Page 39 of Shamefully Trained

His fingers moved in my hair once, smoothing. “Yes. It is.”

I waited for some judgment, some contempt, some pronouncement about my inexperience. What came instead was somehow worse for me.

“I will fuck your face,” he said. “Eventually. But that isn’t where we begin.”

A shiver ran through me.

“First, you’re going to learn how to treat your sponsor’s penis with respect,” he went on. “I want you to understand what gratitude looks like, when a man like me allows you to please him this way. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” My voice quavered. Part of me had no idea why I had said it, but a more important, deeper part of me, to my dismay, did understand, much better than I wanted it to.

“Good girl.” His hand slid from my hair to my cheek, then away. “Now lower my underwear the rest of the way, so you can serve me properly.”

I drew the cotton down over his muscular thighs and farther down, over his knees. He stepped out of his trousers and his underwear and kicked them aside so he could spread his legs and take me more fully between them. His cock stood inches from my face, and I felt myself flushing all the way to my chest.

I had no idea what to do with my hands, so I left them at my sides.

“First,” he said, “take a good look at the most important part of your sponsor. Not because I’ll whip you if you look away, although I will.”

I heard a little sob come from the back of my throat, and my breath became shallow. I wished I could have told myself it came only from fear.

“Learn how I’m made,” Porter said. “Really look.”

That made something inside me go very still. I obeyed. I looked.

I saw the broad tip of his cock, and the darker ridge beneath it. The smooth, taut skin over the shaft. The subtle movement when he breathed. The veins. The contrast between the hard length and the softer weight below. I had a sudden, bizarre awareness that I had never been taught any of this. Women were somehow meant to know, or to fake knowing, or to let men do as they pleased and call that sex.

“I’ve never…” I began, then stopped.

“Never what?”

“Never gotten to…” I felt ridiculous. “Learn.”

I couldn’t look at him, but I heard a smile in his voice. “No. I didn’t imagine you had.”

He reached down, then, and took my right hand. He placed it lightly on his thigh first, grounding me. Then he guided it upward and inward until my fingertips brushed the underside of his cock. I let out a little gasp at the warmth of it.

“Gentle,” he said. “Don’t seize it. Let your fingers get acquainted.”

My fingertips traced the heat and hardness of him in a trembling little path. It felt almost unreal, like touching concentrated masculinity rather than flesh. He was so warm. So alive. So undeniably responsive beneath my hand that my stomach tightened with a mix of terror and excitement.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Now wrap your fingers around me. Not too tight.”

I did. My hand looked absurdly small.

“Better. Stroke once.”

I obeyed, clumsy with concentration, drawing my hand up and then down again.

He exhaled softly. “Good. Again.”

I did it again. His cock shifted in my grasp, growing somehow heavier, and I felt a fresh surge of wetness, slick between my thighs.

He took hold of his cock above my hand then, not moving mine away but covering the shaft with his own larger grip. “Watch.”

I watched as he stroked himself slowly, deliberately, showing me the pressure, the rhythm, the slight movement of his fingers near the head. The sight sent heat straight through me.

“This is one way a penis likes to be treated,” he said. “Not by every man in exactly the same way. But with attention. With care. You pay attention to what it does in your hand. You learn how I respond.”