Page 87 of Shamefully Trained

Alex

He couldn’t be watching, could he? It was much too early on the West Coast for him to watch. And Porter had no time to review surveillance footage, did he? So… I was safe, right?

I clung to that thought because I needed it, because the alternative made the room feel too charged, too full of eyes. Safe. The word had barely formed in my mind before I realized that my hand had gone between my thighs.

Not under the nightgown… not really; just pressing the heel of my palm there through the pale green fabric, as if I had done it absentmindedly. As if it weren’t exactly what he had forbidden.

I snatched my breath in, my body freezing in place.

I should have taken my hand away at once, obviously. Instead, I stayed very still, with my fingers gentle over my bare sex, feeling the pressure of it, feeling how my body answered even that. The nightgown was soft and thin.

I squeezed, because I couldn’t help it. The pressure landed directly over my clit, and a little shock of pleasure went through me so quickly that my knees weakened.

“No,” I whispered to myself, though I heard no firmness in it at all.

My hand moved anyway. Just the tiniest shift. A little testing pressure. My hips moved, too, a little stupid, traitorous rocking into my own palm.

Heat went through me in one long wave, and with it came the thought I had been trying not to think all evening: the cane.

Not the broad, familiar sting of his hand, or even of the belt. The cane. Slim, cutting, precise. I had seen one, nosing around in a cabinet in his office, a few days ago—and instantly wished I hadn’t.

I had imagined it often enough since then that the image had become vivid: Porter choosing it calmly, as if selecting a pen… Porter tapping it once against his palm… Porter telling me to bend over and present my bottom because I had disobeyed in a way that required a more serious correction. Because I had… because I had done… this.

How would he do it? Slowly, I thought at once. Methodically. No temper in it, which somehow made it worse. He would place me exactly as he wanted me… over the arm of a chair, or the couch… over his desk… then… then he would… he would whip me… stripe me until I truly understood the gravity of my misbehavior.

My fingers flexed against the fabric over my clit.

I told myself I only needed to know one thing. Just one. Just to check how bad it was. How turned on I’d gotten from imagining my own punishment. That wasn’t really playing with myself, was it? That was practically… diagnostic.

The lie sounded so transparent, even in my head, that if Porter had been standing there I felt certain I would have burst into tears from the shame of it. Alone, though, I let myself believe it for another three seconds. Then I slipped my hand under the hem of the babydoll and between my thighs.

The first touch of my fingertips on my smooth, bare pussy made me gasp.

I was soaking, down there.

Wet enough that my fingers slid at once through heat and slickness and found more of it waiting. The discovery shocked, thrilled, and humiliated me so much that I nearly took my hand away then. Instead I stared down at myself, heart pounding, and touched again, as if the second time might reveal some less incriminating truth.

It didn’t. My pussy… my… my… my naughty cunt… it… I… I was terribly, humiliatingly wet. Wet from thinking about being caned. Wet from wondering whether he was watching. Wet from wanting him to catch me even while I tried to tell myself I didn’t.

“Oh, God,” I breathed.

Then my fingers did something even worse. Almost of their own accord, they gathered that slickness and spread it upward, over my swollen little clit, making the touch easier, smoother, more direct. I felt my whole body give a tiny, helpless jerk.

I knew that should have been the moment I stopped, in hope of obtaining some mercy for having interrupted my infraction before it became irremediable.

But I climbed farther onto the bed, as if in a trance, and I lay back against the pillows. My nightgown had ridden up to my waist by then, and I let it stay there. I closed my eyes because somehow that made it possible to pretend. If I didn’t look at myself, if I didn’t consciously decide, then perhaps it was not I who was doing it. Perhaps it was simply happening to me. Perhaps my body had become a place where Porter’s rules and punishments moved around even in his absence, and this was one more way he used me from far away.

I let my fingers circle my clit properly.

The pleasure hit me so hard that I moaned.

“No,” I whispered at once, the word breathy and weak. “No, please… please… no…”

At first the no belonged to the fantasy I needed in order to go on. Porter touching me. Porter making me lie there and take it. Porter refusing to let me pretend I wasn’t the kind of girl who needed exactly this.

But the image changed almost immediately, because my body knew where all roads led now. I was no longer begging him not to touch me. I was begging him not to punish me for letting him make me feel this way.

“Please,” I whispered, my fingers moving faster. “Please, sir… I’m sorry… no… please don’t…”