Training Allie

The short drive home was, you'll forgive the expression, anticlimactic.

I did the walk, did the kiss at the front door, did the "I'll call you this week, maybe" and she let herself in and, with a lingering glance, closed the door. Through the closed door I heard "Dadeee, I'm hoome." I shook my head, took a deep breath, and went back to drive the car into the garage.

By the time I got into the house, she was in her robe, and had a sherry for herself and a Scotch for me already made. I excused myself to change, hung up my suit, and was back in the living room in a few minutes. We sat in our robes and nibbled our drinks, and I said, "OK, post mortem time. Talk to me."

She looked up at me through her eyelashes (where do they learn that?). "What do you want me to say? What an evening! You told me I should feel like a princess. I did. I had a relationship with 'Jack' that I wanted to keep going, but 'he' was tired of waiting for me to decide to keep 'him' happy, happier than I'd been willing to do in the past. I wanted the relationship to continue. I made some decisions, dressed for the occasion, took some risks, and used what I've been taught." She paused, with a small smile. "Tell me, 'Jack', how did I do?"

It was odd, being referred to by my own name as though it were a pseudonym. I tried to put on my face of an instructor doing an evaluation. It didn't work. "Ahhh. Where do I start? You did fine. More than fine. Obviously, you ...." Damn. OK, Jack, another deep breath. "Two things. I was astonished when you took me in your mouth. Very good. Oh, very good. On the other hand, you might have been a little more 'hard to get.'"

She placed the brilliantly red nail of her forefinger to her brilliantly red lips and put on a wide-eyed, puzzled expression. It was a caricature, a '50s pinup. "Hard to get!? But Jackee, baby, whatever would I have done with my hands?" We both collapsed in roars of laughter. I sent her to her room, and went upstairs.

Chapter 6: Relational Data

So we started July with a certain amount of momentum, and I made some changes in our routine. She still did her posture exercises, and twice a day read her smut while masturbating. Maybe more that twice a day, for all I know. Her three folders of stories were filling up.

No, the changes were more subtle. The training always remained separate from our day-to-day relationship, but a little less so. I stopped referring to the weekly testing events as 'dates.' They were always for testing purposes, but they became dates, without the quotation marks, and then became just enjoyable special things we did together, that provided an environment for the testing. I stopped being 'Jack,' some fictitious guy she had a 'date' with, and was myself, a stepfather trying to teach his stepdaughter what she needed to know to get along, and show her a good time in the process. And after our weekly dates, we brought things to a climax, so to speak, in my bed. No more wrestling in cars, thank you. The post mortems continued, as we cuddled and talked about our sensations. But when we were done, I always sent her back to sleep in her own bed. This process was still 'training,' and not an almost-incestuous affair. We had started the process with a goal, and it was continuing toward that goal, even though we didn't speak of it any more.

And after the first 'date,' I didn't bring up Central High, or high school boys.

All the same, if I wanted to have a harvest at the end of the summer, I needed to plant some seeds now. They would take time to sprout.

"Allison, tell me what you know about relationships." I loved dropping these things on her out of the blue. But I'd done it often enough now that she had learned to keep her mouth shut until she'd begun to organize an answer.

"You mean, like husband-wife?"

"Be more general. People relationships."

"Hm. From what I can see, one way to organize them is by how much they have legal recognition. You've got employer-employee, which often has a written contract, husband-wife which may, boyfriend-girlfriend which won't, and like that."

"Fine. Take that set, though obviously there are others, of varying durations: shop clerk-customer, parent-child, ex-husband-ex-wife. Pimp-whore." She gave me a shocked look. Still some prudishness left from Saint Virginia. "Each one is a type of relationship. Generalize across all of them. What's a relationship?"

"They all have a set of assumptions and permissions, I guess. Each participant assumes certain things about the behavior of the other, and gives permission for behaviors to the other."

"A little pop-psych, but that's a start. And are the assumptions and permissions permanently defined?"

"Sometimes, in part." The girl would make a good consultant someday. "I mean, take husband-wife. There are legal restrictions, like about economic support, and assumptions, about sex and such. Some behaviors society or laws don't permit in a relationship if anyone complains, like abuse in a marriage, or intercourse between a parent and child. Beyond that, I guess the couple gets to choose, like who takes out the garbage."

I summarized, "So all relationships of any type are not the same, and any given type of relationship may change, within limits, over time. No surprise: look at us, stepfather-stepdaughter. We changed our relationship in some ways when Jane died, and again when we began this training. And usually, two people can change the type of relationship they're in, if they choose. Of course, some types of relationship are forever and can't be left behind, like biological parent and child. But generally, you see changes of type all the time: clerk-customer become boyfriend-girlfriend, become husband-wife, become father-mother, become ex-husband-ex-wife. Relationships often fall apart if the permissions and assumptions of one party don't match the other's. Sometimes two people can't find a 'pre-defined' relationship that works for them, and have to make up a new type of their own. And each change of type has a ceremony or event that marks the transition, maybe as simple as the first kiss, maybe signing a contract, maybe as elaborate as a church service."

"Sure, what's the point?"

"Exactly, what's the point of all this training you asked for?" Well, she didn't exactly ask for it, but I took every opportunity to confuse her recollections on that point. "Why do you want to date? Is this just in support of, I don't know, 'random social activity?' Does it stop at that, or are you looking beyond that to a goal, something more permanent, and if so, have you thought about what you want? You want to land a guy? If so, how do you choose which one to go after? What's the relationship you want? How do you want to be treated? What lights your fire? As you said, what's the point? I don't want an answer. I don't expect you to have an answer, and if you did, I expect it would change as you grow. But to misquote the Cheshire Cat, if you don't have an idea of the relationship you want to wind up in, any guy is as good as any other. Think about it as you go through the summer." I went off to make lunch. All this hoeing and seeding was hard work. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her pick up her three folders of stories and start leafing through them. Good.

Chapter 7: Endless Summer

Things progressed quickly. I'm sure she felt that she was constantly being bombarded with new things that stretched her in ways, and places, that she never expected. But I had to hurry her a bit. I had a plan with a deadline, and the most delicate part of it required a stretch of downtime on her part, and I couldn't rush that or control how long it might be.

She was an apt student, I'll give her that. We went from handjobs after the Opera, to fellatio after a jazz festival, to 69 after a day at the beach. Each new technique was still being justified under the heading of "avoiding intercourse." Each date involved a complete review of all the previously-learned skills, with refinements, coaching, and extensions. So it came about that, on a weekend as July turned into August, after "As You Like It," we were in my bed, spooned, me buried to the hilt in her rectum. And yes, anal was pushing the "avoiding intercourse" justification as far as it could be pushed.

She had waddled around all week with a butt plug in one end, and a pained expression on the other. The build-up had begun in the middle of July, when I started playing with her asshole, running a finger around the rim, then into it, then two fingers. When she got beyond the revulsion, the squeamishness, when she admitted that she liked it, a little, then a lot, I took her along slowly, to wind up where we were now. The butt plug lay glistening on the side table next to the bed. I was pleased with her: she had come without any clitoral stimulation after the foreplay. She had fully learned "relaxed going in, grip coming out." I waited for the sweat to dry.

"Allison, baby."

"Mmmm, so full."

"Allison, honey, it's time."

"Nnnnn, a little longer?"

"No honey, off you go to bed," and I pulled out, gently, got a hot washcloth, and cleaned us both up.

She rolled over in my arms for a last kiss. "Jack, I keep saying this, but I never knew, so much pleasure.... I can't wait to see the lesson for next week!" And she gathered up her robe and made her way with careful steps to the door. She'd be a little sore for a few days, in spite of the preparation.

And she'd be surprised at next week's lesson.

Monday came and went with making a living. I shut down at five and found her on the back porch, wearing a little halter number, and handed her her drink. She had developed a taste for Scotch-and-soda.

She sat in my lap, a big smile on her face, careless of the amount of thigh she showed. Her kiss tasted of Scotch-and-soda. She put her arms around my neck and asked, "What's the new 'skill' for this week, teach?"

"Nothing." She sat up, her face blank. "You're done. You passed. You've mastered the 'essential skills.' You can go to Central High in the fall if you want, and date, if you want. There's one more thing you could learn, but I can't teach it to you."

A little chuckle from her. "I'd sort of forgotten about Central. And high school boys. Why would I want to date one of those?" Another kiss. She used the same disparaging tone I had used on the words "boys" and "those." The kiss lingered.

After a long while she came up for air and looked up. "What about the 'one more thing,' and why can't you teach it to me?"

Here we go, I thought. Show time. Everything on one throw of the dice.

"You remember when we talked about relationships? Permissions and assumptions? Changing relationships? Flexibility in defining what's permitted?" A nod. "The stepfather-stepdaughter relationship isn't really well defined, but whatever it is, you and I have been pushing the envelope of what society permits, really hard. The 'one more thing' would be the skills of actual intercourse, and that, baby, is not permitted to us in this relationship."

I shut up. Now I'd learn whether the seed I'd planted a month earlier would sprout.

Her hand crept under her skirt. Having spent two months playing with herself in front of me, she no longer had any shame on that score. That was unfortunate, but it was the price that had to be paid. Perhaps I could fix that over time. "And actual screwing, it's even better yet?" I nodded. "I can't imagine anyone I want to give my virginity to more.... But we can't?" I shook my head, not saying anything. "If it's better than what we've done, God, just the idea. I mean, I've been reading all those naughty stories all summer, but it's just words. But if I can't do it with you, Jack...."

The silence stretched on. Had I been too subtle? I had to keep my peace though, because she had to think that this was her idea.

"Waaait." She drew out the word. "You said 'in this relationship.' Do we get to change the type of relationship we're in?"

I barely resisted the impulse to pump my fist in the air in victory. "Well, doll, I haven't really thought about it." Like hell, I hadn't. "I mean, parent-child is forever, but like I said, the stepparent role sort of loosely defined, and it's by ceremony, not by blood. Are you thinking...."

"Well, if we can't 'do it' as stepfather-stepdaughter, and God, do I want to 'do it' with you, then maybe we should choose another relationship."

My little seed had become a beautiful little sprout.

"Honey, my legs are going to sleep with you sitting on me like that." She dismounted, still deep in thought. Now for the next step. "It's an interesting idea." I made a show of giving it some consideration. "Look, if you're thinking about changing the type of relationship we have, we need to go at this carefully. I think both of us want something more permanent than 'boyfriend-girlfriend,' and I don't want to marry again: Jane was my first and last wife." I stopped, and let the silence stretch out. "You remember the 'What's the point?' discussion?" A nod. "Any thoughts on what kind of relationship you want? Do your folders of stories tell you anything?"

"Yes, daddy." She blushed, "I..."

"Wait." I stopped her. "Here's what I want you to do. Think it through. You're going to be making a decision that will affect your happiness for a long time to come. When you're ready, when you're sure, write me a love letter. In the letter, seduce me into the relationship you've chosen. Sell it to me. Make me want it, too. Anticipate my doubts and objections, and overcome them. Draw me a picture of how we'd live. Writing the letter should make you want to play with yourself. When I read it, I should have the same reaction. Understand?"

"Hmm, interesting. Yes. When do you want to see the letter?"

"When you're really ready, and really sure." And that closed the discussion. We finished our drinks and went in to start dinner.

Two weeks passed. I didn't touch her, not once. I told her she no longer needed to play with herself, certainly not in front of me. After all, all those things had been "training," and the course was over. I was her stepfather. I was not her lover, never had been. Yeah, right. Nothing was said about the letter. But I could see that she was spending a lot of time in her room, on her computer at all hours, and no, she wasn't on the Internet. The way her wastebasket was filling up, she was going through a lot of drafts of something.

No, I didn't dig through her trash. I didn't think I needed to, because I knew what stories wound up in her "Oh, wow!" folder.

Chapter 8: Billet Doux

Dearest Jack, my only love,

You have given me so much pleasure this summer, without demanding anything in return. I'm sure it's getting old to hear it, but I never knew my body could give me such pleasure. The 'good Sisters' can go to Hell. I hope my body has given you a little pleasure, too? All this time you thought you were going to turn me over to a bunch of pimply high school boys to play with.

You didn't touch me these last two weeks. I've been climbing the curtains with need, but it proved to me that you really thought of all that stuff we did as 'training,' not a chance to grope your stepdaughter. Thank you, and I'm ashamed that I ever doubted.

You asked me, what relationship would I pick? I've watched you work, and you taught me to think about 'requirements.' What a dusty-sounding word for something so juicy. Requirements: I want to please you, give you pleasure the way you have given me pleasure. All day, every day, any way, without limits. I want you to take without waiting for me to give. But what relationships are without limits? Even a mistress can say 'no,' and how can 'no' give pleasure? And what relationship would accommodate my desperate desire to please?

You told me to go through my folder of stories. I didn't really need to, because weeks ago I knew what fired my rocket. It was the stories of submission, of dominance, of helpless slave girls weeping and coming as they served the lusts of cruel and demanding masters in some jungle or on some faraway planet. The words I've written look so corny on the page. Dammit, they are corny. But I look at the words and say, that's what I want. Because those girls give pleasure, no, it is demanded of them, torn from them, without limit, and 'no' is gone from their vocabulary.

You will say that slavery is dead in modern America. But we're defining our own relationship, and we can use slavery as a metaphor, a starting place, can't we? There's no property ownership of people, any more, but in terms of permissions and assumptions, it's a relationship where everything is permitted to you, and I may assume nothing, call the relationship what you will. To borrow the phrase you used at the beginning of the summer, all my time, energy, and focus will go to serve your pleasure, and my discomfort means nothing. Any lapse from perfection would merit punishment, because any lapse from perfection would mean that I had failed to give you all the pleasure I could and should and must.

You ask, how can such a relationship last? What's in it for little Allison? I'll tell you a story. Suppose that early in their relationship, sometime before the Chateau, O did something for Renee. The task itself held no pleasure for O. It was the fact that Renee got pleasure from her efforts that gave O the pleasure she needed to make the doing worthwhile. Pleasure by reflection. Take it another turn. Renee knew that O didn't enjoy doing the task. Knowing that O imposed upon herself, or accepted being imposed upon, increased Renee's pleasure, even if he took no direct pleasure in the gift itself. That's what we mean when we say "It's the thought that counts." But either way, O got her pleasure from Renee's pleasure. The more O suffered for him, the more Renee was pleased, and therefore the more pleasure O got from pleasing him. And therefore the more pleasure O got from suffering. That's what's in it for me: I will get pleasure from your pleasure, the way the moon gets its light from the sun. And when I must, I will feel pleasure from your punishments, because I will know that they are correcting me, preparing me to please you better.

You want to know how we would live. And I say, any way that gives you pleasure. Chain me in a dungeon or let me run. Keep me naked or clothe me in silks. Beat me or stroke me with scented oils. Force me come for hours or deprive me for weeks. My last choice will be to do what you choose to do with me.

You have but to claim me. Have I seduced you, have I sold it to you?

Yours without hope, the free woman now known as

Allison Kennedy.

Chapter 9: September Song

No, I didn't "claim" Allison on the spot, much as my dick argued for it. You can imagine that the letter made for interesting dinner conversation, which I will spare you, except the following:

"Allison, you're proposing a significant change in our relationship." A nod, and a shrug from her, as if to say, 'well, duh'? "Back to what you know about relationships. Generally, when there's a significant change in a significant relationship, there's a more-or-less public ceremony to mark the fact. Whether you're talking about signing a contract, or formalizing a marriage, there's a ceremony. That means that there are witnesses who can vouch for the fact of the relationship. It makes it harder for either party to back out of the new relationship, or claim that it's something that it isn't. And it makes a kind of punctuation mark in time, making it clear that 'before now' was the old relationship, and 'after now' is something new, with no going back."

"Well," she said with light sarcasm, "I'll pop over to the archdiocese and get a copy of their enslavement ceremony."