Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 68525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
My preparation as a bed girl. A girl for fucking, whatever that proved to be.
The depilator moved up and down, lingering each time at the top, where my mistress pressed a little more firmly. I bucked again, and I felt how my pussy, my quim, my wet quim, tried to push against the warm, tormenting thing.
My lesson. This was my lesson: that somehow my shameful service was indeed for my own good.
“No, no, no,” I breathed, my words coming out in a pathetic, whining tone as I kept shaking my head, feeling how disarranged my head’s curls had gotten from the ponytail Mistress Franla had put there after my bath. “No… please, mistress… please…”
And those words, too—my own words, pleading for mercy from the terrible pleasure my mistress forced on my body—seemed like a betrayal of my free spirit, because the dark part of me, the part the horrid agent had named Wetquim with such dreadful accuracy, knew that I spoke them only as a way of making the pleasure greater. Somehow, against every logical expectation, it made me feel good to know my master would make every decision about my fate from this moment hence.
And the certainty that many of those decisions would involve punishing me harshly, when I disobeyed him or misbehaved, or using my body for his pleasure with no regard for my opinion on the matter… that knowledge only made my backside squirm in more urgent search of the warmth in front and the soreness behind, desperate to place that wayward part of my body as firmly in my mistress’ control as I possibly could.
A sort of chiding sound came from Mistress Franla, and my eyes opened as I felt my cheeks get even hotter, so hot that I thought they must have turned a very dark red. She had her eyes fixed downward, and she tsked again as she moved the depilator against the lower part of my pussy, where though I couldn’t see it, even with my legs raised and spread in the stirrups, I knew my private lips concealed the virgin opening of my vagina.
My mistress raised her eyes and smiled when she saw me looking back at her. That expression seemed kinder and more sympathetic than the one she had worn before, but her words proved no less confusing and yet shameful despite my not really understanding them.
“The agent really did name you well, my dear,” she said. “You’re dripping, down here. I know it’s very embarrassing, but I promise it will make tonight easier for you. I’m afraid your master will have to buy several pairs of those expensive panties, though, if he wants you to wear them frequently, since they’ll need hand-cleaning and then old-fashioned line-drying after you’ve worn them for a little while.”
Heat flashed into my face—in part because I didn’t understand what she meant, about the wetness making tonight “easier” for me, and in part because I did understand, to my distress, about how a delicate garment like the underwear the baron had pointed out to me might well require special care after I had worn it. I couldn’t hold back the sob that pulled itself from my chest as my bottom squirmed on the thin padding that covered the seat and back of the awful chair.
Mistress Franla lowered her gaze again, and I had to furrow my brow deeply and bite my lip to keep another piteous whimper inside me as the depilator began to move again, baring me even further down.
“You’d like me to tell you what I mean, about it being easier for you tonight, since your vagina produces so much lubrication, I know,” she said, slowly and conversationally. “You’d like that very much, wouldn’t you, Chalondra?”
I couldn’t open my mouth to answer, because the feeling of the warm tingle against the most shameful place of all made it impossible to do anything but emit a soft, keening noise that emerged into the quiet of the training room like the sound of a small, furry, frightened animal.
My mistress pressed a little harder. My back arched against the chair, and I balled my bound hands into tight fists.
“Hmm,” Mistress Franla said. She stepped back and went over to the cabinet again. My eyes followed her, wide and staring, fear filling my belly of what would happen next.
Anxiety turned to hot mortification as she fetched a towel out and brought it over.
“Excessive moisture can interfere with the depilator’s operation,” she said matter-of-factly, without looking up at me—instead, she wiped between my thighs, then draped the towel over my right knee. “There,” she said with evident satisfaction. “Now I’d like you to reach your fingers down and spread your bottom open for me. I need to bare you there, too. I’m going to tilt the chair back for you, so I can do a thorough job.”