Training Emily

It is impossible to sense, or judge, another person's pain, and equally impossible to assess the threshold beyond which it becomes unbearable. Those inclined to play these games use safe words, so that the submissive party can say things have become too much. Another club in Cap d'Agde caters to afficionados, with various devices for securing subs, and whips, tawses, paddles, and leather straps to inflict just the right amount of pain, but I had not yet brought Emily there, no would I. Emily had no safe word. She had only her gasps for breath, the expression of anguish on her face, her attempt to release his grip on her breast, and her tense, arched back, to tell the guy that the pleasure pain he was inflicting on her, was more than she could handle.

The message from her body language, was unmistakable. Whether he read it, and because of it released his piner grip on her, or simply decided he had punished her enough, he released the nipple. What had once been a delicate shade of pink was now flaming red. Emily's back relaxed. Her mouth closed. She breathed more normally. To my surprise she put her arms around the Dutch guy's neck, and kissed his shoulder. Her nipple stub might still be throbbing, but Emily was fine.

Another taboo had now been broken. Emily had fucked a stranger, or more accurately, had been fucked by him. The next evening, instead of my bringing her upstairs, I allowed one of the single guys to go upstairs with her. I was not there to watch, but Emily came back downstairs and met me in the bar, still smiling. Each night after that, Emily was fucked by a new stranger, whether in a couples' swop if I went upstairs with her, or without me, with a guy we would select downstairs.

So when Emily asked if I wanted her to go upstairs again, it told me that she had fully assimilated the essence of her training, that sex is no more, and of course no less, than just physical enjoyment, and that whoever might be fucking her, she could let go, and enjoy the moment, taking her pleasure from whoever it might come. At least it seemed that way. I was about to put that theory to the test.

When the time was right, I brought Emily upstairs. I suggested a pit stop at the rest room, so that she could clean her neck and breasts, which in retrospect was totally unnecessary. Naked other than her black leather corset, diamond mesh stockings and the bright red lipstick I had persuaded her to wear on these nights, she looked a total slut, but a classy and incredibly shapely slut, high class whore rather than street prostitute.

Emily instinctively headed towards the couples room, but I diverted her with my hand lightly guiding her by her elbow. The space that the stairs opened into was a large play-space that we had only used to walk through to get to the couples only room. Emily had always got looks from the single guys who hung out there. What we had never done was to go right up close to either of the play beds in this space, and check out the action there.

Some places call them greedy girls, women who enjoy one man fucking them after another. Most are married, and their husbands like to watch. The room where the single guys hung out was not just for mingling, but it had its own play-beds. Some were used by a couples who would invited a single guy to join them, the husband and the guy taking turns with her, or one fucking her mouth while the other fucked her cunt. Naturally, those guys not involved would gather round and watch. Other times, a greedy girl would occupy a bed, and she would take on all comers.

That night, when we went upstairs only one of the beds was in use. Guys were around it, watching, as were some couples. Only one scene was taking place, a woman on all fours, sucking one guy's cock while another fucked her from behind. There was nothing amazing about the woman. She was blonde, in her forties, tanned, and slightly overweight, but she was fuckable, and she was a greedy girl.

We got in close, edging between some of the guys. They did not seem to mind us moving in front of them, maybe because having Emily ease past gave them a chance to admire, and even catch a feel of a younger, much better looking woman, than the one occupying the play-bed.

The timing was fortuitous. The guy fucking the woman lost control, and came inside her, just as we got right up close to the play bed. A few moments later her withdrew, sliding a condom full of semen from his cock, while another guy rolled a condom onto his. The woman's cunt was kept waiting for no more than thirty seconds. Then it was being fucked again.

This guy lasted no more than five minutes. I guess it is sexual frustration that leads the single men to pay the entrance fee, more than a couple pays, just for the remote chance of getting to do what these guys were getting to do. That frustration leads to more rapid ejaculation that when you are regularly fucking someone, your wife, or someone else's wife.

The guy withdrew. Another took his place.

"Wow!" I heard Emily saying under her breath, I guess more to herself than to me or anyone around.

"Do you think she knows the guys?" she then asked a little more loudly, this time wanting me to hear.

"Maybe," I said. "Maybe not. Does it really matter. She's not here to make friends. Just to enjoy a succession of guys fucking her, while she's the centre of attention. Would you like to try?"

"You mean...?" she asked.

"I mean you, on the bed," I said. "See what happens."

"Do I have to?" she asked.

What was so cute was that even then, Emily still was half expecting to be told what she should do. Her parents must have reinforced that obedience thing pretty strongly.

"No," I said. "You can always fly home tomorrow thinking about an opportunity missed."

I could have told her that she had to do it. Emily would have acquiesced. Instead, I wanted her to want it for herself.

She gave me a look, uncertainty written all over her beautiful, freckled face.

"You're not going to make me?" she asked.

"No," I said. "I'm not going to make you."

She seemed to think about that for a while, thoughts circling in her head, possibilities mingling, eality and fantasy playing together, before she asked me how it worked.

"Then," she said, "will you,... I mean,... does someone chose the guys for her?"

I knew what she was asking me to do.

"I can decide who gets to fuck you, yes," I said.

"Then,..." she stopped mid phrase. She could not say the words, but she had just agreed to do it.

I could have taken her to the other play-bed, but instead we watched a bit longer and waited. You never know just how many guys one of these greedy girls might want to enjoy, but the guy we had just seen entering her was the last. The guy whose cock she had been sucking came in her mouth, and left the bed. A few minutes later, still being fucked from behind, she came. The guy fucking her came too, maybe because she came. A woman's cunt contracting when she comes can make a guy come. They disengaged, and she climbed off the bed, into the arms of yet another guy, who I guessed might be her husband. That left the bed empty. Nothing for the crowd to watch.

"Okay," I said, squeezing Emily's hand in mine, and then releasing it.

She hesitated only for a moment, then climbed onto the play-bed. She took up the same position as the woman had used before her, hands and knees, arms straight, legs little apart. Her breasts swayed, but somehow retained their shape beneath her. Side on to me, she looked incredible.

"Merde!" I heard one of the guys swear under his breath.

"Merveilleux!" someone else said.

The home crowd was appreciating American grown beauty when they saw it.

For several long moments, nothing happened. No one moved. Emily waited, her head hanging low. Then a couple of guys talked together, nudging each other on. One of them looked at me, apparently having noticed that Emily and I were together. I gave a slight nod. He grinned. A few moments later Emily raised her head as the guy knelt behind her, took hold of her by her hips, and slid his cock inside her, without even needing to guide it home.

I gave seven guys the nod, three of whom gave Emily orgasms, shuddering, gasping, groaning climaxes that ripped through her body, her arms giving way each time it happened, her torso sloping onto the vinyl mattress of the play-bed, her butt still high, her head and shoulders resting on it, head turned to one side or the other, as she recovered, then slowly raised herself again. The others fucked her just as hard, and even if they did not make her come, they made her gasp and moan and cry out as they came in her.

The men all enjoyed fucking the young, beautiful, freckle skinned blonde with her amazing breasts, and her hands splayed on the mattress for support, her gold wedding ring glinting on the third slender finger. I am pretty sure that Emily enjoyed it too. You do not have to orgasm to enjoy the fuck and thrust of sexual intercourse, or so I am told, and three full blown orgasms from seven guys fucking her in turn was reasonable reward.

As each guy finished, he dismounted, climbed off the bed, slid off his condom, and disappeared into the crowd, the next guy taking his place. None of them lasted longer than fifteen minutes, some hardly lasting five. It took a little more than an hour for Emily to have had seven guys fuck her, one following the other.

As the seventh guy withdrew, Emily remained on all fours, waiting for the next. I had moved around the play-bed and behind her while that seventh guy was still thrusting, his hands, like all the guys before him, holding her by her waist.

Some had leaned over her, reaching underneath, fondling her nipples. Her breasts, after all, are a major part of Emily's attraction. They deserve attention. One guy let Emily take his weight while he used both hands, cupping her teats, playing with her nipple stubs, twisting and pulling at them the way the Dutch guy had week before.

One guy had swipe smacked Emily's butt, left and right, as if letting her know that she was nothing more than a convenient cunt to him. My guess is that smacking the butt of the woman you are fucking reveals something deeper about the guy, unless she is a sub and you have agreed that kind of play. Somewhere down in the subconscious, some men resent the hold that women have over them. They want cunt. They want it and need it, but they resent that women create that overpowering desire, so they punish her for making them want her cunt, and Emily was the kind of woman who would generate more desire than most.

Even having had seven men fuck and come in her, having had her breasts and butt abused, Emily still waited, her butt held high, for the next guy, the eighth, accepting that for right then, she had indeed become nothing other than a cunt for guys to fuck, but more than that, a willing cunt, a cunt that wanted cock, and wanted more.

The eighth guy had been ready, but I shook my head. I walked back around, Emily still waiting, still on all fours, her breasts still swaying beneath her chest, her arms straight again, her head neither looking forwards, nor hanging down, but in a straight line with her spine, her eyes on the mattress below her.

I reached out to her hand, and she turned her head.

"Enough," I said.

Emily accepted my decision, and gingerly, she climbed down from the play-bed, into my enfolding arms.

The next morning, with Emily still sound asleep in bed, I went to the car trunk and opened the suitcase that had stayed there, untouched, for the entire three weeks that Emily had been with me. Inside her case I found that alongside jeans and jumpers, Emily had actually packed some shorts and tops, more conservative than most women wore in the south of France, but fine for her flight home. I chose a pair of white shorts, and a pink, sleeveless tee-shirt, and zipped the bag closed.

Without her bra, Emily's nipples stretched the cotton of the tee-shirt into stub shapes that made it very obvious that she was wearing nothing underneath. Less nervous than I had expected, Emily walked into the terminal's departure's area, rolling the locked suitcase behind her. It was a male attendant who checked her in, taking his time, glancing at Emily's stretched tee-shirt as often as he could.

We watched her case disappear behind the check in desk, the conveyor belt carrying it away, not to be seen again until she reached the States. The shorts and tee-shirt were all she would be wearing for her flight to Paris, in the transit lounge while she waited for her onward flight, and on that second flight back to her husband in California.

We hugged our goodbyes at the departure gate. I had grown fond of Emily. Her husband was a lucky guy. I owed him a call or text, and I sent a confirmatory text as the easy way of doing things once Emily was out of sight.

"Emily's therapy successfully completed. She is waiting to board for Paris, and onward flight from there to you. Rest assured, you will find her very receptive in the marital bedroom. I wish you both a wonderful marriage."

Of course, I signed off with my assumed name. I do not use my real name on the website where I advertise. Headteachers are not supposed to offer the kind of service to unhappy couples that I offer in the eight week summer break that English private schools enjoy. It is sad how many couples accept an unsatisfactory sex life as inevitable, but at least there would be one less unhappy Californian couple, once Emily got back. Emily would no longer be reserved in the marital bed. Her husband could fuck her whichever way he pleased, and she would be eager for it.

Of course my style of therapy may not be for everyone. The couples who sign up for it know in advance that I will be working to break down engrained thoughts and feelings about sex, and that actual penetrative sexual exercises are part of the treatment. A guy must love his wife one hell of a lot to go along with that. The wives must love their husbands just as much to agree to accept that as their therapeutic process.

Not that I detail upfront exactly what to expect. Not many husbands would be cool knowing that their wife was going to have her inhibitions broken down the way that I like to do, but three week therapy has to be intensive. My advice to Emily, as to every other wife I have worked with, is that what happens in Cap d'Agde is better staying in Cap d'Agde, but ultimately that is up to them.

A few days later, after relaxing in the sun a bit, I was back at Montpellier airport, in the arrivals lounge, holding a sign with the name of my next client so that she would see it when she came through. I recognised her straightaway, long black hair flowing to waist length, in jeans, but unlike Emily in a cut off teeshirt that left her waist bare, a red gemstone nestling in her pierced navel, an inch below the gold ball closing off the curved bar.

Tori was green eyed, with a combination of dark green and black make up on her eyelids, and was wearing the same shade of scarlet lip gloss that I had got for Emily for her visits to the club. She had a thick gold chain bouncing around a very pleasant cleavage, and her arms had a collection of gold and silver bracelets.

Some of my clients are like that, confident about their looks, beautifully presented, coquettish, flirty, but when it comes to the real thing, actual penetrative sex, they just clam up. In Tori's case, her New York Italian parents were strict catholic, and she had gone to a convent school, where the nuns had made clear their views on carnality, or not their views, but God's and the Holy Father's.

Tori's outward confidence dissolved when I told her to undress. Just like Emily had been, she shook with nerves as I walked her from the car park through the complex to the apartment I was renting. After pure white skin that turned to freckles, it was good to see her Italian, olive, flawless complexion.

Tori would tan. She might even go quite dark. Her nipples were already brown, cherry nipples, with no areoles to speak of. No need for the beautician. Her mons was smooth and free of hair, baring her slit, which was just that, a slit. No protruding labia, like Emily's, but I still looked forward to enjoying that slit, and to watching others help Tori to accept her sexuality, unwitting assistants in the program of therapy she was about to undergo. There would be no shortage of guys ready and willing to fuck Tori's neat, Italian cunt.

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Footnote :

From some of the comments written by readers for others of my stories, it seems like some people believe that every word is true, so for the record, Cap d'Agde is a real naturist resort in France, with clubs just like the one described, and everything described as happening there, has happened there, but not every word I write is true. If you happen to be Californian, married to a white blonde woman who spent three weeks in France a while ago, then please be assured that Emily s not only not her real name, but she is a fantasy, and if you are a New Yorker, whose wife is Italian American, who also spent the same amount of time in France, then so is Tori. It never happened.