Training Allie

But this time, I make it to the side of the bed while he still sleeps. My hand steals down between my thighs, and I begin the last of my preparations, taking myself from my usual "short fuse" condition to "hair trigger" status. He likes it when I have to struggle not to come the moment he enters me, to have to wait for his countdown. As I finish bringing myself to gasping readiness, the clock ticks over to 6:00. I work my enlarged torso under the side of the covers and, ever so lightly, my mouth and hands go to work. As I do, a great peace comes over me. I've been built for a purpose, and I'm doing what I was created to do, bring pleasure. But can I ever get good enough for him, even nearly adequate?

The next week, Jack was gone on a business trip. I was left to mope about on my own. I felt like a puppet with the strings cut, the Battery Bunny with the battery pulled out. I kept up my exercises, and played with myself as directed, but it was putting on a play without the audience. You want to punish a volunteer slavegirl? Ignore her.

The first night, I spread myself out on the mat, and found that I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned for an hour, then got up and wrapped the leather cuff around my ankle. I couldn't lock it--I didn't have the key--but it was enough. I slept soundly, and awoke precisely at 5:45AM.

Friday evening he was due back. He had an invitation to a party, would go directly to the party from the airport, and I was to join him at the party. I put on the essential little black full-skirted cocktail dress and heels. Period. My nipples made little tents in the silk, and the rings were visible if you looked closely. Given the juggs, every male would be looking closely. Given that it was one of my pre-augmentation dresses, I filled the bodice rather to overflowing. Per instructions, the makeup went on just a little thick.

I arrived at the party by taxi. The party was thrown by a couple that were at my claiming, attended by several adult/mature couples, and a number of college kids, not from State.

Our host met me at the door. "Well hello, Allie. My, aren't you a Big Girl now?" I could hear the capitalization in his voice.

What was there to say? "Yes sir, I'm a Big Girl now."

He said, "How do you like your new wheels?"

Wheels? That was a new one for my Plastic Punishments. I said, "Frankly, sir, I hate them."

He said, "Good, good! I'll have to remember to ask Jack for a ride. Well, off you go, and enjoy the party."

I thought, great, now I've been promoted to 'bicycle.' I made sure Jack's Gollywobblers were at full hoist, made sure my elbows were back, and followed my nipples--at a distance--into the room. "Two famous and powerful people...."

Jack wasn't there. I didn't know it at the time, but his flight had been delayed. God, I was horny. I could feel that the insides of my thighs were slick as I walked. I could smell myself.

I got a juice drink (I'm still technically underage for alcohol), and went to look at the gardens. In about 15 milliseconds, I had attracted a swarm of the college boys, and the serious hitting-on began. God knows what their dates thought. The boys knew that I was something different. Little did they know what explosive material they were playing with. The adults watched the mating ritual from a distance with amusement. The adults knew who and what I am.

In a little while a dance quartet started up. Our hosts' patio had been cleared as a kind of dance floor, and of course I was asked to dance. So I did. I mean, what female doesn't want attention? And a slave girl? Being a slave girl is a performance art. Attention and approval are all we live for, the reason we exist. So I danced with each one of the boys. One dance each. Of course, there was a certain amount of caressing, or groping, if you prefer. I pretended that I didn't realize what was going on until it became blatant, when I primly moved the offending hand to neutral territory. None of which helped me to cool off.

Finally, I saw Jack out of the corner of my eye, lounging at the back of the crowd with an unreadable expression on his face. When the dance ended, he came over and asked for the next dance. The college boys smirked. I felt like saying, "Thanks for the evening so far, boys, but now I'm going to dance with a Man." I swept myself into his arms.

I later found out that he had tipped the band to do two slow numbers in a row. In thirty seconds, I was awash with lust. One arm went around his neck, and I was dry humping--or to be more accurate, wet humping--his thigh. My other hand was stroking his cock through the fabric of his pants. A leechlike kiss. I discovered that it's hard to dance when you're standing on one foot, because my other knee was raised by his hip, the better to grind myself against him. That caused the dress to ride up and bare my thigh to the hip, but somehow I knew I was pleasing him, and I was beyond caring what anyone else thought.

The first piece ended, and he pushed me back a foot. I tried to focus through the fog of arousal. The next piece started, and he said to me, "Allie...Ten."

Huh?

"Nine."

I thought, you're kidding, right?

"Eight."

Without touching myself, without you...

"Seven."

You beast...

"Six."

Oh, Mr. Kennedy...

"Five."

Oh. My! LORD!!!...

And somewhere within me the dam burst. Jack never made it to "four." I had just enough time to wrap my arms around his neck again. Suddenly, I was shaking like a leaf in the wind, like an epileptic patient in a seizure. Jack folded me in his arms to hold me up, and the world went away.

Some women orgasm in colors. Mine are usually shades of pink. This one was blood-red, orange, crimson, Trinity-nuclear. Several centuries later, I realized that the music had stopped. I thought, "Jeez, I've just come on command!" Jack peeled me off of his chest, and led me on rubbery legs to the side of the dance floor. The college boys were slack-jawed. They knew they'd just seen something special, but they couldn't figure out what. We left soon after.

When we got home, I raped him. I showed him what happens when you leave a slavegirl alone. I punished him. I fucked him into a coma. The last thought I had as I crawled to the mat was, "That'll show him."

The next thing I was aware of was that the sun was slanting through the windows, and Jack was downstairs somewhere, whistling. Probably making coffee. I groaned as I got up off the mat. He had unlocked the ankle cuff, so I took the hint and crawled off to shower. I hurt everywhere, including places I didn't think that I had "places." Ok, "That'll show him." Yeah, right.

What to wear? I settled on the cutout black leather bra and the matching leather chaps.

With a sigh, I picked up the clothespin. Allie Fails Again. It was going to be a long morning. And at this rate, there's a Chicago street corner with my name on it.

Chapter 20: La Cazadora (The Huntress)

Jack: Allie's self-esteem had been taking it on the chin all through the summer, not without cause. Now that she had learned a little obedience, I wanted to build her up again. So we started dating, just like last summer. She had to get a new formal wardrobe to accommodate her new dimensions. She loved shopping, so that was no burden upon her, and I did verify that none of the pieces was modest.

We would go to classy events: dinner, musicals, operas, museums. We got some odd looks whenever she raced ahead to hold a door open for me. The Maitre d's were flustered when she pulled out my chair to seat me before she took her own chair in the restaurants. I made sure that I praised her looks, her intelligence, her eagerness to please, every time I screwed her in some stairwell or janitor's closet or alley. And she never hesitated an instant when I motioned for her to lift her skirt or drop to her knees.

Allie: I hated the alleys. It's bad enough being top-heavy, bent over, holding the little purse with one hand, holding myself off the grimy wall with the other hand. It's bad enough wearing those towering, tottering heels. But being taken from behind, in heels, while trying to keep my balance in the rubble of an alley, in the drizzle, was hard on a girl's attitude. But I came, of course. Every damned time he took me that way.

The heels were a mini-project of their own. The heels were actually functional, not merely decorative and painful: their job was to achieve propinquity. Jack is tall, and I'm, well, not. I experimented with different heels until I got the altitude of my perineum when I was bent over exactly to match the altitude of his groin when he was standing erect. So to speak. They were, literally, "fuck me shoes."

Jack: She already had some new blouses, and I funded a renovation of her informal dresses, too. My favorite was built on the model of the peasant blouse. You know, the gauzy, billowy things with the elastic neckline, meant to be worn off-the-shoulder. She got one that came to mid-thigh, IF she pulled it down far enough that the bazooms threatened to spill out the top. But we've all seen that the elastic neckline of the peasant blouse tends to make it creep up around the wearer's neck, as does any motion if the wearer raises her arm. I got endless hours of entertainment watching her try to maintain some semblance of modesty as we wandered, tug down, ride up, tug down, ride up. For variation I'd tie 3-4" of fishing line to the clit ring, with a tiny split-shot fishing weight at the end. The weight would bounce off her thighs as she walked. Drove her nuts. Gave her another reason to be conscious of her hemline.

Allie: Night after night, I lie on the mat at the foot of his bed, tears running down my face. If he doesn't cuff my hands behind me, I silently pound the carpet with my little fists in self-loathing and frustration. I mean, here Fate deals me such a prince of a guy, and I keep disappointing him. Why did God saddle him with such a loser?! I've never wanted anything as much as I want to be with him, to be his little toy, to drain his balls, to see his face light up with pleasure when I finally get something right, but I feel this chance slipping through my fingers.

This is NOT HARD!

He doesn't hurt me too bad. Not more than I can take. Really he doesn't. Not too often, anyway.

I don't have to be a gourmet cook. I don't have to be Madame Curie. I don't even have to be all that inventive in bed. All I really have to do is obey. One foot in front of the other. And I keep fucking it up. I really should go out and find him the girl he deserves.

I'm so worthless. My gut turns into a ball of lead and I curl up around it. Some nights it's a good thing I'm chained to the bed, otherwise I'd go and flush myself down the toilet. Dear God, if Jack freed me? I'd find a way to kill myself, I really would. So his pleasure is really a life-or-death thing for me.

Aw, Hell. Get a grip, Allie. You don't help your case when you look like Death Warmed Over in the morning.

Jack: As summer came to a close, I reminded her that her anniversary was coming up. The anniversary, of course, of her claiming. I asked her what she wanted for an anniversary present, thinking she might want some jewelry or such. She got all dreamy-eyed, and said, "If it please you, may I call you 'My Lord'?" After some consideration, I gave my permission.

I couldn't think of a better way to rebuild her self-esteem than by giving her something really hard to do, but something that she could succeed at if she really tried. And now that the summer was over, and she was ready to start her sophomore year at State, it was time to put the plan into action. I found her in her old room, where we had set up the Prayer Tower. As I stood in the doorway, she was in profile to me, unaware of my presence. She was in the 'kneel up' position, reading a paperback. When she turned a page, I got a glimpse of the cover: The Perfect Victim by Christine Mcguire and Carla Norton, still the best nonfiction pornography I've ever encountered, about the kidnapping and brainwashing of a college co-ed. Yes, I said NONfiction. I winced when I saw the amount of weight she had on the Tower: muscles that could hold that weight could be painful--for me.

Finally she noticed me, and the dildo dropped back onto the base with a thump, rocking, glistening. She pivoted gracefully and knelt before me. She began to shake slightly, not the trembling of fear, but that of an eager hunting dog, straining at the leash. She was waiting for, eager for, hungry for an order, any order. "Yes, My Lord?"

I said, "Allie, I have a challenge for you. This is not intended to be a test, though I expect that you will learn a lot from the experience, and you may even find it a pleasure. I want to reassure that you have mastered the skill I put before you at the beginning of the summer, and that I have no current plan to dispose of you."

Allie: And then he said, "I want you to get yourself a sister. Go hunting at State, and bring me a girl that we can train together." I had learned something this summer, because my mouth was saying "Yes, My Lord. How long do I have?" while my brain was saying "See, toldyaso, he's looking for a replacement!" My ears were hearing "All year, if you need it," while my brain was saying to me "Don't cry, you twit, you'll blow it all!" It was a struggle to listen to his suggestions and requirements, because I was telling myself, "Allie, this is YOUR 'last hurrah;' make him proud, or you go back to being just a stepdaughter, and dating college boys. Or peddling your ass in a Chicago snow storm."

I threw myself into making notes. Action is a wonderful anesthetic. "Just do" has the side effect of killing any ability to spend time uselessly worrying. His idea, and it was a good one, was that my grades last year would make it easy for me to get a volunteer job in the student counseling center, where marginal students go for tutoring, where disturbed students go to get their heads together. Happy hunting grounds. I made that my first stop.

And the school year was starting for me, too. I had to sign up for classes, get books, meet professors. And think up an answer to the question from my friends from last year: "What did you DO to yourself?!"

The year started the way any academic year does. A tidal wave of work in the new subjects, that began to recede as new concepts began to make sense. What was new this year was the tidal wave of offers for dates, which began to recede only as the drooling boys eventually got the message that Allie's new tits were somehow spoken for. About the time I got my head above water in my coursework, business started to pick up at the counseling center, as students who didn't weather the storm started to realize that they needed help, or there wouldn't be a "next year." And then I began to hunt. I was looking for a frosh girl who was not necessarily beautiful, but salvageable; not stupid, but undisciplined; not disturbed, but with really low self-esteem. The others I referred to tutoring or clinics, as required.

I found what I was looking for after six weeks. A Chicana from Los Angeles, away from home and daddy's discipline for the first time, who spent too much time learning to get drunk, too many hours in residence-hall bull sessions, and not enough time just doing the work. Her long, black hair was greasy and stringy. She was already succumbing to the tendency of her maternal ancestors to put on fat. She dressed like a duffel bag. But those things could be cured, and under all of that, there was a woman with the blood of Aztec princesses in her, waiting to be brought to heel.

Then the hunt began. I tutored her. Sat down and commiserated with her. Learned that, if she flunked out, daddy wouldn't want her back home: "He'll tell me to go get a job as a camarista (maid) just like Mamá did," she wept. Slapped her upside the head, once, when she wasn't putting in the work. An allnighter cram-session at Jack's house for one of her exams gave her the first glimpse of my relationship with Jack, and in the wee hours of studying, her first faint whiff of girl-girl contact.

Two nights after the exam, which was a disaster for her, she came over to cry on my shoulder, and I took her to bed in my old room. It was nice to sleep in a bed again, even if a twin bed was a bit crowded for two. I'll still never be a lesbian, but this year has taught me time and again that when Jack calls, I can do things that nauseate me, and do them very, very well. In any case, she was in no condition to critique my acting. My brief indentured servitude as a party favor helped with the mechanics.

My Lord, I think we've got a live one.

In some sense, the seduction was the easy part. She was rapidly running into a blind alley, with no alternatives, no one else to turn to. She was doing a fine job of flunking out on her own, and I was rapidly becoming the center of her universe. Even though we were actually the same age, I became an authority figure. It would be a mistake to try and force her into Jack's hands. I had to set things up so that she viewed that outcome as by far the most desirable from a field of miserable alternatives.

Softly, softly, catchee....!

The day came when she arrived in my cube in the counseling center with her "grey slip" from State in hand: "Thanks, but you're outta here." Now it was time to make my move. She was looking at her assimilated life going down the toilets that she'd be cleaning as a maid from now on. I said, "Look, if you're going to do that kind of work, why not do it for someone who cares about you? Jack's been thinking about getting a maid for some time. I could work with you to try and get you back in to State next year (yeah, right!), get your head squared away, give you some life skills and self-discipline. You could take my old room--I rarely use it. Think about it, and let me know." Such a juicy worm, wiggling there in the water. Tell them what they want to believe. Give the lady what she wants. A week later, she moved in.

So close, My Lord. Just a little patience.

It was a lot of fun coming up with a hacienda take on the French Maid's costume, embroidered "peasant blouse" and all. The wrap skirt was kind of an embroidered apron, modestly below the knee in front, ascending and wrapping around to cover the rear. But if she bent over or knelt, it unwrapped, like a tulip, exposing everything below the waist in back. And no panties, of course.

She tried to maintain her modesty when Jack was in the room by pinching together the edges of her skirt with one hand in back. That was easy to fix: I gave her tasks that required her to use both hands.

The important thing was that she was totally dependant upon me. I had pried her away from all of her support systems, her family, her friends. She had no plan other than Allie. If she failed to please me, I withheld my favors, and she was desperate, because the outside world was a cold, dark, and unwelcoming place.

She was a third-generation American, and her family in LA was rather well-to-do. Jack suggested, and I agreed, that she was to speak to us only in Spanish, which he and I understood tolerably well. We would speak to her only in English. The idea was to put her into the role of a mojada (literally, "wet" back, an illegal immigrant). We decorated the "maid's room" with pictures of hacienda life and religious icons. She was delighted when we got her an iPod. She was less delighted when she found that it was loaded full of mariachi and Mexican pop music. We got her a metate (grinding stone) and taught her to make corn tortillas. I told her she stank of manteca (lard), and made her wash, several times a day. The whole effort was a particularly unsubtle, cruel, and effective form of psychological warfare. And what was her alternative?