Chapter 16
Alex
That did it. Something in me gave way at a level that felt biological: physically, helplessly.
I stopped trying to separate what I felt from what he meant me to feel.
The plug sat snug and intimate inside me, claiming me from behind.
His hand worked me from the front. His other hand kept me bent and offered and exactly where he wanted me.
I was not a woman in a bath with a man anymore, not in any civilized equal way.
I was a female creature being handled, taught, conditioned.
An animal, I thought wildly.
And then, because the thought itself sent a shudder through me: his animal.
Then, suddenly, he pulled his hand away.
“What kind of girl are you?” he asked, in a growl that corresponded so well to my tiny fantasy of being a creature of the wild that it nearly made me come without his hand there, just with the force of the words.
“Oh, God,” I moaned, my back arching helplessly, my pussy seeking his hand. “Sir… I’m… I’m the kind of girl who needs it in the ass… oh, please… God… sir…”
His hand returned. He worked my pussy for one moment more, and then the orgasm hit so hard that it felt as if the fullness in my ass had been translated directly into fire in my cunt.
I cried out and convulsed, my thighs shaking, my back arching uselessly against the steady restraint of his hand.
The plug moved inside me with the contractions, making the pleasure stranger and more degrading and somehow more complete.
“That’s it,” he said, voice low and intent. “Come. Come while your bottom is full. Learn what it feels like, and how your body needs it.”
I did. Helplessly. Repeatedly. My body milked his fingers and the toy together, and I heard little ruined sounds coming out of my own throat that I somehow told myself originated in another girl’s body.
He did not stop immediately when the climax crested. He worked me through it as if to seal the lesson into my nerves. By the time he eased his hand away, I was shaking so hard I nearly collapsed.
For a few moments all I could do was stay there on hands and knees, wet hair clinging to my shoulders, the bathwater lapping softly around my arms, the plug still inside me like a mark of my degradation and his mastery.
Then he stroked my back once.
“Good girl,” he said quietly. “You did well for your first real lesson.”
Tears of shame pricked the corners of my eyes. My whole body felt too open, too known.
“I don’t… I don’t like… that you can… do that,” I whispered.
His hand paused between my shoulder blades. “No,” he said. “You don’t like that I can show you things about yourself you’d rather not have to know.”
I shut my eyes.
He let me stay there another moment, then said, “Sit back slowly.”
I obeyed carefully, wincing at the feeling of the plug shifting inside me.
When I settled back on my knees in the water and turned enough to look at him, he was watching me with that same composed, dark gaze that seemed to make concealment pointless.
He reached out and tucked a strand of wet hair behind my ear.
“Your proper training has begun. The plug will remind you what your body is for, now.”
I laughed once, weakly. “Your definition of proper is insane.”
“From one point of view, at least,” he said.
That nearly made me smile, which felt outrageous under the circumstances. I looked away instead.
He put a finger under my chin and turned my face back. “You do understand, don’t you, that I won’t rush this.”
“What?” I asked, though I knew.
“Your ass.” His tone stayed matter-of-fact, and that made the blush rise all over again. “I’m not going to ram my cock into your anus and call the result training. I’ll prepare you. I’ll make sure your body learns to want what it’s taking. When I fuck your bottom, it will be because you’re ready.”
The words wrapped around me in a strange way. More shame. More fear. But also relief so intense it almost hurt. He saw it in my face at once.
“Yes,” he said softly. “That matters to you.”
I nodded before I thought better of it.
“Good.” He sat back a little. “Then perhaps you’re beginning to understand what sort of man I am.”
The realization that he was right frightened me in a deeper way than all the sexual things, because it touched something that felt even more fundamental.
He was dangerous to me not only because he could make me come with a plug in my ass while telling me what I would become for him.
He was dangerous because he was not casual.
He was not crude. He meant things. He imposed structure because he believed it was good for me as well as pleasurable for him, and I had already started to believe him often enough that resisting had already become terribly complicated.
I looked down at the water.
“You really think this is good for me,” I said.
“I know you need a framework for desires that otherwise frighten and shame you. I know your body is more at peace when it isn’t pretending.” He paused. “And yes. I enjoy that truth very much.”
That honesty did something to me. I could not have explained why. Perhaps because it left me nothing easy to rebel against. He was not pretending to be selfless. He wanted me. He intended to use me. He also intended, somehow, to care for me, alongside the use… or inside it, even.
My throat tightened.
“I don’t know what I’m becoming,” I whispered.
His expression changed just slightly. “You’re becoming more honest. We can build the rest from there.”
He rose and held out his hands to me. I took them without hesitation, as if some other woman had made the choice, or perhaps as if there simply were no choice involved.
He lifted me to my feet in the bath, the water sliding down my body.
I stood unsteadily, aware at once of the plug still filling me, of my sore bottom, of the weakness in my legs after the orgasm he had forced on me.
He reached for a towel. I watched him rub it over the planes of his back and then the strong lines of his ass.
Even that sight, more innocent than the view of his hard penis, made something in me flutter low and shamefully.
He dried himself with efficient thoroughness, then took a dark bathrobe from a hook near the cabinet and shrugged into it.
Another robe hung there, like a marker of Porter’s obvious penchant for training girls in the bathroom. That, too, brought a stir between my thighs.
He looked over at me, still standing in the bath, still flushed and weak and too full. “Out.”
I obeyed, again without hesitation. Somehow, I thought idly, my mantra of I have no choice had apparently turned into reflex.
When I noticed the thought, it obligingly and mortifyingly opened into a micro-fantasy.
Me, bent over the edge of the tub. Porter, above me, with a cane raised high.
I bit my lip and swallowed hard. The marble felt cool under my feet.
Water slid down my thighs. The plug shifted with the movement and I sucked in a breath.
His eyes flicked downward at once. “You’ll keep it in.”
My face heated all over again. “Through… um… or, until…?”
“Through dinner,” he said calmly, as if announcing the weather. “Until I decide you should take it out. Put the robe on.”
I stared at him for one foolish second, because dinner and the plug seemed like concepts from incompatible universes.
Then I reached for the robe and put it on with unsteady hands.
It was thick and soft and so luxurious that it paradoxically didn’t feel safe.
Instead, it made me feel even more deeply owned.
He tied his own belt, glanced once at me to make sure I had secured mine, and then led me out of the bathroom.
The plug made its presence known with every step.
Immediately, it became the governing fact of my body. Each movement made the toy press and settle and remind me. I felt marked from the inside. Claimed. Worse, I felt instructed. I couldn’t take three steps in that robe without hearing it again, in my own voice.
I’m the kind of girl who needs it in the ass.
I wanted to vanish into the floor every time the sentence crossed my mind. I also could not stop thinking it, and every thought, just like my stray observation a few moments before, about the nature of my choices, blossomed into a shameful little fantasy.
By the time we reached the main room I had already imagined, in a humiliating flash, Porter bending me over the back of one of the dining chairs and swiftly replacing the plug with his cock. The image came so vividly that my knees actually weakened. I tightened my jaw and kept walking.
The door chime sounded. Porter didn’t look surprised. He crossed to a panel by the entry and admitted whoever it was without ceremony. I stood near the edge of the living area, wrapped in his robe, trying to appear like a person and not like a concubine in training with a toy in her ass.
A discreetly dressed server wheeled in dinner on a cart. Porter signed something on a handheld, tipped him, and sent him away. Neither man behaved as if there were anything unusual in the scene.
Once the door shut, Porter turned back to me.
“Set the table. Plates and silverware are in the cabinet over there and the drawer just below. Placemats and napkins the next drawer over. Glasses are on the rack.”
I blinked. “Like this?”
“Yes,” he said. “You’re dressed enough.”
The answer made me flush so hard that my scalp prickled.
But I went to the cabinet, and then the beautiful old table and did as I was told while he unpacked covered dishes and small containers.
Every time I leaned or reached or took too long a stride, the plug reminded me what had happened in the bath and the terrible thing I had said.
The thing I lied about, part of me kept insisting. Not the thing I confessed.
I placed forks. Knives. Water glasses. Wineglasses. Napkins.
And while I did it, my mind betrayed me over and over.
Splayed across the table.
Pushed down with one hand between my shoulders.
From behind: his huge penis… taking me from behind.
In my behind.
Folded over the arm of a chair.
Spread across his desk, papers shoved aside by those cool, capable hands before he put me exactly where he wanted me… spread me open to thrust inside. To impale me. To have me like that.
I nearly dropped a spoon.
“Careful,” Porter said mildly, without looking up from the dish he was opening.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered.
That word had begun to come more easily, which ought to have alarmed me. Instead it made my stomach tighten in a way that had only a vague connection to fear, and much more to do with anticipation.
When the table was set, he nodded toward my chair. “Sit.”
I did, gingerly.
The plug pressed deeper when I lowered myself. I must have made some tiny sound, because Porter’s eyes lifted to my face.
“Problem?”
“No, sir.”
His mouth moved slightly. “Good.”
He served the food himself. The rich scent reached me first: wine and beef and herbs, something deep and comforting and absurdly domestic considering the state of my body and mind.
He spooned boeuf bourguignon onto my plate as if this were a perfectly ordinary dinner for two people in bathrobes after a bath.
Perhaps, for him, it was not so far from ordinary.
For me, it felt like dinner inside a fever dream.
I took the first bite and nearly moaned from relief both at the layers of flavor and at having something real to focus on besides the plug and my own thoughts. Tender meat, silky sauce, mushrooms and little onions that seemed somehow more flavorful than vegetables had any right to be.
Porter ate a few bites in silence. Then, to my complete surprise, he said, “Hathaway is being impossible.”
I looked up. “What?”
He speared another piece of beef on his fork. “The assistive tech bill. She’s holding the votes I need and using them to extract leverage on a completely unrelated appropriations package.”