Training Ch. 04

Eileen fidgeted uncomfortably in her seat. Far below, the city gave way to rolling countryside, then to open ocean, sparkling blue dusted with small white clouds. Anthony steadfastly refused answer her questions with anything more than a smile and a "hush." Her body throbbed around the plug in her ass; every beat of her heart was answered by a tremor between her legs. The intrusion was a constant dull ache, preventing her from relaxing.

Before long, Anthony's steady breathing in the seat beside her told her that he was already napping. She writhed next to him, and as time passed, the ache grew inexorably stronger, until it filled her consciousness and she could think of nothing else. She shifted around, trying to find a position that would ease her discomfort, and could not prevent a small moan from escaping her lips. Fire touched her cheeks. Her pussy clenched in time with the throbbing.

She took a deep breath to steady herself. It's only for a little while, she thought, only until they start serving lunch...

She caught that thought and examined it. When had that happened? At some point during the honeymoon, obeying Anthony had become natural to her. He had told her to keep the plug inside herself until the flight crew started their meal service, and so she had accepted that that is what she would do. When was the moment that she had given her will over to him? Was she really turning into a sex slave?

Her mind floated back through a catalog of the previous days. She remembered the violation from the night before, the hard erection in her ass as she lay bent over the table. That had felt so different from the plug inside her now; warmer, not as tight. She was surprised that it hadn't hurt. Having Anthony's cock inside her ass had felt almost...

Her heart thudded. Did she actually know that it had been Anthony who had taken her? She hadn't been able to see behind her. Could it have been the bellhop? She had never felt a penis inside here that way before, so she had nothing to compare it to. It might not have been her husband! What if he had let the bellhop defile her that way? What if she had married the man of her dreams, only to have him give her to a stranger, to do such a filthy thing to her? Her breathing came harder. That thought should disgust her, right?

Unconsciously, she started rocking her hips in tiny, subtle motions. She thought about the way she had kissed the bellhop, back in front of the hotel. She could barely remember his name, but she could still almost feel his lips on hers, the way he had sighed when her hands moved around him...why had she done that? Because Anthony had told her to. Why did it feel natural to obey him, even when he told her to do such foul and unnatural things?

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are ready to begin our in-flight meal service. The flight attendants will shortly be coming through the cabin. Please turn to page 70 of our in-flight magazine to see today's meal choices, and remember that cocktails are available for an additional three pounds."

The announcement startled Eileen out of her reverie. She became aware of the way she was moving her hips. Anthony had awakened and was looking at her with an unreadable expression. She flushed and turned away. "I was..."

"Fucking yourself against the plug in your ass. I saw." He grinned. "And here I thought you wanted to take it out!"

Her face burned. "I do! Anthony, it hurts!"

"Soon. They're starting with lunch. As soon as they come by with our food, you can go."

"But it hurts now!"

"Hush. This will help you learn how to take it. When your training is finished, you'll be able to wear that plug all day long."

"Anthony!" She felt herself turn bright crimson. "I don't want to—"

"It doesn't matter what you want. Now hush! Not another word out of you or you'll be wearing it for another hour!"

Eileen sat in fidgety silence while the flight attendant made her excruciatingly slow way down the aisle, asking the passengers whether they preferred chicken or beef. By the time she arrived at their row, Eileen could barely sit still. She mumbled something unintelligible when the flight attendant asked her a question; the issue of chicken or beef seemed so remote to her that it scarcely pried her attention away from the steady throbbing ache. She took the wrapped package automatically and turned to Anthony, eyes pleading.

"Okay! Okay!" he laughed. His tone changed, became more commanding. "Get up. Go into the bathroom and remove the plug. Wash it before you come back."

She stood and worked her way past his seat. The form-hugging skirt made maneuvering down the aisle surprisingly difficult. With each tiny step, the plug moved fractionally inside her. Every little motion the plane made threatened to spill her into someone's lap, and she felt constrained and unsteady on her feet. Faces looked up at her as she passed. Eyes swept her body, some of them focusing on her nipples, clearly visible against the thin, scanty top. She blushed, feeling exposed and alone.

When she finally reached the bathroom, it was empty. She sighed with relief for small blessings and shut herself in the cramped space. Dim greenish fluorescent lights flickered on.

Then she discovered her first problem.

The long, tight skirt prevented her from being able to remove the plug. She couldn't reach under it, and the rubber-like material resisted being rolled up. She struggled with it for a few moments before she realized that she would have to pull it down to reach the thing in her ass.

That presented her with her second challenge, because even after she had unzipped the short zipper and tugged it down over her waist, the skirt still held her legs together. She tried to bend over and reach around behind herself, but the tiny space thwarted her; no matter how far she leaned or how she contorted herself, she couldn't seem to get a good grip on it.

Finally, after struggling for what felt like many minutes, she realized that she had no choice but to take off her skirt entirely. The thought made her heart skip a beat; there was something deeply, profoundly dirty about stripping down, right here on the airplane, with nothing but a thin wall separating her from the passengers outside. She breathed a little more quickly, and strange eddies of emotion flowed through her.

Eileen sat down on the edge of the toilet seat and slowly, reluctantly pulled off the skirt. Her nakedness made her feel intensely, shockingly vulnerable; no matter how many times she checked the latch, she felt certain that she had not locked the door correctly. At any moment, it seemed that someone would push it open and stand staring at her stripped half-naked right there on the plane.

Still flush with embarrassment, she lifted her knees and spread her legs as wide as she could. Her fingers slipped down between her legs and touched the warm and slightly rubbery base of the plug. Her breath caught in her throat. Why had she let Anthony make her wear this...this vulgar, obscene thing? The mere idea of using any kind of sex toy was repulsive enough to begin with. Her mother had explained patiently to her that such a thing was the mark of a lower grade of woman, the kind of dirty, perverted woman who was a slave to her own base desires. And a toy intended to touch her ass? That was disgusting beyond anything she should ever imagine!

And yet, she had allowed him to put this thing into her after he had... She gulped. After he had forced his cock into her ass. And then, she had allowed him to take her out in public, and instead of calling for help, telling someone about the indecent things he had done to her, having him arrested for his perversion, she had obediently accepted it.

Her breathing came faster still. Tightness wound around inside her stomach.

Her fingers touched the plug again. It felt like a tangible symbol of his control over her, of the way he could exert his will even when he wasn't there. Did that make her his slave?? Was he right about her? Is that why she was sitting half-naked in the bathroom?

The tension grew. Butterflies fluttered inside her. She slid her fingers over her clit and was surprised to find wetness there. A quick hot spike of arousal shot through her. Her fingers pressed harder, swirling in tiny circles around her clit.

She stared fixedly at the door as she masturbated. Her mind was filled with visions of that door opening suddenly and angry, disturbed people staring at her in shock while she touched herself. Fear sang through her, made her body alive; her skin felt electric. Her other hand fondled her breast, felt the heat through thin fabric. Wetness flowed around her fingers.

It took less than a minute for the orgasm to find her. It started small, little waves of pleasure rippling outward from her clit, and rose quickly until she was barely able to hold in the scream. Her body convulsed and she clamped tightly around the plug, but the pain only intensified the ecstasy crashing through her.

It ended quickly. She trembled, sickened; her heart pounded, every beat echoed by a throbbing from the toy buried in her ass. She gasped and sobbed, wanting to be rid of it.

That was when the third problem presented itself. No matter how firmly she pulled on the base, the plug did not seem to want to budge. It was buried deep, and with every tug she felt herself stretch and then tighten around it involuntarily.

She pulled harder. The plug slipped out only a hair's breath. An incongruous thought entered her mind: what if the plane crashed right now? Would the rescue workers find her like this, half-naked and holding onto a gigantic butt plug? What would they think of her? Would they brand her a slut, a whore, a filthy tramp, fucking her own ass right there in an airplane bathroom?

She pushed the thought aside and pulled even harder. Her ass stretched. She gasped and pulled still more. In a sudden, explosive flash of pain, the plug slid free. She cried out and sat panting on the toilet, struggling for breath. Something wet slid down between her thighs. She touched herself, and her fingers came back covered with a mass of thick white goo.

For the next several minutes, she scrubbed at herself in the tiny bathroom. The quantity of white fluid dripping out of her ass astonished her. The more she worked, the dirtier she felt. A very dirty slut—that's what Anthony called her; and now, half-naked in an airplane bathroom with a never-ending stream of come and lube dripping from her ass, she felt like it was true.

She was so distracted by the feelings that she completely forgot about the plug, until it rolled off the miniature sink and fell with a thud on the floor. When she picked it up, her stomach did flip-flops at the cool wet sliminess of it. It was thickly smeared with the same mix of come and lube that had oozed out of her. She wanted nothing more than to throw the disgusting thing away and be rid of it forever.

Reluctantly, she turned her attention to scrubbing the vile thing in the sink. She had nothing she could use on it but her hands, and touching it made her stomach lurch. She washed it over and over again, even after it seemed that she could get it no cleaner.

After she struggled back into the too-tight, form-hugging skirt, she faced her next problem: she had no place to carry the plug. The skirt clung smoothly to the curves of her hips without pockets; her shirt, such as it was, also lacked pockets; and in her rush to be relieved of the plug, she hadn't brought her purse.

The walk back to the seat, with the plug wrapped in both hands to conceal it, seemed to take forever. At each shuffling step, she was terrified that sudden turbulence would send her tumbling to the ground, and the plug would go bouncing down the aisle. The faces that looked up at her as she passed caused her to burn with shame. By the time she found her row, her heart was hammering in her throat.

Anthony had finished his lunch and was once again sound asleep. She crawled gratefully into the sanctuary of her seat and tried to sleep herself. Jagged images filled her brain like crackling lightning, but her body was exhausted, and sleep came soon.

About an hour before landing, Eileen woke groggily to find Anthony reading a magazine next to her. He turned toward her and smiled. "Did you sleep well, little whore? You were moaning in your sleep. Dreaming about pirates?"

"I wish you wouldn't call me that," she said sullenly.

"Call you what?"

"Little...you know, that thing you call me."

"Hmm? What's that?" His face was open and innocent.

"You know what I'm talking about! Little...little whore." She stumbled over the last word. Redness touched her cheeks. Her pussy twitched and squeezed.

"Why would I stop calling you that? You like being called a whore. It excites you." He leaned toward her and whispered in her ear. "You are a filthy, cock-hungry little tramp. You love having a cock shoved into your body, and you don't even care where." His hand touched her knee. "Your nipples are getting hard just thinking about it. You love being stripped bare and fucked like a two-dollar whore. There's nothing you won't take, is there? I can push you down and spread your legs and you'll come no matter what I give you."

Eileen closed her eyes, breathing hard. His words vibrated through her. She squeezed her legs tightly together as if to deny what he was saying. Wetness leaked down her thighs. Butterflies swirled in her stomach. "Anthony!" she hissed through her teeth. "Stop! Don't say those things!"

"Look at you!" he said. His hand squeezed her knee tightly. "Look how horny you are. You want it so badly, don't you, little whore? You're a desperate, sex-crazed slut who will do anything she's told. You'll fuck yourself silly in front of a stranger, won't you? Didn't that feel good? You liked that, didn't you?"

The words electrified her, transported her. She remembered vividly that night, sitting on the hotel room floor, mouth held open, a hard metal probe in her ass while she shoved that vile rubber dildo in and out of herself. She remembered the hungry look on the bellhop's face, the way his eyes tracked every thrust. Most of all, she remembered the humiliation of it, how it made her want to curl up and disappear, and how her body had responded. She remembered how hard she had come...

Her pussy clenched tightly. She imagined herself the captive of pirates, subject to their filthy and degrading use, while the pirate captain told her how much she loved it, what a slut she was...

"You're a filthy little cock-sucking, ass-fucked tramp." Anthony's voice insinuated itself into her fantasy, curled around a place of secret longing deep inside of her. "You like that, don't you? You liked shoving that big dildo into your dripping cunt while he watched, didn't you? You came so hard! You love showing off what a filthy tramp you are. You like when people watch."

"Uuuuuunh!" She let out a low sigh. A wave of pleasure rolled slowly over her, not quite an orgasm, but something very close to it. Her nipples strained against the thin shirt. Her eyes opened, staring at nothing. Her fingers curled into the armrests.

"That's what I thought." A cheerful smile crossed his face. "I call you a little whore because that's what you are." Anthony squeezed her hand fondly and returned to his magazine. For the rest of the flight, he refused to be drawn into conversation.

After the madhouse of Heathrow, Logan airport was tranquil as a Zen garden. The passengers filed off the plane. Eileen hobbled slowly down the jetway, shamefaced, while a river of people flowed around her. Anthony held her hand to steady her against the surging mass of humanity while she moved slowly along. A part of her marveled at how so simple a thing as the skirt could make her feel bound to him and dependent on him. It restricted her movements as surely as a prisoner's ball and chain; every step was a reminder of his control over her. The thought excited her, down in some place deep within that she didn't want to think about.

They were the last to arrive at the baggage claim. Once they had collected their luggage and the steamer trunk, Anthony motioned to a skycap. Eileen watched the man load their things onto a battered metal cart. Her breath caught when he slung the leather case onto the pile.

Outside, warm sun streamed around them. Anthony planted a kiss on her cheek. "Are you happy to be back, little whore? Just think of all the new adventures ahead of you!"

"Anthony, no—"

He leaned forward and murmured into her ear. "No, you're not happy to be back? You'd rather still be in London, pressed up against the hotel window while I shove metal weights into your cunt and lick you? My, my, my. You are a dirty girl!"

"NO!" Eileen blushed furiously. "No, you can't keep doing these things to me! Anthony, I'm serious! You can't just keep treating me like I'm some kind of...you know, some kind of...you can't keep doing those things to me!"

He grinned. "You can't even talk about sex, can you? That's very charming, you know." A cab pulled up next to the curb, and the trunk popped open. His expression brightened. "But actually, I can do those things to you. You've come so far in so short a time! It would be a shame to waste all that effort, right? Might as well finish with your training, the way I see it. In for a penny, in for a pound, isn't that what they say over there? Be a good girl and get in the cab, if you would please." He held the door open for her. "And when I say be a good girl, I mean no jilling yourself off to a screaming orgasm while I'm loading up the luggage, you insatiable slut! I know how you are."

She gasped and looked around wildly to see if anyone had overheard him. The skycap, paused from stacking suitcases into the trunk and looked at her with a strange expression. "Anthony!" she said. Her tone was shocked.

He grinned at her playfully. "Scoot! Get in the car!"

She struggled gracelessly into the back seat of the cab. The tight skirt made her clumsy and awkward. Anthony whistled in appreciation and gave her an exaggerated leer. She turned red and turned her face away.

The cab driver turned out to be a husky, hyperkinetic Ukrainian man with wavy brown hair and a three-day growth of stubble, who drove as if pursued by banshees. They weaved around other cars and pulled out onto the interstate.

Traffic at the entrance to the tunnel leading across the channel was at a standstill. The cabbie swore colorfully in a mishmash of half a dozen languages at the slowdown. He shook his fist at the indignity of all things related to gridlock. When the gods of automotive transportation declined to smite the traffic ahead of him, he turned around in his seat to assert with confident cheer that Indian women were the most beautiful and most passionate in the world, and undoubtedly made the best wives. He knew this, he said, because he had watched many Bollywood films, and was quite convinced of the truth of it. Anthony laughed and countered that it could not possibly be true, for he had already found the most beautiful and passionate woman in the world. "And," he added, wrapping his arm around Eileen, "I married her!"

The cabbie grinned back at the two of them and went on to a new topic, holding forth with great energy about how the Russians and the Americans had both landed on the moon in the 1960s, where they both built secret bases from which they fought a private lunar war. His source for this little-known history, he said, was above impeachment; his friend, who was a long-haul trucker, had once delivered a shipment of parts to NASA, and heard it directly from a worker there. "Soviets, good at war on Earth, not so good at war in space!" He thumped his chest. "Soviets lost, denied everything!"

They started moving again. He seemed to take this as a sign that his theory was correct. "You see? That is real reason Soviet Union collapsed!"