Page 93 of Shamefully Trained

And still some wild, treacherous part of me felt proud.

The car turned. A few moments later it slowed, then stopped.

Everything after that happened with a speed that left me little room for reflections. Porter got out first, then helped me from the car with one firm hand under my elbow.

The entrance to the Capitol through which we passed was discreet, tucked far away from the grander approach. A man in a dark suit nodded once and opened a heavy door without a word. The silence, the deference, the back-channel quality of it all made my pulse race even harder.

We moved down a corridor that smelled faintly of polished wood and old stone, then into a private elevator. Porter pressed a button with his thumb while I stood beside him, trying to hold myself together inside my coat.

The elevator rose very quickly. The doors opened on a corridor I had seen many times; both Gowry’s and Hathaway’s hideaways were on it. I could see the stairs I had come up with Gowry, when he had told me to strip, then laid bare my unacknowledged, utterly mortifying sexual responses to devastating effect… and then I had gone down the stairs in abject disgrace and humiliation after Hathaway had walked in and fired me. My knees nearly failed me when Porter lifted his hand and knocked on Gowry’s door.

The sound seemed to travel down the quiet corridor and then back into my body. For one second I thought, absurdly, that I might actually faint there against the polished stone floor, in my pink coat and red lace, before any of it had begun. Then Porter was opening the door, ushering me in with one hand warm and inexorable at my back.

Gowry sat in a leather armchair by the windows, a tumbler of amber whiskey in one hand. The hideaway looked exactly as I remembered and somehow worse for being so unchanged. Dark wood, thick carpet, the broad desk where I had once bent in terror and confusion for him to whip me and fuck me. He looked up, and his eyebrows rose.

“Well,” he said. His gaze moved over me, then to Porter, then back again. “I wasn’t expecting Miss Murphy.” His mouth curved. “I can’t say I’m disappointed, though.”

“Thank you for seeing me on short notice, Senator,” Porter said with calm formality, as if he had not just delivered a young woman in lingerie to a private senatorial office. “I think you may be intrigued when I explain why she’s here.”

My throat tightened.

Porter shut the door behind us. The click sounded final. Then he moved behind me. I shuddered as his hands came around to my front and reached for the buttons of my coat.

I flinched before I could stop myself.

I heard his voice in my ear. Not angry. Not soft either. Simply decisive. “Stand still.”

“Yes, sir,” I whispered.

He unbuttoned the coat, then drew it from my shoulders. The wool slid down my arms and away, and cold air moved over the red lace, over my nearly bare hips, over the tops of my stockings. I wanted to grab for the coat, to pull it back, to tell him I had changed my mind about all of this and would like very much to go home and never hear the word cane again. Instead I stood there while he hung the coat up on a stand in the corner.

Something in me recoiled then. Not enough to resist, not enough to do anything useful or brave, but enough to feel reluctance bloom, sharp and miserable, in my chest. This had been my idea: I knew that. Yet knowing it didn’t make the reality any less shocking. I was here, in front of the man who had first dominated me in this building, displayed by the man who had since taught me just how thoroughly I could be dominated… needed to be dominated.

Porter spoke before I could gather myself.

“You may remember,” he said to Gowry, “that the last time you saw Alex, she showed potential, but not polish.”

Heat rushed to my face at once.

Gowry took a slow sip of whiskey, eyes on me over the rim of the glass. “I had noticed room for improvement.”

Porter gave the faintest smile. “Since then I’ve undertaken her training.”

I wished, with real desperation, for the floor to open under me.

He went on in that measured voice of his, the one that could make any obscenity sound like the careful summary of a business strategy. He told Gowry about my rules. About being denied panties. About skirts only, to make me available. About supervising my toileting, and making me pee on the floor as a lesson, then about making me look at him while I peed. About how quickly I had learned that a sponsor’s preferences extended to every detail of a girl’s body and habits.

I stared at some point just beyond Gowry’s shoulder and tried not to swoon.

Porter didn’t stop there. He told Gowry that he had had my cunt waxed smooth because he liked to see what belonged to him clearly. He said it in the same tone a different man might have used to explain a sub-clause of a bill. He described how pretty I looked afterwards, how much more obviously available for fucking. How wet I became under correction. How gratefully I took his cock in my mouth now, and in my pussy, and in my ass. How my body had learned to answer discipline with submission, and submission with arousal. He even said—while I burned alive in plain sight—that I looked exquisite with a rigid penis up my whipped bottom.

I made a tiny sound at that, not quite a protest and not quite a sob.

Gowry set down his glass.

By then I could see what I had so foolishly hoped to see. The senator’s face hadn’t changed much, but his stillness had. His gaze moved over my body with increasing concentration, lingering openly now at my breasts in the red bra, at the tiny panel of lace over my sex, at the line of my thighs. It was impossible not to understand what I was doing to him. Or what Porter was doing through me.

“The transformation sounds substantial,” Gowry said.