Page 73 of Shamefully Trained

My pride made one final desperate attempt at heroism, and found absolutely nothing useful to say.

Very quietly, I asked, “If I go in there… will you really…”

“Yes.”

I shut my eyes.

When I opened them again, he was still simply waiting. Entirely resolved that if I chose his support and his care, I chose all of it, including having my pussy spanked when I foolishly challenged him in the slightest way.

He let go of my head, and my body started to move though I didn’t think I had made any kind of choice about it. My legs felt unsteady as I rose, turned, and walked toward the bedroom. I could feel my pulse in my throat. Each step made me more aware of the white lace on my skin, of the bareness the waxing had left underneath, of the way I had already been dressed for exposure. By the time I reached the bed, my hands were shaking.

I pulled the comforter down first, then the top sheet, my fingers clumsy in the expensive bedding. The bed looked suddenly bare and purposeful, stripped to the fitted sheet the same way I had been stripped down, scantily dressed, prepared.

A ridiculous thought came to me with absolute certainty: this was what a bed looked like when a man meant to use a girl properly, all night if he wanted, without any pretty layers in the way. Smooth. Available. Ready for his convenience.

Dressed for fucking, some shameless part of my mind supplied.

My face burned. I wasn’t even sure how I knew such a thing, only that I did. Men who intended to enjoy a woman thoroughly did not want to be fighting with blankets. They wanted access. They wanted a raised, resilient, unencumbered surface.

My hands shook harder.

I climbed onto the bed, turned, lay back. The mattress gave beneath me with a softness that seemed obscene in its own right. Drawing my knees up made the garter straps tug lightly against the tops of my stockings. I spread them, because he had told me to, and then I had no choice but to feel every inch of what that position did to me: the thong stretched between my thighs, the tiny lacy panel pressed directly over my waxed, throbbing sex, the cool air on the insides of my knees, the weakness in my legs. I took hold of my thighs with my hands because he had said to hold them that way, and because if I did not I thought they might close on their own.

I waited.

It was much worse than if he had entered the bedroom at once. I stared at the ceiling and listened for him, my heart racing. I wondered whether he would speak first when he entered, whether he would make me look at him, whether he would touch me there before the punishment or simply begin. The uncertainty had a life of its own. My body had already become too alert, too tense, too aware.

When he came in at last, I heard his soft footfalls, and I felt his presence, before I quite saw him.

I raised my head as he stopped at the foot of the bed and looked down at me long enough that I squirmed. His gaze moved over my body with a steadiness that made me feel both cherished and appraised.

“Very obedient,” he said quietly. “And extraordinarily beautiful.”

The praise made my throat tighten. It felt unbearable that he could stand there about to do this and still make me feel that hot, melting response to approval.

“Please,” I whispered. “Please just do it.”

One dark eyebrow moved slightly. “Just do what?”

My face flamed. “Spank me… my… my pussy. Please, sir. Get it over with.”

He came closer to the bed, and for one mad, bizarrely hopeful second I thought he might actually grant that request.

Instead his hand settled high on my inner thigh.

My limbs jerked.

“No,” I said at once, panic and arousal colliding. “No, please, don’t⁠—”

His fingers moved over the lace panel of the thong with infuriating gentleness. The fabric was already damp, and the way he touched me made that humiliating fact even more obvious. He stroked through the lace, slow and knowing, pressing just enough over my clit to make my whole body arch.

“Oh,” I gasped.

“That’s right,” he murmured. “Feel how ready this little cunt gets when it’s going to be corrected.”

“It’s not correction if you—” I stopped because his fingers had found a rhythm that made coherent thought impossible.

He smiled faintly, as if at the unfinished protest, and then he hooked one finger under the soaking gusset and drew it aside.