Page 64 of Trained at the Office
I shook my head against the sheets. A lie, and we both knew it.
“Because you’re thinking about what’s coming.” His fingers pressed more firmly, and the responsive fabric answered with a spike of sensation that dragged another helpless sound out of me. “That tight little hole I’ve been training is thinking about my cock. That’s what’s making you this wet. That’s what’s making my good girl drip right through her pretty wedding panties.”
The shame of it—the fact that he was right, that my body had been broadcasting its own terrible excitement since the moment I’d stood in the changing area holding the white lace and understood its purpose—rolled through me in a wave so hot it made my eyes water.
His fingers withdrew from between my thighs. I felt him move and then both his hands were on my bottom again, this time parting the rear panel of the panties carefully, his thumbs finding the inner edges of my punished bottom cheeks inside the oval cutout and drawing them gently apart. The cool studio air touched the exposed place between my cheeks and I made a sound into the sheets that I would not have been able to describe.
“So pretty,” he said quietly. It didn’t sound like a line. It sounded like a man looking at something he’d been thinking about for longer than the scene. “Every part of you is pretty, Annie.”
I heard a click and then a wet noise that my body seemed to recognize more surely than my brain: lube, squeezed and spread. Then his thumb, cool and slick, pressed against me there, and the world narrowed to a single point.
He worked slowly. Methodically. With the same patient thoroughness he’d brought to everything he’d done to my body since the first day in the studio—as if he would spend as much time on my sexual education as required to make me the fuck toy he wanted. The pad of his thumb circled and pressed, circled and pressed, and I felt the muscle yield by degrees so small I couldn’t track them consciously, only felt the cumulative evidence of them in the deepening fullness of the sensation, the way my hips had begun to tilt upward of their own accord, offering him easier access despite the defiance of every shred of dignity that still remained to me.
He added a second thumb. Pressed. Stretched. I gripped the sheets, breathed through my nose, and thought about copper pots and dark apartments and his voice in the dark sayingwedding, and the thought sent a pulse of heat through me so strong that my inner walls clenched around nothing.
“Good,” he murmured. “You’re opening nicely for your first time really being trained. Such a good girl when she stops fighting herself.” A pause. More pressure. “I think you’re ready to receive your punishment now.”
The wordpunishmentpulled me back from the warm, floating place his hands had been sending me toward.
“Sir—”
“Don’t.” The single syllable, quiet and absolute. His thumbs withdrew, and I felt him move off the bed entirely. “Stay exactly where you are.”
I stayed. The oval of the cutout framed me in the cool air. I pressed my forehead into the sheets and tried to control my breathing while I listened to him cross the room. The sound of a drawer opening. A pause. The sound of his footsteps returning.
He came around to the side of the bed. I turned my face and saw it.
My mind simply refused the information for a full two seconds.
It was black, a sharp contrast to everything else on this set. Black silicone, smooth and gleaming under the studio lights, shaped with an anatomical fidelity that left absolutely no ambiguity about its purpose. It was enormous. Larger than him—larger than the cock that had already seemed impossible when he’d first pushed it into my mouth—and he held it in one hand with the casual ease of a man displaying a piece of evidence.
“This,” Master Paul said, “is what naughty little sluts get on their wedding night when they misbehave.”
My hands flew back behind me before I’d decided to move them. Both palms pressed against the curves of my bottom in a gesturethat was purely, hopelessly instinctive—a child’s reflex, covering what was about to be hurt. My fingers found the satin border of the cutout and protected it.
“No,” I heard myself say. “No, sir, please, that’s—that’s too big, I can’t?—”
“Hands,” he said.
I shook my head. My palms pressed harder against my own cheeks.
He set the dildo down on the bed beside me. I heard him open something else—a softer sound, the clink of small hardware—and then his hands closed around both my wrists. Not roughly. Not with the controlled force he’d used when he’d bent me over the side of the bed. Gently, almost tenderly, he drew my hands forward and together, and I felt leather close around first one wrist and then the other; soft, wide cuffs that buckled with a precision that told me they’d been prepared in advance, ready for exactly this eventuality.
He left my bound wrists on the mattress in front of my face.
I stared at them. The leather was cream-colored against my skin, the buckles small and silver and perfectly fitted, and the fact that my hands were now together and in front of me and entirely useless for the protection of my bottom made the back of my throat close around something that wasn’t quite a sob.
He had known. He had known I would throw my hands back. He had the cuffs ready. Of course he had.
“There,” he said, from behind me again. His hand stroked down my spine—one long, warm pass from between my shoulder blades to the small of my back, the touch of a man soothingan animal that needed to be reminded of his presence. “Let’s begin, now that you can’t interfere with your punishment or my pleasure.”
CHAPTER 37
Anne
The first press of the silicone against the place his thumbs had prepared felt nothing like his thumbs. The size of it seemed like its own argument, and my body’s initial answer was a clenching refusal so complete that I heard myself whimper with the effort of it.
“Breathe out,” he said. “The way you just learned.”
