Page 33 of Shamefully Trained

“Porter—”

“Sir.”

I made a miserable sound. “Sir, please.”

He came a little closer. “Stand where you are.”

I did. I hated that I did it, but I had no choice. I didn’t know, at that moment, why I had no choice, but it felt true, so for me it was true.

“Hands at your sides.”

Another sob caught in my throat. I let my hands fall.

“That’s right,” he said, and his voice changed just enough to ruin me further, approval threading through the command. “Now let go. You’re going to have your accident like a good girl.”

I had never in my life felt so reduced, so exposed, so known in the worst possible way. My body fought me for one frantic second more, and then I gave up.

Warmth rushed down my thighs.

I cried out, not loudly, but with the sort of broken note that comes from a person hearing her own shame made audible. The sound of my pee splashing on the marble floor seemed impossibly loud. I watched in horror, unable to look away, as the yellow pool formed around my feet.

And all the while my body answered with heat. I could feel wetness between my legs of another kind too, my panties already damp and now made much more so, soaking with my shame, the whole thing so confusingly physical and immediate that I could hardly think.

“That’s it,” he said softly. “Very good.”

I was weeping helplessly by then. “Oh, God.”

“No,” he said again, and this time there was unmistakable satisfaction in it. “You held it for me. Then you obeyed. I’m proud of you.”

I could never have imagined a man saying those words to me while I stood crying over a puddle of my own urine on a marble floor. No one should have. The fact that they made my chest constrict and my pussy clench hurt the most.

Then I couldn’t stop. My bladder emptied in a hot relentless stream while I stood there bared despite my clothing in every way that mattered, skirt on, tears on my face, a man watching me with calm masculine approval of my mortification as if I had just learned something important.

When it finally ended, I was still trembling. I looked down at the floor and then at him, horrified beyond speech.

He stepped closer and brushed one knuckle lightly under one wet eye. “There. You did it. You’re learning to be the kind of good girl who pees on the floor when she needs to be taught a lesson.”

I let out a little desperate laugh through tears. “Your reward system is so fucked up.”

His mouth moved, just slightly. “Yes.”

“You did this.” I almost babbled now, overwhelmed enough that the words came without strategy. “It’s your fault. You dragged me here and wouldn’t let me go and now you’re… you’re praising me, for…” I gestured uselessly downward. “For peeing on your floor like a toddler.”

“My floor can be cleaned,” he said. “What matters is that your body is beginning to understand that resisting what it needs only makes things harder.”

“That’s not logical.”

“It’s my logic,” he said. “And you’re going to have to get used to it, because it happens also to be the logic of your body’s needs.”

I stared at him with tears still drying on my face, hating how the words affected me, reaching inside where I couldn’t seem to rid myself of their meaning.

Then he said, very matter-of-factly, “Take off your clothes.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You’re going to clean this up naked.”

My lips parted and I just stared at him for a long moment. To my dismay, a smile crept onto his face. The smile said that, yes, he knew exactly what I needed, as dark and hot as that thing might be.