Chapter 26
Alex
The order sent a jolt of shame and need through my whole body. My face flamed so hard it felt like I might actually scorch the sheets.
I lowered myself at once, turning my cheek to the mattress because I couldn’t bear to imagine what my expression looked like, let alone contemplate letting Porter see it.
I reached back with both hands. My bottom still burned in narrow, vivid lines from his belt.
The skin felt hot and swollen under my grasping fingers.
I shuddered at the sting of that first touch, and when I parted my cheeks the tenderness, or the shame, or both, made me whimper.
I have no choice.
The words began again, at once, in my head, like a prayer or an incantation. I have no choice. I have no choice.
If I disobeyed him now, it would only get worse. That was true, wasn’t it? He would spank me more. Whip me more. Cane me, maybe. I dwelt on the thought sent, until it sent the expected, logical fear through me, and the fear ran straight down into a shameful little throb between my legs.
Then, for one instant—one dangerous instant of clarity—I thought: I could say no.
I could tell him I wanted this to end. He had said so. He had said it so often, hadn’t he? He had offered it, without me even asking. Somewhere beneath everything else I knew that of course he would let me go.
But I pushed that thought down with all the force I had.
I have no choice. I have no choice. I have no choice.
The truth of my actual, legal, factual situation felt cold, though, and I wanted, desperately, to be warm. Hot. Hotter.
It felt so much better to imagine—no, to believe—that he would not let me go at all.
That if I refused and begged and tried to run away he would simply hold me down on top of the bed, his crushing weight on top of me, my wrists held useless behind my back, my whipped cheeks roughly parted…
he would drive into my ass until I screamed…
he would come there for the second time…
and then punish me afterward, for making him use force to get what he had paid for.
The image made me sob, so I spread my bottom wider, offered my sore bottom hole more submissively to his manhood.
My fingers pressed into the sore flesh of my bottom and drew my cheeks apart until I felt obscenely open, terribly displayed.
The posture humiliated me so completely that I let out another whimper just from the feeling of it.
I had never in my life imagined doing such a thing for anyone.
Offering that most private part of myself with my own hands. Presenting it.
And yet the shame of it lit up not just my face, but my whole body… all over.
“That’s right,” Porter said behind me, his voice low and approving in a way that made my stomach tighten. “I’m going to teach you how a dominant man fucks an ass properly.”
I heard the soft rustle of his robe loosening, then the whisper of it falling to the floor.
My breath came in short pants in and out of my mouth. My face pressed hard into the mattress, and I welcomed the discomfort as a sign of how hard I was trying to do as I was told, because I had no choice.
The mattress shifted. I felt him climb onto the bed and come over me, bestriding my raised backside, one foot on either side of my calves, his body high above mine, controlling the whole shape of me. The position made me feel pinned even before he touched me. Owned by geography alone.
Then the broad head of his cock pressed against the tight ring of my anus.
I whimpered into the mattress.
He did not hurry this time any more than he had when he had taken my bottom’s virginity only an hour before—if it had even been that long.
And he showed that he had learned exactly how to use me, exactly how to make my body yield.
The first pressure hurt. The next hurt worse.
My fingers tightened on my own flesh as he entered me by measured inches, and the stretch lit up all the soreness from his earlier fucking and from his belt, and made it into something larger, deeper, more commanding.
“Hold yourself open,” he said. “Let your hands help you learn to open that little hole for my cock.”
“Yes, sir,” I whispered, though it came out strangled.
He pushed farther in.
I gasped and clenched and then, because he had taught me to, forced myself to stop resisting.
The little ring of muscle gave way around him.
He entered me fully with a slow, inexorable firmness that made my whole body tense and then go weak.
I felt split around him. Filled. Claimed in the crudest and most complete possible way, face down and ass up for fucking.
For a little while he used me like that, with me still holding my own ass open for him.
Every thrust reminded me what I was doing.
Every movement of his cock inside my bottom made my posture feel more degrading, more terrible, more real.
My hands trembled. I felt tears well in my eyes.
I could hear little sounds coming from me, broken and involuntary, and each one shamed me further because they did not sound purely unhappy.
They sounded yielding, submissive, and needy.
He leaned forward slightly over me. “You may put your arms under you,” he said. “Support yourself. I’m going to fuck your bottom hard now.”
A violent tremor went through my limbs. I obeyed, drawing my hands away from my ass cheeks and sliding my forearms beneath my chest. The moment I let go of myself I felt even more opened, because now my bottom belonged entirely to him and what he had made of me.
I felt my cheeks try to close and find instead an enormous, masculine shaft between them.
I braced on my elbows, hips raised, held up by his hands in the position he wanted them.
Then he began. The first hard thrust drove a cry out of me.
The second made the bed shift under us. After that there was no counting.
He fucked my ass with a punishing force that seemed designed not only to use me but to teach me what use meant.
Each stroke jarred through my hips and into my stomach.
My bottom hurt from the leather, the stretch, and from being made to take the relentless pounding of his rigid phallus.
The tears spilled from my eyes and dampened the sheet beneath my cheek.
I sobbed and sobbed, but even through the discomfort, through the sharpness and the fullness and the helplessness, I felt something else too: a grotesque, glowing pride.
I was taking it. I was actually taking the hard anal fucking I had feared, imagined, fantasized about. I was enduring it for him. That knowledge settled in me with humiliating but devastatingly arousing force. I felt wrecked by it and, at the same time, perversely pleased with myself.
He must have sensed something in my body, because one of his hands left my hip and came around beneath me. His fingers found my clit.
I cried out. The contrast felt so intense that for a second I thought I might lose my mind.
His cock kept driving into my bottom while his fingers played my pussy with merciless expertise, and suddenly every sensation braided together—pain, shame, fullness, need, punishment, reward—until there was no separating any of it.
“Oh, God… oh, sir…”
“That’s it,” he said roughly. “Take it, you little ass whore.”
My whole body started to shake. My bottom spasmed around him. My pussy clenched on nothing. His fingers kept working my clit with maddening precision, and the orgasm built with terrifying speed, fed by everything I had tried not to want.
When it hit, I screamed into the mattress and came so hard I thought I might pass out.
At the same instant I felt him thrust deep and go still, then pulse inside me.
The hot, buried climax of him in my ass sent a second shudder through me.
I lay there sobbing and shaking while he finished, unable to do anything but feel.
* * *
The week that followed seemed less like a sequence of days than like an ongoing, developing condition of my body.
Porter’s simple but terrible instructions took over my life.
I was not allowed panties. I was not allowed pants.
Skirts only, with nothing at all beneath them, so that from the moment I got dressed in the morning until the moment he undressed me again at night I was constantly aware of my own exposure.
Walking became indecent. Sitting became an exercise in helpless lust. A gust of air on the sidewalk felt like a reminder from him.
The brush of my skirt between my thighs made me think of his rules, his hands, his eyes.
Sometimes at work I would reach for a cup or bend to open the refrigerator and feel, all at once, the nakedness under my clothes as if he had touched me in public.
It made it almost impossible to think of anything but Porter.
That didn’t mean I stopped trying to think about other things.
I listened when he talked about the bill.
I watched his face when he came home from meetings with senators and donors and various other men and women of the district to whom power came naturally.
Sometimes over dinner—at which I was always dressed only in bra and garter belt, if not simply nude—he would tell me how the negotiations were going.
Badly, mostly.
The billionaire whose money supported so much of Porter’s lobbying effort had begun making noises about shifting focus.
Senators drifted, postured, hedged. Gowry remained interested in whatever interested him, which was not, apparently, helping disabled people unless something more appetizing to him came attached.
Porter never complained. He stated facts. But I learned to hear the additional tension in his silences, in the extra stillness that came over him when a call had gone poorly.
Then he would turn to me, and no more talk of legislation was allowed to interfere with his dominant pleasure.
He fucked my mouth on the nights when he wanted quiet obedience from me, my hands behind my back or at my sides while he used my lips and throat as if they existed for his convenience.
He fucked my pussy when he wanted to watch me lose myself more quickly.
And he fucked my ass often enough that the terror of it became something more complicated: still fear, certainly, but fear laced with anticipation and an awful kind of pride in my increasing ability to take him.
I felt certain it would have been enough to satisfy any normal woman, if not to make her never want sex again.
It had the opposite effect on me, though.
During the day, when he was gone and I was left alone in the apartment or sent out into the city with no underwear under my skirt and his rules wrapped around me like invisible hands, I wanted to touch myself more than I ever had in my life.
I would stand behind the counter of the café making coffee and suddenly think of his hands spreading me open for his thrusting hardness, in my pussy and then in my bottom.
I would cross my legs on the sofa while watching TV and feel the pressure in exactly the wrong way.
I would remember his voice through the speaker, or the way he had told me that masturbating without permission meant the cane, and the forbidden quality of the thought would only make it worse.
Sometimes I managed not to. Sometimes I paced, or read, or took a shower with stern deliberate efficiency and my hands nowhere they ought not to go. Sometimes I lay on the bed and simply ached.
A week after that first fucking of my bottom, Porter had to fly to California.
The donor had demanded an in-person meeting, and the meeting mattered too much to delegate.
He told me this while fastening his cufflinks that morning, already halfway in his professional armor, and I stood there trying to look as if my main feeling about his leaving was mature composure.
In reality my body had reacted first with disappointment and then, almost immediately, with a horrible hot curiosity. A night alone. In my wired apartment. With his rules.
Before he left he gave me instructions in that calm, measured tone that made everything sound settled and inevitable. Work. Meals. Bedtime. And because apparently he knew me too well already, he added, “If you play with yourself, I will cane you, just as I’ve told you before.”