Page 65 of Shamefully Trained

I imagined explaining any of this to a friend and had to set down the mug before I spilled it from sheer internal recoil.

But of course there was no friend to explain it to. There was no ordinary world in which I could say, casually, My sponsor arranged for me to have my pussy waxed because he wants me waiting in white lingerie when he gets back from his meeting, and he thinks a girl needs a bare pussy to wear lacy lingerie properly. Even in Washington, where people developed unusual tolerances for warped power structures, that sentence would have cleared a room.

At ten-thirty I put on a simple dress and flats and no underwear, because after the last twenty-four hours the absence had already begun to feel less like a missing item than like another standing instruction.

When I reached the lingerie drawer to see what awaited me for later, I did it only because I told myself I should know. That was a practical decision, I informed myself.

The white set lay folded with almost ceremonial neatness.

I touched it with my fingertips.

Lace, very soft, almost absurdly delicate. A bra that looked less engineered for support than for display. Tiny panties—though perhaps ‘panties’ was generous, given how little fabric appeared involved. Stockings too, sheer and white. There might have been a garter belt tucked beneath; I didn’t unfold everything fully because I suddenly couldn’t bear to see the entire extent of what he meant to put on me, or rather what he meant me to put on myself for his approval.

For his pleasure. For his use.

For one awful moment I pictured my own body in the lingerie: waxed, smooth, waiting.

I shut the drawer.

The ground-floor salon—though salon made it sound frivolous, and the place itself seemed more discreet than that—occupied a suite off the main lobby, accessible through a soft-lit corridor lined with framed abstracts and luxurious silence. A brass plaque by the door bore a name I did not recognize. Of course Selecta or Porter or both had chosen somewhere that did not advertise itself.

The receptionist greeted me by name before I had fully approached the desk.

That made my face warm at once.

“Ms. Murphy? We’ve been expecting you.”

Her smile seemed professional, pleasant, impossible to read. If she knew what sort of arrangement had placed me there, she gave no sign of it. Perhaps women came and went from this building for just such appointments all the time. The thought should have comforted me, maybe, but instead it made the whole thing feel more institutional and overwhelming.

A few forms waited on a tablet. Preferences, skin sensitivities, acknowledgment of services. I signed where indicated with a composure that felt increasingly theatrical. Then another woman appeared, introduced herself as Lena, and led me back through a hushed hallway into a treatment room that smelled faintly of antiseptic.

It was not erotic. That somehow made it dismayingly erotic for me. I felt myself warming down there, and I tried to focus on the clinical character of the equipment rather than the reason my sponsor had sent me here.

The room was warmly lit, with a padded table draped in white paper, cabinets of supplies, neatly arranged jars, a stool on wheels. Nothing lurid. Nothing designed to underline the humiliation.

Lena spoke in a calm, efficient tone. “Go ahead and undress from the waist down to start. You can hang your dress there. I’ll step out for a moment.”

When she left, I stood in the room alone and looked at the table.

This is ridiculous, I told myself.

Then I took off my dress.

Standing there in nothing but my own skin under that warm neutral light, I felt more innocent than I liked to feel. More exposed, too. A stranger was about to inspect and alter one of the most private parts of my body because a man wanted me smooth for him.

I got onto the table and draped the provided towel over myself though it covered very little.

When Lena came back in, she did not blink. If she registered my tension, she met it only with professional kindness.

“First time?”

I hesitated, then nodded.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll talk you through everything.”

That nearly made me laugh, though there was no humor in it really. Porter talked me through my humiliations too. Apparently this was simply my life now.

She began conventionally enough. Within moments I understood why women complained about waxing. The first pull took my breath. “Ow,” I said before I could stop myself.