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)
“Shall I put a towel under her quim, my lord?” Mistress Franla asked. “I’m afraid you’ll have to have those trousers cleaned, otherwise.”
A sob burst from my chest. My hips bucked over the baron’s thigh. I felt the light friction of the smooth, luxurious fabric. I remembered their color, the deep red-purple of Vionian wine. I thought of the wet spot I would leave on them, if my master did the same sorts of things with his fingers as he had so effectively and degradingly demonstrated he could do, of the stain that would display my pussy’s waywardness until the trousers’ next cleaning.
“Wetquim will clean them herself, as she will clean her panties,” the baron said. “You wish her to confront her whorish nature, am I correct? How better than to give her the task of cleaning up her own mess?”
“Oh, an excellent idea, my lord,” my mistress replied, and I could hear her smile of approval. Their little exchange had made my breath come in rough pants, in and out of my open lips, the utter humiliation working together with the exertion of my fruitless struggle to raise my heart rate and make my lungs work for air.
Worse, I could feel how my liquid need had already seeped from my pussy to dampen the fabric beneath me. My cheeks felt like a fiery furnace.
That blazing heat spread to the roots of my hair as my master put his hand there, forcing his fingers between my thighs, shifting his leg slightly to allow my knees to spread sufficiently, so that he could possess my pussy and my bottom completely in his firm grasp.
“This is a very special moment, Chalondra,” I heard him murmur, his voice seeming to come from far, far above. “I know your mistress paddled your poor little cunny, but a concubine’s first spanking from her master is much more than a correction.”
CHAPTER 21
Chalondra
His fingers worked me quietly for a few moments, the only sounds the mortifying wet noises from between my thighs and my soft whimpers at the pleasure—and even more at the awful conflict it raised in my heart and mind. The internal struggle I already knew, the one between body and spirit, seemed to acquire a new, even more troubling dimension: suddenly I wanted something else—something awful.
Please… master… please…
Not please stop. Just, stop. Not that.
My spirit would have been in that desperate request, praying to be spared the terrible trial. No.
Please, master. Yes, definitely that. Please stop making me feel good. Please stop teaching me how gently you can treat my pussy, my cunny, my wet little quim.
Please stop that, and… and…
Spank me.
I wanted my master to teach me a very different lesson from the one his skillful fingers were currently teaching me, there in his study, upended over his knee with my panties down.
I heard him make a soft clucking sound with his tongue. Somehow I knew that it didn’t represent actual disapproval: no, the baron didn’t really mind in the slightest that my wetness flowed into his hand like water flowing through an irrigated field.
“So needy, this little cunt of yours, Chalondra. Never fear. Your master is going to give you what you need in there, very soon.”
My hips bucked over his thigh. I struggled a little, but I knew I moved my arms only to make sure yet again that the baron had no intention of letting me twist them out of his grasp.
“But,” he murmured, his words soft and soothing, as if to match the movements of his fingers between my thighs, “you need this, too.”
How could I understand him so terribly well? How did I know that this didn’t mean the gentle motions of his fingertips up and down the cleft of my warm, slick pussy, the pressure on the little button at the top where it made me shudder with mingled gratification and longing for more?
How did I know that my master intended to satisfy my darkest desire, and give me the spanking I had coming—for not opening my eyes, for staining my panties and his trousers, for wanting to be fucked, whatever that meant?
He pulled his hand away. I cried out piteously with unsatisfied arousal, as if having learned that the wanton desire in my pussy could find a release, I needed that climax more than I had ever needed anything in the world.
“This…” my master said, and then he brought his firm hand down right in the center of my bottom, with a sharp crack that echoed off the high ceiling of his study. I cried out again, and I renewed my feigned struggle, the fruitless writhing that nevertheless seemed to give me permission to feel like I had tried to stop my master from disciplining me.
“Is…” he continued, and he spanked my right cheek even harder. “A very… spankable… little… bottom.” Left, center, right, left, with a pause for effect between each blow. Then he sped up his cadence and spoke over my sobs and cries, spanking me all the while. “When Wetquim disobeys, she will go over her master’s knee and spend as long there as he sees fit to correct her.”