Page 32 of Trained at the Office
I imagined him looking at me… at my cunt… while he shaved me. Those brown eyes, focused and unhurried, watching the hair fall away in soft wisps. He would watch my skin appear beneath it, pale and sensitive, untouched by light or air or a man’s gaze.
He would watch me become bare for him. Watching me becomehis, in a way that felt more intimate than anything his cock had done to my mouth, because at least my mouth would grow sore and recover. My hair would grow back, but he could shave meagain… hewouldshave me again. He would keep me bare. He would maintain my submission between my thighs so that I felt it every moment of every day.
A moan escaped through my clenched teeth. I pressed harder against my clit, abandoning the gentle circles for something more desperate—a back-and-forth motion, rapid and firm, that sent waves of pleasure crashing through my whole body with an intensity that made my vision blur even though my eyes were already closed. My pajama bottoms were around my upper thighs now. I’d pushed them down without deciding to, my free hand acting on its own imperative to remove the barrier between my skin and the air, to make myself more bare, more accessible, more like what Master Paul wanted me to be.
Then the thought arrived. It seemed to slide into my mind sideways:
What will Master Paul do when he finds out I was touching myself?
My fingers stuttered on my clit. My whole body clenched—stomach, thighs, the inner muscles that gripped around nothing—and the pleasure didn’t diminish. It intensified. Because the thought wasn’t a deterrent. The thought was fuel.
He would punish me.
The orgasm hit me like a wall of water. It crashed through my body with a violence that I had no framework for, no preparation against, no defense. My back arched off the mattress so sharply that only my heels and shoulders touched the sheets. My mouth opened in a silent scream—silent because somewhere in the depths of the convulsion my throat had locked shut, every muscle in my body seizing simultaneously in a spasm ofpleasure so total it obliterated thought. My fingers pressed hard against my clit and my inner walls clenched in rhythmic, pulsing contractions around the emptiness inside me, and I came, I came, I came—the word itself seeming to explode in my skull like a flashbulb, white and blinding.
I saw Master Paul’s hand coming down on my bare bottom. I saw it with a clarity that seemed to transcend imagination—the broad palm, the controlled arc of his arm, the impact that would send shockwaves through my punished flesh. He would bend me over. He would bare me. He would spank me for touching myself, for disobeying, for being the desperate, wanton, dripping little cunt girl who couldn’t keep her fingers off herself for a single night.
The second orgasm slammed into me before the first had finished. It rode the tail of the aftershocks like a wave overtaking a wave, and this time my voice broke free—a strangled, guttural cry that I smothered against my forearm, biting down on my own skin hard enough to leave marks. My hips bucked against my hand with a force that was almost violent, my body chasing something it had only just discovered existed, something it now understood with a terrible, instinctive certainty.
Then I thought about his belt.
The image materialized with the same hallucinatory vividness as the shaving fantasy. On my mind’s sex-show stage, Master Paul pulled the leather belt from around his waist with a slow, deliberate motion, the buckle clinking, the leather hissing through the loops of his trousers. He would double it over. He would hold me down—one huge hand on the small of my back, pressing me flat against the mattress or the desk or whatever surface he’d chosen to punish me on—and he would bring thefolded belt down across my bare bottom with a crack that would echo off the walls.
The third orgasm tore through me on the heels of that crack. I was sobbing now—actually sobbing, my face pressed into my pillow, my hand working between my legs with a frantic, graceless desperation that bore no resemblance to the gentle, exploratory circles of ten minutes ago. This was not exploration. This was something wild and consuming and utterly beyond my ability to moderate. Each orgasm seemed to feed the next, stoking the fire rather than quenching it, and my clit had become so swollen and sensitive beneath my fingertip that every stroke bordered on too much and simultaneously was not enough.
I imagined the belt striping my thighs. I imagined him making me count, demanding that I acknowledge each stroke while my body writhed and my voice broke and my tears soaked whatever surface my face was pressed against. I imagined the welts rising on my skin, red and hot, and I imagined him pausing between strokes to run his hand over the marks, to feel the heat of them, to check the wetness between my legs that would betray me the way it always betrayed me.
This is what happens to a girl who touches her cunt without permission.
I heard the words in his voice… that low, scraping growl that he’d used when Melissa had told him to push harder. The words existed only in my imagination, but my body didn’t know that or didn’t care because the fourth orgasm crashed over me with a force that made my vision go white behind my clenched eyelids.
My legs drew up toward my chest and my toes curled so hard they cramped. I heard myself keening into the pillow, a high,thin, animal sound that Mrs. Loomis absolutely heard through the wall and that I was powerless to suppress.
I tried to stop. I pulled my hand away and pressed both palms flat against the mattress, fingers spread, as if I could anchor myself through sheer physical commitment to a different posture. My chest heaved. My pulse hammered in my ears. The ache between my legs pulsed with each heartbeat, urgent and unfinished, and the absence of my own touch felt like a cruelty worse than anything Master Paul had inflicted.
I lasted maybe eight seconds before my hand went back and my fingers found the slick, swollen center of myself as if it were a magnet, and this time I didn’t circle or stroke—I pressed, hard and direct, the pad of my middle finger bearing down on my clit with a pressure that made me cry out, and I rocked my hips against my own hand the way I’d rocked them on my knees in the studio, grinding, seeking, taking what my body demanded I take.
I thought about him whipping me and then fucking me. His belt and then his cock. The punishment and then the possession. The leather cracking across my welted bottom and then the impossible thickness of him pressing against the entrance to my body—my bare pussy, shaved smooth, nothing between his flesh and mine—and pushing inside me while I sobbed and begged and opened for him because my body would open, because it was made to open, because submissive was not just a word but a physical fact written into the architecture of my cunt.
The fifth orgasm obliterated me.
It was different from the others—deeper, slower, rolling through my body in long, shuddering waves that seemed to originate not just between my legs but everywhere, in my chest and mythroat and the backs of my knees and the tender, aching place in my chest where something had cracked open today and could not close again. My inner muscles clenched in slow, powerful contractions that I could feel individually, each one a distinct pulse of pleasure that radiated outward like ripples. My mouth hung open against the pillow. No sound came out.
When it finally subsided—when the last aftershock had trembled through my thighs and my hand had gone still between my legs and my breathing had begun the long, ragged descent toward something resembling normal—I lay in the dark, stared at the ceiling, and felt the full, devastating weight of what I had just done.
Five times.
I had come five times. In less than—I turned my head to look at the clock—in less than an hour. The green numbers read 12:41. I had been masturbating for almost an hour. I, Anne Chamberlain, who had never in her life brought herself to orgasm, who had barely brought herself to touch herself through her underwear in the dark like a guilty child, had just experienced five orgasms in rapid succession while fantasizing about being spanked and belt-whipped and fucked by a man she’d met that morning.
CHAPTER 19
Paul
The moment I laid eyes on Anne in the studio the next day, I knew what she’d done in bed the previous night. It wasn’t anything as crude as a telltale sign like dark circles under her eyes. She’d dressed and made herself up with exactly the same meticulous, defensive care she had the previous day: a blouse, pink this time, buttoned to the collar and a fresh navy skirt. She’d gathered her blonde hair into its neat ponytail. She looked, to anyone without my particular training, like a girl who’d slept soundly and arrived prepared.
But I’d spent twenty-three years reading the bodies of young women who’d been told not to touch themselves and had touched themselves anyway. I could read the signs as easily as a newspaper.
Her walk told me everything. Yesterday she’d walked in the slightly tentative way of a girl entering unfamiliar territory. This morning’s stride carried a different weight. Her hips moved with a fraction more fluidity, a looseness in the hips that comes froma female body that has recently discovered what the regions between those hips can do.
