Chapter 12
Porter
Alex let out an adorable little whimper as I slid her gently to her knees on the Persian rug in front of me. She fit neatly in between my thighs, and she looked up at me with wide, tearstained eyes. My cock felt harder inside my trousers than I could ever remember it feeling.
“Hands on my thighs,” I said.
She obeyed at once, though I could feel the tremor in her through the light pressure of her fingers.
Her eyes looked red from crying, her cheeks flushed a deep pink over her pale skin.
The sight of her there—naked, chastened, kneeling properly for me with that mixture of shame and need she had not yet learned how to manage—sent a possessive hunger through me so sharp it nearly made me abandon patience.
Patience mattered here, though.
I touched her hair, smoothing it back from her face. “Look at me.”
Her eyes lifted to mine.
“You are not going to rush. You are not going to perform. You are going to learn. Do you understand?”
“Yes…” Her eyes went wide as she thought of the word part of her had already learned she must say next, and part of her wanted to say, despite still another part of her rebelling against that helpless need. “Yes,” she repeated in a whisper, “sir.”
“Good girl.” I let my hand rest at the back of her head for a moment.
“Your first lesson is that my cock is not something you pounce on, as if it belongs to you. You are about to be allowed to please the most important part of my body. That privilege deserves respect. And, although this may sound a touch formal, it’s important to me that once my penis is visible you show your submission to it properly.
You will be punished if you look me in the eye without permission, when you are in the presence of my uncovered manhood. ”
The words sent a deep shudder through her lovely, naked form.
I watched the understanding of them move through her, the trembling clearly half humiliation and half arousal.
I could already tell that Alex responded to framing almost as strongly as she did to touch.
She needed structure around shame, or it would become chaos for her.
Give it a ritual, a logic, and she could bear it. More than bear it.
“Undo my belt,” I said.
Her lips parted. Then she closed them and swallowed hard. She reached out for my waist, her hands visibly shaking.
She did it carefully, with the grave concentration of a girl handling something both important and dangerous. The buckle gave her a little trouble because of the tremor in her hands. I let her struggle with it for a few seconds.
“Steady,” I said quietly. “There’s no hurry.”
She drew a breath and tried again. This time the leather slipped free with a soft hiss through the loops. Her eyes flicked up to mine, then down again at once. I felt my lips curve into a smile at that.
“Now the button and the zipper.”
She opened the waistband, then lowered my fly. She blushed harder. I could see the pulse jumping in her throat.
“Use both hands,” I told her. “Take hold of the waistband and lower my pants for me.”
She did, as I lifted myself a little to allow her to ease my trousers down over my hips. Alex seemed almost entranced: she acted with a care that had in it the reverence I always liked to find in a girl I meant to train.
My black boxer briefs bulged a few inches from her face. I watched her swallow again. Her forehead creased, and she took her lower lip between her teeth.
Then a tiny sound escaped her, mortified and breathy. She stared at the outline of my hardness it as if the shape alone might overwhelm her.
“My underwear too,” I said. “Remember what I told you about your eyes.”
* * *
Alex
Really, I couldn’t stop thinking about the ‘formal’ command he had given me: to keep my eyes on his penis whenever it was visible. I could see it through his underwear, the outline of its fluted head a clear ridge in the black cotton of the boxer briefs’ front.
I chewed on my lip, thinking about the soreness in my bottom, telling myself I had no choice but to look at Porter’s cock, and only his cock, because I couldn’t bear to be punished again.
To my mortification, the very thought made me clench, my hips jerking, too, as if my pussy offered itself to the masculine hardness it seemed my sponsor would make me uncover fully, and then make me serve.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered.
My hands rose the rest of the way, slow and careful now, as if the fabric itself required ceremony. I hooked my fingers into the waistband of his boxer briefs and hesitated.
“Not like you’re stripping a frat boy at a party,” he said quietly. “Nice and slow.”
Heat flooded my face, though I had never been to that kind of party.
I did as he said, tugging gently as he lifted himself again.
The black cotton gave way by degrees. I saw curly, wiry hair.
I saw the upper side of the base of the shaft.
More of the shape appeared. My pulse beat so hard I could feel it and to my horror my mouth started to water.
“Good,” Porter said. “You may lower them properly.”
I pulled the boxer briefs down.
His cock sprang free, already so thick and so hard, so much heavier looking than I had expected from the outline.
For one dizzy second I thought I might actually sway, or even swoon.
I kept my eyes where he had ordered them, but that made the overwhelm worse, because I had nothing to look at except the flushed, straining column of him, the wet gleam at the tip that I knew meant he hungered to possess me, the weight of his balls beneath.
I had seen men’s cocks before. I had touched one or two, and I had had Senator Gowry’s in my mouth.
Not like this, though: not as something presented to me to revere and to please, under threat of punishment for displeasing service.
Even the degrading moment in Gowry’s office when I had tried to give head for the first time and been whipped for getting it wrong…
it seemed like only the faintest pre-echo of kneeling in front of my sponsor after a thorough spanking.
My mouth, so wet a moment before, suddenly went dry.
I could practically feel him watching me take in the sight of his revealed manhood. “What are you feeling?” he asked softly.
I had no answer, or no simple one at any rate; nothing to which I could have given adequate words. Shame. Fear. Curiosity. A hot, sick little thrill. The memory of every ugly thing I had told myself about women who knelt like this. The fact that I was one of them.
“I’m nervous,” I said.
“About pleasing me?”
I shut my eyes for half a second, then opened them at once because I had no permission to look away from his cock. “Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
I bit my lip. The words would not come. He waited. That somehow made it possible to find some way to express myself.
“Because…” I chewed on my lower lip. “Because Senator Gowry told me I was terrible at it.”
Silence, for one beat.
“At sucking cock,” I added in a rush, mortified by my own vagueness.
His tone remained even. “Did he.”
“Yes.” My face felt as if it would burn off. “He said I was awful.”
Porter’s hand settled lightly at the back of my head, not pushing, just there. “How exactly did he try to enjoy you, Alex?”
The question seemed so matter-of-fact that I nearly flinched. “I…”
“Tell me.”
I stared at his cock, at the rigid jut of it, and forced myself through the humiliation. “I think he… I think it’s called… um… face-fucking.”
His fingers moved in my hair once, smoothing. “Yes. It is.”
I waited for some judgment, some contempt, some pronouncement about my inexperience. What came instead was somehow worse for me.
“I will fuck your face,” he said. “Eventually. But that isn’t where we begin.”
A shiver ran through me.
“First, you’re going to learn how to treat your sponsor’s penis with respect,” he went on. “I want you to understand what gratitude looks like, when a man like me allows you to please him this way. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” My voice quavered. Part of me had no idea why I had said it, but a more important, deeper part of me, to my dismay, did understand, much better than I wanted it to.
“Good girl.” His hand slid from my hair to my cheek, then away. “Now lower my underwear the rest of the way, so you can serve me properly.”
I drew the cotton down over his muscular thighs and farther down, over his knees.
He stepped out of his trousers and his underwear and kicked them aside so he could spread his legs and take me more fully between them.
His cock stood inches from my face, and I felt myself flushing all the way to my chest.
I had no idea what to do with my hands, so I left them at my sides.
“First,” he said, “take a good look at the most important part of your sponsor. Not because I’ll whip you if you look away, although I will.”
I heard a little sob come from the back of my throat, and my breath became shallow. I wished I could have told myself it came only from fear.
“Learn how I’m made,” Porter said. “Really look.”
That made something inside me go very still. I obeyed. I looked.
I saw the broad tip of his cock, and the darker ridge beneath it.
The smooth, taut skin over the shaft. The subtle movement when he breathed.
The veins. The contrast between the hard length and the softer weight below.
I had a sudden, bizarre awareness that I had never been taught any of this.
Women were somehow meant to know, or to fake knowing, or to let men do as they pleased and call that sex.
“I’ve never…” I began, then stopped.
“Never what?”
“Never gotten to…” I felt ridiculous. “Learn.”
I couldn’t look at him, but I heard a smile in his voice. “No. I didn’t imagine you had.”
He reached down, then, and took my right hand. He placed it lightly on his thigh first, grounding me. Then he guided it upward and inward until my fingertips brushed the underside of his cock. I let out a little gasp at the warmth of it.
“Gentle,” he said. “Don’t seize it. Let your fingers get acquainted.”
My fingertips traced the heat and hardness of him in a trembling little path. It felt almost unreal, like touching concentrated masculinity rather than flesh. He was so warm. So alive. So undeniably responsive beneath my hand that my stomach tightened with a mix of terror and excitement.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Now wrap your fingers around me. Not too tight.”
I did. My hand looked absurdly small.
“Better. Stroke once.”
I obeyed, clumsy with concentration, drawing my hand up and then down again.
He exhaled softly. “Good. Again.”
I did it again. His cock shifted in my grasp, growing somehow heavier, and I felt a fresh surge of wetness, slick between my thighs.
He took hold of his cock above my hand then, not moving mine away but covering the shaft with his own larger grip. “Watch.”
I watched as he stroked himself slowly, deliberately, showing me the pressure, the rhythm, the slight movement of his fingers near the head. The sight sent heat straight through me.
“This is one way a penis likes to be treated,” he said. “Not by every man in exactly the same way. But with attention. With care. You pay attention to what it does in your hand. You learn how I respond.”
My hand still rested on him, trapped between us for a moment while he showed me. I could feel the movement through both our grips. The intimacy of it did something complicated in my chest.
Then he let go and nodded downward. “Bend closer.”
I obeyed.
“Lick my balls.”
My face flamed, but the command reached me somewhere too low and direct to resist. I leaned in until the scent of him filled my nostrils, warm and male and musky. Then, feeling naughty and exposed and curious, I extended my tongue and licked.
A tiny sound left him.
“Again,” he said.
I did it again, slower this time. The texture was softer than I’d imagined. His scrotum tasted salty. The vulnerability of doing something so openly servile made my chest tighten.
“Good girl. More.”
While I licked him as instructed, he began stroking his shaft again in his own hand, more firmly now.
I could hear the faint wet sound of it. The combination was overwhelming: my mouth on him, though not yet where I had expected; his hand teaching while using his own body as the lesson; my own body getting wetter and hotter with every second.
“Use your tongue properly,” he said. “Not little frightened pecks. Taste me.”
I obeyed, each repetition making me a little less jerky, a little more intent. It was humiliating to realize I wanted to do it well. Wanted his approval. Wanted the little changes in his breathing that told me my obedience mattered.
“That’s right,” he murmured. “You’re learning this very quickly.”
My heart jumped at the praise.
Then his hand moved to the back of my head. I let out a little whimper at the casualness of the dominant gesture. I knew what must happen next, what a naked girl on her knees must do.
“Open,” Porter said.