Training Ch. 08

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In the shower, he made her bathe him with her body as she had done before, but he refused to permit her to pleasure him with her mouth or her pussy. Instead, on those days when she brought him to a second orgasm, he permitted her to use only her hands or her breasts, stroking his soapy cock until he moaned, back arched, and spurted tendrils of come across her wet, soapy body.

He came home for lunch whenever he was able, usually two or three times a week. On those days, he would often push her over the kitchen table and plunge into her from behind. Sometimes, if she heard his car in the driveway, she would meet him at the door. He would take her right there in the doorway, hands on her shoulders to pin her against the doorjamb, his pants pulled down just enough to free his hard, demanding cock. Always, if it seemed that she would come, he would slow his thrusts, denying her pleasure.

In the evening, he seemed to delight in working her into a frenzy. He would order her to strip as soon as he came home, timing her with his stopwatch to see how quickly she complied. He would spread her out on her back on the bed, or if he was impatient, on the living room floor. With his face buried between her legs, he would tease her clit with his tongue, moving it relentlessly over her most sensitive place until she thrashed and screamed.

But never, ever did he allow her to come. That was reserved only for the end of the day. When it was time for bed, he would place the Sybian in the middle of the bedroom floor. Conflicting emotions--arousal, distaste, fear, need, and lust--would jumble up inside her. She would approach him slowly, heart pounding, stripping off her clothes as she moved

Deliberately, methodically, she would seduce his body with hers, hands and lips and tongue seeking all the familiar places that turned him on. Practice had made her an expert at reading even the slightest telltale signs of arousal; when she touched him, she felt that she could almost read his mind. He felt the same way, too; her fingers seemed to be able to find precisely the right ways to touch him, as if they were aware of his responses almost before he was.

When she had peeled away all of his clothes and skillfully worked his body to a fever pitch, he would pick up the handcuffs from the nightstand. She would kneel over the Sybian, impaling herself on it with a gasp. With the dildo firmly planted in her dripping sex, she would fasten the straps around her legs, preventing her own escape. He would hand the cuffs to her. Shaking, she would cuff her hands behind her back. Naked and bound, she would offer him her mouth.

He would bring his erection to her lips. Eileen would pleasure him using nothing but her mouth, slowly and thoroughly, her lips and tongue caressing his shaft. Even bound and helpless, unable to touch him with her hands or body, she could still read his arousal, transmitted through the tiny twitches and throbs of his cock. She would work him with all of her skill, focusing her attention on his cock, bringing him slowly to the edge before plunging deep. When he came, gushing hard into her mouth with a cry, her tongue was ready for it, stroking the underside of his shaft just enough to prolong his orgasm, milking him of every drop.

Then the torment would begin.

He would force her to hold his semen in her mouth for a long time, head tilted back so she could feel the warm slick stuff in the back of her throat. His hands would caress her body while he whispered filthy things into her ear, telling her to savor it, telling her how much she loved it. When she started to gag, he would waken the Sybian. It would come alive inside her, brutal, efficient, and tear the orgasm from her body. She would come hard, still gagging and coughing, helpless to prevent the savage ecstasy that lashed through her.

And every time, at the exact moment the frenzied climax peaked, he would clamp his hand over her mouth and order her to swallow.

As the days passed, the things he did to her began to take hold in her body and in her mind. The idea of bringing him to orgasm in her mouth gave her a little thrill of arousal, and she found herself beginning to look forward to taking him between her lips, feeling him pulse and jet in her mouth.

They took hold in subtler ways, too. She found that the sound of his car in the driveway would cause a tension to build in her nipples and between her legs, a sudden hot flash of sexual desire ignited by his arrival home.

She could also feel it in the mid-afternoons. Her pussy would tremble as the clock approached noon; she would feel her arousal grow and grow, until it peaked near the time ho would normally take his lunch. If he didn't come home that day to help himself to a bite to eat and her body, she would often sit in the kitchen under the golden shafts of light reflecting from the copper pots, or in the living room on the couch with her legs spread wide, and run her hands over herself, dreaming of Anthony's hands pinning her roughly against the wall.

She became expert in touching herself, just as she had become skilled in touching him. She learned all the places where her skin loved to be stroked, all the secret little responses that came from coaxing herself into higher and higher states of arousal. She had lived in her body for her entire life, but she was, it seemed, only just now really learning everything about it.

She became equally skilled at finding the razor's edge of orgasm, holding herself there with her eyes closed, fingers caressing her nipples or stroking her clit, body tense with energy. When Anthony did come home in the evening, she would meet him with naked hunger, pressing her body to his, inviting him to use her however he liked.

Whenever she went out, the world felt amazingly, incredibly alive, vibrating with intensity. The unlocking of her sexual side seemed to have awakened her skin, so that it became something through which she could feel the world rather than something to insulate herself from it.

Even something as simple as walking down the street became erotic. Eileen felt alive to the looks of the people who passed her by. Often, if she caught the eye of some passing stranger, images would come tumbling through her mind of that stranger grabbing her by the wrist, pulling her into a dark alley or shoving her against a closed door, and tearing her clothes off. She would think, in quick short flashes, about his hands on her, demanding, about the greed in his eye as he stripped her bare. She would imagine him surrendering to his own desire, ignoring her cries and struggles as he sated himself with her body, his cock hard and demanding in her pussy or mouth or ass; and then, when he had taken his fill from her, releasing her to continue on his way, sated.

Her body remembered vividly the feel of strong hands grasping her wrists and hard stone pressed against her breasts at the hotel that night. Those memories, rich and tactile, returned to her often when she sat at home waiting for Anthony, or when she ventured out to the store and saw the handsome cashier. Even without the training device that Anthony no longer made her wear, her trips to the grocery store were still filled with tension; the slightest movement of his hands, a little smile on is face when he picked up her groceries, and she would mentally be back behind the store, longing to feeling those hands on her, aggressive and unstoppable.

One evening, a week to the day after Anthony had forbidden her to have an orgasm unless her mouth was filled with his come, something happened she didn't expect.

He hadn't come home for lunch that afternoon. Eileen, aroused and disappointed, decided to draw herself a bath. In the tub, she let her hands wander over her body, caressing her skin, working herself languidly into a warm glow. She ran her fingers up and down her arms, deliberately avoiding her breasts and pussy. Her mind was filled with fantasies of pirates, dragging her onto the deck of the ship, tearing her clothes away, bending her over the railing to ravish her.

She stroked herself sensually, dreaming of rough hands and strange cocks, until her skin tingled and buzzed. When she felt herself in a state of simmering need, she drained the bath. She dressed in nothing but a long, sheer button-up shirt, feeling decadent and naughty, delighting in the warm erotic glow.

He found her that way when he returned home from work. She was lying on the bed reading, still wearing nothing but the shirt, a dreamy expression on her face. One hand was caressing her body lightly. She was so distracted she hadn't heard his car. She looked up when he came into the room.

"Come here," he commanded.

Eileen's heat thudded. Butterflies fluttered. She struggled to keep her expression neutral, but felt the smile creep out anyway. Without a word, she put down the book and rose, already unbuttoning her shirt. By the time she had crossed the room to him, it hung entirely open.

She pressed her body against him, hands sliding up his arms. He took her wrist and, in one quick motion, wrapped a leather cuff around it. Eileen gasped in surprise, butterflies swirling faster. He placed a cuff around her other wrist and buckled it tightly. "Follow me."

Anthony walked out to the living room. Eileen followed behind him, quivering with anticipation. He directed her to sit on the couch with her arms extended along its back, and bound her wrists to the edges of the couch, holding her in place. "Wait here."

She squirmed against soft leather, feeling herself dripping. He left briefly and came back with a rigid leather case, dark brown in color, cracked and worn from use. "You know," he said, "when I was a kid, one of the reasons I wanted to become an architect was so that I could spend all day drawing. Now, of course, everything's all computers and rendering. But I do still like to draw." He opened the case and set out an assortment of small containers. "I just need to find different outlets, that's all." He knelt on the floor between her legs. "Don't move, or I'll punish you."

He laid out a collection of tiny paintbrushes on the coffee table. Slowly, with great care and attention, he opened Eileen's shirt wide. Her heart beat faster. He chose a paintbrush with a small pointed tip. With a lopsided grin, he dipped it into a container of dark green paint. He brought it to her breast. The brush tickled on her bare skin, making her squirm.

"I said hold still!" His voice was commanding. Eileen fought to keep herself from wriggling away from the tickling brush. He worked slowly, with great care. She felt wetness between her legs. Her pussy clenched.

He worked methodically, changing brushes often. Before long, she started unconsciously rocking her hips. Anthony slid his free hand up along her thighs. "You aren't being still," he said. With one swift move, he thrust three fingers into her. Eileen thrashed, nearly coming on the spot. He kept his fingers inside her, pressing her hips down into the cushion. "Don't move."

Anthony resumed his patient work, painting one-handed on her body, holding her down with his other hand, fingers buried inside her. She felt herself squeezing around them, on the edge of orgasm, afraid to come without permission.

It took nearly two hours for him to finish. Eileen squirmed and writhed despite her best intentions as the brushes danced over her breasts, nipples, and belly. The light touch of the tiny paintbrushes, the cool wetness of the paint, Anthony's steady breath on her skin as he worked, and her feelings of restraint and exposure all combined to make Eileen feel intensely aware of her body. Slick wetness dripped around the fingers shoved up inside her.

At last, he was done. Anthony put don the brush, smiling. He unfastened the straps and led her to the bedroom. "Look."

Eileen stood in front of the mirror. Her body had been turned into an intricate, colorful Impressionist painting, a garden with a white gazebo in its center. A woman--an image of herself, she realized--sat nude in the gazebo, brushing her hair. All around, flowers in a riot of brilliant colors bloomed.

"You like it?" Anthony asked.

"It's beautiful!"

"Yes, indeed." He kissed her cheek. "So is the painting."

Eileen blushed. The expression changed to surprise when he knelt and fastened broad leather cuffs around each of her ankles. That done, he disappeared into the closet and came back out carrying coils of rope. "Come on."

"What? Where?"

"The principle purpose of art is to be shared. Good art needs to be exhibited, don't you think?"

"Anthony!"

He grinned. "Yes. Now be a good girl. Come with me." He propelled her out of the room.

She offered no resistance until she realized he was steering her toward the front door. "Anthony! You can't It's indecent!"

"Good art often is." His grip tightened. "Out you go!"

He dragged her, blushing and squirming, onto the porch. Cold air curled around her body. The ropes were quickly fastened to the cuffs on her wrists and ankles. Anthony strung the other ends through the rings he had attached to the columns flanking the door, and soon Eileen was bound between two columns, arms and legs stretched wide. The shirt fluttered open from her shoulders. "Anthony!" she cried.

"Hush." He kissed her cheek again. "You stay here. I'm going to go make dinner." She felt him move away. The door opened and closed behind her.

Eileen stood frozen for a long moment, feeling more vulnerable than she ever had before. Being bound nude in plain sight, helpless, without Anthony's presence and without even being able to hide behind a column, made her heart pound. The thin shirt hanging open from her shoulders did not protect her at all; if anything, it only accentuated her helplessness, the ease with which someone could access her body.

A car drove by. The driver honked. Eileen's heart leaped into her throat. She tugged at the ropes, but they held fast. Her mind raced. What would happen if someone came walking along the sidewalk? Being seen from passing cars was one thing; it seemed to her that they probably wouldn't stop. But what about someone walking by? It would be easy enough to just walk up to her. Bound as she was, she would be unable to prevent anyone from touching her.

What if the grocery store cashier came by?

Her breath caught in her throat. It could happen; the store was in the neighborhood. Was he aware of how flustered she was when she saw him? What would he do, if he came upon her, naked and exposed like this? Would he take advantage of the opportunity? Her pussy tightened. Would he walk up the driveway to her, gravel crunching under his feet? Would he care if she started to struggle?

More cars passed by. Eileen panted. Turbulent emotions roiled in her. She pictured the cashier walking toward her with purpose in his eye. Would the passing cars stop? Would anyone come to rescue her?

Her pussy clenched harder. Or...or would they want to watch? She imagined people stopping, getting out of their cars, gathering in the driveway, attracted by her screams. She pictured strong arms grabbing her, a hard cock shoving insistently into her. Stripped bare and bound like this, arms and legs open wide, what else could she be but an offering to anyone who wanted her?

She imagined a line forming. She imagined the ropes holding her in place, positioned to accept whatever was done to her. She pictured their hands and mouths on her, indifferent to her struggles, interested only in pleasuring themselves with her body. Wetness flowed down her leg as she imagined some of the men, impatient, moving behind her, satisfying themselves by pressing into her ass, not wanting to wait for her cunt to become available.

Her hips swayed unconsciously. She pictured herself at the center of a growing knot of men, all hard cocks and desire, raping her repeatedly, ignoring her screams...

The door behind her opened. Anthony came out, trailing a hand along her back. He circled in front of her, smiling. "How are you doing, my lovely little whore?"

Eyes unfocused, she kissed him, deeply, urgently. Her body pressed as tightly against him as the ropes would allow. Her lips parted. Her tongue slipped into his mouth. She ground her hips against him, longing to feel him hard beneath his pants. She heard desperate little whimpering sounds, and realized they were coming from her.

Anthony stepped back in surprise. "Oh! That well, hmm? I quite like you this way, I think."

She panted. "What way?"

"Naked, bound, and horny." He grinned. His fingers traced a path between her legs, lightly grazing her clit. "You like being put on display."

"Yes," she breathed.

"Dinner is ready." He started to untie her ankles from the columns. Her disappointed sound only made him grin wider.

When she was free, he led her back into the house. He seated her at the table, ropes still attached to the cuffs at her wrists. He looped the other ends of the ropes around the polished wood table legs before tying them to her thigh, just above her knees. Eileen quickly realized that every time she raised her hands, the ropes pulled her legs apart; they left just enough room for her to be able to eat, but only by spreading her legs apart until her knees touched the table legs.

"Yes," he said as understanding of her predicament dawned in her eyes.

He watched her with a small smirk all through the meal. With each motion, the ropes pulled Eileen's legs apart. The feeling of vulnerability returned; she could not even eat without exposing her dripping pussy to him. A quick thought flashed through her mind, an image of being bound this way at the awards banquet they had attended, forced to expose herself to the gathered people. Her nipples grew taut.

Eileen caught a glint of amusement in Anthony's eye. A playful feeling crept over her. She smiled at him and slowly parted her legs. Her fingers ran over the hollow of her throat, then trailed downward, over her painted breasts. "Do you like showing off my body?" she asked. "Does it turn you on when strange men look at me?"

He smiled. "Perhaps. Does it turn you on?"

Her hand crept lower. She slid one finger inside herself, surprised by her flagrant wantonness. She rolled a nipple between her fingers. A shudder ran through her. "I...I don't know."

"I think you like being tied up and shown off. I think you like when people look at you and want to fuck you." He grinned wider. "I think you especially like it when you can't do anything about it."

"What would you have done if you would have gone outside and found someone raping me?" Eileen thrust her fingers deeper. Her hand tightened on her breast. "Would you have rescued me? Or would you just watch?"

"Which would you rather I do?"

She slid her fingers out. A slow smile crept over her face. She leaned over the table toward him. "Which...whichever you wanted to do. I think..." Her voice hesitated. That strange recklessness crept over her. "I think you like watching your wife get tied up and raped."

"Oh, I do, do I?"

Her hands slid over her breasts. "I think watching would get you hard. I think you'd like that." Her eyes closed. "Maybe then you would join in."

He smiled. "You know what I think? I think my wife likes being tied up and raped."

She shivered. Doubt assailed her. Was she going too far? Should she be encouraging him like this? What would happen if he grew tired of her open sluttiness? She lowered her eyes, sheepish. "I think your wife wants to finish eating dinner."

"I think my wife is a slut," he smiled.

After dinner, Anthony took the ropes still bound to her wrists and led her into the bathroom. Soon, she was bound to the shower stall. Water sprayed from the showerhead, causing the shirt to stick transparently to her skin. She gasped.

Methodically and thoroughly, Anthony washed her, scrubbing away every trace of his artwork from her body. His hands were gentle but firm, soaping and fondling her breasts, travelling down her sides, caressing her belly. Eileen closed her eyes, lost in his sensual touch. She was used to being the one who washed him; the feel of his hands on her body, and the care and attention with which he bathed her, made her glow. She sighed, lips brushing lightly against his neck. A rainbow of colors swirled down the drain.