Page 49 of Trained at the Office
My hands trembled as I reached for the waistband of his joggers. I hooked my fingers beneath the elastic and eased it down, lifting the fabric over the shape of him, and he raised his hips slightly to let me work. The joggers came down to his thighs, then I pulled the waistband of his boxer briefs, and his cock emerged—heavy, thick, not fully hard yet but already substantial, resting against his thigh with a weight that made my mouth flood with saliva.
I stared at it. Without the studio lights, without the cameras, without Melissa’s voice directing from beyond the set, the sight of his manhood felt more intimate than anything that had happened today. This was real. This was his apartment, his chair, his body, and I had knelt before him because I had asked to be here. Because I needed to be here.
“Go ahead,” Master Paul said. His voice was quiet, unhurried. The voice of a man who had no intention of rushing anything.
I lowered my mouth to his swollen phallus.
The first touch of my lips against the warm, velvety skin of my master’s shaft sent a current through my body that terminated between my legs. I kissed him there—a soft, reverent press of my lips against the side of his cock—and the intimacy of the gesture made my eyes fill. I kissed him again, lower, where the shaft met his heavy sac, and I felt him stir against my lips, thickening, beginning the slow process of hardening that I knew my mouth could coax from him.
I took my time. The privacy of this moment seemed intense in and of itself. I felt the absence of direction, the knowledge that this was just us—just a no-longer-quite-innocent young woman and the experienced older man to whom she had just confessed her love. It made me want to stretch every second into something I could keep.
I kissed along the full length of him, my lips trailing from base to tip with a deliberateness that I hadn’t known I could muster. I traced the ridge of the swollen head with the tip of my tongue, tasting the salt of his skin and the faintest trace of myself still on him from what had happened in the studio, and the taste of us together made me moan against his flesh.
He had gotten fully hard by now. His cock stood thick and rigid, curving upward from his lap. I wrapped my fingers around the base and held him steady while I took the head into my mouth. My lips stretched around him. I felt the now-familiar, overwhelming fullness. I tried to sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch, feeling my jaw open and my throat begin to resist and then, remembering what he’d taught me yesterday, letting my throat relax. Softening. Opening. Trying so hard to allow my master deeper.
“That’s it,” Master Paul murmured above me. His hand found my hair, gathering the tangled strands into a loose grip at the back of my skull. He held me there. The pressure of his fingers against my scalp seemed like a tether as much as a command, and the restraint in his touch made me want to give him more.
I pulled back and sank down again, doing my best to establish a slow, worshipful rhythm. Each descent took him deeper into my mouth, and each time I withdrew I swirled my tongue around the head, tasting the bead of moisture that had gathered at the slit, trying to embrace its slight bitterness as a sign of my shameful service. My free hand found his inner thigh and rested there, feeling the muscles tense and release beneath my palm.
Minutes passed. The amber light shifted across the floor, deepening toward gold, and I knelt there in the warm silence of his apartment and served him with a focus so total it felt like meditation. The world outside his living room ceased to exist. There was only the weight of him on my tongue, the taste of him in my throat, the sound of his breathing—steady but deepening, the rhythm of his exhales growing slower and heavier as my mouth worked him.
“Slower,” he said at one point, when my rhythm had unconsciously quickened. His fingers tightened fractionally in my hair. “I didn’t tell you to rush.”
I slowed. The correction sent a pulse of heat through my belly that settled between my legs, and I felt myself clench, my body remembering what it felt like to have him inside me and mourning the absence. My swollen, still freshly shaved pussy throbbed against the cool air where the robe had fallen open completely, leaving me essentially naked on my knees, and I could feel the wetness beginning to gather again—that inexhaustible, traitorous slickness that my body produced in my master’s presence the way the sky produced rain.
“Look at me,” he said.
I raised my eyes without lifting my mouth from him. The angle forced me to gaze upward along the length of his torso, past the white T-shirt stretched across his broad chest, to his face. His brown eyes were dark with arousal, but what I saw in them went beyond the physical. He was watching me with a focus that felt truly reverent, as if the sight of me on my knees, serving him voluntarily, without cameras, without direction, without anything except the raw need I’d confessed to, was something he hadn’t expected. Something that moved him.
“Beautiful,” he said, and the word sounded like it had been pulled from somewhere deep. “You’re so beautiful like this, Annie.”
I whimpered around him. The tears came back—those simpler tears, the ones that had nothing to do with humiliation—and they slid down my cheeks while I held his gaze and took him deeper, deeper, until I felt the head of my master’s penis press against the back of my throat. My eyes watered from the stretch,but I didn’t pull away. I breathed through my nose and held him there, swallowing around his thickness, and the groan that rumbled through his chest was the most gratifying sound I’d ever heard.
He let me worship him for a long time. Long enough that my knees began to ache against the hardwood. Long enough that my jaw developed a fatigue that made each descent require conscious effort. Long enough that the light through the windows had shifted from amber to deep gold and the shadows in the apartment had lengthened. Through all of it, his hand remained in my hair—guiding occasionally, stilling me when I moved too fast, pulling me off entirely at one point so that I knelt there with swollen lips and desperate eyes while his cock glistened with my saliva inches from my face, denied the thing I wanted most.
“Please,” I whispered during one of those pauses, looking up at him. “Please, sir, let me?—”
“Patience,” he said. His thumb wiped a tear from my cheek. “A girl who wants to worship properly doesn’t rush. She waits.”
I waited. My body screamed. Between my thighs, the ache had become so acute that I could feel my pulse beating there, heavy and insistent, each throb a reminder of the emptiness his cock had left inside me hours ago. My bare, shaved pussy felt swollen and oversensitive, the air against the exposed skin almost unbearable in its inadequacy—I didn’t want air, I wanted him, wanted the fullness and the stretch and the devastating possession of being entered by his rigid manhood.
He guided me back to him. I took him in my mouth with a gratitude that expressed itself as a moan, and I felt his hips shift in the chair—the first real sign of his own mounting urgency.His fingers tightened in my hair. His breathing changed, the deep, measured rhythm giving way to something shorter, more ragged.
Then he pulled me off completely.
The withdrawal was firm, his hand in my hair tilting my head back so that I looked up at him with my lips parted and shining and my chin wet. His cock stood between us, dark with his need, twitching faintly, and I could see the veins standing out along the shaft with a prominence that spoke of how close he was.
“Stand up,” he said.
I stood. My legs quaked violently, the muscles in my calves and thighs protesting the sudden change from kneeling, and I swayed in front of the armchair while the robe hung open around my body, hiding nothing. Master Paul’s eyes moved down my nakedness—my flushed chest, my hard nipples, the flat plane of my stomach, and lower, to the bare, glistening mound of my pussy. I watched his gaze settle there, and the hunger in his face made me dizzy.
“Tell me what you want,” he said.
“You,” I breathed. “I want you inside me. Please, sir.”
“Be specific.” His voice had dropped into that low, scraping register that seemed to emerge on its own when his control began to thin. “Tell me exactly how you want it.”
My face blazed. The words gathered in my throat like something too large to swallow, and the shame of what I was about to say made my stomach flip violently. But the need was greater than the shame. That was the lesson my body kept teaching me, overand over, with a persistence that had begun to feel like a new kind of life opening up in front of me.
