Page 51 of Shamefully Trained

He tied his own belt, glanced once at me to make sure I had secured mine, and then led me out of the bathroom.

The plug made its presence known with every step.

Immediately, it became the governing fact of my body. Each movement made the toy press and settle and remind me. I felt marked from the inside. Claimed. Worse, I felt instructed. I couldn’t take three steps in that robe without hearing it again, in my own voice.

I’m the kind of girl who needs it in the ass.

I wanted to vanish into the floor every time the sentence crossed my mind. I also could not stop thinking it, and every thought, just like my stray observation a few moments before, about the nature of my choices, blossomed into a shameful little fantasy.

By the time we reached the main room I had already imagined, in a humiliating flash, Porter bending me over the back of one of the dining chairs and swiftly replacing the plug with his cock. The image came so vividly that my knees actually weakened. I tightened my jaw and kept walking.

The door chime sounded. Porter didn’t look surprised. He crossed to a panel by the entry and admitted whoever it was without ceremony. I stood near the edge of the living area, wrapped in his robe, trying to appear like a person and not like a concubine in training with a toy in her ass.

A discreetly dressed server wheeled in dinner on a cart. Porter signed something on a handheld, tipped him, and sent him away. Neither man behaved as if there were anything unusual in the scene.

Once the door shut, Porter turned back to me.

“Set the table. Plates and silverware are in the cabinet over there and the drawer just below. Placemats and napkins the next drawer over. Glasses are on the rack.”

I blinked. “Like this?”

“Yes,” he said. “You’re dressed enough.”

The answer made me flush so hard that my scalp prickled. But I went to the cabinet, and then the beautiful old table and did as I was told while he unpacked covered dishes and small containers. Every time I leaned or reached or took too long a stride, the plug reminded me what had happened in the bath and the terrible thing I had said.

The thing I lied about, part of me kept insisting. Not the thing I confessed.

I placed forks. Knives. Water glasses. Wineglasses. Napkins.

And while I did it, my mind betrayed me over and over.

Splayed across the table.

Pushed down with one hand between my shoulders.

From behind: his huge penis… taking me from behind.

In my behind.

Folded over the arm of a chair.

Spread across his desk, papers shoved aside by those cool, capable hands before he put me exactly where he wanted me… spread me open to thrust inside. To impale me. To have me like that.

I nearly dropped a spoon.

“Careful,” Porter said mildly, without looking up from the dish he was opening.

“Yes, sir,” I whispered.

That word had begun to come more easily, which ought to have alarmed me. Instead it made my stomach tighten in a way that had only a vague connection to fear, and much more to do with anticipation.

When the table was set, he nodded toward my chair. “Sit.”

I did, gingerly.

The plug pressed deeper when I lowered myself. I must have made some tiny sound, because Porter’s eyes lifted to my face.

“Problem?”