Page 63 of Trained at the Office
Then his palm landed on the lower curve of my right cheek—the place where bottom met thigh, where the skin was tenderest and the nerve endings most concentrated—and the sound that left me wasn’t a sob. It was a scream.
CHAPTER 36
Anne
“I’ll obey you.” The words tore out of me before the echo of the scream had faded. “I’ll obey, I’ll obey, please, I’ll… please, sir, I’ll get over the bolster, I’ll?—”
He released my wrist. Stepped back. The absence of his hand on my bottom felt almost as shocking as its presence had.
I pushed myself upright on unsteady arms. My legs barely held me when I straightened. The white lace panties had shifted during the spanking and I reached back automatically, reflexively, to adjust them, and my fingers found the oval cutout and its satin border and I snatched my hand away as if burned.
I climbed onto the bed.
The white sheets felt cool against my knees and my palms. The bolster lay across the middle of the mattress, white leather, cylindrical, patiently waiting to fulfill its shameful purpose. I crawled toward it. My burning bottom moved through the studio air and I was aware, with acute specificity, of how the white lacecovered and did not cover me—the scalloped edges, the ribbon sides, the oval of absence framed in satin.
I thought I heard Melissa say something to Darlene, and although I hadn’t made it out clearly I felt absolutely certain she had said something like, “Tight on the cutout.” Heat flared in my cheeks, though an instant before I would have sworn they couldn’t get any hotter.
I lowered myself over the bolster.
It caught me at the hips, tilting me forward, raising my bottom into the air. My face found the white sheets on the far side and I turned my cheek against the cool cotton. My hands lay flat on the mattress ahead of me. My knees fell slightly apart. I pictured it from the camera’s point of view, and I saw just how unmistakably the position realized my degradation.
I heard Master Paul move to the foot of the bed. I felt the mattress compress as he settled his weight behind me.
“I’d already decided,” he said, in his low, measured tone that seemed to carry something ceremonial inside it, “to make this a kind of wedding night for you.”
The words reached me through the pounding of my pulse, and something happened in my mind and my body that had nothing to do with the scene.
Because I remembered him saying almost the same words, in his bedroom, in the dark, with his chest warm against my back and his arm across my waist. His voice had sounded even lower, then. It had almost seemed to come from inside my own body rather than from outside it. He had said:I want to make this a kind of wedding night for you, Annie. A real one. The kind a girl remembers.
I had been practically asleep. The words had worked on me the way he’d clearly intended them to, settling into the sediment of my half-conscious mind. But I had heard them, and I had felt something new in his voice when he said them: a weight that seemed personal… that seemed to exceed the scene he described.
I had opened my eyes in the dark of his apartment and looked at the ceiling and thought about the wordwedding.
He hadn’t said it casually. He hadn’t used it the way he used the fictional language of the scene—strategically, with an eye to the effect of words on a submissive girl’s nervous system. He had saidweddingthe way a man says something he has been thinking about privately, something that has been living in him for longer than the conversation that finally surfaces it.
I had lain there in the dark with his arm across my waist and I had felt, with a certainty so absolute it bypassed all the rational objections my mind could have raised, that this man would ask me to marry him. Not in a scene. Not in the fictional language of a wealthy suitor and his young bride.
In a restaurant, or in his kitchen with copper pots overhead, or in the dark of his apartment with the city murmuring beyond the windows. He would ask me in the real world, in his own voice, and the answer he would get would not be a character’s answer.
The joy of that knowledge had moved through me like sunlight through glass; gentle, pervasive, warming everything it touched. I had turned my face into the hollow of his throat and breathed him in and felt the joy settle into my chest alongside the fear of what the morning would bring, and somehow the two had coexisted there without canceling each other out.
They coexisted now. I lay over the bolster with my punished bottom raised and the white lace panties framing my anus with their terrible little oval. I felt both things simultaneously, the joy and the terror, and the paradox of it… the fact that knowing he might one day be my husband made it somehow terribly arousing to be bent over a bolster… to wait with my spanked backside offered for him to use me in the most humiliating possible way… the contradiction seemed like the most comprehensively shameful thing I had yet discovered about myself.
“But because of how you’ve behaved tonight,” Master Paul said from behind me, and his hands settled on my hips with a possession that made my breath catch, “it’s going to be a very special kind of wedding night.” His thumbs traced the ribbon sides of the panties, following the lines of them from my hipbones down across the lace panels that covered my spanked cheeks. “The kind that naughty little sluts earn for themselves.”
I whimpered into the sheets.
His hands began to move.
He touched me through the white lace with a leisurely pace that constituted its own punishment. His thumbs moved again, along the scalloped edges of the back panel, following the curves of each cheek. His palms pressed against the fullness of my bottom with a proprietary firmness that communicated the same thing his hands always communicated:this belongs to me and I will attend to it, and enjoy it, and use it, as I see fit.He squeezed, gently, so that the soreness of the spanking flared under his fingers and I made a sound I hadn’t intended.
“Still so tender,” he observed, with a satisfaction that made my face burn. “Good. I want you to feel every single thing I do to you tonight.”
His right hand traveled down. The tips of his fingers found the front panel of the panties through the gap between my thighs, pressing the lace against my pussy with a light, exploratory pressure, and the responsive fabric—still doing its quiet, diabolical work, amplifying everything—answered his touch by pressing more insistently against my folds. I gasped as my hips tried to push back against his hand of their own accord.
“There it is,” he said softly. “Feel how wet you are, Annie.” His fingers moved in a slow circle against the front panel, the lace sliding against my bare pussy lips and the hood of my tingling clit until I let out a whimper of desperate need.
“Your sweet little cunt,” he continued in his low, hypnotic voice, “is absolutely soaking through this lace. You know why, don’t you?”
