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)
She touched the warm edge to the lowest part of my private lips, and then she moved it lower. I cried out, a single sound that somehow conveyed too many feelings. Shame, and discomfort, and fear, but above all, to my horror, a need so urgent I had to bite my tongue to keep from begging my mistress to touch me where I knew much too well it would give relief.
“This part of you is special, Chalondra,” she said, her voice calm and even as if she wanted me to contrast her impassivity with the surges of desperation traveling through my limbs with every degrading movement of the device between my bottom cheeks.
I closed my eyes as tightly as I could, feeling my forehead crease very deeply with the effort of not crying out—or, worse, begging Mistress Franla to tell me why the most embarrassing part of my body was also somehow special. The worst part lay in the feeling, which my mistress had apparently mastered the art of imparting to the girls she trained, that I already knew the answer. That if I only had the strength of mind to face the wantonness of my nature, I would see exactly why that tiny, wrinkly opening between my hind cheeks had a particular, specific importance in my new life of servitude.
Mistress Franla moved the depilator’s warm edge up and down. I chewed on my lower lip, willing her to be done. I felt her use the towel again, to wipe between my legs, and I let out a little sob at how the moment of friction made me long, despite myself, for more of her attention there.
“Very special,” she murmured, and she put a fingertip there… right there. My eyes flew open, and I saw my mistress gazing down intently at what she had just done—what she was doing, because the finger didn’t remain stationary. No, it moved in a circle, and then it pushed, and I had to close my eyes again so that I wouldn’t see her patient demeanor, the obviousness of her intention. She meant to teach me something, in this dreadful, humiliating way. The finger inside my anus, the one I tightened on but couldn’t expel, carried a lesson with it.
In the darkness behind my eyelids, I came up against the edge of the terrible knowledge—a dawning understanding of the specialness my mistress meant. Her finger, moving gently in and out, making me whimper, making my hips buck against the belt around my waist, making my mistress have to wipe my melting pussy again with the towel… that mysterious lesson met in my mind with the other thing I felt so desperate to understand.
Fucking. It must have something to do with fucking, whatever fucking proved to be. For the first time I confronted the violence of the word itself. Fuck. A single syllable… a harsh, short way to talk about something only adults discussed, and, it seemed, that they discussed in polite society only with other, softer words. The thing husbands and wives did in bed—that, apparently, masters did to their concubines, too.
“I’m going to start training this special place right now, Chalondra,” Mistress Franla said, beginning to accompany the dreadful invading finger with the very gentle, slow-moving pressure of two fingers, just where she had punished me so severely. “You’re going to learn to climax with my finger in your anus.”
Suddenly I felt the desperate need to see my mistress, as if the sight of her face might help me understand these dark matters. I opened my eyes, and instantly they widened to what felt like the size of dinner bowls as I saw the expression on my mistress’ face. Her blue eyes, the color of cool water, seemed paradoxically to burn with meaning as they gazed into mine.
The seriousness there, the solemnity, the passion, even, stimulated a wayward impulse to giggle. At that moment, in the wake of the terrible agony she had brought between my thighs with the barbarian instrument of discipline and now the presence of her soothing fingers, I wondered if I could help coming. My hips jerked, my body trying to thrust the tiny, tingling button of my clit against the softly rubbing presence. The idea that I might have to learn to climax that way seemed irresistibly humorous.
The next moment, though, to my chagrin, I began to understand. I wondered how I could have dared to say—to think, even—that Mistress Franla couldn’t break me. She had broken me with the frightful paddle, and she obviously intended to break me again with her searching, demanding, impossibly skillful fingers.
I let out a deep sob. She had told me, hadn’t she? She had given me the most important lesson of all, when she had seemingly yielded to me, and admitted—or so it had seemed—that I might have spoken the truth, that she might never break me.