Page 53 of Trained at the Office
“But I need—” My voice cracked. The need felt urgently physical. I didn’t know how to contain it. Three days ago I’d been a girl who’d never brought herself to orgasm. Now I felt like an addict, and the drug was standing at the kitchen sink with dish soap on his hands.
Master Paul turned off the water. He dried his hands on the towel I’d abandoned. Then he picked me up—the same effortless lift, one arm beneath my knees, the other behind my back—and carried me to his bedroom.
He laid me on the dark gray sheets. He pulled his T-shirt off my body with a gentleness that made my skin prickle, leaving me bare on his bed, my nipples hardening in the cool air, my shaved pussy glistening in the low light of the bedside lamp. He looked down at me with an expression that combined hunger and restraint in equal measure—the look of a man who wanted to devour something and had decided to savor it instead.
“Open your legs,” he said.
I opened them. The motion felt different here than it had on the studio floor or the bathroom set or bent over his armchair. Here, in his bed, in the quiet of his apartment with the city murmuring beyond the windows, spreading my legs for him felt like an act of trust so complete it left me breathless.
He lay down between my thighs. His broad shoulders pressed my legs apart, widening me further than I’d opened on myown, and his face hovered inches from my bare, aching center. I could feel his breath against my shaved skin—warm, steady exhalations that played across my needy folds and made my hips lift off the mattress.
“Stay still,” he said, and his breath moved against me as he spoke, and I whimpered. “Put your hands behind your knees and spread yourself nice and wide so I can taste you properly.”
I felt my chin go from side to side, as if I somehow had the strength to refuse any command, let alone this one, my master gave me. At the same time, though, my hands found the backs of my thighs, then slid up. I whimpered as I spread myself, offered my needy little cunt to the man who owned it.
Then his mouth was on me.
The first touch of his tongue against my bare pussy made my entire body arch off the bed. Without hair, without any barrier between his mouth and my flesh, the sensation was so direct, so acute, that it felt like being touched for the first time. His tongue moved through the folds of my pussy with a slow, deliberate thoroughness that communicated the same message his cock had communicated earlier:this belongs to me, and I will use it how I choose.
He didn’t rush. He explored me with his mouth the way he’d explored me with the razor—methodically, attentively, learning the topography of my skin with his lips and his tongue. He traced the outer edges of my folds, kissed the crease where my thigh met my pussy, ran the flat of his tongue along the full length of my slit with a pressure that was firm enough to part me, but not firm enough to reach the places that screamed for contact.
“Please,” I gasped, my hands leaving my knees and finding his hair, forgetting my obedience. “Please, sir, I need?—”
“I know what you need.” His voice vibrated against my flesh. He pulled his face away. “Put those hands where they belong. Lie back and take what I give you.”
With a sob I grabbed my knees again, and I lay back. I took what he gave me.
He gave me a slow, transformative education in the capacity of my own body for pleasure. His tongue found the bare, exposed nub of my clit and circled it with a pressure so precise it felt calculated, as if he’d mapped the exact nerve pathways that led from that tiny point to the base of my spine.
The pleasure built in slow, rolling waves that crested without breaking, each one higher than the last, carrying me upward toward something shattering while his hands held my thighs just below my own desperately gripping fingers. He pressed me down against the mattress and his mouth worked me with a patient, inexorable authority that told me he would make me come on his terms, at his pace, when he decided I was ready.
He alternated between my clit and deeper, longer strokes that parted my inner folds and tasted me fully. His tongue pressed inside me—not deep, not the way his cock had reached, but intimate in a different way, a way that felt like being known rather than being taken. The gentleness of it undid me in places the roughness hadn’t reached. I lay on his bed and felt tears slide down my temples into my hair while his mouth moved against my bare pussy with a tenderness that felt at the same time like sheer dominance.
Then he raised his face.
The absence of his mouth made me gasp. The cool air rushed against the slick, needy flesh he’d been tasting, and I whimpered at the loss, my hips chasing upward toward the warmth that had been taken from me. My eyes flew open and I found him there between my thighs, his chin glistening, his brown eyes dark and focused and locked on mine with an intensity that pinned me to the mattress more effectively than his hands ever had.
“You’re going to come now, Annie,” he said.
Not a question. Not an invitation. A statement of fact in the same voice that had told me my cunt was his, the same voice that had told me to keep stirring, the same voice that had reshaped the architecture of my entire life in three days. He said it the way a man might say the sun will rise tomorrow, and my body believed him before my mind had finished processing the words.
His hands left my thighs and found my hipbones. He pressed me down—hard, harder than before, his broad palms flattening my pelvis against the mattress with a force that eliminated every possibility of movement. I was pinned. Fixed in place like a butterfly under glass, my legs spread wide around his shoulders, my hands still clutching the backs of my knees because he’d told me to hold them there and I couldn’t have disobeyed, even if I’d wanted to.
Then his mouth returned to me, and the difference was immediate.
Where before he’d been exploratory, patient, mapping me with the careful attention of a man surveying a landscape, now he was deliberate and relentless. His tongue found my clit with unerring skill and pressed against it—not circling, not teasing, but bearing down with a flat, firm, rhythmic pressure that sent the first shockwave crashing through my body before I’d drawn a fullbreath. His lips closed around the swollen nub and he sucked, gently at first and then harder, and the pleasure that detonated at the point of contact was so sharp and so total that my vision whited out.
I came.
The orgasm ripped through me with a violence that arched my spine despite the force of his hands holding my hips down. My inner walls clenched around the aching emptiness where his cock had been… where it belonged. The contractions radiated outward through my belly and my thighs and my chest until my entire body was a single, convulsing nerve.
“Master!” I screamed. “Oh, God… Master… Master… Master…”
The sound of it in my own wrecked voice, raw and desperate and unadorned, felt like the most honest thing I’d ever said.
He didn’t stop.
His mouth kept working me through the peak and into the aftermath, and before the first orgasm had fully released me, the second was already building. His tongue shifted—lower, pressing into the sensitive hollow just below my clit, then dragging upward through my folds with a slow, devastating stroke that gathered every drop of my arousal onto his tongue before returning to the swollen center of my need. His hands pressed my hips down even harder, his fingers digging into the hollow above my hipbones, and the immobility—the sheer, helpless inability to squirm or buck or escape the pleasure—made the next orgasm feel like something being done to me rather than something happening inside me.
