Priya, or How to Train Your Bitch

She's late.

It's okay that she's late. It would be okay if she doesn't show tonight. It would be okay- well, I'm stretching the definition of okay a bit here- if she didn't show ever again. I'd steadied myself against the possibility months ago when this all started. I'd promised myself that I would work within the rules of the little game we play and nothing more.

It'll be okay if she's late-

There's a knock on the door and I'm on my feet in a heartbeat. I stop and smile to myself- denial is a helluva drug, isn't it?- and I force myself to move with unhurried steps to open up the door.

Priya's on the other side. She wears a dark sweater (designer), jeans (designer), stylish shoes (designer) and a withering glare (very much bespoke). She sweeps into the room, carelessly draping a handbag that costs more than the possessions in my apartment combined onto the couch. "Hello pervert."

"Good to see you too, Priya."

She sneered. Priya had the sort of arrogance that's entirely natural; that is to say, the sort of arrogance that came from being rich, from being from a well-connected family back in India, and being stunningly- painfully- gorgeous. It was an arrogance that had been cultivated over generations, passing down from daughter to daughter over the centuries; I could easily imagine Priya sitting on a jewelled throne, viciously berating some cowering husband for not sufficiently resisting the British. "Need anything? Water?"

"No." Her cupid-bow lips twist into distaste at the idea of my disgustingly common tap-water. "Let's just get on with it. This place is depressing."

I nod. I'd had plenty of time to get used to her snipes. They'd ranged from the casual ("You're nothing but trash"), to the personal ("You only do this because you couldn't get a woman any other way") to the genuinely frightening ("One phone call and I could destroy you. Remember that").

(After that last one I'd sent her away. I thought it was all over- surprise, surprise when she showed up the next week, spitting out something that vaguely resembled an apology).

Priya sighs theatrically, breaking me from my recollection. "Are you ready? Or did I just waste my Thursday night?"

"I'm ready." Priya came over most Thursdays, unless she was busy or decided that she hated me enough to not come one day or she was still upset about what happened the previous Thursday. Or that one Saturday night she showed up at my door at 3am, drunk and utterly unapologetic in her need. I'd made a point to keep my apartment clean(ish) just in case.

It's unclear if it ever made anything like a difference.

"Let's go over the rules," I say.

"Do we have to do this every time?"

"Yes," I say patiently. "Say the rules, Priya."

She stops and closes her eyes. Then she slowly said, "Rule one. I can leave at any time. Rule two. You're not going to force me to anything. You're only going to ask." She hesitates. "Rule three...rule three, if I leave...I won't be a good girl."

"And?"

"...Bad girls don't get rewarded." She's promising silent murder with her eyes.

"Thank you. Now-"

"Why?"

"Why what?" I ask.

"Why don't you just- push me to do things? If you were more aggressive, then..."

It's my turn to hesitate. It was dangerous to tell her but I'd promised myself that I'd be honest. One of the more unspoken rules that I followed. "Do you know how you train a dog?"

"Are you calling me a dog?"

I ignore her. "You train a dog with patience and kindness and repetition. Not cruelty. Not force."

"You couldn't train a dog that way?"

"You could- if you wanted to do it wrong. If you wanted to end up with a messed up pet- stressed and damaged and mentally unsound. If you were a bastard."

Priya mutters in a silken whisper, "So you're training me to be your little bitch?" She wants to look angry- she probably is angry- but there's a flicker of amusement on her cold face, a hot spark that promises me: You think I'm a bitch? I am, little man. I'm more bitch than you'll ever be.

I say, "Strip down."

She doesn't move. I repeat the command in the same soft, gentle tone of voice. With an abrupt jerk she pulls her sweater up over her head. A moment later she kicks off her designer shoes and unbuttons her jeans.

I should be used to the sight of her. I'm not. I'm not sure I ever will be. Priya's skin is light brown and silky smooth. Her hair is dark and long and lustrous, spilling down over her shoulders to brush against the tops of her breasts. Her proportions are the best sort of pleasing. She wears silken purple matching underwear (designer) and a wary expression (bespoke).

"The underwear too."

It took a lot of efforts and a lot of arguments for her to get to the point where she would take off her shirt. Getting down to her underwear took the better part of a month. Nudity was the work of multiple months, including a gap of three weeks where I asked myself precisely why I wasted so much time and energy on Priya when the world was full of women who'd be happy to get to this stage with much, much less effort and pain.

Still, persistence and patience have paid off. Without breaking eye contact she reaches behind and unhooks her bra. She throws it carelessly to the floor and her breasts- moderately sized but so wonderfully shaped, capped by two dark brown nipples- sag just a little as gravity works its will on them. She hooks her thumbs through the lacy fabric of her panties and pushes down. She meets my eyes.

And there it is; there's the other Priya. There's the woman that has marched out of my shitty apartment a dozen times but always comes back. There's the woman who threatens me but never delivers, the woman who calls me a pervert but wears slinky underwear to our meetings. The woman who claims to hate this but who's pussy- exposed to the eyes of some poor British university student- is glistening right now with moisture.

The woman who loves what I make her do.

She stands naked in my apartment, her back straight and her eyes boring into mine. Only her hands- clenching and unclenching- reveal her nervousness. "Well?" she asks.

"Your homework?"

She grimaces and moves to take her phone from her handbag. She gives it a few taps and hands it over to me, scowling.

I look at the photos and smile. Whatever her feelings about the homework- and oh, how she has strong feelings about homework- there's never any doubt that she gives it her very best. The shot was of professional level-quality, the poses carefully considered. The first shot was of her sitting on a couch on a balcony. She was entirely naked apart from a set of shades, her body on display as she lay atop a couch. I looked up from the phone to see her glaring at me without a shred of repentance. The city skyscape could be seen in the background. "I said in a public place."

She rolled her eyes. "See the next one."

I flicked over to the next image. Her back was to the camera as she leaned over the edge of the balcony to peer down at the street below. The shot had her ass- round and plump, firm and peach-like in all it's glory- front and centre. "Hmmm. Not convinced."

"Keep looking," she mutters sullenly.

I kept switching. There was another shot of her leaning against the balcony but facing the camera. Her arms helped to prop herself up, ensuring that her perfect breasts were completely uncovered. Her long legs were closed but I could still see the strip of dark hair on her mons. Her shades were off and for all her nudity it was her eyes that drew my attention, hot and layered with erotic meaning.

More photos. More poses on the balcony, and then...

I laughed and she bristled. She'd found a nearby alley and had clearly taken the photo in a desperate moment. A silken kimono hung off her shoulders, unbelted at the waist, while she leant against the brick wall with one hand on her hip.

"Technically you're not naked."

"You can see everything."

"That's not quite what I asked for, was it?" She falters and I relent. "But I suppose this is good enough. And the other task?"

She takes back the phone and then reaches into her bag. She pulls out a sheaf of papers. I take them from her hand and begin to read.

It was...acceptable. Priya's clearly not used to creative writing; her prose is shaky and she has no idea about the adage of showing and not telling. I make a point of reading for several minutes while she grows steadily more anxious. I eventually stop and say to her, "A bondage session with your high school teacher?"

"I never did it! You told me to write about a fantasy I had!"

And now I know you like bondage, I think as I fold the paper up. You know full well I'm going to take advantage of that. "Don't worry. It's a perfectly normal kink."

Her face twists at the outrage that a woman like her would ever have anything as low as a kink. "I can't believe you made me write it out! That was personal!"

"How did it make you feel, taking these photos? Writing out these fantasies of yours?"

"Disgusting. Humiliating. Awful."

I shift the photos on her phone back and stare at her face with those half-lidded eyes and erect nipples. "Be honest."

"It was awful."

"Be honest, Priya."

She stares at me for a few seconds. Then the words come out in sharp hisses. "It- it was. Sexy. I felt sexy."

I nodded solemnly. "Thank you for sharing."

She snarls at me. "I did everything you asked!"

"So then, you think you've been a good girl?"

"Yes!"

"Say it."

She stops. I see her face contort as she does her best to swallow her rage. I see eyes bulge and her chin wrinkle with the effort. Finally she mutters, "I was a good girl."

"Was?"

"I am- I am your good girl." She breathes the word, hands clasping together. "Please."

I make a show of thinking things through. In truth she's done more than enough to earn her reward. "Alright."

I step forward and raise my right hand. Priya freezes as I bring it close to her naked, nubile body.

And then I begin to touch her.

Slowly and gently and with the lightest of touches. My fingers trail over her body at a snail's pace, starting with her left shoulder and moving down past her arm. I run my hands over her and as I do, I channel. Just a trickle. Just enough that she can feel it.

And she does feel it.

Priya gasps as the pleasure slips into her body. She closes her eyes and bites her lips as my fingers move ever so gently as to barely disturb the hairs on her skin. I move down her arm to her hand and touch each of her fingers in turn. They clench and unclench as I do. I repeat the motion on her other arm.

My power. My talent. Sweet and subtle and enjoyable and oh so wonderfully addictive. The only reason a woman like her would so much as speak to me, let alone let her fondle her naked body.

I move around and splay my fingers out wide, sliding down the muscles of her back, avoiding the spine. Then her legs; she's ready and braces herself against the bed as her leg muscles twitch and spasm. By the time I trace delicate patterns into the soles of her upturned feet she's panting.

Priya groans through clenched teeth dig my fingers into her ass, the jolts of pleasure coming in waves. Her skin is flushed and there's a sheen of sweat on her brow. I let my hands play on her hips and she begins to rock them slowly even as her legs tighten protectively. I move up and around to her front, starting with the lower slopes of those glorious breasts. I've gone back to the lightest of touches and she thrusts her chest forward in a desperate attempt to entice me to greater contact. I ignore her and begin to make slow, delicate spirals, my fingers moving in slowly constricting circles closer to her erect nipples, as she pants faster, faster, faster...

She whimpers in frustration as I pull away just before I would touch her nipples but doesn't move or speak. One of my hands reaches up to stroke her sweaty temples. The other touches her belly before oh-so-slowly sliding down until it disturbs the hairs of her carefully trimmed bush, trailing in hot circles as I sense her pleasure build and build and build...

I take my hands away and she nearly doubles over. She stares up at me with eyes full of desperate need. "Please! Please!"

And then I say it.

"Kneel."

And she goes very still.

She waits for me to take it back or explain myself or repeat it. When I don't say anything she says, "I don't-"

"Kneel."

The angry bitch is gone. Now her eyes are as wide and as guileless as a puppy begging for scraps as she says, "Couldn't we just-"

"Kneel."

She glances at her clothes, remembering the rules. Thinking about walking away. Thinking about never coming back. "I, I, I never-"

"Kneel." My voice isn't angry. It isn't urgent. It's in the game gentle tone as all my other orders. It carries the sense of absolute certainty that she will kneel even as I tremble inside, waiting for her to get up and leave.

She makes her decision.

She sinks to her knees in dazed disbelief at her own actions, licking her lips nervously as I unzip my fly.

I take out my cock. It's pale and circumcised and a little on the small size but she stares at it like it's a porn-worthy monster. I touch her hair, fingers digging into her scalp and she understands the command for what it is. She moves forward, eyes closed. I feel her breath brush against my glands and it's all I can do not to shudder and groan.

Then her hot wet lips slide over my head and I do groan as she begins to pleasure me. A moment later I send throbbing waves of desire into her skull. She immediately attacks my cock with gusto as the pleasure washes away her shame and uncertainty in a tidal wave of lust. She grips my hips with her hands as she bobs eagerly at my length.

She's new to this- I suspect that for all of her confidence and beauty her cultural background means that she's never actually taken a lover before. I wince when I feel her teeth scrape against my head and her eyes flicker up to me, concerned- did she hurt me? Is she bad at this? Is he going to stop? She moves more carefully, taking me shallowly while her tongue redoubles its efforts, lashing at my cock with desperate eagerness. Her eyes meet mine and I see no hate, no pride, no hesitation; merely submissive need.

It's too much, all to fast after months of build-up and mind games and naked play and waiting. I feel my orgasm building, my cock twitching, my balls churning and my pleasure peaking. I press a thumb against her forehead and blast her with pleasure.

My first shot comes into her mouth as she goes rigid. My second shot lands on her face as she collapses onto the ground, eyes wide open. My third and forth shot splatter across her breasts and her stomach while she writhes on the floor, screaming loud enough that I worry about the police being called.

I recover and watch as her orgasm consumes her world, muscles twitching, breasts heaving, legs splayed open while arousal gushes out from between them. Eventually her movements slow, her legs close and she begins to blink and look around.

I don't know how things will end with us. Pleasure is wonderful and pleasure is glorious but pleasure isn't everything. Maybe I'll push too hard and she'll leave for good. Maybe she'll get bored. Maybe she'll get frightened by the hold I have on her. Maybe her family will call her back home and she'll think of me while some Delhi banker pumps away at her during her honeymoon. Maybe I'll ask if she's been a good girl while we snuggle up on the couch after she's put our three children to bed.

I don't know.

But right now I stare down at her. She is naked and sweaty, her black hair clinging to her scalp. Her limbs move weakly in the afterglow that flushes her skin. He legs are parted and I can see the pinkness of her cunt, the puffy slick lines of her lower lips. She looks up at me with almond eyes hazy with desire.

She is perfect.

I move to help her up. She stumbles a little; her legs are shaky and her movements are uncoordinated. I smile and say, "Good girl. Next Thursday, then?"

"No." Her voice is raspy. "No. More tonight. Please? Sir? I'll be extra good for you."

I smile.