Page 67 of Shamefully Trained

Somehow those two words mortified me more than if she had sounded shocked. Not because I wanted her shock, exactly, but because her calm acceptance suggested a category. A type. Girls like me. Girls sent down from expensive apartments to be made smooth for men who knew what they wanted and expected obedience.

“I’m not—” I began, then stopped because I had no idea what denial could possibly survive the state of my body.

Lena glanced at me briefly, professionally, and I knew at once she had seen enough to confirm whatever she meant. “You are, a little,” she said. “That’s okay.”

I felt my forehead crease hard. “This is incredibly humiliating.”

“Yes,” she said simply. “But you’re lucky.”

I turned my head toward her despite myself. “Lucky.”

She nodded as she worked. “Some girls fight it so hard that every part feels like punishment. For you, the training is exciting too. That makes it easier on everyone, especially you.”

The words went through me with hideous accuracy. I hated hearing them said aloud by someone outside the arrangement, someone who had no reason to flatter or manipulate me. She was just naming what she saw. My body had already named it much more vulgarly. My voice, too.

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

I looked away again. “That doesn’t make it feel better.”

“It might, later,” she said.

A few more efficient motions, one last strip, then a soothing pressure of cool product that made me shiver all over.

“There,” she said. “You can relax.”

I let go of myself at once and drew my hands away as if I had been caught committing some revolting act. My face burned so hot I felt almost lightheaded.

Lena stepped back to inspect her work. “Turn back over.”

I obeyed, moving carefully, suddenly and painfully aware of every bare inch of myself. The smoothness felt unreal. Air touched places that had never felt air quite that way before. I had not understood how much the removal itself would change my sense of my own body. I felt more innocent, more naked, more deliberately arranged.

More owned.

Lena cleaned up with calm thoroughness, then handed me a small mirror.

I stared at her. “Do I have to?”

“You should see,” she said.

That seemed horribly reasonable. I took the mirror.

I looked.

And immediately wished I hadn’t, because the sight brought another flood of shame and something dangerously close to awe. She had not merely tidied anything. She had transformed me. My sex looked startlingly exposed, pink lips in their tender cleft… soft… even a little hint of my rosy clit visible and available in a way that made lace and Porter’s hands and his dark, assessing eyes rush into my mind all at once. Even more humiliatingly, when I shifted my legs, I knew how the back must look too: neat, bare, prepared.

Prepared for him.

I lowered the mirror.

“Well?” Lena asked.

I couldn’t seem to find a neutral word. “It’s… a lot.”

The faintest smile touched her mouth. “Your sponsor will be very happy.”

I nearly dropped the mirror.

She took it from me before I could embarrass myself further. “You look beautiful,” she said, in the detached way a professional describes the success of a procedure. “Very sweet. He’ll be pleased with how pretty you are down there.”