Page 50 of Shamefully Trained

He let me stay there another moment, then said, “Sit back slowly.”

I obeyed carefully, wincing at the feeling of the plug shifting inside me. When I settled back on my knees in the water and turned enough to look at him, he was watching me with that same composed, dark gaze that seemed to make concealment pointless. He reached out and tucked a strand of wet hair behind my ear.

“Your proper training has begun. The plug will remind you what your body is for, now.”

I laughed once, weakly. “Your definition of proper is insane.”

“From one point of view, at least,” he said.

That nearly made me smile, which felt outrageous under the circumstances. I looked away instead.

He put a finger under my chin and turned my face back. “You do understand, don’t you, that I won’t rush this.”

“What?” I asked, though I knew.

“Your ass.” His tone stayed matter-of-fact, and that made the blush rise all over again. “I’m not going to ram my cock into your anus and call the result training. I’ll prepare you. I’ll make sure your body learns to want what it’s taking. When I fuck your bottom, it will be because you’re ready.”

The words wrapped around me in a strange way. More shame. More fear. But also relief so intense it almost hurt. He saw it in my face at once.

“Yes,” he said softly. “That matters to you.”

I nodded before I thought better of it.

“Good.” He sat back a little. “Then perhaps you’re beginning to understand what sort of man I am.”

The realization that he was right frightened me in a deeper way than all the sexual things, because it touched something that felt even more fundamental. He was dangerous to me not only because he could make me come with a plug in my ass while telling me what I would become for him. He was dangerous because he was not casual. He was not crude. He meant things. He imposed structure because he believed it was good for me as well as pleasurable for him, and I had already started to believe him often enough that resisting had already become terribly complicated.

I looked down at the water.

“You really think this is good for me,” I said.

“I know you need a framework for desires that otherwise frighten and shame you. I know your body is more at peace when it isn’t pretending.” He paused. “And yes. I enjoy that truth very much.”

That honesty did something to me. I could not have explained why. Perhaps because it left me nothing easy to rebel against. He was not pretending to be selfless. He wanted me. He intended to use me. He also intended, somehow, to care for me, alongside the use… or inside it, even.

My throat tightened.

“I don’t know what I’m becoming,” I whispered.

His expression changed just slightly. “You’re becoming more honest. We can build the rest from there.”

He rose and held out his hands to me. I took them without hesitation, as if some other woman had made the choice, or perhaps as if there simply were no choice involved. He lifted me to my feet in the bath, the water sliding down my body. I stood unsteadily, aware at once of the plug still filling me, of my sore bottom, of the weakness in my legs after the orgasm he had forced on me.

He reached for a towel. I watched him rub it over the planes of his back and then the strong lines of his ass. Even that sight, more innocent than the view of his hard penis, made something in me flutter low and shamefully. He dried himself with efficient thoroughness, then took a dark bathrobe from a hook near the cabinet and shrugged into it.

Another robe hung there, like a marker of Porter’s obvious penchant for training girls in the bathroom. That, too, brought a stir between my thighs.

He looked over at me, still standing in the bath, still flushed and weak and too full. “Out.”

I obeyed, again without hesitation. Somehow, I thought idly, my mantra of I have no choice had apparently turned into reflex. When I noticed the thought, it obligingly and mortifyingly opened into a micro-fantasy. Me, bent over the edge of the tub. Porter, above me, with a cane raised high. I bit my lip and swallowed hard. The marble felt cool under my feet. Water slid down my thighs. The plug shifted with the movement and I sucked in a breath.

His eyes flicked downward at once. “You’ll keep it in.”

My face heated all over again. “Through… um… or, until…?”

“Through dinner,” he said calmly, as if announcing the weather. “Until I decide you should take it out. Put the robe on.”

I stared at him for one foolish second, because dinner and the plug seemed like concepts from incompatible universes. Then I reached for the robe and put it on with unsteady hands. It was thick and soft and so luxurious that it paradoxically didn’t feel safe. Instead, it made me feel even more deeply owned.