Page 88 of Shamefully Trained

Every stroke made me wetter. Every little circle on my clit sent a brighter pulse through me. The room seemed to go soft at the edges. I knew this was disobedience. I knew it in the clearest possible way. That only made my need sharper.

I imagined the cane again.

Porter standing over me.

Porter telling me exactly how many strokes.

Porter explaining in that calm, devastating voice that a girl who masturbates without permission earns a thorough lesson.

Porter making me count.

The thought made me cry out softly and rub harder.

I knew then, with a certainty that thrilled and sickened me, that he must be watching. There was no proof. No sound. No sign. Only the conviction that had been growing in me all evening and now flowered into certainty because my body wanted it to be true. Wanted an audience. Wanted judgment.

Wanted consequences.

I spread my legs wider on the bed.

The movement felt so shameless, so deliberate, that a wave of humiliation nearly stopped me. Nearly. Instead it turned into a kind of fever. I touched myself faster, circling and pressing, and heard myself begin to speak to the room.

“Please… please cane me, sir,” I whispered. “Please… I’m such a naughty girl. I know I’m not allowed… I know…”

My voice sounded strange to me, thin and wrecked and far too honest. My hips had started to move against my hand now, adding their own desperation to what I was doing. I could hardly bear the intensity of it. I could even less bear the thought that invisible cameras might be seeing all of it.

That thought made me go on, though.

“Please, sir,” I gasped. “Please cane my bottom… I deserve it… I know I do…”

The orgasm rushed up at me with almost no warning. My thighs tightened. My back arched. I came with a broken cry, my fingers still working frantically because stopping felt impossible. The release flooded me, then ebbed only enough to leave me more sensitive, more ashamed, and somehow even hungrier.

I should have stopped then.

Instead I turned my head on the pillow and looked toward nowhere I could identify, trying to find the camera I couldn’t see. Trying to perform for it. For him.

My heart was racing so hard it almost hurt. I rolled partly onto my side and then farther, opening myself in a posture I knew perfectly well he liked, one knee raised, one hand reaching back to spread my bottom a little while the other kept rubbing my clit. He had taught me how to do that… how to give my sponsor my anus like that.

The degradation of it made me moan aloud.

“There,” I panted, speaking to the empty room as if to him. “You like that… don’t you? You like to see it. You like to use me there…”

My fingers trembled when they touched my own anus. That tiny touch sent a hot, awful pulse through me, straight to my cunt.

“I know,” I whispered. “I know what I am…”

Another orgasm hit me almost before I had finished the sentence. I cried out and rubbed through it, more frantically now, my body half out of control. When I could speak again, the words came filthy and eager and impossible to call back.

“You like to use me like the ass whore I am,” I said to the invisible gaze I could practically feel on my skin. “I know you do. I can’t help it… I can’t help myself… I need it…”

My throat got so tight that I thought I might faint from pure shame. Still I went on. My hand at my clit was slick and relentless. My other hand parted my cheeks more boldly now, displaying myself to the room.

“I need it in the ass,” I heard myself say, voice breaking. “I need it, sir… please… please use me… please cane me and then use me…”

That sent me over again, harder than before. I sobbed through the climax, my hips jerking, my thighs trembling. There was no dignity left anywhere in me. I was simply a girl in a little green nightgown pulled up to her waist, masturbating wildly for the man who had forbidden it, begging an invisible camera to watch her, punish her, and fuck her in the ass.

Even after that, I didn’t stop at once. I drifted in and out of small convulsions, oversensitive and frantic, chasing sensation through waves of shame and pleasure that no longer separated cleanly. I begged. I babbled. I told him I was bad. I told him to punish me. I told him I belonged over his knee and under his cane and on his cock. At one point I even thanked him for teaching me what I needed.

Only when my body finally began to falter, exhausted by the force of what I had done, did the haze start to lift.