Chapter 21
Porter
The other senators clustered nearest him—Johnson with his vanity masquerading as principle, Sinogar with his cultivated outsider’s sneer—had followed his lead in the subtle, infuriating way of men following power while congratulating themselves on independence.
I had spent an hour listening to their greed straining to cover itself in the language of justice and freedom.
Alex had seen it quickly last night. More quickly than many people who had spent years in that world.
The elevator climbed in silence while I recalled the way she had sat at my table with her new plug in her ass and crème br?lée in front of her and shown political instincts as refined as those of men who called themselves strategists for a living.
She had been right about Gowry’s kind. Right about the distinction between dominance and competence.
Right, perhaps, in the most dangerous suggestion of all: that a man like Gowry might be moved if presented with the correct angle.
Or bait.
I dismissed the word at once from my mind.
I refused to dangle Alex Murphy in front of Jason Gowry like meat. I refused to test the extent of Gowry’s appetite for my own gain, as important as this bill was to me. The idea was vulgar, needlessly risky, and frankly offensive.
And yet it remained in my mind with a quiet persistence that annoyed me.
Not because I seriously entertained it, I told myself, but because Alex had seemed to.
Some part of her had offered the possibility with those clear blue eyes lowered over dessert, as if she already understood the value of her own vulnerability and had begun, dangerously, to think in terms of how it might be used.
The elevator doors opened.
By the time I reached her apartment door, I had put Gowry where he belonged in my mind: outside my domestic sphere, outside the part of my life I considered essential, and definitely outside the immediate matter of the young woman waiting for my training in submission to a man’s hard cock.
The lock released at my approach. I opened the door and stepped inside.
She stood in the living room exactly as ordered, and for a few seconds I simply took the sight in.
White lace bra and panties. White stockings. Garters fastening pale silk over pale thighs. Her red hair loose over her shoulders, her body held in that unmistakable posture of a young woman trying to stand very still so as not to reveal how much standing there cost her.
The waxing had made an obvious difference in the tender, smooth region to which the tiny panties I had chosen invited the eye. She looked barer, sweeter, more indecently arranged for inspection. I could even make out the rosy pinkness of her tight little pussy through the veil of lace.
Her jaw was set just a bit too tightly. Her hands had the tiniest tension in them.
Beautiful.
I smiled. “Kneel,” I commanded her. “I’ve been waiting all day to use that little mouth.”
* * *
Alex
With a tiny sob, I obeyed, falling to the floor like a marionette whose strings the puppeteer could manipulate with a mere flick of his wrist. The carpet felt soft against my knees, and I gazed across my tiny luxury apartment into Porter’s dark eyes, which somehow seemed to me both hungry and caring.
He didn’t make me wait.
His zipper made a soft, metallic sound. My breath caught.
Then he drew himself out, and before I could stop myself my gaze had dropped straight to his cock as if my eyes had learned the required path all on their own.
The realization humiliated me almost as much as the sight of him, fully clothed except for his rampant manhood while I knelt in white lace.
I knew better than to look at his face when he was uncovered that way.
I had been taught better. If I forgot myself and looked my sponsor in the eye, I would go over his knee to learn a terrible lesson.
So I stared where I was permitted to stare, at the thick, rigid length of him, and to my horror my mouth began to fill so quickly with saliva that I had to swallow hard.
Heat flooded me everywhere.
He stepped closer.
I stayed where I was, knees shoulder-width apart on the carpet, hands at my sides, trying not to squirm in the white lace while every inch of me seemed to tighten with awareness. His cock hovered so near my face that I could feel the warmth of him before he touched me.
“Look up,” he said.
A miserable little sound rose in my throat. Suddenly I didn’t have the slightest desire to break his degrading rule, even when instructed to. I obeyed anyway.
The instant my eyes lifted to his, my whole face seemed to catch fire.
I clenched helplessly between my legs, my thong suddenly a torment against my waxed, oversensitive skin.
He looked down at me with that same impossible expression—appetite, authority, and some deeper steadiness that only made the shame more complete.
“Open. It’s time to take the cock.”
I parted my lips.
He pushed his hardness into my mouth at once, without force but with complete certainty, and I let out a tiny, muffled whimper around him.
The weight of his big penis on my tongue, the intimate fullness of him, the sheer fact of kneeling there in white lace while my sponsor used my mouth the moment he came home from work—it all crashed over me in one scorching wave.
“There,” he murmured. “You look so lovely like this. A cock suits that pretty little mouth beautifully. You were made to give head.”
The praise hit me with almost the same force as the penetration. My eyes stung instantly. I could taste him, feel the firm pressure of his body advancing by slow inches, and all the while he watched my face as if this were the sight he had wanted all day.
He withdrew just enough to let me breathe a bit and then slid back in.
“Take it softly,” he said. “That’s it. More saliva. Get the cock nice and wet.”
I obeyed with shuddering shame, letting my lips soften, letting the gathering saliva do what he asked. My mouth worked around him while my heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat. I tried to be good. I tried not to gag, not to look away, not to seem as affected as I was.
But my body betrayed me on every front. My nipples had tightened painfully inside the lace bra. My thighs wanted to press together. My pussy pulsed in needy, humiliating contractions against the tiny scrap of fabric covering it.
He noticed everything.
“Hands behind your back,” he said quietly. “Eyes down now.”
I hesitated only long enough for a flush of fear to go through me, then moved both hands behind me and laced them there.
The loss of balance made me feel even more exposed, more obviously available for his use.
He made a low sound of approval and gave a slightly deeper thrust. My nose brushed his fly and I choked.
With my eyes lowered, his lap became my whole, humiliating world.
“Breathe through your nose,” he said. “Good girl. Hold still.”
I held still. It was more shameful that way, but somehow also easier.
I could surrender the little pretense of control my hands might have given me.
I could simply kneel there and let him use me as he had paid to do.
Part of me knew that the thought should have made me furious with myself.
Instead it made something hot and desperate flutter low in my belly.
He kept one hand at the back of my head now, not forcing exactly, just guiding, claiming. He moved in and out of my mouth in slow, measured strokes that seemed designed less to finish himself quickly than to make me feel every degrading second of it.
“You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” he murmured.
I could only make a tiny sound around him.
He withdrew enough for speech. “Answer me. You’ve been thinking about how your sponsor will use you tonight.”
“Yes, sir,” I whispered, and the words came out wrecked and breathy.
“All afternoon?”
My skin tingled with mortification. “Yes, sir.”
His thumb stroked my cheek once. “I thought so. You’re learning so quickly that I can tell you’re reflecting on your training, even if you find it embarrassing.”
Then he fed me his cock again, deeper this time, until my eyes watered. I swallowed convulsively around him and heard his breathing change just a little. The sound sent a bolt of awful pride through me.
He liked this. He liked my mouth. He liked watching me struggle and obey and get wet while he used me. The realization made me burn so fiercely that I nearly moaned.
He drew out and said, “Stand up. I want to inspect you.”
I blinked at the floor stupidly for half a second, lips parted and damp. Then I scrambled to my feet. My knees felt weak. He turned me toward the long mirror beside the sitting area and positioned me in front of it with one hand on my hip.
“Look at yourself.”
I did, and immediately wished I hadn’t.
The white lace, the stockings, my flushed face, my swollen mouth, and Porter standing behind me with his cock hard in one hand—it was too much. I looked exactly like what he had made me. A kept girl. A little slut dressed up for use.
He must have seen the shock in my expression, because his hand tightened on my hip.
“Do you see how pretty you are for me?”
My throat tightened. “Yes, sir.”
“How ready?”
I made a helpless little noise. His free hand slid down over my stomach and between my thighs, pressing lightly over the lace of the thong. I jerked at once.
“Oh,” I gasped.
“That ready,” he said.
I could feel how wet I was even through the fabric, and so could he. He rubbed once, slowly, over the soaked little panel, and I had to bite my lip not to make a louder sound.
“Soaked,” he murmured. “From sucking cock.”
I shut my eyes.
“No. Watch.”
I opened them again and saw myself in the mirror, saw the way my body responded when he touched me there, saw his erection beside my hip, saw my own face go soft and pleading with need. The sight shamed me so deeply that the shame itself seemed to feed the ache between my legs.
He moved the thong aside with two fingers.
“Please,” I whispered, though I had no idea what I was pleading for.
His fingertips found my bare, slick folds. I jolted so hard I nearly lost my balance. He held me easily.
“You look perfect like this,” he said near my ear. “Dressed up, dripping wet, and too excited to hide it.”
I let out a tiny cry.
Then he removed his hand from my pussy, took me by the chin, and turned my face slightly toward him.
“Back on your knees,” he said. “I’m not done with your mouth.”
I sank down at once, even more quickly than before.
This time when he thrust his rigid phallus into me, he did it with less patience.
His hunger became more evident. His hand gathered my hair.
He pushed in deeper from the first stroke, and my throat convulsed.
Tears sprang to my eyes. He held me there for a second, then eased back enough for me to breathe.
“That’s right,” he said roughly. “Take it. Yes, you’re definitely learning.”
He began to fuck my face in a steady rhythm.
It felt as if he intended not to instruct me but to enjoy me as fully as my developing skills permitted.
Each thrust made the room narrow. I could hear the wet sounds of my mouth taking him, hear my own choked breaths in between.
My hands stayed behind my back because he had put them there, and because some wretched obedient part of me wanted him to see that I could do it.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured. “Such a beautiful mouth.”
The words made me clench so hard that a pulse of pleasure shot through me. I wanted friction with desperate intensity. I wanted his fingers, his cock, anything. Instead I knelt there and let him use my mouth while my body begged silently for more.
At last he pulled me off him.
I gasped, saliva slipping lewdly from my lips to my chin before I could catch it. I flushed at once and tried to wipe it away with my shoulder, since my hands were still behind me.
His eyes darkened at the sight.
“Leave your hands where they are,” he said.
I froze.
Then, to my utter humiliation, he used his thumb to gather the saliva from my chin and pressed it slowly back against my lower lip. “Open.”
I opened.
He slid the thumb into my mouth, and I suckled reflexively. The taste of myself and him together was so intimate and degrading that my knees nearly gave out beneath me.
“Good,” he said softly. “Very good.”
He drew his thumb out, and for one terrible moment I thought he might be about to come in my mouth then and there, without permitting me any pleasure at all. Instead he took a step back, looked down at me, and said, “You’re going to keep kneeling while I sit.”
He moved to the chair by the window and sat with effortless authority, one leg spread slightly, his cock still hard and heavy against his hand.
He looked impossibly composed for a man who had just used my throat.
I remained on my knees where he had left me, breathing hard, trying not to stare and staring anyway where I was allowed.
“Come here,” he said, gesturing with two fingers.
I shuffled forward on my knees until I was between his thighs.
He rested his hand on my head. “Do you know what I like about you, Alex?”
I felt my eyes go wide. “No, sir.”
“You resist in your mind,” he said. “Your pride puts on little speeches inside you. I can see them unrolling behind your beautiful eyes. But your body tells the truth almost immediately.”
My face flamed.
He tilted my chin up. “Would you like to tell me I’m wrong?”
I couldn’t. Not with my mouth still wet from him. Not with the thong damp and clinging and my nipples aching and my whole body thrumming with a need I had not chosen but could not deny.
“No, sir,” I whispered.
His thumb traced my lower lip again. “No. You wouldn’t.”
He gave a faint smile then, one that made my stomach turn over. “Why do you think I chose white for you to wear tonight?”