Read Online The Secret Journey by Paul Christian - Free Book Online

there. At last we reach the end, my
best guess having proven correct, my best work proving unnecessary.
Their driver takes me to my hotel, I check in, and check to see if
the extra keycard has been taken. It has. I take the elevator up,
go to the room, and take a moment to steady myself. Deep breath
in, deep breath out. My erection strains against my zipper, in
anticipation of what I might find. I slide the card into the lock,
and open the door.
    She’s there, and I smile with satisfaction,
and with desire. I don’t know what she’s told her friends and
family, to explain her absence this night, but that doesn’t matter.
What matters is, she’s there, waiting, just as she’s supposed to
be, black top, short black skirt, black stockings with the seams
running straight up to her garters. She’s waiting just as I told
her to wait, kneeling on the floor, lips parted, blindfolded, hair
in a ponytail, head down, hands held in the small of her back. Her
nipples are rigid against the thin fabric of her conservative white
blouse, and she’s trembling in her excitement, barely able to
breathe. Her knees are apart, exactly as expected, and as I come
closer I can tell that she’s been kneeling like this, and aroused
like this, for the entire duration of my over-extended business
dinner. I can tell because there’s a thin, glistening strand
dripping down from beneath her skirt, dripping down to join a slick
puddle on the floor between her knees. The scent of female desire
fills the room. She’s such a slut, kneeling three hours to present
her body to a stranger, with her anticipation, her excitement
growing with every beat of her heart.
    I stand in front of her, take her by the
ponytail, move her head up, move it down, move it back and forth.
She doesn’t resist, in her current state of arousal I doubt she
could even articulate the concept of resistance. She’s here to do
whatever I want her to do. She’s here so I can shape her, into
whatever I want her to be.
    The first shaping is to establish the proper
form of her relationship with my cock. I pull her head forward,
turn it to rub her cheek against the hard bulge behind my fly. She
moans in response. I let her feel it there for a moment, and then
turn her back so she’s facing it, her nose just half an inch away.
She can’t avoid its scent this close and her response is automatic,
unconscious. Her already parted lips widen into a lush, receptive
‘O’, her dainty red tongue comes to moisten them in anticipation of
what’s about to come. I feel her pull forward, ever so slightly.
She’s eager to touch it, experience it, explore it, and explore
herself at the same time, so the first lesson is in control. I
relax my grip slightly and allow her to come forward until her lips
just graze the fabric. She shudders when they do. Could it be that
she came, right there? It doesn’t matter. I pull her back, just a
fraction of an inch and she makes a small, inarticulate noise of
frustration, tugging forward against my restraint. She’s waited so
long, she doesn’t want to wait any longer.
    But she’s going to have to. “Do you want it,
cunt?” I ask her. She tries to speak and finds she can’t, and I get
a barely perceptible nod. Cunt. She understands the
importance of the word. Cunt. That’s the only name I know
her by. She has another name of course, the one used by her
husband, her friends and family, for the entire rest of her life. I
have no desire to intrude there in the slightest bit. To know her
name would be to elevate her from the status of cunt, and
neither of us wants that.
    I hold her head where I want it to be long
enough for her to relax, to stop pulling against me, to accept that
she’s going to get it when I’m ready to give it to her. She’s
learning that what she wants, or doesn’t want, has nothing to do
with it, and that’s an important lesson. I wait that long, and then
a little longer, watch as she licks her lips again, her breathing
quick, and