Page 36 of Shamefully Trained

I struggled against him. I tried to kick. I gasped.

He kept going at that measured pace. At first the pace almost made it worse. There was time to dread each one. Time to feel the sting spread. Time to know another was coming and to be unable to do anything whatsoever about it because his forearm around my waist held me as securely as a bar of iron and his leg over mine made all my attempts useless.

Then the pace changed.

It happened without warning. One moment the blows were spaced out; the next they were raining down, hard and fast and unsparing, left-right-left-left-right, no longer allowing me time to gather myself between them. I yelped and twisted. His hold did not budge.

“Oh, my God… sir… please… it hurts…” I sobbed, squirming, my poor bottom clenching and unclenching lewdly, desperate to ease the agony.

Smack smack smack smack smack.

I jerked harder, trying not even to get away exactly but to escape the worst of it by movement, by writhing, by something. I might as well have been struggling against the furniture. His left arm simply tightened when I surged; his thigh and shin trapped my legs more firmly when I tried to kick. The horrible part was how much that did to me even while the spanking worsened. The certainty of him. The utter uselessness of resistance. The fact that he could keep me exactly where he wanted me, naked over his lap, and punish me as long as he pleased with no apparent strain at all.

I heard myself making little desperate sounds that had no words in them. My body tried to twist over his lap. My breasts dragged against his trousered leg; my hair swung; my bare bottom took blow after blow until the skin felt stretched too tight over flame.

“Hold still,” he said, and spanked me harder for not doing it.

That made no sense in any moral universe I recognized, and yet my body answered it with a hot convulsion low between my legs so intense it shamed me all over again. I was aroused. I was. Even now. Even like this, naked and trapped and being soundly spanked by a man who had decided I needed correction.

Then a point came—sudden as stepping off a curb I hadn’t seen—when the arousal dropped away.

The pain climbed past it. My bottom was no longer merely stinging. It was agony, broad and bright and impossible, every smack renewing and deepening the torment until I could not separate one blow from the accumulated fire of all the others. I screamed. Truly screamed, not the startled cries from the beginning but raw helpless noise torn out of me by the force of it.

Porter, my new sponsor, who would, it seemed, pay me for the privilege of hurting me this way, of teaching me such terrible lessons, did not stop.

I could hardly believe a hand could do that. A hand. Not a belt. Not the cane he had threatened. Just his open palm, wielded by someone who knew exactly how to use it and had no hesitation about doing so.

I thought wildly of the cane then, and the thought went through me like ice. If this was his hand, what on earth would that be? The senator’s belt, which had seemed at the time like the ugliest and most overwhelming thing I had ever endured, suddenly felt in memory like a crude beginning, the slightest brutal foretaste of something far more sophisticated and far more terrible. Gowry had merely bruised me. Porter was disciplining me, and somehow that distinction made the pain feel larger, more complete, because it came attached to intention and control.

I screamed again. Tears ran down my face into my hair. I twisted until twisting itself became pointless. His hand kept falling, inexorable. My own voice sounded far away and animal to me.

“Oh, God… please… please… it hurts so much… please…”

At last I stopped fighting not because I chose composure but because there was nothing left in me to fight. I went limp over his knee, sobbing for breath, my bottom burning so fiercely that even stillness hurt.

Then the blows ceased.

The sudden silence seemed to ring out in the room.

For a few seconds I could do nothing but lie there shaking, every nerve in my backside alive and ruined, my mind blank with the shock of what had just happened. I barely noticed at first that he had shifted. Then I felt his right leg lift slightly off mine, changing the angle of me, and the hand that had spanked me so savagely slid between my thighs.

I gasped as if he had thrust a live wire there.

My pussy flooded at once. No gradual awakening. No coy response. One instant I was a sobbing, well-spanked little girl draped across her sponsor’s lap; the next I was wet enough to feel it, trembling from a wholly different urgency that seemed to rise straight out of the pain he had inflicted.

His fingers pressed into me, found the slickness there, and I heard him make a small sound of satisfaction.

“What does a good girl say?”

The question should have humiliated me beyond bearing. It did humiliate me. And still I whispered, breath hitching, “Thank you, sir.”

“Better.”

He touched me properly then, not through fabric, his fingers moving with devastating certainty over the swollen little ache between my legs. The orgasm hit so fast it was almost frightening. One sharp cry broke from me and then another as my whole body seized over his knee. Pleasure tore through me in hot blinding waves, so sudden and so fierce that it felt dragged out of the very heart of the spanking. I screamed again, but differently now, my thighs shaking against his leg, my hands clutching helplessly at air and cloth.

“That’s right,” he murmured near my ear while I convulsed. “Come for me. Such a needy girl. I’ll have this pretty little pussy bared for me soon.”

Even in the middle of the orgasm, those words struck hard.