Chapter 23
Alex
He let me cry for a few seconds, enough for me to catch my breath and for rational thought to return.
Then, as if we had arrived at the part of the lesson he actually cared most about, he asked, “Why did I put you in white tonight?”
I shook my head once on the pillow, but there was no point in lying now. Not after that. Not with my body spread and burning and still shamefully wet.
My voice came out in sobs. “Because… I think… because… because you’re going to… to fuck my… my ass for the first time.”
He was silent for a moment. Then I felt his fingers at the thong again, moving the soaked gusset aside.
I flinched even from that, too tender now, but he only looked down between my legs with awful calm and said, “Yes. And first I’m going to use this hot little cunt to get my cock ready for your adorable asshole.”
For a second I stopped breathing.
It wasn’t really the crudest thing he had said to me, I felt sure. But it struck somewhere so deep in my shame that I felt as if the world had tilted under me.
Use this cunt… get my cock ready… your adorable asshole.
It reduced me so completely to function, to openings, to a body arranged for a man’s sequence of pleasures, that heat and humiliation crashed over me together.
Between my spread knees I could see that he had started to pump his cock, almost idly, in his left hand…
as if the enjoyment of contemplating using me as his fuck toy were enhanced by this casual little demonstration of his dominance…
showing me that he could masturbate as he chose, while I would be whipped for it.
A sound came out of me that was almost a laugh and almost another sob.
A stolen glance revealed that Porter had looked up from my pussy to my face. “That embarrasses you,” he said. “Look at me.”
“Yes,” I whispered miserably, as my cheeks burned at the sight of his dark eyes.
“Why?”
I swallowed. I could barely form words. “Because it makes me feel like… like…”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m just…” My got hotter. “Like I’m just here to be used however you want.”
His fingers stroked once, lightly, over my punished sex, and I jolted.
“You are there to be used how I want,” he said simply. “Within the structure I set, and with the care I choose to take. That’s part of what this arrangement is.”
I shut my eyes. I couldn’t even tell if my face was hotter with mortification than my pussy was with need.
When I opened my eyes, he was unfastening his belt. He had already shrugged off his jacket and his white shirt. My stomach flipped so hard I thought I might be sick.
“Sir,” I whispered.
“Watch. Eyes back where they belong.”
I obeyed. I couldn’t have looked away if I had wanted to.
He pulled off his trousers and his underwear, and his cock looked even harder and heavier.
The sight of it sent a fresh pulse straight into my throbbing pussy and then back again into my newly frightened bottom.
My anus seemed to clench in anticipation all by itself, remembering the plug, remembering how he had trained me, remembering every terrible thing he had taught my body to feel.
He saw all of that in me. Somehow I knew that simply from the assurance in his posture.
“Put your hands above your head,” he said.
I obeyed.
“Keep your knees up.”
I held them there, though my thighs had begun to tremble almost violently.
He stroked himself once, twice, looking at my face. “Your pussy first,” he repeated. “To get me ready. And because I want you to feel exactly what’s being taken away from your cunt and given to your bottom.”
That made me moan softly despite myself. The words felt like too much. The image they created was too much. My body understood the terrible hierarchy in them before my mind could reject it.
He leaned over me and kissed me.
The tenderness of it after the horrible pussy spanking nearly undid me more thoroughly than the punishment had. His mouth was firm, not soft exactly, but intimate in a way that made my eyes sting afresh. One of his hands slid under my back for leverage. The other spread my thighs wider.
When he broke the kiss he murmured into my ear, “Last chance to tell me you don’t want this arrangement anymore.”
I stared up at him. My cunt throbbed. My bottom clenched. My body was spread in white lace under his weight, and I knew with humiliating clarity that what I feared was no longer separate from what I wanted.
“I don’t want you to end it,” I whispered.
His expression changed almost imperceptibly. Something warmer dawned in his eyes.
“No,” he said. “I didn’t think you did.”
Then he stood up again, and reached for me.
His hands closed on my waist at once, firm and assured, and before I had properly braced myself he had drawn me down the bed until my bottom hung over the edge.
The shift made me gasp. His palms moved to the backs of my knees and opened me farther, folding me with such ruthless competence that my thighs pressed up toward my ribs and my knees nearly reached my ears.
I felt utterly exposed. Not merely naked, not merely available, but furnished as a receptacle for my sponsor’s hardness.
The waistband of the white lace thong still clung uselessly to my hips, the little gusset displaced, my punished sex bared and throbbing in the cool air. I could do nothing but lie there and let him look, and then use what he saw to make himself feel good.
I watched, helplessly fascinated, as he guided himself to me. The broad, hot head of his cock rested at the entrance to my soaking, aching sheath. My body jerked with anticipation before he had even pushed in. I made the mistake then of flicking my eyes up to his face.
The expression there nearly made me cry out: so much hunger… so much possession. A dark, concentrated dominance that brought a humiliating answering clench in my body.
His eyes were gazing steadily down, between us, surveying his conquest of my smooth, punished pussy. “There,” he said softly. “Look how sweet your cunt is when it tightens on the cock.”
Heat flashed all through me. I wanted to deny it, to say I had only clenched from fear, from humiliation, from any explanation but the obvious one.
Instead I lay there with my legs held brutally open while the head of his cock pressed into me and my body betrayed me to him in tiny involuntary pulses.
Then his left hand returned to the back of my knee, again holding me spread. “Look at me.”
I did. Again I saw the hunger and the power. Then, with his gaze fixed on mine, he drove into me hard.
The cry tore out of me before I could stop it. He filled me in one brutal, perfect stroke, his cock taking my pussy as if he had every right to the deepest places in me. The impact of it made the bed shift. My whole body jolted in his hands.
“There,” he said, already withdrawing enough to thrust in again. “Take it.”
He fucked me without gentleness and without haste, hard enough that each stroke made me feel the position he had put me in all over again.
I could not close my legs. I could not twist away.
I could only be penetrated. The spanking had left the whole area oversensitive, and every movement of him inside me seemed to brush all the inflamed places at once.
Shame and pleasure and discomfort blurred so thoroughly that I stopped being able to separate them.
His grip on the backs of my knees never slackened. It was part of the fucking, part of the lesson. He was not simply inside me. He was making me remain exactly the shape he wanted, my vagina angled exactly how it felt best to his manhood to thrust, while he used me.
I tried to hold his gaze because he had told me to, but it kept breaking. Every few thrusts my eyes would flutter shut or my head would turn helplessly to one side, and each time his voice would come, low and stern.
“Eyes on me.”
I obeyed. That made it worse. Or better. I couldn’t tell anymore.
He watched me take him, his eyes moving down to see how his thick, hard shaft claimed me.
His gaze moved up again to watch my mouth fall open, then down to take in my little breasts in the white lace bra, shifting with each thrust. There was no room for pretense under that gaze.
No room to imagine that this was accidental, or mutual in some simple equal way, or anything but what it was: a man using the body of the girl he had paid to fuck.
My pussy tightened and tightened around him as if it were trying to keep him there, and the thought of that was so humiliating that tears pricked my eyes again. He seemed to feel every little contraction.
“That’s right,” he murmured. “You feel what this is.”
I did. God, I did.
After some time—seconds, minutes, I truly couldn’t have said—he changed the angle of his thrusting just slightly, and the sensation went through me so sharply that I sobbed. My whole body strained under his hands.
He slowed for only a moment.
“What kind of girl are you?”
The question struck with the force of ritual now. He had made it into one. A phrase designed to strip away every refuge.
I shook my head once, miserably, though whether I meant no or please don’t make me say it I didn’t know.
He gave me one deeper thrust. “Answer.”
My voice broke on the words. “I’m… I’m the kind of girl who needs it in the ass.”
He held me for one suspended second after that, folded and open and burning with humiliation.
Then he withdrew.
The emptiness in my pussy made me gasp. Before I could process it, I felt the blunt, slick pressure of him lower, farther back, at the small, tight place that had brought so much dread, and helpless, mortifying need, for the last few days.
My whole body went rigid.
“No,” I whispered, though I knew exactly how weakly it sounded.
His thumb stroked once over my clit, not enough to soothe, only enough to remind. “If you behave yourself,” he said, “and let me into this little bottom properly, you may play with yourself while you’re getting it. I may even let you come.”
I made a broken sound. The promise itself was humiliating. Permission to touch myself while he did this to me.
He began to press.
The insistence of that heavy hardness at a place so much smaller, so much more frighteningly intimate, made panic flash through me. I tried to pull away though there was nowhere to go, no way to close myself.
“Please,” I sobbed. “It hurts.”
“Yes,” he said.
He pushed a little farther. Fire opened at my rear in a thin unbearable line. I cried out and my hands flew to the bedspread, clutching at nothing.
“It hurts,” I said again, uselessly.
His voice remained calm, even. “You need to learn that your sponsor’s pleasure matters more than your comfort.”
Something in me split then, the same strange division that had happened before under too much sensation, too much command.
Part of me stayed there in the bed, sobbing and exposed and being slowly opened by his cock.
Another part drifted upward and away, cool and observant and horrified by its own clarity.
Because from that detached place, his words made a terrible kind of sense.
He supported me now. He housed me. He fed me.
He cared for me in the severe, impossible way that was his.
The arrangement existed for his pleasure as much as for my survival—more, if I was being honest—and if this was what pleased him, then of course I must take it.
Of course I must let him use this part of me too.
What had the training yesterday been for if not this?
What had the lessons, the plug, the words, the shame, the orgasms, been preparing me to accept?
The reasoning slid into me almost as inexorably as he was trying to. I heard myself sob once more, deeply, from somewhere far below that detached rationality.
Then I stopped fighting. I simply let go of the muscular refusal, let my body cease arguing with the fact of him. The little ring of muscle yielded by fractions. His cock entered farther. The stretch grew wider, hotter, almost blindingly intense.
“There,” he said, and I heard the approval in his voice. “That’s better. Let it happen, you sweet little ass girl.”