“Anne.” Master Paul’s voice, close now. I opened my eyes and found that he’d stepped nearer while they were closed—close enough that if I reached out just a little ways, my fingertips would brush the silk of his robe. His brown eyes held mine with that focused, unhurried attention that felt like being fixed to a board by someone who intended to study me very carefully before deciding what to do.
“Tell me you understand what’s going to happen,” he said.
My mouth opened. My lips were dry. I ran my tongue over the lower one and saw his eyes track the motion with a precision that made my stomach flip.
“You’re going to…” My voice quavered. I cleared my throat and tried again. “You’re going to… um… you know… look at me? In the… the nightgown. And then you’re going to… you’re going to say my… that I need to be…”
I couldn’t finish. The word shaved lodged in my throat like a physical object, too intimate, too real, too much like a concretization of an image I didn’t want to admit lay in the depths of my mind.
“Say it,” he said. Not unkindly, but not gently, either. With the patient, implacable firmness of a man who understood that the words mattered as much as the act; that making me say it was itself a form of preparation, of submission. Master Paul, I realized with a swallow, meant to dismantle, systematically, the wall I’d so clearly built between the girl I pretended to be and the girl I was.
“You’re going to shave me,” I whispered. “My… down… between my legs. You’re going to shave me there. So I can wear the red lingerie. So I’ll feel… I mean… you know… not me, really… the woman I’m… um… you know, playing… she’ll feel…”
“Feel what?” he pressed.
The tears came back. Not the racking sobs from earlier when I’d gotten spanked—these felt quieter, more private, the kind that spill over without permission and run silently down your cheeks while you stand very still and pretend you’re not breaking apart.
“Submissive,” I said. The word came out on a breath, barely voiced, and saying it aloud did something to me that I hadn’t anticipated. The word felt like a physical object, somehow. Speaking it seemed to place its weight on my shoulders. It didn’t feel like it would crush me, or anything, but it definitely felt there.
Like a hand. Like a big, strong hand, pushing gently but steadily. Pushing me toward something I wasn’t ready to name in my head, but that my body had already begun to move toward. A compass needle, swinging toward North, not by choice, but by nature, because of physics.
Master Paul watched the word settle over me. He watched the tears track down my cheeks, watched my thighs press together beneath the pink chiffon, watched me stand there, quivering and wet and stripped of what felt like everything, and then he nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Now let’s rehearse. I’m your accepted suitor. We’ll be married in a month or two, but I’ve decided to claim the rights the New Modesty gives an accepted suitor, to enjoy my fiancée’s body as I like.”
He circled me. Slowly, the way he’d approached me when I first arrived, with a measured but predatory stride that gave my nervous system time to register every footfall. I stood still, my arms at my sides now because crossing them felt childish and pointless when the baby doll nightgown concealed nothing, and I tracked him with my eyes until he moved behind me and I couldn’t see him anymore. Then I tracked him with every other sense I had: the whisper of silk as his robe shifted, the faint creak of the set’s floorboards beneath his weight, the warmth of him when he paused close enough that I could feel his body heat against my bare shoulders.
“Turn around,” he said. “Face the bed.”
I turned, my forehead creasing deeply. The wrought-iron bed frame filled my vision—white sheets, white pillows, the fan-stirred curtains moving in their artificial breeze. Domestic. Intimate. A bedroom that belonged to a soon-to-be-wife who had been told to put on a pink nightgown and wait.
“Hands at your sides,” he said. “Don’t cover yourself. A girl isn’t allowed to hide from her accepted suitor, any more than a bride is allowed to hide from her husband.”
I let my arms hang. My fingers trembled against the chiffon at my thighs.
I felt his hands on my shoulders first. Light, almost impersonal—the touch of a man assessing a garment rather than a body. His fingers traced the spaghetti straps, adjusting one that had slipped slightly toward the edge of my shoulder, settling it back into place with a deftness that made my skin prickle.
Then his hands moved down, following the line of my arms, and I felt his thumbs press briefly against the backs of my elbows before continuing to my wrists, where he held them for a moment—encircling each one completely, his fingers overlapping, demonstrating with casual, devastating clarity how much larger he was than me.
“Good,” he murmured. “Keep standing still.”
His hands returned to my shoulders and slid inward, following the lace edge of the bodice across my upper chest. I felt his fingertips graze my collarbones, felt them trace the neckline of the baby doll where it dipped between my breasts, and my breath hitched—a small, audible catch that I couldn’t suppress.
Master Paul… Paul… my accepted suitor… didn’t acknowledge it. His hands continued their inventory, moving down over the lace cups that held my breasts, not cupping them but… assessing them. Feeling the weight of them through the fabric the way a tailor might check the drape of a garment, his palms flat, his fingers spread, and I felt my nipples harden against his hands with a swiftness that shamed me terribly.
He felt it too. I knew he felt it because his hands paused—just for a heartbeat, just long enough for his palms to register the stiffened peaks pressing against them through the lace—and then moved on, sliding down over my ribcage, over the gathered empire waist, onto the sheer chiffon that covered my stomach and hips.
“The baby doll suits you,” he said, and his voice had that quality again—the low, resonant register that bypassed my ears and arrived somewhere in my chest. “The color. The way it falls. You look like exactly what you are, Anne. A modest girl who’s been put in something immodest by a man who wants to see what’s underneath.”
His hands reached the hem. The chiffon ended just below the curve of my bottom—I could feel the edge of it brushing against my upper thighs—and his fingers found that edge and lifted it. Slowly. Gathering the fabric upward, inch by inch, until the cool air of the studio touched my bare rear cheeks and I knew that everyone behind me—Melissa, Darlene, the technicians, anyone—could see the evidence of what had happened to me on the living room set. The redness from Master Paul’s huge hand. The heat that I could still feel throbbing in both cheeks, a deep, pulsing ache that hadn’t faded.
“There it is,” he said quietly. His hand—his bare hand, warm and wide—settled on my right cheek, and I flinched and then immediately pushed back into his palm. Both reactions happened simultaneously and I wanted to die. “A well-spanked bottom. You took your punishment, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes… Master Paul.”
His thumb traced a slow circle on my burning skin. The sensation was extraordinary—pain and pleasure so intertwined that I couldn’t separate them, the tenderness of bruised flesh meeting the warmth of his hand, and my body interpreted the combination as something that sent a fresh pulse of wetness between my legs.
“Call me sir, the way a New Modesty girl does her future husband.”
I swallowed so hard it hurt a little.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered, my mouth feeling somehow dry despite the way it seemed to keep watering.
“Turn around,” he said. “Face me.”
I turned. The baby doll’s hem fell back into place, the chiffon settling over my hips like a whisper. I looked up at him—I had to look up, he was so much taller—and his brown eyes held mine for a moment before they began to travel downward. Over my face, my neck, the lace bodice where my nipples were still visibly hard, my stomach, and then lower, to the place where the sheer pink chiffon did nothing—absolutely nothing, really—to conceal what lay beneath it.
He looked at my pussy.
He looked at it with focused, unhurried attention, and I stood there and let him, because the word submissive was still sitting on my shoulders like a hand, and because my body had decided, apparently without consulting me, that being looked at by this man was something it wanted more than dignity.
“Lift the nightgown,” he said. “Hold it up above your waist. I want to see you properly down there—down where I’m going to put my cock.”
My lips parted and a tiny, whimpering sound emerged. My breath came in little pants.
“Sir…” I pleaded, suddenly no longer needing to remember that I was playing a part.
“Do it,” Master Paul said, his eyes narrowing slightly.
My hands moved before my mind gave permission. I gathered the chiffon in both fists and lifted it, bunching it against my stomach, and the air touched me everywhere—my thighs, the soft blonde hair between them, the warm, slick folds that I knew, with a certainty that burned like acid, were visibly wet.
Master Paul looked. He took his time about it. His gaze moved over the triangle of pale hair, over the shape of me beneath it, and his expression didn’t change—didn’t soften, didn’t harden, didn’t betray anything beyond that same clinical, thorough assessment. Then he reached out.
His knowing hand cupped my pussy.
I gasped. The sound came out high and broken, almost a squeak, because his palm was suddenly there—warm and dry against the most intimate part of my body, his fingers curving down between my thighs, his palm pressing flat against my mound. He held me like that for what felt like an eternity—just held me, not moving, not stroking, simply… possessing. Taking the measure of me in his hand the way he’d taken the measure of my wrist.
“You’re wet,” he said. Not a question. A statement of fact, delivered with the same calm he’d used to count my spanking.
“I…” My voice shook so badly the word barely formed. “I know. I’m sorry, sir.”
“Don’t apologize for what your body needs,” he said. His fingers shifted—just slightly, just enough to part the outer folds, to feel the slickness that had gathered there—and I made a sound that I’d never heard myself make before. Something between a moan and a plea, low and liquid and utterly without dignity.
His middle finger traced the length of me. From the opening—where I clenched involuntarily, desperately, around nothing—upward through the wet, swollen folds to my clitoris, which he found with the same unerring skill Penelope had shown, and circled once. Just once. A single revolution that made my knees buckle, my hands clench in the chiffon, and white light burst behind my eyes.
Then he pulled his hand away and held it up between us. His fingers glistened.
“Look,” he said.
I looked. I saw my own arousal shining on his fingers in the studio lights, and the visual evidence of what my body was doing—what it had been doing since the conference room, since the paddling, since the moment this man had said my name in his deep, warm voice—hit me with a force that made tears spill down my cheeks again.
“That’s honest,” he said. “That’s what I want from you, Anne. Honesty.” He lowered his hand and wiped his fingers on the silk of his robe—a gesture so casually proprietary, so matter-of-fact in its intimacy, that my stomach clenched. “Now let me look at you more closely. Sit on the
[divider]
I sat. The mattress was soft beneath me, the white sheets cool against the backs of my thighs where the nightgown rode up. I placed my hands on either side of my hips and looked up at Master Paul, who stood before me, waiting.
“Lie back and open,” he said.
I lay back, grateful not to have to see Master Paul for the moment, but rather only the ceiling of the studio high above me. I parted my knees. Slowly, fighting my own muscles, which wanted to clamp shut like a door against an intruder.
“Knees up,” he said brusquely, like an impatient bridegroom. “Hold them in your hands.”
With a tiny, keening whimper, I obeyed.
The chiffon pooled atop my tummy, and Master Paul reached down and swept it up, tucking it against my ribs, and then I was lying on a white-sheeted bed in a pink baby doll with my legs spread open and my pussy fully exposed to a man who crouched down between my thighs and brought his face close enough that I could feel his breath on me.
I couldn’t stop thinking about his cock.
It was absurd. It was the worst possible thing to be thinking about while he—a man I’d known for less than an hour, despite having seen his frighteningly large penis—examined my most intimate anatomy with the clinical focus of a doctor.
No, not a doctor… doctors don’t look at you like that. They don’t… inspect you.
For Master Paul had begun to inspect me down there with a particular combination of authority and hunger that he wore so naturally it might have been part of his face. The image of his erect manhood wouldn’t leave me, though. The glimpse I’d stolen of it before he’d put on the robe… the sheer size of him, the thickness, the way he’d hung heavy and half-hard as if even at rest his body carried more sexual presence than any man I’d ever seen… it had embedded itself in my brain like a splinter, and every time I tried to focus on something else, my mind circled back to it.
What would it feel like?
The question bloomed in the dark, humid space between my thoughts, fed by the sensation of his breath on my shamefully aroused flesh. Kevin’s penis had been average, I supposed, though I had no basis for comparison at the time. It had been the only penis I’d ever seen in person, and I hadn’t even really seen it up close. Seeing it had provoked in me a mild curiosity and nothing more—a kind of oh, so that’s what that looks like detachment that I’d mistaken for maturity but now recognized, with a lurch of understanding, as the absence of desire.
I hadn’t desired Kevin. I hadn’t desired Kevin’s body, or his hands, or his earnest, anxious penis. I’d gone through the motions of sex with him the way I went through the motions of studying for an exam in a subject that didn’t interest me: dutifully, competently, without any of the fire that I had begun to understand was supposed to make it matter.
Master Paul’s cock was different. The thought of it, the image of it—thick and veined and heavy, curving slightly to the left with a weight that suggested solidity, substance, something that would fill a space inside me that I hadn’t known was empty until this very moment—made my inner muscles clench involuntarily, a reflexive squeeze around nothing that sent a fresh wave of slickness between my folds.
I could feel it happening. I could feel myself getting wetter while he looked at me, and the knowledge that he could see it, that his face was close enough to see every shameful detail of my arousal, made me want to press my knees together and disappear.
But I held them open. I held them open because he’d told me to, and because the hand on my shoulders—the invisible one, the one that had settled there when I’d whispered the word submissive—pressed down a little harder every time I thought about closing them.
“Darlene’s ready.” Melissa’s voice cut through the humid fog of my thoughts. “Bathroom’s lit, but she wants to get the bedroom inspection first while the energy’s fresh. She says the light in here is perfect right now—something about the color temperature matching Anne’s skin tone.”
I heard footsteps. The click of equipment being repositioned. The soft, mechanical whir and click of an old-fashioned film camera taking stills.
“Don’t move, Anne,” Master Paul said without looking up from between my thighs. “Stay exactly as you are.”
“Rolling,” I heard Darlene call, and then she appeared at the periphery of my vision—a flash of silver hair and black clothing, moving with silent efficiency. She circled the bed, and I heard the shutter fire in rapid succession; a quiet, precise series of sounds, like a hummingbird’s wings.
“Gorgeous,” Darlene murmured. I couldn’t tell if she was talking about me or the light. “Can you get her to shift her hips left about an inch? The nightgown is catching the key light beautifully along the lace, but I want more of it pooled at her waist so the contrast with the bottom reads.”
“Anne,” Master Paul said. “Shift your hips to the left.”
I shifted. The movement was tiny, barely perceptible, but it changed the way the chiffon fell across my stomach, and Darlene made a small, satisfied sound as she moved back toward one of the video cameras.
“There. Perfect. The pink against the red—it’s incredible. And her pussy lips just peeking out… Melissa, come look at the monitor.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Melissa appear beside Darlene, and I heard them conferring in low voices while I lay there, legs spread, holding my knees in my hands like a girl at the gynecologist’s office… if the gynecologist’s office were a pornography studio and the gynecologist were a man whose cock I couldn’t stop imagining thrusting his rigid penis inside me.
“Oh, that’s stunning,” Melissa said, and her voice carried that electric quality again—the creative fervor that seemed to override everything else in her. “The baby doll reads so innocent against the spanking marks. See how the pink of the fabric picks up the pink of her cheeks? It’s like the nightgown and the punishment are part of the same palette. Darlene, can you get a wider shot that shows the full length of the baby doll and the bottom together? I want the viewer to see the whole story in one frame—the pretty nightgown he chose for her, and what happened when she didn’t cooperate.”
“Already on it,” Darlene said. She moved from the video camera and raised her Nikon. The shutter whirred again. Darlene disappeared, and I felt her move behind me, shooting over my shoulder and down the length of my body—the lace bodice, the bunched chiffon, my parted thighs, and Master Paul’s dark head between them.
“Anne, you’re doing beautifully,” Melissa called. “Don’t change anything. Whatever you’re feeling right now, keep feeling it.”
What I felt seemed a combination of arousal and mortification so intense that the two had fused into a single, undifferentiated sensation that occupied my entire body. I was a girl on a bed in a pink nightgown with a well-spanked bottom being photographed while a man old enough to be my father examined her pussy. That was what I was. That was what I was feeling.
Master Paul’s fingers parted… parted… me. My pussy. Not roughly, but with the same deliberate, thorough touch he’d used standing. This time, though, he spread me open with both hands, his thumbs pressing gently against my outer labia, drawing them apart so that the inner folds, swollen and glistening, were fully exposed to his gaze, the studio lights, and Darlene’s cameras.
I made a sound. A thin, reedy whimper that seemed to come from somewhere deep in my chest.
“Hmm,” he said. The sound was low, contemplative, and carried a note of displeasure that made my stomach drop. His thumbs moved through the pale blonde hair that covered my mound, and he shook his head slowly. “This won’t do.”
He said it loudly enough for the room to hear. I understood—some part of me understood, even through the haze—that we had definitely entered the scene. The rehearsal had become the performance, or perhaps there had never been a meaningful difference between the two.
“This hair,” he said, and his voice had taken on a harder edge, the authority that had been tempered with warmth now stripped of its softness. “Look at this. I buy you a beautiful nightgown. I bring you into our bedroom. I want to see my future wife’s body, and this is what I find?”
His fingers tugged lightly at the hair between my legs—not painfully, but with enough force to make me gasp and squirm on the white sheets.
“Sir, I… I didn’t know you wanted me to—”
“You didn’t think,” he corrected. “A girl who’s preparing herself for her husband’s bed should have thought about what he’d want to see when he looked between her legs. Should have thought about whether he’d want to find a bush down here, or whether he might prefer to see his wife’s bare, pretty pussy, smooth and ready for him.”
I started to cry again. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes and ran sideways into my hair as I lay there, holding my knees open, while Master Paul scolded me for the state of my pubic hair with a conviction that made it feel entirely real: not a scene, not a performance, but a genuine expression of a man’s authority over a girl’s body that I had failed to honor.
From somewhere off set, Melissa’s voice came, low but audible: “Paul… more. Push harder. Our data is showing HSG viewers want the men way more dominant than anyone was expecting. Like, significantly more. Don’t hold back.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Master Paul’s hands tightened on my thighs, and when he spoke again, his voice had dropped to something that was almost a growl: rough-edged, uncompromising, carrying a weight of masculine authority that pressed against my chest like a physical force.
“This little cunt,” he said, “is going to be shaved.”
The word hit me like a slap.
Cunt.
No one had ever said that word to me. No one had ever said it about me, about the specific, desperately aroused part of my body that his hands were currently holding open. The word sounded crude and raw and shocking, and it seemed to hit the center of my nervous system like a stone thrown into still water, sending concentric rings of sensation outward through my entire body.
The sensation, to my dismayed humiliation, was arousal.
Not discomfort. Not offense. Not the righteous indignation of a young woman being degraded. Arousal: pure, savage, obliterating need that surged through me with such force that I felt my inner walls clench and a fresh rush of wetness spill from my opening onto the white sheets beneath me. My hips jerked involuntarily, a tiny upward thrust toward his hands, toward his face, toward the word he’d just used, and I heard myself make a sound—a moan, low and throaty and completely beyond my control—that told everyone in the studio exactly what that word had done to me.
The shame struck instantaneously. It crashed over me in a wave so hot I thought my skin might actually catch fire. I had just moaned—moaned—at having my private part called a cunt. On camera. In front of Melissa and Darlene and the technicians and whoever else was watching. My body had responded to the crudest, most degrading word in the English language the way other girls’ bodies might respond to being told they were beautiful, and there was no hiding it, no explaining it away, no pretending it was anything other than what it so obviously was.
Master Paul saw it all. I could feel his gaze on me. He could see the fresh wetness, the clenching, and the flush that had spread from my cheeks down my neck and across my chest. He saw it, and something shifted in his expression—a deepening of that hunger I’d noticed before, a predatory focus that made me feel like prey that had just revealed the exact location of its hiding place.
“Get up,” he said. His voice was quiet now, but the quietness was worse than the growl. It carried the promise of something. “On your knees. On the floor, in front of me.”
I scrambled off the bed. My legs barely held me—they shook so violently that I stumbled as my feet hit the floor, and I caught myself on the edge of the mattress before sinking to my knees on the braided rug beside the bed. The baby doll settled around me, the chiffon pooling on the floor, and I knelt there with my hands in my lap and my heart slamming against my ribs so hard I could see my own chest shaking.
Master Paul stood. He rose from his crouch between my thighs with the fluid ease of a man whose body obeyed him absolutely, and he stepped in front of me, close enough that my face was level with the belt of his silk robe. I could see the sash knotted at his waist. I could see the dark hair of his chest through the open collar. I could smell him—that cedar scent mixed with something else, something muskier, something that made my mouth water in a way that shocked me.
“Look at me,” he said.
I tilted my head back. His face was high above me, framed by the studio lights, and from this angle—kneeling, small, looking up—he seemed gigantic. Monumental. A man shaped by decades of authority over girls like me, and every line of his body communicated that authority with a clarity that bypassed my rational mind entirely and spoke directly to whatever primitive, quaking thing lived at the core of me.
“A girl whose hygiene needs correction,” he said, “should understand what she’s being prepared for. You’re going to be shaved bare so that your cunt is ready for me. But first, I think you need to see what you’re being made ready for.”
His hands went to the sash of the robe. He pulled the knot loose with a single, unhurried motion, the silk fell open, and there it stood.
His cock.
Not half-hard this time. Not the glimpse I’d stolen before, the peripheral flash that had seared itself into my memory. I saw the full, unhidden reality of it, inches from my face, and the reality seemed much more than the glimpse had prepared me for. The rigid shaft was thick—thicker than I’d estimated, thicker than anything I’d imagined fitting inside a human body—and long, curving slightly upward with a heaviness that spoke of blood and heat and need. The head, with its fluted curve and a glistening bead of moisture in its little slit, seemed to swell with an arrogant command to serve my master’s pleasure.
“I’m going to teach you to worship my manhood properly, girl.” Master Paul growled. “I’m going to teach you what happens when a man has to wait to fuck a smooth, innocent cunt the way he deserves.”