Training Ch. 04

"No! I don't want to!" She shrank back farther. That sense of objectification intensified, bringing with it a sudden, overpowering feeling of helplessness. She felt soiled, filthy, unfit to be seen or touched, and she wanted to hide, to flee away from his sight.

He pulled the rope hand over hand, reeling her closer, bringing her to the chair step by reluctant step. "Sit down, little whore. It's time for breakfast."

"Anthony!" she begged. "I don't want to!"

Without a word, he steered her over to the chair. His hand on her shoulder pressed her down. She flinched when the dildo touched her, hesitated for a moment, then slowly lowered herself onto it. When her ass touched the seat, it filled her completely, painfully deep. She quivered and moaned.

When she was fully seated, Anthony untied her wrists. She tried to rub the marks the rope had left behind, but he intercepted her hands and pulled them behind the chair. Moments later, her wrists were once again bound, this time behind her back. He tied the rope to the chair, to prevent her from moving.

"Anthony," she whimpered weakly, "no..."

He brought a plate over to her, heaped with pancakes, eggs, and sausage. Ignoring her protestations, he sat next to her and fed her, one forkful at a time. Every tiny motion made her shockingly aware of the dildo impaling her, and before long her eyes were closed and she was moaning softly. He caressed her tangled hair, and kissed her defiled cheek softly. She felt degraded, but also cherished and cared for. The contradiction quickened her pulse. Every bite of pancake was a violation and a tender moment of intimacy at the same time, making her feel conflicted, uncertain. The tension returned to wrap around inside her.

When she had had enough, Anthony sat across from her and prepared a plate for himself. An amused light danced in his dark eyes. He watched her steadily, until the weight of his gaze made her blush. His eyes followed the curves of her breasts, rested for a moment on her hard nipples, continued down her body to the place where the edge of the table interrupted his view. He seemed pleased, as though admiring a cherished piece of art that brought him great joy.

Her heart beat faster. She moaned again. The covetousness in his look excited her, and her excitement made her more aware of the dildo impaling her. He watched as her moans came faster, louder, and her eyes closed. He could see with vivid clarity the rapid beat of the pulse in her neck, the lifting of her breasts with each breath.

But the orgasm he expected never came. She pursued it, felt it tighten inside her, but never quite caught it; the edge of ecstasy slipped away from her, left her panting and aching. Her eyes opened and she stared pleadingly at him, panting. He smiled and returned his attention to his breakfast.

When he was finished, he untied her and helped her rise up off the dildo. She kept her eyes down, embarrassed by his look. He took her chin and turned her head up to meet his gaze. "Now you may get cleaned up. I'll take care of the dishes." He placed a small kiss on her lips that sent shivers of longing through her body, before he turned away.

She retreated to the bathroom in a daze. As the shower warmed, the feeling of dirtiness grew stronger, until by the time she stepped beneath the spray it threatened to overwhelm her. She began scrubbing herself, and as she did, that lingering feeling of uncleanness that could not be washed away, that she had first felt in the hotel in London, came back.

This time, it was coupled with a powerful arousal. She soaped and scrubbed her body, excited and repelled in equal measure by the semen that clung stubbornly to her skin. One hand traveled over her breast and descended between her legs. Her knees buckled.

No! she told herself. This is what he wants! He is trying to make me want his come all over me. I am not going to give in! She took her hand away, heart beating fast, and tried to push the arousal aside. He will not train me to enjoy this filth! She turned the stream of water as cold as she could get it and forced herself to stand beneath the icy spray. I am not a sex slave! I am not going to touch myself this way! Not after what he did to me!

She stayed under the cold spray until she had forced the last tattered remnants of sexual arousal away. Only then did she turn off the water and reach for a towel. Her nipples stood hard, from cold rather than heat. She wiped fog off the mirror and stared at herself. Determination mounted in her, to stomp out and tell Anthony that she had had absolutely enough, she was going to let him know how little she cared for the things he was doing to her...

No,, she thought. I am not going to let him see the way he is affecting me, I am not going to give him the pleasure of knowing how he is getting to me. She smoothed her expression into something pleasantly neutral, dressed, and walked out. Inwardly, locked in a secret room, her arousal simmered.

When she returned to the kitchen, Anthony had finished cleaning up the last traces of breakfast. "Oh, hi!" he said, and planted an affectionate kiss on her cheek. "All clean, little whore?" The phrase sent a small blaze of heat through her. She pushed it down and smiled blandly.

"The movers should have brought all your boxes over while we were away and put them in one of the bedrooms upstairs. If you want to start unpacking this afternoon before the party, that might be a good idea."

"It just might," she agreed, glad of the opportunity to distract herself with something else. Without another word, she climbed the sweeping stairway to the second floor and moved down the hallway, opening doors as she went.

The movers had indeed done their job; Eileen found all her boxes stacked neatly in a small, Spartan bedroom. The sight of all her worldly possessions, boxed up and neatly labeled, awaiting a new life, reminded her of how little she actually owned. Most of her furniture, she'd already sold or given away just prior to the wedding itself; the rest of her possessions occupied a surprisingly small space.

She spent the next several hours in the bedroom alone, opening boxes, sorting her things, trying to decide what to do with it. Anthony had told her that any of the bedrooms upstairs could be hers if she wanted it, but somehow, placing her things around the small bed and on the nightstand that were already in the room didn't seem to make the space feel like it belonged to her. The house was already completely furnished with Anthony's things, and standing in the room trying to figure out what to do with the odds and ends of her life reminded her of that. She felt like she had set out to capture a husband, and bring him into her life, and somehow the exact opposite had happened.

After a while, she grew restless and bored with unpacking, and started to explore. The elaborate renovation and modernization of the house that Anthony had done downstairs didn't seem to extend to the upper floor. Most of the upstairs doors opened into small bedrooms like the one in which her things were stored, each equipped with a small bed and nightstand and each with a musty, disused feeling. One door revealed a narrow bathroom with an antique pull-chain toilet, a small porcelain sink, and white lace curtains.

The only upstairs room she found that seemed to be in use was Anthony's office, a large space with a computer desk and an enormous drafting table. A worn leather office chair on wheels sat in front of the largest monitor Eileen had ever seen, and stacks of drawings and papers sat piled around the desk in barely controlled chaos.

The door at the very end of the hallway was locked. Eileen twisted the knob fruitlessly.

She went back downstairs to find Anthony cleaning the enormous table in the formal dining room. "Anthony!" she said. "What's in the room upstairs at the end of the hall?"

He grinned his most mischievous grin, eyes sparkling. "I was wondering when you would ask me that. Follow me. Let me show you something."

Eileen followed him into the master bedroom. He crossed over to the nightstand and opened the drawer. From inside, he took out a small, intricate wooden box, long but very narrow, and handed it to her. "Here. Look inside."

She opened tiny latch and flipped back the lid. Inside, nestled in red satin, was an old-fashioned skeleton key made of silvery metal. She lifted it out of the box; it felt surprisingly heavy in her hand. Her name had been engraved in a flowing script along the barrel of the key.

"What is this?"

"It's a key, silly!" he answered. "For the door. See for yourself!"

She half-walked, half-ran up the stairs, suddenly overcome with curiosity. The key fit easily into the keyhole on that mysterious door, and it opened outward toward her.

She had expected to see a room on the other side, perhaps another bedroom, but the door opened into a tiny space that looked like it had once been a closet, with a narrow flight of stairs climbing steeply upward. They seemed to be an architectural afterthought, installed in the confined space long after the house had been built. She climbed the high wooden steps carefully, and found herself on a tiny landing barely large enough to stand on, facing another locked door.

This one, too, submitted to the ministrations of the key and opened silently. Eileen stepped through into the room beyond.

The space looked as though it had once been an attic that had been partly refinished but never quite completed. It was as wide as the bedrooms downstairs, but very long. The floor underfoot was made of narrow strips of wood, roughly finished and slightly uneven. Daylight flooded the place in a golden glow through three dormer-style windows extending outward through the wall, and hung like a living thing, brilliant shafts of light visible in the dust that danced in the air. The ceiling overhead slanted upward steeply along the length of the room, scarcely five feet tall where it met the outside wall, but more than twice that on the other wall.

The entire length of the room was filled with things.

Beneath the window nearest to her, Eileen saw a low, wide bed, made of black iron, with a mattress that seemed to be covered in leather. Four manacles on short chains welded to the bed frame rested on the corners of the mattress, open, waiting.

Farther down, in front of the center window, she saw an old-fashioned stock, a heavy plank of wood with holes for a person's head and arms resting on a wood pillar. It reminded her of the things she had seen in movies about colonial America, devices into which a person could be locked in the town square for some transgression, and ridiculed by the people passing by.

Farther down still was the thing that Anthony had strapped her to in London, the device he'd called a "Sybian," with its modifications—the dildo projecting through the upward arm, the cuffs into which he had placed her wrists.

At the end of the room were two cages in black iron, one very tall and narrow, barely large enough to stand in, the other wide but only a few feet high. The door to each cage stood open. Each had a large, black metal padlock hanging from the latch

The far wall, opposite the windows, was lined with pegboards. From metal pegs hung an array of objects—a wide variety of paddles, some narrow, some wide, some made of leather and lined with fur, others made of wood; blindfolds; gags in different sizes and colors; clamps of all descriptions, attached to chains; cuffs; coils of rope; and other things Eileen could not identify. Below the peg boards ran a long shelf with a row of dildos in an astonishing array of sizes, colors, and textures lined up neatly along it.

Large bins of some white plastic were stacked in one corner. Vague shapes, unrecognizable through the milky plastic, lurked inside.

From the ceiling overhead, heavy chains dangled. Large round metal loops were embedded in the floor at regular intervals.

Eileen took a trembling step backward. Strange, conflicted emotions battled in her. Her eyes moved wildly around the room, not quite able to take it all in. The arousal she had battled down earlier came roaring through her, causing sudden wetness to drip from between her legs. Her nipples hardened in response to the tension and longing that bubbled up from some deep wellspring inside her. She took another half-step back and ran into Anthony, who had climbed the stairs silently behind her.

His hands slid around her from behind. "What do you think, little whore? I made this room just for you. When you are disobedient, you must be punished." He kissed the back of her neck tenderly. "This is where your punishments will take place." He cupped her breasts. His fingers danced over her nipples, drawing a moan from her. "And if experience is any indication, this is where you will have many orgasms indeed."

She shrank away from the room and its contents, pressing herself against him. She felt his erection through his pants, pressing into the cleft of her ass, and shuddered. His hands on her breasts brought the roiling arousal almost painfully to the surface. She found herself grinding her hips back against him. The feel of his hands on her body, his warmth, and the firmness of the bulge between his legs pressing against her were suddenly overwhelming. In that moment, the thing she wanted most in the world was for him to strip her bare, chain her down to that bed, and force his cock roughly into her. She moaned over and over again, pussy clenching.

Then the moment was gone, and horror replaced the arousal. She squirmed away from him and fled for the stairs, nearly tripping in her haste to be away. The key dropped from her hands and bounced down the stairs after her. Anthony watched her go, smiling slightly. The door below slammed shut. He followed her at a leisurely pace. When he reached the key, he bent and picked up the key, rolling it thoughtfully between his fingers.

After he had locked the room back up and gone downstairs, he found Eileen sitting on a corner of the couch watching TV. He grinned and moved to kiss her, but she pulled from him and turned away.

He moved into the bedroom to return the key to its box in the nightstand. When it was safely tucked away, he thought for a moment before he opened the drawer again and withdrew a compact folding knife—the same one he had used in London.

When he came back out, Eileen was still sitting exactly where she had been, arms folded. Slowly, deliberately, Anthony stripped naked. A muscle in her neck twitched, but she gave no other indication that she was even aware of him.

He sat next to her on the couch and moved to kiss her. She drew away again. He grabbed her arm and pulled her body toward his. She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened. He turned her around and kissed her hard. She squirmed and twisted in his grasp.

He unfolded the knife one-handed with a practiced motion. Her breath caught in her throat, and she froze. He slipped the blade sideways under her shirt sleeve, and with one sweep sliced it almost all the way across. A flap of fabric fell away from her breast. She shivered and gasped.

Anthony bent over to wrap his lips around her exposed nipple. She pressed into him, fingers curling through his hair. His tongue curled around her nipple, and she sighed softly.

With the sigh, her pretense faded. She could no longer push the arousal away; her façade crumbled into dust. He straightened. She looked up at him, chest heaving, and made no move to resist as his strong hands tore away what was left of her shirt. Cold bright metal caressed her breast. She looked up at him, naked longing in her eyes, and her nipple tightened against the edge of the blade. "Yes," she said softly.

He set the knife carefully down on the coffee table before he turned his attention to her pants. She neither helped nor hindered him when he unfastened them and pulled them from her. Wetness glistened between her folds. "From now on," he said, "I want you to wear only skirts or dresses. Something that gives me easier access to your sex. Now turn over."

He took her leg and turned her over easily. Once she was face-down on the sofa, he grabbed both of her ankles and turned her around so she was kneeling over the cushion. She trembled, aching with longing and need, and waited for what would happen next.

The wait didn't last long. He wrapped his hands around her waist and penetrated her deeply from behind. "Oooong, God!" She arched her back onto him and buried her face in the cushion. Tears of release flowed from her eyes. He took her slowly but firmly, driving into her throbbing pussy over and over until waves of pleasure washed over her. She came deeply, intensely, one orgasm rolling into the next until she could not tell where one ended and the other began.

She was only barely aware of his own orgasm, the warm wet splat deep inside her. He slid slowly out, but her own orgasm kept rolling over her, while she shuddered and moaned and wept into the couch.

Finally, slowly, the feelings ebbed. She sniffled and turned to face him. He started to speak, but she kissed him, urgently, deeply, cutting off his words. He blinked in surprise, then returned her kiss. His hands wrapped around her, stroking her skin tenderly. Her breasts pressed against his chest. She drew a long, shaky breath. "Thank you," she said, not quite sure why.

The doorbell rang.

The mood shattered. Eileen jumped and rushed into the bedroom. Anthony rose and gathered his clothing.

The doorbell rang again just as he finished dressing. He crossed calmly to the door and opened it. A man in a catering uniform stood on the other side. "You're the one having the party tonight?"

"Come in, come in!" Anthony smiled jovially. "You're right on time."

Eileen came out of the bedroom dressed in a blouse and a short patterned skirt. She gave Anthony a small, self-conscious smile. He put his arm around her and they watched the man carry several trays of small sandwiches and cheeses into the house. "You can set them up in the dining room if you would, please," Anthony said.

When the man had left, Anthony kissed Eileen deeply. "This will be a very nice evening, I think," he said. "The company of friends is always good, don't you think? And I've worked hard to put it all together." He kissed her cheek.

Eileen mostly stayed out of Anthony's way while he puttered around, arranging the trays, straightening the living room and dining room. Everything seemed perfect to her, but he still fussed. A little kernel of uncertainty gnawed at her; she still didn't really know many of Anthony's friends, and she hadn't even been aware that he was planning to host a party until they were on their way back from the honeymoon.

The sun had set when the doorbell rang again. Anthony answered the door; Eileen vaguely recognized the couple from the reception, but couldn't quite put names to the faces. The doorbell rang again, and again after that; soon, the house was filled with chatting people.

Anthony moved easily through the crowd, talking, making introductions. Eileen followed in his wake, nodding and smiling, taking it all in. As the evening went on, she relaxed fractionally, and after a time she found that she was actually enjoying herself. Anthony's friends, many of whom he'd known since college, seemed like interesting people, open and friendly, and filled with all sorts of fascinating stories about his past.

Hours passed. The food that had been set out disappeared. The crowd started, almost imperceptibly at first, to thin; people collected their things, hugs and handshakes were exchanged, and the guests departed. After a while, only a handful of people, all of them old friends of Anthony's, remained.

Anthony took Eileen's hand. "Will you excuse us for a moment?" he said to nobody in particular and drew her into the bedroom. The door closed behind them.