Page 66 of Shamefully Trained

Lena smiled slightly. “That was a small one.”

“I was afraid you might say that.”

She worked, and I clung to the table paper and tried not to think in words. Each strip stung sharply, then left behind an oddly vulnerable smoothness that I could feel even without touching. My body reacted in contradictory ways. Part of me wanted to squirm away from the pain and exposure; another part seemed unable not to understand the process in relation to Porter. He wanted to find me smooth and innocent. Prepared. More bare for him than I had been for any man.

The thought brought heat into my face and, hideously, elsewhere.

When Lena asked me to let my knees fall apart a little more, I obeyed with a blush so fierce I was grateful she did not comment. The towel had long since ceased to provide any meaningful concealment. I stared at the ceiling and concentrated on its recessed lights.

“You’re doing well,” she said.

The praise, innocent from her, still made something in me jump because I had spent so much of the last day being evaluated, corrected, approved.

Then Lena said, in the same composed voice, “All right. Turn over for me, please. Knees up a little. And use your hands to part your cheeks.”

For one second I thought I had misheard her.

Then I felt the blood rush to my face so fast it seemed to make my ears ring. But of course: Porter had said so. He had discussed it in that quiet tone of his, as if grooming my anus for his inspection and use were no stranger than selecting wine with dinner.

I turned over, the paper crackling beneath me. My heart beat far too hard. I drew my knees up awkwardly, feeling absurdly exposed even before I obeyed the rest. Then, because there was no graceful way to resist and because resistance would only make this more theatrical, I reached back and spread myself for her.

The position felt appalling. Humiliatingly intimate. Clinical, yes, but no less exposing for that. More, perhaps. There was no seduction in it, no heat in the room except the one I brought with me. A woman I had met ten minutes earlier could now see the place Porter had plugged, disciplined, and promised himself further rights over. I wanted to disappear into the table.

And to my utter horror, as Lena moved closer, I felt that treacherous little response low between my legs.

I shut my eyes.

The first touch there made me jump. “Sorry,” I blurted.

“You’re all right,” Lena said.

Another application of warm wax. Another pause. Then the strip.

I gasped.

It hurt differently there, sharper and stranger, and the pain seemed to flash through the whole area between my hips. My thighs tightened reflexively. Worst of all, the hot pulse between my legs answered it. I could feel myself growing slick again, lying there with my own hands holding myself open for an aesthetician because my sponsor preferred me bare.

Lena was quiet for a few moments, working efficiently. Then she said, not unkindly, “You don’t need to be embarrassed.”

That was so obviously false that I almost laughed.

I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. “I think I probably do.”

Her gloved hand settled lightly against my thigh, steadying rather than restraining. “No,” she said. “I mean it. I can tell what’s going on.”

I went still.

Heat spread over me in one great wave. “What exactly do you think is going on?”

She smoothed another strip into place. “I think you’re being trained.” Her tone remained matter-of-fact. “And I think your body likes what your mind is still struggling with.”

The strip came away. I made a tiny, helpless sound.

I couldn’t answer.

She disposed of it, then added, “That’s not unusual.”

Not unusual.