Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 57296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
“Oh, Heather,” he said in a voice that humiliated me even with its gently mocking tone, and sent a new wave of arousal coursing through my body, out from the intimate places my new owner had his attention fixed on, “you are a naughty girl, aren’t you?”
It was the first time he had said my name, and I thought no one had ever said it that way or could ever say it like that again; this warlord had purchased a virgin for his pleasure in deflowering her. Heather Foster would serve as a fuck toy, and the man who fucked her would forever have the shameful honor of mastering her that way for the first time.
Under the influence of the wand, I had no choice. My voice responded without a thought.
“Yes, Master.”
I felt a fingertip… a teasing friction… run down the length of my private lips. I could feel how easily it moved there, how slick I had become against my conscious will—but, I knew to my distress, in accord with my unconscious urges—the basic naughtiness that had made me resist Ivan’s order to bend over, after being made to look at his massive cock for the first time.
He took a deep, audible breath through his nostrils. I bit my lip and let out a tiny whimper because I thought I knew why. My master confirmed it, a moment later, speaking in a soft, slow voice that sent electricity running over my skin.
“What a lovely fragrance,” he said, moving the finger gently up and down. “And this cunt is so very wet already, just at seeing your first penis.”
Again I tried to force back the humiliating words of affirmation, and again I failed thanks to the wand.
“Yes, Master.”
The finger lingered at the top, where the ache always got the strongest—the place where he would… where he would enter me… fuck me… use me… when the time of his choosing came. I moaned very softly, deep in my throat, as Ivan slowly pressed that finger inside. My head, hanging down nearly between my thighs felt very light, and the feeling that it was all happening to someone else took hold.
My masked trainer had never done that. I had never done that myself, committed that terrible naughtiness, of putting a finger in my untried pussy, saved in a vague, theoretical way for a man who loved me.
This man, Ivan Antonov, didn’t love me… wouldn’t even love me someday, I felt certain. He put his finger inside my virgin sheath because he had bought it, to thrust his huge manhood into. I cried out in shame and discomfort as the tip of Ivan’s finger pushed against the tender barrier of my hymen.
“There we go,” I heard him murmur. “They sent a picture, but of course that could have been any girl’s virgin cunt.”
He pressed a little more firmly, so that I gasped in sudden fear that he would break through, that he would take it away in that casual, abrupt, meaningless way, with his finger… would rupture forever not just the trivial biological barrier but all the imaginary things my upbringing had taught me to connect to it… my precious innocence… my purity… my girlhood… no, more—my maidenhood.
My maidenhood… My cheeks burned as the old, benighted word floated inescapably into my mind, bringing all the old ideas about virginity that somehow still haunted the modern world in which I had grown up. Ivan Antonov had his finger up against my maidenhood.
He had seen a picture of it. I hadn’t known that the Pretorian Guard had taken such a picture. I supposed it would have been all too easy—whether the photo Ivan had seen actually showed my spread pussy and my intact virginity or they had generated the image using some computer trick. My blush got hotter, and seemed to blossom in my midsection too, and lower down. I whimpered and bit my lip because I could to my dismay feel how when Ivan eased the pressure on the fragile membrane I suddenly gushed with a wantonness that gave the lie to all those antiquated ideas of innocence, purity, and even of girlhood.
Girls didn’t feel that need—or so my ancient ideas told me. A girl who got wet, bent over in front of her master with a spanking coming and then, afterward, the terrible promise of her maidenhood’s end… she shouldn’t remain a girl… not if the man who bought her has anything to say about it.
The rational part of me tried to flee into the brutality… the atrocity of it. Somewhere, some sheer silliness in me whispered, of all things, advice from driver’s ed: “Steer into the skid.” This man had acquired me. He thought he owned me, and therefore he would force me to serve him, to receive him.
Into the skid: my arousal, it didn’t mean anything… it came from my body, not my mind, not myself.