Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 57296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
“No hands, now,” he told me, and I took them away. I thrust them down to my sides in little fists.
Ivan lowered my head, and put my mouth on the head of his cock. I whimpered at the shameful feeling of having it there, where it didn’t belong—where it made an independent young woman into a naughty cocksucker.
He held my head in place and he began to move his hips, and I understood for the first time why foulmouthed people sometimes talked about face-fucking. My master meant to fuck me—not just my pussy, the place where a man was supposed to fuck a woman, but every part of me where his rigid penis could go.
“Oh, that’s good,” he murmured, as he moved the massive shaft in and out gently and slowly, as if trying to conserve his pleasure. “So good, Heather, for a beginner. I would come here very soon if I didn’t mean to come in your little cunt.”
CHAPTER 11
Heather
Ivan told me to stand up and go over to the ottoman in front of the fire. To lay myself down over it, my spanked backside toward him. My mind and body blazed hot with the utter degradation of his previous words, that obscene promise to reach his climax inside me.
In my… my…
My little cunt.
Overwhelmed by the humiliation of the awful word, and the conflict my helpless arousal at it brought, I didn’t even register the precise terms he had used for this latest command. He had spoken the order to get up and to place myself where he had decided he would fuck me for the first time in such a clear, direct way that—thanks to the wand’s effect—my body simply did as my master had said. I found myself rising to my feet… turning toward the blazing hearth… seeing the piece of furniture Ivan had designated for my defloration.
I had the strongest feeling—though I couldn’t for anything in the world tell whether my mind had just created the impression out of whole cloth—that Ivan had delivered this last instruction so simply and clearly for a precise reason. He meant, I felt certain, to give me the opportunity to reflect on how deeply I must need this, if my limbs simply arranged themselves according to his will.
The wand, he wanted me to see, only made it a little easier for me to experience the loss of my innocence in the manner a girl like me should lose that precious treasure: her thoroughly spanked backside presented over a dominant man’s footstool, her warm, wet pussy offered for his cock’s rough use.
Without thought I moved the meter or so that lay between me and the ottoman, on shaky knees. The fire’s heat grew with each step, until I sank down over the well-padded, leather-upholstered surface. I grasped the far corners of the thing’s top, my knees pressing into its sides three or four centimeters above the soft Persian rug that covered the floor of my master’s study—his sanctuary, as I had already been able to discern, and his favorite place to discipline and enjoy his bed girls. My toes pushed into that carpet’s softness, able to find a little traction but adding at the same time to the awkward feeling of the posture and the embarrassing impression of being upended for my owner’s convenience in using me rather than for my own comfort.
Again the idea floated into my mind that Ivan had ordered me into this position so directly because he wanted to make it easier for me—because he had started to care for me, and he wanted to take care of me. I tried desperately to discover where the thought might have come from, because on a fundamental level it seemed so insane. In the conventional world, a place where naked girls didn’t arrive in crates and get spanked for hesitating to show their anuses, a man doesn’t show he cares by telling a young woman to lay herself down atop an ottoman for fucking.
But Ivan’s next words, which burned themselves individually into my memory, seemed to confirm precisely that notion. My master spoke in a warm voice, accompanied by a creaking that I knew must come from his easy chair as he stood up and the soft whisper of fabric that had to come from his shrugging off his robe.
“When you are ready, Heather, you may put your hands behind you and show me where my cock belongs.”
Not an order, or even simply a granting of permission. Ivan had said, “When you are ready.” Those four words echoed in my brain, my master’s musical accent seeming to make them all the more indelible.
I felt my face go crimson as I absorbed his meaning and his clear intention. Ivan Antonov owned me. He had complete command of me.
He could simply and straightforwardly have taken me, used me with his hardness, enjoyed me as long and as forcefully as he pleased. He had countless minions at his beck and call to help him, if necessary, though he could undoubtedly have triumphed over my feeble strength with his powerful body without any assistance at all.