Page 82 of Shamefully Trained

I made a face before I could stop myself.

“Exactly,” Porter said. “It’s impossible. Or close enough to impossible to be functionally the same thing.”

I looked down at my plate.

And then, as if some wicked part of my mind had been waiting patiently for the opening, the idea came.

Not as an argument, not even exactly as a plan. As an image: a tiny shard of fantasy.

Porter with the cane in his hand. Me bent over, naked, perhaps in Gowry’s office or some discreet room attached to a private club, my wrists held, my cheeks burning, while Gowry watched with those cold assessing eyes. Porter telling me I had been naughty and required correction. The cane rising and falling. My body forced to take it.

And afterward—God, afterward—Porter turning to Gowry with that calm dark authority and saying that perhaps the senator might like to sample what was being developed so carefully. That he had trained me to the penis, and Gowry would find me more pleasing now than he had when he had whipped me for not giving good head.

The picture in my mind’s eye shocked my rational mind so thoroughly that for a second I forgot to breathe.

Heat rushed through me, though, low and hard and instant. I felt it in my face next, a violent blush. My nipples tightened inside the lace. Between my legs the lack of even the thong’s covering became even more of a humiliation as I wondered if I would stain the seat cushion.

I lowered my eyes to my plate because looking at Porter seemed impossible.

Unfortunately I had learned by then that changing my expression in front of him represented less concealment than confession.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

My answer had come much too quickly, though.

One dark eyebrow lifted. “That was unconvincing.”

I picked up my glass to give myself something to do. “It was just a thought.”

“What thought?”

I drank, though my mouth had gone nearly dry. “Nothing worth saying aloud.”

His gaze remained on me for a beat too long.

“Finish chewing,” he said quietly.

I realized I still had a bite in my mouth. I swallowed it under that watchful silence.

“Now tell me.”

I shook my head. “No.”

The word sounded absurdly small in the elegant room.

He set down his fork with exact care. “Bedroom.”

My stomach dropped.

“Sir…”

“Now.”

I rose at once, because his voice seemed to promise much worse consequences if I hesitated. At the back of my mind I realized, with a helpless little thrill, that he had already conditioned me in that mental process.

I have no choice. I have no choice. I have no choice.