Page 17 of Shamefully Trained

For a moment I considered deleting the app on the spot. Then I remembered the stack of bills on my counter, the balance in my checking account, the humiliating arithmetic of my life, and I kept scrolling.

Message nineteen was from Porter B.

I knew before I opened it that I might be in trouble: my stomach turned over in a way that suggested my masturbating my pussy raw to a mental image of him training me as his fuck toy didn’t represent a one-time thing that I could just push back into the depths of memory.

His note was brief.

I’m interested. Before you reply, review my member profile closely. If you still want to meet, let me know.

That was all.

No smiling cruelty. No pseudo-gallant filth. No immediate demand for measurements or nude photos. The restraint of it affected me more than any of the vulgar messages had. I sat with my thumb hovering over his name for several seconds, then opened the full profile again as if I had not already memorized too much of it.

Luxury sponsor.

I read the rest despite the heat that had already filled my face, because he had told me to, and because some part of me had already taken the fact of that instruction too much to heart.

Established, discreet, demanding.

I felt that same hot, humiliating awareness gather low in me at the familiar words.

I prefer an associate who is intelligent, feminine, and honest about her need for structure. I am generous with a woman who pleases me and consistent with one who requires correction. Defiance, dishonesty, and carelessness will be disciplined firmly. I do not bluff, negotiate consequences after the fact, or repeat myself.

I swallowed hard.

There were more specifics beneath that. Dress standards. Availability expectations. Prompt communication. Sexual exclusivity. Travel. Discipline at the sponsor’s discretion within agreed terms. The private note remained there too, cool and impossible to mistake.

Anal training, discipline, and intercourse will be an important part of your life, if you accept a sponsorship offer from me. I believe a submissive young woman learns her most important lessons that way.

I shut my eyes.

Luxury. Five thousand and up.

I clung to that number like it might cleanse the rest of it. Five thousand was practical. Five thousand was not fantasy. Five thousand was enough money that a woman could rebuild herself, save, think, leave when she wanted. That last thought was probably the least honest of all, but I let it stand.

My fingers trembled when I typed.

I’d like to meet.

I read the sentence three times before sending it, as if maybe on the third reading I would become someone else. Then I pressed send and dropped the phone onto the bed as if it might scorch me.

It buzzed less than two minutes later.

Meet me at Café Fleur, on Connecticut near Dupont Circle, at three this afternoon.

Then, on the next line:

Wear nice lingerie in case I decide I want to sponsor you.

I stared at that message until the words seemed to separate from one another and become almost meaningless sounds in my head. Then meaning came back all at once, in a rush so strong I had to put the phone face down and get out of bed.

Nice lingerie.

In case I decide.

My face burned so hot I could feel it in my ears.

I made my shower last much too long, standing under the spray while my thoughts ran in stupid circles. He might not sponsor me. He might look at me over coffee and decide I was too stiff, too inexperienced, too proud, too expensive, too something. Or he might decide otherwise. The uncertainty made every part of me feel awake and thin-skinned.