Page 81 of Shamefully Trained

Muted sounds came from the front of the apartment: the soft opening of the door, low male voices too indistinct to make out, the efficient exchange of packages. The door shut again.

A moment later Porter appeared in the doorway. His big, muscular frame, clad in a robe whose belt he could simply unfasten to reveal the manhood that seemed destined to rule over me… my breath caught in my throat at the mere sight of him.

“You may come out,” he told me, an ironic sort of smile curving one side of his mouth.

I followed him into the main room and saw the brown paper bags set neatly on the kitchen island, along with two dark glass bottles of mineral water and a wine already breathing on the counter. The air smelled wonderful almost at once—garlic, basil, something rich and buttery, tomato, warm bread. Maybe it should have made the whole thing feel domestic, but for me it only sharpened the bizarre intimacy of it. I stood there in little more than decorative scraps while my sponsor… the man who had just claimed my anus with his cock… unpacked dinner as if this were the most natural sort of evening in the world.

He glanced toward me. “Sit.”

He plated everything himself. Pappardelle glossy with short-rib ragù. A fennel salad with shaved parmesan. Veal saltimbocca, because apparently he had already learned enough about my taste to order as if he had been feeding me for years. There was warm focaccia wrapped in linen. Little cups of olive oil darkened with pepper.

I stood near the table for a moment, suddenly excruciatingly aware of my body in the lingerie. It was one thing to spread my knees, to be inspected, to be used. It was, paradoxically, another to sit down to dinner in lace and stockings with my waxed sex uncovered and no possibility of pretending I was dressed.

Porter looked up at me once, took in the hesitation, and said only, “Sit down, Alex.”

No amusement. No pointed remark. Just the instruction, delivered as if there were nothing at all unusual in it.

The chair felt cool beneath my bare skin. I was acutely conscious of every inch of myself at first—my breasts held in the lace bra, the tug of the garter straps against my thighs, the bareness between my legs, the exposure of my shoulders and stomach. I half expected him to comment on the view whenever I moved. Instead he served me, unfolded my napkin onto my lap with a neatness that made me blush all over again, poured wine, and began eating.

The effect of his composure on me was as powerful as it was hard to describe. Five minutes later, I still felt embarrassed, but in a softer, stranger way. Porter looked at me often enough that I could tell the sight pleased him, as if he had decorated something beautiful to suit his own tastes and found the presentation successful. And because he seemed to treat that beauty as ordinary, my own body slowly began to stop feeling like an emergency.

I took a sip of wine and then, because my mind had finally managed to climb back toward politics from the body-shaking realm he apparently preferred, I asked, “How did it go today?”

He looked at me over his glass. “With the bill?”

“Yes.”

He set the glass down. “Better than I expected. Not well enough, but better.”

I took a bite of the veal, which was so tender it nearly fell apart, and waited.

“You may be right about Gowry,” he said.

My fork paused halfway up.

He saw that and went on. “He and the men nearest him gave off a few signs today. Enough to make me think they’re interested. The veterans provision landed harder than I thought it would.”

I swallowed. “Johnson too?”

“Yes. And Sinogar seemed less hostile than usual. If Gowry moved, I suspect the others could be persuaded to follow.”

Some entirely ridiculous spark of pride flickered in me. He had remembered exactly what I had said. More than that, he had taken it seriously.

“That would be enough?” I asked.

“Numerically, yes.” He tore off a piece of focaccia with elegant fingers. “Politically it would be ugly. Hathaway would be furious. Which, of course, is part of the appeal.”

I smiled despite myself. “A win over her bloc would be half the pleasure.”

“For Gowry, certainly. Especially if she decided she had to back the bill herself for the optics.”

I took another bite, chewed, and said, “Then what’s the problem?”

He gave me a brief look as if acknowledging that I knew there had to be one. “I still don’t know what would make him do it.”

I leaned back slightly. “You think he wants something too expensive.”

“I know what he wants.” A faint dryness entered his voice. “More drilling off the Gulf Coast.”