Page 91 of Shamefully Trained

My face burned instantly. I sat up in bed, clutching the sheet to my breasts though there was no one there to see. “I know that sounds insane, but I… I woke up thinking about it and I think…” I swallowed hard. “I think you should. And if… if… you… I mean… if he wants… if he wants more than that, if he’d support the bill, then you should… um… offer my… my…”

Another tiny pause, as I struggled to find a noun that wouldn’t sound like a cliché… or like I was a… a…

I let out a little whining noise through my nose.

But I am his little whore, aren’t I? He said so, and I didn’t leave, did I?

When Porter spoke, his tone had changed just enough to make my pulse jump. “You’ve been thinking hard this morning.”

“I dreamed it,” I whispered. “And when I woke up I couldn’t stop thinking that maybe it would work. Maybe that’s the thing with him. Maybe he wants to feel that he’s taking something from you.” My breath caught. “From us.”

“Us,” he repeated softly.

I shut my eyes.

Then he said, with sudden, businesslike precision, “Put on the red lingerie set. All of it, including the garter belt and the stockings. And the panties. Wear your overcoat over it and nothing else. I’ll send a car for you at four.”

My pulse thudded in my throat. “Nothing else?”

“Nothing else,” he said. “And Alex?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If we do this, you’ll do exactly as you’re told.”

The words sent a dark shiver through me. “Yes, sir.”

He ended the call.

For a few seconds I sat motionless on the bed staring at the phone in my hand, as if the device itself might explain what had just happened. Then I moved.

The rest of the day passed, somehow. My work shift at the café took me from ten to three. Usually at work these days I spent the whole time thinking about my underwear-less state. I would wonder if I should end the arrangement and quit while I was ahead—or if I should just quit my job instead. The allowance from Porter was so generous, and really serving him in bed and not being allowed underwear seemed like a small price to pay, even if my pussy and anus were usually sore from his frequent demands, and the threat of discipline felt ever-present.

Today, though, I hardly noticed that I didn’t have any panties on under my skirt, because I was thinking all the time about the red lingerie I would don later. The café was busy enough that I didn’t have time to let any fantasies about what would happen after that unfold.

When I got home from work I showered, then blew my hair dry, barely paying attention to the process even as it happened. Then I dressed, as Porter had specified, with fingers that shook more and more as the red pieces went on one by one. The bra first. Then the garter belt with its dangling suspenders. Then the stockings.

Then, after one distracted false start, I remembered the lesson I had learned the night Porter had deflowered my bottom. I fastened the suspenders, then pulled the thong on over them, so that a man—I swallowed hard as I wondered what man it might be, this evening—could take my panties down without the inconvenience of having to unfasten anything. The memory of that night brought such a hot pulse of shame through me that I had to steady myself with a hand on the dresser for a second.

At last I put on the coat.

It was a good coat, pink, and tasteful in the way nearly everything connected to Porter seemed to be. It buttoned high enough that no one would know at a glance what was underneath. But I could feel every inch of what was not underneath. No dress. No blouse. No skirt. No ordinary clothes insulating me from the world. Just lingerie and wool and the knowledge of my own near-nakedness.

At 3:47 my phone chimed.

Your car has arrived.

My mouth went dry.

I took the elevator down with my face carefully arranged into what I hoped resembled composure. The ride seemed unbearable. I felt as if anyone who stepped in—though thankfully no one did—would be able to smell indecency on me.

When the doors opened into the lobby, the polished marble and brass made everything feel more public. More theatrical. I walked past the desk with measured steps, certain that the concierge must somehow know that under my coat I was dressed for men’s pleasure.

Outside, the black car waited.

The driver got out and opened the rear door for me with perfect professional neutrality. That neutrality embarrassed me almost more than if he had smirked. I slid inside carefully, conscious of my bare thighs against leather as the coat shifted slightly, and immediately tugged the heavy fabric down around me as if that could restore some dignity. My heart hammered all the way downtown.

By the time we stopped outside Porter’s office on K Street, I had worked myself into such a state of tension that when the rear door opened again and he got in beside me, I jumped a little.