Page 63 of Shamefully Trained

This time I actually sobbed. The sound was swallowed by the bedding, by the room, by the expensive quiet of the apartment, but it was a sob all the same. Still I kept going, humping the pillow, hand at my ass.

“That’s right,” he said. “You can take frustration too. Such a useful girl.”

I don’t know whether the dissociation deepened then or merely became more beautiful in its cruelty. The distant observing self saw all of it: the apartment, the cameras, the bed, the speaker, the man above me who had arranged every element and who now denied me orgasm while making me perform for him.

At last, when I was shaking hard enough that my movements had become jerky and wild, his voice changed.

“Stop moving the plug.”

I froze my hand around the base.

“Now hold still,” he said, “except for your cunt on the pillow. Just that. There. Nice little strokes. You can come.”

The orgasm hit so suddenly that I screamed into the sheet. It tore through me in a rush sharpened by everything that had gone before: the denial, the surveillance, the plug, the soreness, the pillow, the shame. My thighs shook violently. I pressed back helplessly, then forward, rubbing through the convulsions because my body no longer understood anything but obeying the permission.

“That’s it,” he said in that calm, terrible voice from nowhere and everywhere. “Come on your pillow. Good girl.”

I did. Hard enough to leave me weak all through my stomach and legs. I stayed draped over the pillow panting, my cheek against the sheet, my hand still at my bottom because I had not been told to move it.

For a few seconds all I could hear was my own breathing.

Then, “Take your hand away from the plug.”

I obeyed slowly.

“Lie on your side.”

I turned over with care. My body felt almost fluid with exhaustion. I pulled the pillow against my chest without thinking, as if I needed to hide behind the evidence of what I had done. The scent of my naughtiness came to my nostrils, and to my abject mortification I felt myself clench down there, just at the thought of having left that evidence of my complete submission.

He let me settle. Then he said, “Do you understand now that I can use you from anywhere I want?”

The blush that rose in me felt almost feverish. “Yes, sir.”

“And that your body answers me just as well when I’m not touching you.”

I shut my eyes. “Yes, sir.”

A little pause.

“Good. That matters.”

Something in his tone, some cryptic note of affection, made my throat tighten.

He continued, “You’ll sleep with the plug in. If I decide to check on you later, I expect to find you properly in bed, not wandering around, and definitely not touching yourself. From now on, masturbating without permission means the cane for you.”

CHAPTER 20

Alex

When I woke up, I felt like I had slept for a century. My body had the heavy feeling that comes after too much sensation, followed by deep sleep. For a few seconds I didn’t know where I was, only that the sheets were luxurious and cool and that every muscle below my waist seemed to remember the previous day in separate, accusatory detail.

Then I became aware of the plug, and all of the preceding day’s events came into mortifying focus.

I shut my eyes again at once, as if that could undo either the memory or the physical fact of it. My bottom was still sore from the spanking, though the pain had gone from blazing to deep and tender. Between my legs I felt used in a way that by itself made my face warm to fiery heat. I could remember the table, his hand on my wrists, his voice in the speaker from upstairs, the pillow. A fresh wave of mortification went through me, absurdly potent for something that no longer existed except as memory and the shameful lingering scent in the room.

I rolled onto my back carefully. Pale morning light had made its way around the edges of the curtains. The apartment felt silent in a luxurious, insulated way that made it seem less like a place in a city than a sealed environment designed for someone else’s purposes. My sponsor’s purposes.

His convenience.