Page 65 of Trained at the Office
I breathed out. The way I’d learned, from his thumbs—the softening, the yielding, the surrender that went deeper than muscle. The silicone pressed forward by a fraction.
“Good. Again.”
I breathed out again. Another fraction. The stretch burned and I arched against it. My bound hands clawed at the sheet and I made a sound that the studio walls caught and held.
“Christ,” I thought I heard Melissa say—but again, I might have imagined it, as well as the soft murmur of agreement I thoughtI heard from the direction of Darlene’s position next to the camera.
“That’s it,” Master Paul said, in a voice that seemed to have a quality that didn’t come only from the fictional scene—the voice from the dark bedroom, the voice that saidwedding. “That’s my girl. Feel it, Annie. Feel your ass opening… learning to take the cock.”
He worked the dildo with the same patience he’d worked his thumbs. Slow and incremental and absolutely implacable, advancing by degrees so small that each one felt survivable even as their accumulation became something vast and overwhelming. My body screamed and softened and screamed again and softened further. I pressed my forehead into the mattress between my restrained forearms and I breathed and breathed and breathed.
The fullness, when it had progressed far enough to constitute a genuine intrusion, became something I had no reference point for. It hurt so much, but I could accept it, somehow. And it didn’t lie so very far from pleasure, either. Something deeper than the burn had begun to pulse with each fractional advance.
“Please.” My voice came from somewhere I didn’t recognize. “Please, sir. Please. I can’t… sir… it’s too much, it’s?—”
“You can,” he said.
“I can’t take any more of it, I need… please, sir, please, I need—” I pressed my face into the sheet. “I need you. Please. Please give me your cock instead. Please. I want you, I want you inside me, please, sir… Master… please?—”
The advance stopped.
Stillness. The fullness held me, immense and inescapable; I breathed around it in short, ragged increments, and waited.
“That’s what I was waiting for,” he said softly.
The dildo withdrew, slowly, and the sensation of its absence was almost as overwhelming as its presence had been. I lay over the bolster and shook and felt the cool air where the heat of it had been, and I heard him set it aside on the mattress with a sound that seemed very final.
Then I heard his belt. The buckle. The sound of his zipper, and the quiet of a man preparing himself. I turned my face against the sheet and closed my eyes. I felt the tears sliding sideways across the bridge of my nose.
The mattress dipped. His weight settled astride me. His thighs bracketed my hips, the fabric of his evening trousers rough against the outside of my bare thighs below the white lace. His hands found my hips. His thumbs traced the ribbon sides of the panties one final time, a gesture that felt almost ceremonial.
My suitor… my master… still fully clothed. Astride me, his long, hard penis jutting in my mind’s eye: ready… ready…
Ready to fuck. Ready to fuck my ass.
The head of his cock pressed against the place framed by the terrible oval.
“Breathe out,” he said.
I breathed out.
My master entered my anus for the first time.
The sound that came out of me as I felt the stretch and the burn had a quality unlike anything I had produced in the fivedays of this…this what? This journey… this adventure… this exploration of my wanton need…
It sounded involuntary and ragged and stripped of every performance quality, the sound of a body meeting something it had never met before and being remade by the encounter. My bottom, I felt in that moment, would never be the same after a penis so big and hard had used it.
My bound hands pressed into the mattress above my head. I arched my back and, though the corset of the previous day’s scene wasn’t there to hold me, something else held me—Master Paul’s hands on my hips, his thighs against mine, the absolute, settled authority of his presence above and behind me.
As I felt that control, an instinct from far below my awareness responded to it. I squirmed. I tried to crawl up the bed in full knowledge that all I could do with my muscles was tell my master that he hadn’t tamed me completely.
“You’re not going anywhere, you little slut,” he said. His voice sounded low and slightly strained with the effort of his own restraint. The strain, with its evidence that this was costing him too, that my body was doing something to his control, sent a pulse of dark warmth through the burn. “Stay right here with me, Annie. You’re not getting off this bed until you’ve got my seed up this naughty backside.”
I stayed. I sobbed. I wailed in discomfort.
He advanced slowly. The burn deepened and I pressed my forehead into the sheet. I breathed with the ragged discipline of a girl who had learned, over five days, that her body could be trusted to expand beyond what her mind believed possible.
Each inch felt like a renegotiation between what I thought I could bear and what he knew I could. Each time I thought I’d reached the limit, his hands on my hips communicated something—a steadying pressure, a fractional pause, a warmth that moved through his palms and into my skin like a message sent below the threshold of language.
