Page 76 of Shamefully Trained

I stared up at him. My cunt throbbed. My bottom clenched. My body was spread in white lace under his weight, and I knew with humiliating clarity that what I feared was no longer separate from what I wanted.

“I don’t want you to end it,” I whispered.

His expression changed almost imperceptibly. Something warmer dawned in his eyes.

“No,” he said. “I didn’t think you did.”

Then he stood up again, and reached for me. His hands closed on my waist at once, firm and assured, and before I had properly braced myself he had drawn me down the bed until my bottom hung over the edge. The shift made me gasp. His palms moved to the backs of my knees and opened me farther, folding me with such ruthless competence that my thighs pressed up toward my ribs and my knees nearly reached my ears. I felt utterly exposed. Not merely naked, not merely available, but furnished as a receptacle for my sponsor’s hardness.

The waistband of the white lace thong still clung uselessly to my hips, the little gusset displaced, my punished sex bared and throbbing in the cool air. I could do nothing but lie there and let him look, and then use what he saw to make himself feel good.

I watched, helplessly fascinated, as he guided himself to me. The broad, hot head of his cock rested at the entrance to my soaking, aching sheath. My body jerked with anticipation before he had even pushed in. I made the mistake then of flicking my eyes up to his face.

The expression there nearly made me cry out: so much hunger… so much possession. A dark, concentrated dominance that brought a humiliating answering clench in my body.

His eyes were gazing steadily down, between us, surveying his conquest of my smooth, punished pussy. “There,” he said softly. “Look how sweet your cunt is when it tightens on the cock.”

Heat flashed all through me. I wanted to deny it, to say I had only clenched from fear, from humiliation, from any explanation but the obvious one. Instead I lay there with my legs held brutally open while the head of his cock pressed into me and my body betrayed me to him in tiny involuntary pulses.

Then his left hand returned to the back of my knee, again holding me spread. “Look at me.”

I did. Again I saw the hunger and the power. Then, with his gaze fixed on mine, he drove into me hard.

The cry tore out of me before I could stop it. He filled me in one brutal, perfect stroke, his cock taking my pussy as if he had every right to the deepest places in me. The impact of it made the bed shift. My whole body jolted in his hands.

“There,” he said, already withdrawing enough to thrust in again. “Take it.”

He fucked me without gentleness and without haste, hard enough that each stroke made me feel the position he had put me in all over again. I could not close my legs. I could not twist away. I could only be penetrated. The spanking had left the whole area oversensitive, and every movement of him inside me seemed to brush all the inflamed places at once. Shame and pleasure and discomfort blurred so thoroughly that I stopped being able to separate them.

His grip on the backs of my knees never slackened. It was part of the fucking, part of the lesson. He was not simply inside me. He was making me remain exactly the shape he wanted, my vagina angled exactly how it felt best to his manhood to thrust, while he used me.

I tried to hold his gaze because he had told me to, but it kept breaking. Every few thrusts my eyes would flutter shut or my head would turn helplessly to one side, and each time his voice would come, low and stern.

“Eyes on me.”

I obeyed. That made it worse. Or better. I couldn’t tell anymore.

He watched me take him, his eyes moving down to see how his thick, hard shaft claimed me. His gaze moved up again to watch my mouth fall open, then down to take in my little breasts in the white lace bra, shifting with each thrust. There was no room for pretense under that gaze. No room to imagine that this was accidental, or mutual in some simple equal way, or anything but what it was: a man using the body of the girl he had paid to fuck.

My pussy tightened and tightened around him as if it were trying to keep him there, and the thought of that was so humiliating that tears pricked my eyes again. He seemed to feel every little contraction.

“That’s right,” he murmured. “You feel what this is.”

I did. God, I did.

After some time—seconds, minutes, I truly couldn’t have said—he changed the angle of his thrusting just slightly, and the sensation went through me so sharply that I sobbed. My whole body strained under his hands.

He slowed for only a moment.

“What kind of girl are you?”

The question struck with the force of ritual now. He had made it into one. A phrase designed to strip away every refuge.

I shook my head once, miserably, though whether I meant no or please don’t make me say it I didn’t know.

He gave me one deeper thrust. “Answer.”

My voice broke on the words. “I’m… I’m the kind of girl who needs it in the ass.”