Page 57 of Trained at the Office
For a moment I thought I saw a flicker of that vulnerability I’d seen in his apartment, and I felt a surge of helpless, perverse affection for the man who had trained me as his sex toy. When it was replaced by the controlled warmth of a man who had heard exactly what he needed to hear, the affection didn’t dissipate: rather, it grew in the face of my master’s dominance.
“Good.” He picked up the leather-bound novel from the arm of the chair. He opened it to a page he’d marked with a ribbon and settled it against his knee with the casual ease of a man preparing for a quiet evening of reading. Then he looked up at me over the top of the book, and the contrast between thedomestic ordinariness of the gesture and the dark hunger still visible in his eyes made my stomach flip.
“I’m going to see how much you’ve learned,” he said. “Kneel at my feet. Take out my cock and suck it while I read.”
The instruction was delivered in the same tone he might have used to tell me to fetch him a glass of water. Conversational. Unhurried. As if what he was asking me to do was the most natural thing in the world—a girl on her knees, her master’s manhood in her mouth, while he occupied himself with a novel.
The casualness of it made it powerful. He hadn’t asked me to perform. On the most important level Master Paul didn’t even mean to stage a scene for the cameras, though I could feel Darlene’s lenses trained on me from somewhere beyond the pool of lamplight. My master had told me to service him as a background activity, something pleasant but secondary to his reading. The implied hierarchy, putting his intellectual leisure above my lewd, degraded service, made the blood rush to my face so fast I felt dizzy.
I sank to my knees on the Persian rug.
The wool was thick and soft beneath my shins, nothing like the hardwood floor of his apartment. The corset held me upright as I settled between his spread thighs, the boning enforcing that rigid, elegant posture even in this position of submission. My face came level with his lap. I could see the shape of his rigid penis through the charcoal slacks. The head of his cock already strained against the fabric with a prominence that made my mouth flood with saliva before I’d consciously registered what I was looking at.
My hands wavered as I reached for his belt. The clink of the buckle sent a jolt through me that the Surrender panties immediately answered, the fabric shifting against my bare, needy folds with a whisper of friction that made me bite the inside of my cheek. I unfastened the belt, unhooked the clasp of his slacks, and drew down the zipper.
My fingers found the waistband of his shorts. Master Paul raised his hips a bit to help me, without paying me any further attention as far as I could tell. I eased his trousers and boxers down, past his knees and onto the floor. His massive cock rose free, thick and hard and flushed dark, curving upward from his lap with a heaviness that I had learned to recognize as my master’s own arrogant form of need.
This would be the third time I had worshipped Master Paul’s cock.
The first time had been in the studio, on the very first day, when he’d taught me to open my throat and accept his size with tears streaming down my face and his hand firm in my hair. The second time had been in his apartment, in the amber light of late afternoon, kneeling before the leather armchair while he let me serve him for what felt like hours. Both times had felt overwhelming—the sheer physical reality of taking something that large into my mouth, the psychological weight of the act, the humiliation and the devotion tangled together in a knot I couldn’t untie.
This time felt different, though.
Everything my master had taught me over the last four days seemed to be present in my body as I lowered my mouth to him. The lessons lived in my muscles, my breath, and the angle of my jaw. But it wasn’t just the skill. It was the lingerie, and the waymy master had told me it made me look like the sex toy I had become under his firm hand.
The black corset held me upright on my knees, the boning enforcing a posture of elegant submission while the responsive lining worked against my nipples with every breath. The tiny panties pressed their maddening texture against my bare pussy, keeping me in that state of constant, inescapable arousal. The stockings sheathed my legs in darkness, the garter straps taut against my thighs. I feltcontained. Shaped. Held in a form that someone else had chosen for me, a form that said:this is what you are. This is what you’re for.
The combination of the skill he’d trained into my mouth and the lingerie encasing my body seemed to create something new inside me. It felt shamefully, but also deliciously, like a purpose, settling over me like a veil. I wasn’t a girl nervously attempting something she’d never done. I wasn’t even a trainee practicing a new technique. I was a young woman in black lace, kneeling at her master’s feet, performing the service her body had been dressed and shaped and prepared to perform.
I took the head of his cock into my mouth.
The dark, naughty taste of him spread across my tongue and I moaned softly around his girth. My lips stretched. My jaw opened. I sank down slowly, taking him inch by inch, and I felt my throat begin to resist and then, remembering, softening. Opening. The head of his cock pressed past the back of my tongue and into the narrower passage of my throat, and instead of gagging or choking, I breathed through my nose, swallowed around him, and felt the thick shaft slide deeper.
Above me, I heard the faint rustle of a page turning.
He was reading. He was actually reading while I knelt between his thighs with his cock in my throat, and the casual indifference of the gesture—real or performed, it didn’t matter—sent a wave of humiliation through me that settled between my legs like a hot coal. The responsive panties caught the resulting surge of wetness and answered it with increased texture against my folds, I whimpered around his shaft, and the vibration of the sound made his thigh tense fractionally beneath my hand.
I established a rhythm. Slow, worshipful, deliberate—the way he’d taught me. Each descent took him deep, my lips traveling down the thick shaft until my nose pressed against the dark hair at his base and my throat constricted around the swollen head. Each withdrawal was gradual, my tongue swirling along the underside, tracing the prominent vein, circling the ridge of the head before I sank down again. My free hand found the base of his shaft and held him steady, my fingers unable to fully encircle his girth, and the other hand rested on his inner thigh where I could feel the muscle tense and release beneath my palm.
Minutes passed. Pages turned. The warm light pooled across the rug and the leather chair and the tableau we made together—the man reading, the girl kneeling, the slow, wet sounds of devoted oral service filling the quiet den. The corset held me upright through all of it, the boning preventing the slump of fatigue that would have rounded my shoulders, keeping me presented even in submission. My nipples ached against the responsive fabric. My pussy throbbed against the tiny panties, each pulse of arousal answered by a whisper of friction that kept me hovering at the edge of a need I couldn’t address.
And somewhere in the middle of it I felt another shift inside me, and a thought emerged.
I had gottengoodat this.
The realization arrived not as a thought, but as a bodily knowledge. My jaw had found the precise angle that accommodated his size without strain. My throat opened for him with a practiced ease that would have been unimaginable three days ago. My tongue knew exactly where to press, exactly how much pressure to apply to the sensitive spot just below the ridge of his head, exactly when to swirl, when to flatten, and when to simply hold still and let the wet heat of my mouth do its work. My rhythm was steady, confident, unhurried—the rhythm of a girl who understood her humiliating task and trusted her ability to perform it.
I was a good little cocksucker.
CHAPTER 33
Anne
The thought hit me like a slap. My face, already flushed from exertion and arousal, blazed hotter. My eyes stung. Because the confidence itself had its own degradation attached.
As if to confirm my shameful pride, Master Paul’s voice rumbled above me, speaking to Melissa.
“She’s too good. Mind if I finish in her mouth?”
