Page 24 of Trained at the Office
“Such a naughty little whore,” Master Paul said, and his voice had dropped into something I hadn’t heard from him before. Something that scraped along the floor of his register like a blade being dragged across stone. His hand fisted in my hair—not gently now, not guiding, but gripping—and he held my head still with my lips stretched around the upper third of his shaft. “Letme tell you something about this pretty little whore’s mouth of yours, Anne.”
I whimpered around him. The sound vibrated against his flesh and I felt his cock twitch in response.
“This mouth,” he said, “is your face’s cunt. That’s what it is. It’s a wet little cunt in your face, and right now it’s doing exactly what a cunt is made to do—taking a big cock and learning to like it. Do you understand me? Every time I push into this warm, sweet hole, I’m fucking you. I’m fucking your face the way I’m going to fuck your pussy once I’ve shaved it bare and made it ready for me.”
The words detonated inside me, each one landing somewhere deeper than the last. My whole body shuddered. A sound escaped me—muffled, desperate, keening—that rose from the very bottom of my belly and vibrated through the thick shaft filling my mouth. My thighs clenched together so hard beneath the baby doll’s chiffon that my knees ached, and I felt—God help me, I felt—a fresh, humiliating rush of wetness spill from between my folds, hot and slick against my inner thighs.
He’d called my mouth a cunt. A cunt in my face. And my body had responded to those words the way a match responds to a striking surface: instantaneously, violently, with a flame that couldn’t be taken back.
“That’s what I thought,” Master Paul growled, and I knew he’d felt my whimper, felt the vibration of my shameful need against his cock. His hips pressed forward, pushing another inch into my mouth, and his hand held my head immobile. “You like hearing that, don’t you? You like knowing that your mouth is just another hole for a man to use. A nice, warm, tight little hole that was made for a cock this size to fuck.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. Tears ran freely down my cheeks, mixing with the saliva that coated my chin and dripped onto the lace bodice of the baby doll. My hands quaked on the base of his shaft. I couldn’t nod—his grip in my hair prevented it—but the sound I made, the long, shuddering moan that seemed to pour out of me without end, answered for me with a clarity that no words could have matched.
“Oh, that’s great,” Melissa said, her voice low and electric. “Darlene?”
“I’m getting everything,” Darlene replied. I heard her moving—quick repositioning, the click of the shutter firing in bursts. “The tears with the saliva, the way her throat is working—it’s extraordinary. And the nightgown is catching everything. The drool on the lace. It’s filthy and beautiful at the same time.”
“Keep going, Paul,” Melissa said. “Don’t let up.”
Master Paul didn’t let up.
His hips began to move. Not the gentle, guided rhythm from before—this was something else entirely. He thrust forward into my mouth with a force that pushed me backward on my knees, and only his fist in my hair kept me from toppling. The head of his cock hit the back of my throat and I gagged—a wet, wretched sound that seemed to echo off the studio walls—and before I could recover, he pulled back and drove forward again, deeper, harder.
“Take it,” he snarled. “Open that throat. A girl with a face-cunt this pretty needs to learn how to take a man’s cock all the way down. You think I bought you that nightgown so you could look pretty and keep your mouth shut? No. I bought it so I could see you drooling all over it while I fuck your face.”
He thrust again. And again. A brutal, relentless rhythm that turned my mouth into something that existed solely for his use, his pleasure, his satisfaction. My jaw screamed. My throat spasmed around each invasion, producing sounds—gagging, choking, wet sucking sounds—that I would have found revolting an hour ago and that now seemed to flow from me as naturally as breathing. Saliva poured from the corners of my stretched lips, running down my chin to fall onto the pink lace of the baby doll’s bodice, soaking the delicate fabric where it clung to my breasts.
“Look at me,” he commanded, and I forced my swollen eyes open, looking up at him through a blur of tears while he fucked my mouth with his cock. His face above me held nothing but dark intent, his jaw set, his brown eyes burning down into mine. “There she is. There’s my good little cunt-face. You’re dripping, aren’t you? Between your legs. I can see your thighs shaking. I can see the wet spot on the nightgown where your cunt is leaking all over the chiffon.”
I was. I could feel it—the soaking evidence of my arousal, the way the thin fabric between my thighs had become drenched, clinging to my swollen folds with an obscene intimacy. My hips rocked involuntarily, grinding against nothing, seeking friction that wasn’t there, and the motion made the chiffon shift and cling and I knew that the camera was capturing every detail of my body’s treacherous response.
Master Paul’s rhythm faltered. His thrusts grew shorter, harder, more urgent, and I could feel the change in his cock: the thickening, the added rigidity, the pulse that ran through the shaft like a second heartbeat accelerating toward something inevitable.
He pulled out of my mouth with a wet, obscene sound that left me gasping, my jaw hanging open. I knelt there, panting,wrecked, my face a ruin of tears and spit and smeared makeup, the baby doll soaked and clinging to my body.
“Melissa,” Master Paul said, his voice rough, his hand still fisted in my hair, his cock inches from my face, twitching with visible urgency. “Can I come on the nightgown?”
There was a beat of silence. Then Melissa’s voice, sharp with certainty: “Yes. Absolutely yes. Come on the nightgown. The lace, the bodice—ruin it. That’s the image. That’s the whole fucking thesis. The pretty thing he gave her, destroyed by what he made her do in it.”
“Darlene?” Master Paul asked.
“Ready,” Darlene said. “Tight on her face and chest. Go.”
Master Paul’s hand moved from my hair to the shaft of his cock. He gripped himself—his fist working in fast, brutal strokes—and with his other hand he tilted my chin up, forcing me to look at him, forcing my face into position like a canvas being angled toward the light.
“Keep your mouth open,” he ordered. “Eyes on me. Don’t you dare look away.”
CHAPTER 15
Anne
I kept my mouth open. I kept my eyes on him. I knelt there, ruined and burning with a need so intense it felt like it might consume me entirely, and I watched his face as his orgasm gathered—the tightening of his jaw, the darkening of his eyes, the single, sharp intake of breath through his nose.
Master Paul… my fictional suitor… my… my…oh, God, mymaster… he came.
On me… on my face… on my chest… all over…
The first rope of it hit my chin and splashed down onto the lace bodice of the baby doll, a thick, white streak that stood out against the blushing pink fabric like a brand. The second landed across my collarbones, hot and startling, and dripped down into the gathered lace where it cupped my breasts. The third—and there was so much of it, more than I’d imagined a man could produce—fell across the chiffon at my stomach, soaking into the sheer fabric so that it clung to my skin beneath in a way thatmade the nightgown look like something that had been worn through a rainstorm of pure, animal desire.
