Chapter 14
Alex
My stomach flipped. I had never done that. I had told myself I would never do that… swallow a man’s semen the way I knew some women did.
Cheap whores. Sluts.
Like me.
Porter used my mouth a few seconds longer, his control palpably, audibly fraying now. Then he drew out, took hold of my head firmly in both hands, and pushed the broad tip back just past my lips.
“Stay,” he said.
I stayed.
He came with a sharp rough sound that seemed torn out of him. Warmth flooded my tongue, my mouth, more than I had expected, intimate and shocking and unmistakable. I flinched on pure reflex, but his hands held me steady.
“Swallow,” he said at once.
I did, throat working. The thickness and the heat and the bitterness…
none of the physical sensations held a candle to the humiliation of it, and the mortifying effect being degraded that way affected my naked, quivering body.
My eyes shut for one second and opened again.
There was more. I swallowed again, obedient and burning with shame.
“That’s right,” he said, still breathing hard. “All of it.”
He waited until I had done it. Only then did he let go.
I settled back onto my heels automatically because I didn’t think I could have remained upright even if he had ordered it.
My lips felt swollen. My face was wet with tears I barely remembered crying.
My mind seemed oddly far away from me, as if something had come loose and floated upward while my body remained kneeling there, warm and used and intensely, confusingly content.
Porter stood up, and loomed over me for a moment, looking down. His cock was still hard enough that the sight of it made my stomach tighten again. I raised my gaze, my heart doing a little flip when I saw the possessive look on my sponsor’s face.
“Eyes,” he said quietly.
I dropped my gaze back where it belonged at once, heat flooding my cheeks yet again.
Even then, though, my eyes slipped upward once or twice to his face with a kind of conscious naughtiness I recognized only after I had done it.
He caught me the second time. One corner of his mouth lifted, but he didn’t say anything.
Then he reached for his phone.
The contrast felt almost absurd. I knelt naked on the rug, dazed after swallowing my sponsor’s seed, and he called a restaurant in a calm voice to order dinner as if this fit very neatly into the structure of the evening.
French food, from the sound of it. He spoke to the person on the other end with easy certainty, selected dishes without hesitation, added wine, and told them to send it up in an hour.
I listened stupidly, eyes mostly where he had taught me to keep them. Mostly.
When he ended the call, he finished stripping off the rest of his clothes with unceremonious efficiency.
I watched the dark fabric go, watched his body fully revealed, and felt another deep pulse of arousal.
He was leaner than the men I had once imagined in scenes like this, but stronger looking somehow. Nothing soft. Nothing uncertain.
“Come,” he said, reaching his right hand down to me.
My limbs felt shaky as I took his hand and he pulled me to my feet. My knees felt strange, but they obeyed. He led me back to the bathroom, and I followed him naked over the rug and polished floor as if that had become natural in the last half hour.
Still feeling as if the real me, the me observing what happened to Alexandra Murphy, was actually located elsewhere, I watched Porter go to the enormous tub and turn on the tap.
It began to fill in a heavy rush of water.
The sound enclosed us, made the room feel private in a different way.
The warmth of the steam felt soothing on my skin.
Then he turned back and drew me into his arms. I went without resistance.
The first full press of our naked bodies together undid me almost instantly. His chest against my breasts, his thigh between mine, one hand spanning my sore bottom with a possessive gentleness that made the soreness flare into fresh awareness—it was too much.
I heard my mouth emit a small, kittenish sound, and then I found myself rubbing against him, without having made any kind of conscious decision to do that.
My hips… my pussy… I sought friction with a desperation that would have embarrassed me to death if embarrassment had not already become the atmosphere I breathed in around him.
Porter’s hand stroked my bottom once, then squeezed. I whimpered against the firm muscles of his chest. Then I felt him hardening again.
The knowledge sent a reckless little thrill through me. I pressed closer, unable to help it. My pussy felt swollen and needy and unfinished in some deeper way than orgasm alone had anything to do with. I wanted him inside me. That simple. That terrible.
I felt him smile against my hair.
“Wait, little slut,” he murmured. “I can feel how badly you need to be fucked, but as I said, I want to take my time and enjoy you properly.”
I hid my face against him for half a second because the words went through me too directly. His soft chuckle made it worse.
He let me go, and stepped into the tub, the water not yet high.
He turned and held out his hands. I took them.
He helped me in with a care that somehow only deepened the dominance of it.
The tub was enormous; still, when he settled at the back and drew me in front of him, he arranged us tightly together.
He placed me between his legs, my back to his chest, and I felt his cock, already thick again, resting against the cleft of my bottom.
I sucked in a breath.
His arm came around my waist. The other hand moved over my stomach, slow and proprietary.
Warm water climbed around us. The noise of the tap continued, loud and steady, and for a few seconds I simply sat there in the impossible fact of it: my sponsor naked behind me in a vast marble bath, his cock against my bottom, his hands on my body as if they had every right to be there.
“Still squirming?” he observed near my ear.
“I’m trying not to,” I whispered.
“Are you.”
The non-question carried just enough amusement that I blushed and stopped answering. I could feel him smile again.
His fingertips traced lightly down my belly, not quite where I wanted them. “You did very well,” he said after a moment.
Praise in that tone felt terribly dangerous to me. I melted a little at once, then regretted it, then pressed back anyway because his cock against me felt too good.
He made a low sound, a growl that I could feel rumble in his chest.
“Careful,” he said. “If you keep rubbing that little bottom on me, I may decide dinner can wait.”
Maybe that should have sobered me. Instead it made me move again, once, involuntarily. I could feel how hard he was now, how ready. The knowledge seemed to fill the room with another kind of heat.
He tightened his arm around me just slightly, a warning and an embrace at once.
I went still, though every inch of me remained awake.
He shut the tap off. The sudden reduction in sound made the room feel smaller.
He reached for soap, worked it between his hands, and began washing me with slow thoroughness that I understood at once was not remotely innocent.
His lathered palm moved over my shoulders, my arms, the tops of my breasts, my stomach. Each place he touched felt claimed.
When his hand returned to my bottom, smoothing over the tender flesh he had reddened, I let out a small helpless breath.
“Sore?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“As you should be.”
The matter-of-factness of that made me shiver. He kissed my temple, almost absentmindedly, and then his hand slid inward between my thighs under the water.
I stiffened, then forced myself to relax.
“Open your legs,” he said.
The three-word command, blunt and matter-of-fact, sent a thrill of shame and need through me, so strong that my back arched.
I bit my lip and heard a little whine come from my throat as I obeyed, suddenly both desperate and utterly mortified at the idea of giving him that access to the body he had apparently purchased for his enjoyment.
His fingers did not touch my clit. Not yet. He simply let the water and his hand pass over me, as if learning again what he had already discovered about my body. I could feel how slick I still was despite the bathwater, despite everything. He felt it too. His hand paused.
“Poor girl,” he murmured. “You’re aching to be filled.”
I shut my eyes.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered.
He said nothing for a moment. His cock stayed firm against my bottom. I wriggled, knowing it as a naughty thing to do and doing it anyway.
It was a tiny movement, just my hips seeking him again under the water, but it was enough. His arm tightened. I felt the smile leave him, though I somehow knew also that he wasn’t angry.
“That’s enough,” he said quietly. “It’s time to start training you properly.”
My pulse jumped. “What… what does that mean?”
Porter didn’t answer. He only moved me off him and rose from the tub in one smooth motion, water sheeting down his body.
The loss of his heat behind me made me feel abruptly exposed and foolishly bereft.
I half turned, trying to follow him with my eyes, then I remembered myself and looked down. I heard the cabinet open.
“What are you getting?” I whispered.
No answer.
The silence made my stomach flutter worse than if he had said something terrible at once. I shifted in the bath, water lapping around me.
“Sir?” I tried again, hating the smallness of my voice. “Please tell me.”
“Hands and knees,” he said.
I obeyed so quickly that the speed of it humiliated me. The tub was large enough that I could kneel without slipping, though the water made everything feel unstable. My palms braced on the smooth bottom. My wet hair fell forward into the water, which rose to an inch or two below my nose.
“Backside higher.”
I straightened my legs a little to raise my ass.
“No. Present yourself.” His hand came to my lower back, pushing firmly, correcting me. “Arch. More than that. Spread your knees.”
Heat rushed through me. I did it, knees sliding wider on the slick surface.
“Better. Now put that pretty bottom out for me.”
My whole body seemed to burn at the phrase.
I pushed back as instructed, feeling absurdly exposed even before he touched me in the places I had just presented.
I knew what he could see. My pussy, open and wet.
The small, punished globe of each cheek.
The other place, the place where he had disciplined me with his finger in the café restroom.
The memory of that moment brought a new heat to my face.
He made a low, approving sound that went straight through me.
“That’s how a girl offers herself when she’s going to be trained.”
I swallowed. “Trained for what?”
He let his fingers trace once, lightly, over the cleft of my bottom. I jumped.
“For complete obedience. For service as a man’s fuck toy.”
I made a helpless little noise. His fingertip found the tiny place there and rested.
“Hold still,” he said, and took the finger away.
Then I felt it: the thing he must have fetched from the cabinet. Something cool and slick at my rear, not a finger. Smaller at the tip, but unyielding. My heart slammed against my ribs.
“Oh,” I breathed. “Oh, please… no… sir…”