Page 44 of Shamefully Trained

I settled back onto my heels automatically because I didn’t think I could have remained upright even if he had ordered it. My lips felt swollen. My face was wet with tears I barely remembered crying. My mind seemed oddly far away from me, as if something had come loose and floated upward while my body remained kneeling there, warm and used and intensely, confusingly content.

Porter stood up, and loomed over me for a moment, looking down. His cock was still hard enough that the sight of it made my stomach tighten again. I raised my gaze, my heart doing a little flip when I saw the possessive look on my sponsor’s face.

“Eyes,” he said quietly.

I dropped my gaze back where it belonged at once, heat flooding my cheeks yet again. Even then, though, my eyes slipped upward once or twice to his face with a kind of conscious naughtiness I recognized only after I had done it. He caught me the second time. One corner of his mouth lifted, but he didn’t say anything.

Then he reached for his phone.

The contrast felt almost absurd. I knelt naked on the rug, dazed after swallowing my sponsor’s seed, and he called a restaurant in a calm voice to order dinner as if this fit very neatly into the structure of the evening. French food, from the sound of it. He spoke to the person on the other end with easy certainty, selected dishes without hesitation, added wine, and told them to send it up in an hour.

I listened stupidly, eyes mostly where he had taught me to keep them. Mostly.

When he ended the call, he finished stripping off the rest of his clothes with unceremonious efficiency. I watched the dark fabric go, watched his body fully revealed, and felt another deep pulse of arousal. He was leaner than the men I had once imagined in scenes like this, but stronger looking somehow. Nothing soft. Nothing uncertain.

“Come,” he said, reaching his right hand down to me.

My limbs felt shaky as I took his hand and he pulled me to my feet. My knees felt strange, but they obeyed. He led me back to the bathroom, and I followed him naked over the rug and polished floor as if that had become natural in the last half hour.

Still feeling as if the real me, the me observing what happened to Alexandra Murphy, was actually located elsewhere, I watched Porter go to the enormous tub and turn on the tap. It began to fill in a heavy rush of water. The sound enclosed us, made the room feel private in a different way. The warmth of the steam felt soothing on my skin.

Then he turned back and drew me into his arms. I went without resistance.

The first full press of our naked bodies together undid me almost instantly. His chest against my breasts, his thigh between mine, one hand spanning my sore bottom with a possessive gentleness that made the soreness flare into fresh awareness—it was too much.

I heard my mouth emit a small, kittenish sound, and then I found myself rubbing against him, without having made any kind of conscious decision to do that. My hips… my pussy… I sought friction with a desperation that would have embarrassed me to death if embarrassment had not already become the atmosphere I breathed in around him.

Porter’s hand stroked my bottom once, then squeezed. I whimpered against the firm muscles of his chest. Then I felt him hardening again.

The knowledge sent a reckless little thrill through me. I pressed closer, unable to help it. My pussy felt swollen and needy and unfinished in some deeper way than orgasm alone had anything to do with. I wanted him inside me. That simple. That terrible.

I felt him smile against my hair.

“Wait, little slut,” he murmured. “I can feel how badly you need to be fucked, but as I said, I want to take my time and enjoy you properly.”

I hid my face against him for half a second because the words went through me too directly. His soft chuckle made it worse.

He let me go, and stepped into the tub, the water not yet high. He turned and held out his hands. I took them. He helped me in with a care that somehow only deepened the dominance of it. The tub was enormous; still, when he settled at the back and drew me in front of him, he arranged us tightly together. He placed me between his legs, my back to his chest, and I felt his cock, already thick again, resting against the cleft of my bottom.

I sucked in a breath.

His arm came around my waist. The other hand moved over my stomach, slow and proprietary. Warm water climbed around us. The noise of the tap continued, loud and steady, and for a few seconds I simply sat there in the impossible fact of it: my sponsor naked behind me in a vast marble bath, his cock against my bottom, his hands on my body as if they had every right to be there.

“Still squirming?” he observed near my ear.

“I’m trying not to,” I whispered.

“Are you.”

The non-question carried just enough amusement that I blushed and stopped answering. I could feel him smile again.

His fingertips traced lightly down my belly, not quite where I wanted them. “You did very well,” he said after a moment.

Praise in that tone felt terribly dangerous to me. I melted a little at once, then regretted it, then pressed back anyway because his cock against me felt too good.

He made a low sound, a growl that I could feel rumble in his chest.

“Careful,” he said. “If you keep rubbing that little bottom on me, I may decide dinner can wait.”