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Authors: Alicia Cameron
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aware of how close we are, how easy it would be for him to grab me and throw me to the floor and take me. I should be afraid, but I’m not. He’s being gentle with me, despite my thick-headedness, and it’s been so long since anyone has touched me.
“Try and focus on what I’m telling you,” he demands, increasing his efforts and moving me a little more forcefully. He moves in closer, almost straddling me to get the effect he’s looking for.
I try really, really hard not to think about what it would feel like to turn and feel his thighs brush against the sides of my head. I hear his voice, a distant hum, and I try not to think of how much nicer it would be if he was whispering my name, claiming me with his words and his body. I especially try not to think about what it would feel like if he were in front of me instead of behind me, and how he would smell, and taste, and feel…
“Sascha, are you even paying attention, anymore?”
My master’s voice is exasperated, but not quite angry. His grip on my arms becomes a bit firmer, as he all but drags them into place. I attempt an answer, but all I get is some sort of muted consonant sounds that make me sound like I’m drowning. The forcefulness as he moves me pushes me past the point of no return, and I’m just thankful that I avoid moaning.
“Christ,” he mutters, and I can feel him moving away from me. I hear him pause by the doorway to my bedroom. “Well, get up, then,” he says. “Maybe we’ve done enough for one day.”
I hear him, this time, but I don’t want to get up, I don’t even want to turn and face him, because there’s an uncomfortable bulge in my pants. I failed miserably at not thinking of all those things that I was trying to not think about. I try to tell myself that it’s just habit, that it’s just because he’s attractive, but I can’t help wondering what it says about me. If I wasn’t so afraid of disobeying him, I would refuse to move from this spot until it receded.
I get up, and I sort of shuffle around, wishing for a tree or a chair or something to hide myself behind. I settle for clasping my hands in front of me, trying to hide it.
“Sascha, what—” he stops, looking at my hands. A look of realization crosses his face, and I realize I probably made the problem more apparent, instead of less. “Oh.”
I can feel myself going red, and my face is burning in shame. It’s not my fault. I’ve been trained to view anything as a source of sex, and to expect that anyone and everyone is going to be fucking me. I want to take it back, to see the pride that was starting to show on his face when I was pleasing him, but all I see is the discomfort. All my hard work, and I can’t even keep my own body in control.
The fact that he’s annoyingly attractive doesn’t help matters any.
“We were finished for the day anyway,” my master says, clearly uncomfortable. He’s doing a terrible job of hiding it. “You’re free to go, and in the future… take care of that beforehand, please. I may have neglected to tell you, but you have my full permission.”
“Yes, master,” I mumble, the heat running through my body mixing with the blush on my face. I want to cry, but I can’t draw more attention to myself.
He nods, looking unsettled for another moment before turning and walking out of my room, leaving me with my hard-on and my shame.
The shame doesn’t stop, although it helped a little to notice that he wasn’t comfortable, either. The fucking truth of it is, I have been taking care of it, pretty regularly, but it’s apparently not enough. Maybe I am just a whore.
Chapter 7
Impressions
I blaze through another training book and allow myself some quality time with the tablet. It’s been a long time since I’ve touched a tablet, but it’s like riding a bike, except I’ve always been rather clumsy on bikes, unlike tablets, which I’ve been able to master since the time I had adequate fine motor control to work the
“Try and focus on what I’m telling you,” he demands, increasing his efforts and moving me a little more forcefully. He moves in closer, almost straddling me to get the effect he’s looking for.
I try really, really hard not to think about what it would feel like to turn and feel his thighs brush against the sides of my head. I hear his voice, a distant hum, and I try not to think of how much nicer it would be if he was whispering my name, claiming me with his words and his body. I especially try not to think about what it would feel like if he were in front of me instead of behind me, and how he would smell, and taste, and feel…
“Sascha, are you even paying attention, anymore?”
My master’s voice is exasperated, but not quite angry. His grip on my arms becomes a bit firmer, as he all but drags them into place. I attempt an answer, but all I get is some sort of muted consonant sounds that make me sound like I’m drowning. The forcefulness as he moves me pushes me past the point of no return, and I’m just thankful that I avoid moaning.
“Christ,” he mutters, and I can feel him moving away from me. I hear him pause by the doorway to my bedroom. “Well, get up, then,” he says. “Maybe we’ve done enough for one day.”
I hear him, this time, but I don’t want to get up, I don’t even want to turn and face him, because there’s an uncomfortable bulge in my pants. I failed miserably at not thinking of all those things that I was trying to not think about. I try to tell myself that it’s just habit, that it’s just because he’s attractive, but I can’t help wondering what it says about me. If I wasn’t so afraid of disobeying him, I would refuse to move from this spot until it receded.
I get up, and I sort of shuffle around, wishing for a tree or a chair or something to hide myself behind. I settle for clasping my hands in front of me, trying to hide it.
“Sascha, what—” he stops, looking at my hands. A look of realization crosses his face, and I realize I probably made the problem more apparent, instead of less. “Oh.”
I can feel myself going red, and my face is burning in shame. It’s not my fault. I’ve been trained to view anything as a source of sex, and to expect that anyone and everyone is going to be fucking me. I want to take it back, to see the pride that was starting to show on his face when I was pleasing him, but all I see is the discomfort. All my hard work, and I can’t even keep my own body in control.
The fact that he’s annoyingly attractive doesn’t help matters any.
“We were finished for the day anyway,” my master says, clearly uncomfortable. He’s doing a terrible job of hiding it. “You’re free to go, and in the future… take care of that beforehand, please. I may have neglected to tell you, but you have my full permission.”
“Yes, master,” I mumble, the heat running through my body mixing with the blush on my face. I want to cry, but I can’t draw more attention to myself.
He nods, looking unsettled for another moment before turning and walking out of my room, leaving me with my hard-on and my shame.
The shame doesn’t stop, although it helped a little to notice that he wasn’t comfortable, either. The fucking truth of it is, I have been taking care of it, pretty regularly, but it’s apparently not enough. Maybe I am just a whore.
Chapter 7
Impressions
I blaze through another training book and allow myself some quality time with the tablet. It’s been a long time since I’ve touched a tablet, but it’s like riding a bike, except I’ve always been rather clumsy on bikes, unlike tablets, which I’ve been able to master since the time I had adequate fine motor control to work the
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