Page 30 of Shamefully Trained

I jerked.

He made a low sound near my ear. “Yes. I know.”

My forehead touched the wall above the toilet. I bit my lip hard.

His fingers stroked me through the soaked fabric with expert, maddening pressure, enough to make my knees weaken at once. “Such a wet girl,” he murmured. “And still pretending she’s here because she has no choice.”

I closed my eyes.

“You’re going to get that spanking,” he said softly. “On your lovely bare bottom. And then I’m going to put my finger back in your ass. And then, very likely, I’m going to fuck you.”

The words made my whole body tighten around nothing.

“No,” I whispered, though there was no force in it at all.

His hand moved more firmly. The silk dragged over my clit in a way that made me gasp. “No?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Every nerve seemed to have narrowed to the place his hand worked between my thighs.

“Because from where I’m standing,” he said into my ear, “you seem very interested in being fucked.”

His middle finger found me through the panties, pressed, circled. I made a sound before I could stop it, a humiliating little cry, and at once his free hand covered my mouth from behind.

“Quiet.”

I nodded against his palm.

He kept touching me, slowly, inexorably, as if he had all the time in the world. I could feel wetness spreading through the gusset of my panties, then beyond it, soaking the silk, making each stroke slicker and more unbearable. My body had no dignity left in it. I shook. I pushed back involuntarily into his hand. I tried not to and failed.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Feel what happens to you when a man takes charge.”

I might have sobbed if his hand hadn’t still covered my mouth. My thoughts had become fragments. Shame. Heat. Fear. Need. His words. The pressure of his body at my back. The awful fact that he was right about my responses even when I wanted him wrong.

His fingers worked me higher and higher through the wet fabric until my thighs were trembling violently and the room had begun to take on that unreal brightness that comes just before climax. I could feel it building in me in swift, ruthless waves.

Then suddenly it stopped.

He took his hand away from between my legs. Then from my mouth.

Air hit my lips coldly. I made a broken little sound of protest before I could catch it.

“Stand up,” he said.

I did, though my knees shook so badly I nearly stumbled.

He stepped back and looked at me with complete composure while I fought to breathe.

“Put your clothes back on.”

For a second I just stared at him, too dazed to understand.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

The ache between my legs felt almost painful now, sharp with interruption. Worse, with the loss of that overwhelming focus, another need rushed brutally into prominence. My bladder, which I had apparently ignored through some miracle of arousal and panic, made itself known all at once with a desperate urgency that nearly folded me in half.

“Oh,” I whispered, then louder, “I need to pee.”