Page 30 of Trained at the Office
The message sent with a soft whoosh. Penelope set the phone face up on the desk and looked at me while we waited.
“I asked Master Paul if I could let you come.”
My stomach dropped.
The phone buzzed. Penelope picked it up, read the response, and set it down again. Her expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes—a flicker of amusement, or perhaps of cruelty wearing amusement’s face—told me the answer before she spoke it.
“Master Paul says no,” Penelope said. Her voice was gentle. Almost sympathetic. The way a doctor’s voice is gentle when delivering bad news. “You’re not allowed to come, Anne. Not until he says so.”
The sound that escaped me was small and wretched—a whimper that rose from the very bottom of my belly and emerged through lips still swollen and slick from making Penelope come. My hands, which had been gripping my own knees, tightened until my knuckles went white.
“He wants you frustrated,” Penelope continued, reaching forward to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear with a tenderness that felt almost maternal and therefore almost unbearable. “He wants you to feel it. All night. The wanting. The ache. He wants you to go home and lie in your bed and feel how empty you are, how much your body needs what only he can give it, and he doesn’t want your little cunt touched, by me or anyone else but him. Can you do that for him?”
“I…” My voice cracked, and I spoke without any idea of whether I told the truth. “Yes. I can do that.”
“Good.” Penelope smiled and withdrew her hand. “You can pull my panties back into place, and then you can go back to your desk. You have data entry to finish, I believe.”
I reached forward with quivering fingers and straightened the burgundy silk, settling the gusset back into place against her with a care that felt absurdly reverent given what my mouth had just done. Penelope lifted her hips and I pulled her dove-gray trousers up her thighs, and she took over from there, fastening the clasp and smoothing the fabric with a few efficient motions that reassembled her professional armor as if nothing had happened.
I stood. My legs shook. The wetness between my thighs had soaked through my own underwear, the absurdly modest polka-dot ones that seemed to have become some kind of ridiculous contradiction of their own innocence. I could feel my wantonness against my skin with every step as I crossed Penelope’s office toward the door.
“Anne,” Penelope said, and I turned.
She was already looking at her computer screen, her posture composed, her pearls straight, her expression settled back into the mask of professional competence. But she glanced up at me over the rims of reading glasses she’d just put on, and the look she gave me was knowing, warm, and utterly without mercy.
“Remember,” she said. “He’ll know if you disobey.”
I nodded. I opened the door. I walked back to my desk on legs that trembled with every step, sat down in my ergonomic chair. I stared at my laptop screen while the ache between my thighs pulsed like a second heartbeat—relentless, demanding, impossible to ignore.
I lasted until eleven forty-seven that night.
I knew the exact time because I looked at the clock on my nightstand in the moment before my hand slipped beneaththe waistband of my pajama bottoms, and the glowing green numbers—11:47—seared themselves into my memory with the same indelible clarity as everything else that had happened that day. I looked at the clock the way a person looks at a witness, registering that someone was watching, that the moment was being recorded even if only by my own guilty consciousness.
I was lying in bed. The apartment was dark and quiet and I couldn’t stop wondering what it would feel like when Master Paul shaved my little cunt. How could I even think about that without touching the place he would bare?
CHAPTER 18
Anne
I thought I would just see what I felt like, with the hair there. I kind of didn’t really know, because I’d never… well, I’d never reallyexploreddown there, I supposed. Not really.
I’d touched myself before, obviously—in the shower, quick and perfunctory, washing. As forself-pleasure…I blushed even at the thought of it; at the thought of the word, let alone the thought of doing it. In college, at night, a few times, I’d rubbed my fingertips over the outside of my underwear and pressed at the top, a little. I’d felt the warmth, the faint pulse, the very beginnings of humidity… before pulling my hand away, rolling onto my stomach, and willing myself to sleep.
Those moments had felt like standing at the edge of a pool and dipping one toe in before retreating to the safety of the deck chair. I’d never actually gotten in. Now I had had my pussy fucked by a strap-on. I had had my face fucked by the enormous cock of a man I’d been told to callmaster, after worshiping his cock as if it were my new deity.
Shouldn’t I, well, explore a little, down there? Even if I wasn’t allowed to take it too far?
My fingers moved through the hair. It was soft—softer than I’d expected, somehow, though that thought seemed absurd. Maybe it seemed stiffer when wet, in the shower?
Fine and slightly curly, covering my mound in a modest triangle that I’d never given much thought to because it had simply always been there, the way eyebrows are there, the way the hair on your arms is there. Unremarkable. Unremarked upon.
Until today. Until Master Paul had spread me open on a fictional but also very real bed and looked at it with an expression of displeasure and saidthis won’t do.
My fingers combed through it slowly, almost experimentally. I tried to imagine what I would feel like without it, once my master had taken it away. Bare skin where the hair now grew. Smooth and exposed… my pussy… my… mycunt…me.
Nothing between me and the air, nothing between me and the fabric of my underwear, nothing between me and a man’s hand when he reached between my legs and cupped me… held me… possessively…
The way Master Paul had touched me, down there, on the bedroom set.
