Page 59 of Shamefully Trained

“And from now on,” he said, “you won’t wear panties unless I want to see you in them, because I want to take them off you.”

The words sent a fresh, humiliating pulse of heat through me.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Put those on.”

I obeyed. The sweats were soft and expensive-feeling. Pulling them over my naked body while I still felt sore and full and faintly damp from him was its own strange embarrassment. The absence of underwear made itself known instantly; the fabric brushed directly over the most sensitive parts of me and made me acutely aware of how thoroughly my new sponsor had used me.

Porter watched without comment until I had finished.

Then he took my elbow lightly and led me out of the bedroom, through the penthouse, and to the elevator. We rode down one floor in silence.

It was only one floor.

That somehow made it more surreal.

When the doors opened, we stepped into a beautifully furnished hallway, and he led me to a door that bore the number 33C. As soon as I neared the door, I heard it unlock.

“Facial recognition,” Porter told me. “Keyed to both of us.”

I felt my heart jump. Both of us.

Inside lay a small but still luxurious apartment. It was elegant in a more curated, impersonal way than his penthouse: pale walls, tasteful art, sleek furniture, a softness meant to reassure while quietly announcing that everything had been arranged in advance.

“Selecta maintains these apartments in certain buildings—for sponsors’ convenience,” he told me.

He showed me everything. The living room first, with a spectacular view of the distant National Mall, then the small kitchen with its gleaming counters and refrigerator already stocked with groceries, water, fruit, wine, yogurt, eggs—far more than anyone, I thought, would have prepared merely for convenience. He opened cabinets and drawers as if conducting an inspection.

“In here,” he said, moving down a short hall, “is the bedroom.”

It was beautifully done in creams and slate blue, with a wide bed, crisp linens, a long dresser, and heavy curtains over tall windows.

Next he showed me the closet.

I stared.

It was full. Dresses, skirts, blouses, slacks, sweaters, coats, shoes in boxes below, all in sizes that looked very much as though someone had expected them to fit me. I touched the sleeve of a cashmere cardigan with stunned fingertips.

“There are more items coming,” he said.

I turned toward him. “You already had all this arranged?”

He did not answer the question directly. Instead he went to a lower drawer in the dresser and pulled it open.

Lingerie.

“For when I want you in something nice,” he told me. “After I’ve had you waxed.”

Silk. Lace. Satin. Bras and panties, garters, stockings, little scraps of things that looked less like clothing than like a humiliating form of decoration. My face went hot as I looked down at them.

He slid the drawer shut and led me into the large bathroom. The space itself was lavish, with pale stone and mirrors and brushed gold fixtures. Inside the cabinet were rows of products: skin care, hair care, makeup, razors, bath oils, tampons, hair ties, toothpaste, body lotion, even a curling iron.

“This is too much,” I murmured.

“No,” he said mildly. “It’s efficient.”