss or soar off into outer space. I felt my master’s hand on my back pulling me towards him and bending me downwards. I saw the carpet rushing towards me as Mistress Franla bent my arms again, this time at the elbows, so that she could cross my wrists and then transfer control of them from her two hands to the baron’s big, single, left hand.
I thought for a moment that I would fall all the way to the ground, but then my brain seemed to orient me properly, and I realized what my master meant to do just as I felt my waist press against the silken fabric of his trousers. The strength of his massive thigh underneath me supported me while also forcing me to bend. At the same time, the right hand that had pulled me and then pushed me over the baron’s left leg moved to my backside. My master took hold of my whole bottom, moving me that way, positioning me over his knee, prostrate.
I struggled feebly at first, out of sheer instinct rather than from any true spirit, but when the baron put his right leg across the backs of my knees, restraining me completely, my writhing grew desperate. I cried out for mercy as I felt how tightly he held me: my hands bent behind my back made each rebellious movement painful but the sheer terror of that position, of my bottom’s elevation, its availability for whatever my master chose to do, made my body move despite the knowledge that it would only make things worse for me.