Training Allie

She slimmed down. How could she not, on a diet of table scraps, and all that work? Jack had moved me up the food chain, for the moment anyhow.

Often, she was in the room when Jack took me. While he was screwing me, he'd sometimes call her over to tighten a strap or rope on my body.

The first big test was when I ordered her to go down on me while Jack was in the room. She failed me, of course, and I thrashed her, at length. And then we started over again, and eventually she got it right.

She had to learn that there was nothing I could demand of her that she couldn't make worse by hesitating. She had to learn what took me too long to learn: that this wasn't a tradeoff between obedience OR punishment, between compliance OR pain. Oh, noooo! She WILL obey. She WILL do the thing demanded. Her only choice is whether, and how much, she gets punished first. So it's obedience, or it's pain AND THEN obedience. Put it that way, it's a no-brainer. But for silly holes like us, a no-brainer can be a major emotional challenge.

Are you shocked, Gentle Reader, at "holes?" Don't be. Finally I know that Jack was right. It's what girls are. It's what I am, just like my drawing. I live to give pleasure to him, so my holes are my primary assets. When you take away the other, unimportant stuff, "I" am a set of warm, moist holes. A capacity for giving pleasure. Everything else is overhead.

We had "reaction drills." I was training her to "Do, don't think." I flattered myself that I was working with less-cerebral raw materials than Jack had had, so I didn't try to teach by syllogism. With a crop in my hand, I had her kneel in front of me. I would order her to do something repulsive, say, scrub out the toilets with her beautiful, waist-length, obsidian-colored hair. As soon as I finished and yelled "GO!," I would backswing up and swipe straight down with the crop, an overhead swing, with all my woman's strength. If she was already on her way, she might escape with a grazing blow. If she hesitated, she got a welt. As time went on, I hit air more often than flesh.

When I was "managing" her, I wore a black suit I had worn to church in another life. Calf-length skirt, jacket. Very severe, very professional, except that, with the new whoppers, I spilled out of the jacket. I didn't bother with a blouse under the jacket. I had to admit that the acreage between the lapels was impressive, as much as I wished that said acreage belonged to someone else.

I tried not to remember that I was training my replacement. But if it had to be, I was determined to leave behind the best-trained girl I could figure out how to give him.

When she screwed up, I'd grab her by the ear and march her out to the post of famous memory in the patio. I'd fasten her cuffs behind the post, and spend half an hour with my nose inches from hers, bellowing at her like a drill sergeant. Of course that meant that The Chest that I carry around spent a lot of time rubbing against hers. The monologue was predictable: Jack is your savior, how could you be so ungrateful, he's given you a roof over your head, he asks so little, what a wonderful man, etc. Unroll several yards of guilt-trip and trim it to fit.

One time I said, "And what's with you making moves on Mr. Kennedy? Waving that fat ass of yours in his face? Huh?!" Tears from her, and shaking her head. I slapped her.

"Forget it! He's more man than you can take! He would tear you to shreds! There wouldn't be anything left of you but a bloody spot on the sheets!" More tears, more head-shaking. Another slap, same cheek.

"I've told him what a slimy lesbo slut you are. And now you want to go bi?! But you don't have to worry." Confusion, hope, and a question in her eyes.

"Because I won't give you to him until I decide you're ready." It took her a second to process that, followed by a fountain of tears, frantic head-shaking, and a torrent of Spanish. Another slap, backhand this time, from the side she wasn't expecting. Great fun.

As weeks turned into months I learned just how hard I could slap her without visible bruising. In her case, because of her dark complexion, pretty damn hard. Harder on tit than cheek, of course. I mean, a haymaker across the face was spectacular, but let me tell you, a bit of titty tom-tom with her breasts (I can't bring myself to think of them as 'funbags') really got her attention. Hers could take more abuse than mine, of course, because she got hers from Mamá, and I got mine from Dow; in a strange way, her ability to absorb abuse made me envious. I could tell when I was getting to her when her whimpering became a thin, high-pitched whine, like a scream with the volume turned all the way down. After I got done yelling, and she was suitably contrite, I'd forgive her, and I'd do kiss-kiss and rub-rub until she was panting. At which time I'd free her hands, smack her on the ass, hard, and send her back to her chores.

When she did well, though, when she sweat bullets to please me, I would pay her a night-time visit in the "maid's room," and let her take me to the places that only one girl can take another.

Later, we had her part her hair in the center and braid it in long pigtails. They would come in handy, eventually, with stainless rings plaited into the hair, but for now, it was just part of the humiliation.

It wasn't long before I could sense the change in her. When I came into the room, everything but my face disappeared for her, as if she were looking through a cardboard tube. Was I pleased? Had she forgotten something? Her breathing became labored, as though someone were sitting on her chest. I knew those feelings--Jack has the same effect on me. You know how they say, "Never let them smell your fear"? I could smell her fear. But the relief, the love, the gratitude, the lust she felt when I gave her a compliment, a motherly pat on the bottom, a kiss with a bit of tongue, a fingernail drawn once, slowly through the slit, were like a solid presence in the room. "Putty" is the wrong word. She was mantequilla (butter). She melted in my hands.

So came the time for the handover, the transfer to Jack. This was the crisis, make or break. One evening, she served drinks to Jack and me, and knelt in front of me, her eyes a laser focus upon mine.

As I looked down at her, my breath caught. I suddenly realized just how she and I were alike and different, and it chilled me to the core.

She needed to please me, not because I loved her--I had never said "I love you"--nor because she loved me--she didn't, really--but because she couldn't imagine any way to achieve any better outcome for herself. I needed to please Jack, not because he loved me--I couldn't remember him ever saying "I love you"--but because I loved him, and I couldn't imagine any way to achieve any better outcome for him.

But her desperation gave birth to a kind of love. My love gives birth to my desperation.

I please him because I love him. But more importantly, I love him because I please him. Sometimes I please him, anyhow.

I shuddered. Focus, Allie. You have GOT to get this one right.

"You know how important it is to me to please Mr. Kennedy."

It wasn't a question, but she nodded. She had seen enough of our relationship. Jack was wearing a robe, watching, stroking himself. He was hard. I wanted that, but it wasn't mine, not tonight. And perhaps never again, ever. Her skirt, by design, had flowed open in back, giving him an unobstructed view of her unpantied bottom. She, of course, could spare no attention to that humiliation, because I was speaking to her.

"My period has started," I lied, "and I won't be able to give My Lord all the choices he might demand tonight." Not that he would have cared, but she didn't need to know that. "It grieves me that I won't be able to please him as much as I must."

I paused. Her eyes were on me the way a bird watches a snake. The rest of the universe had ceased to exist. I picked up the crop, and adjusted my grip on the handle with the same care that a top-flight golfer might use on an 18^th tee for the title.

Her vision contracted further, to the tip of the crop. She hadn't learned to watch the eyes of her assailant. She was wound tighter than a runner in the blocks. She knew she was going to have to jump--she just didn't know which direction.

"I want you to mount his cock. GO!" I took the backswing with the crop, over my shoulder, and I swiped down with all my might. The tip of the crop bounced off the carpet, raising dust. She was all the way across the room, her hand driving him into herself. She gave a little cry of despair as she tore away her own maidenhead. He looked over her shoulder, and smiled, and blew me a kiss.

The moon gets its light from the sun.

When he was done, Jack, ever the gentleman, said, "Gracias, señorita" (thank you, miss). He said it in her ear, but he was saying it to me.

He pulled her off of him, and she took one step and collapsed on the carpet, in shock. Unbidden, I took off my suit-jacket and knelt between his legs. I gently laved his groin with my tongue, cleaning him of her blood and his fluids. Finally, I took his deflated cock in my mouth. This wasn't a blowjob--he'd be supersensitive just now. I just held him in my mouth and gazed up at his face, tasting her. "Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me." With my replacement now installed, I might not have many more chances to touch him. I felt a hand on my ankle, and, without looking, reached back and grasped her hand in mine. There were no tears. No jealousy. His precious cock lay soft on my tongue as I let my soul steep in regret and longing. Idly, I wondered whose slave I'd be next week. If it wasn't Jack, it didn't seem important who it was. The three of us held that tableau for maybe 15 minutes, and then he announced that it was bedtime and pulled out of my mouth.

He cuffed her wrists behind her, chained her ankle to the bedpost, and spread her out on the mat. It was a position she had seen me in, many times. Nearly every night for more than a year, it had been me on that mat. Yup, Allie, out with the old, in with the new.

I had succeeded with her. He had accepted my offering. But it was an acid victory: my achievement seemed also to be the final seal on the loss of the only thing I ever truly wanted. The weight of my failure to be good enough for Jack bore down upon my shoulders and threatened to crush me through the floor. My eyes burned, but I had no tears left to shed. Allie, I told myself, he gave you a fair shot, and this is how it comes out: you could dream, but you couldn't do.

Then I got the same treatment as she had, except that he motioned for me to come to his bed. I don't know where I had expected to sleep that night--maybe out on the patio, or on a bus to Chicago.

I nodded a question, and he shrugged back. I knelt down as best I could by the mat, and kissed away her tears. Her returning kiss was urgent, desperate. I whispered, "You did fine, querida" (darling). "I'm proud of you." She gave me a tremulous, uncertain smile. "Now, sleep." This wasn't her fault.

It was hard to find a position, lying against him, with the chest-bags I wore, with my hands cuffed behind me, but I managed, perhaps for the last time, by straddling his thigh. I never got to actually sleep with him all that often.

Then he whispered to the top of my head, "You can begin the next phase of her training tomorrow," and almost immediately he started to snore. And then it hit me, like a load of bricks: Mygodhesgonnakeepme! Hesgonnakeepme!! After all my stupids! HE'S GONNA KEEP MEEE!!!

As quietly as I could, not to wake him, I sobbed tears of joy into his sweaty armpit, and slowly humped my clit ring, my drooling slot, on his thigh.

I was a falconess. I had delivered prey to my owner.

The next night, of course, I joined my new sister on the mat.

END