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From: MarArch@ix.netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.stories.moderated
Subject: Whitney's Training Session - D/s, Cons., bond., MF/f

Whitney's Training Session

	It was a long and difficult day for you, wasn't it, my dove.
Signing on to collect any morning mail, and discovering those
instructions... and how elaborate they were... the toys, the clamps,
the ropes... and that agonizing moment when you considered whether or
not to simply skip them and get started with the day that was already
beginning to run late. But in the end you sighed and complied, didn't
you... binding and clamping your body beneath your tasteful outer
garments... setting yourself up to endure a day of torment that would
have you wet and reeking by the time you arrived home.
	And then, upon returning, signing on once more and discovering
the other letter... this one informing you that you would have guests
this evening, and should be prepared for anything... absolutely
anything. That sent a shudder through you, didn't it, little pet...
Because you well knew that when I used that word "anything", you would
very shortly find your limits stretched a bit further than ever
before. And were you really up to such activities tonight? And did
that really matter? You are a sub, to the very core of your soul...
and when your Master tells you to dance, you do not complain of sore
feet or fatigue... you merely blend your body to his and swirl into
the soft music of the night.
	
	So, you quickly undressed, preparing yourself, as
instructed... and when the doorbell rang, you took a deep breath,
feeling very naked and vulnerable covered only in the skimpy thong
panties, stepped over to turn the lock on the door before returning to
the center of the room, where you knelt in the position you know would
please me... knees spread wide, fingers laced behind your neck, back
straight, eyes cast downwards.
	"Come in, Sir" you call, and the door opens before you.
	You felt a deep flush of shock rush into your cheeks as you
realized that I was being followed into your sanctuary by two
others... a couple, you imagined.... him, tall, slender, with dark
hair and eyes... she almost as stately in height but with hair the
color of glowing embers and eyes of burning jade.
	We were laughing lightly as we entered, the tail end of some
small humor trailing in behind us as we stepped past the portal and I
cast a casual glance at your kneeling form, my eyes registering pride
and approval before moving fully into the room and admitting them.
	He, however, paused to gaze down at you for a long moment, his
eyes sweeping slowly over you, as if appraising your worth, before the
smile spread out onto his lips.
	"Very nice" he said quietly, and then moved past you, as if
having seen a work of art, appreciated it and complimented the owner,
was now concerned with other matters.
	She, on the other hand, drilled you with her gaze, and even
from that distance, you could feel her hunger suddenly begin to swell.
A low, appreciative moan slid past her lips and she gazed down at you
for a long moment before turning to close the door and slip the lock
with ominous slowness. Then she turned back to you and moved, her body
almost slinking with each step, until she was no more than a foot from
you.
	Your eyes were fixed on her stomach, just where the top of the
slit in her long skirt revealed the very top of her stocking. And you
watched as her long-nailed hand slid over her hip, her palm drifting
lightly across the fabric as she gently stroked her lower abdomon, no
more than a foot from your face.
	And then, you caught her lusty scent rising up before you, and
watched as her hand slid back, the fingers slipping into the top of
the slit in the skirt and slowly disappeared as her hand now brushed
over her hip and toward her own hidden sex.
	And you saw as her other hand slowly began to rise up toward
you, the palm opening, as if to gently place itself upon your cheek.
But then, before it made contact, you heard from somewhere behind you,
that cautioning tone I sometimes use.
	"Uh, uh... no touching".
	She never took her eyes off you as her voice growled up,
hungrily, somewhere above you.
	"I want it."
	"Later" you hear me say, and she whimpers, disappointed, her
hidden hand slowly withdrawing from beneath the skirt and raised,
casually, slowly to her mouth. Because of your downcast eyes you can
not see but only hear the faint sound as she dips the finger into her
mouth and tastes her own growing lust. Then, with a sigh, she turns
and moves away, leaving you kneeling, waiting, in the center of the
room.
	
	That was how long ago? Fifteen minutes? Half an hour? Only
long enough for a quick tour of the place as I guide them around,
explaining how we have used each location, what was done to you in
what place and what innovations you endured during our play.
	And then they returned for a little more idle chatter, before
you heard my voice, somewhere behind you...
	"Well, shall we get started?"
	And the sound of them sinking into the two chairs which faced
the open area of the room, the tinkling of ice in glasses as they got
comfortable and then the sound of my voice...
	"Whitney? Please come here, dear."
	And so, it has begun...
	
	"Kneel, please."
	Without unclasping your hands from behind your neck, you
kneel, in the center of the room, facing the two chairs into which our
guests have settled to observe your training. Even though you
carefully keep your eyes averted and fixed on the floor just between
the chairs, you can not help but notice the woman shifting in her
chair slightly, nor her hand as it slides down into her lap, the
fingers beginning to curl and uncurl at the fold in her long skirt
just over the mound of her sex. The man sits, legs crossed, observing
dispassionately, his drink held casually before him.
	I am standing beside you, my voice casually drifting through
the room.
	"As you can see, she has taken well to her training so far.
But I thought that, for tonight, we would go just a bit further and
see how much she can endure. She, of course, knows her safe word and
understands that she won't be harmed in any way. But tonight, I did
want her to feel what it would be like to be... shall we call it
'tested', while others looked on."
	"Whitney" you hear me say from above you, "what is the most
destracting sense?"
	"Sight, Sir" you reply, having come to understand this through
long sessions of experiment and training.
	"Yes. Sight." you hear me say, and from the corner of your eye
you see me step to a table beside the seat in which the strange man is
settled and place my drink upon it, before turning and moving off
behind you, out of your vision.
	A few moments later, you feel the first touch of the heavy
blindfold on your hair and you close your eyes to allow it to settle
into place, its thick fleece lining brushing gently down over your
face while its thick, tight elastic strap grips the back of your head.
	Your vision thus cut off, you reach out with your ears,
straining to fix on any clue as to what might occur next. The answer
is not long in coming.
	A faint rattle behind you and you instantly recognize the
familiar clanking of the restraints on the ends of the spreader bar.
This is followed by the touch of my fingers on your left ankle, as the
restraint is slipped around it and buckled into place, securing it
tightly. I gently press against your other ankle, forcing it outwards
and causing you to shift your weight, spreading your knees wider,
until you can feel the tension in the joints of your hips, before the
other restraint is fitted around your right ankle and pulled snug.
	The position hangs just on the verge of being uncomfortable,
and you can already feel the muscles of your upper thighs beginning to
tense, straining to hold you upright. A small groan escapes your lips,
and from before you, you hear an answering sigh from the strange
woman, as if she has absorbed your discomfort and converted it to some
secret, inner lust.
	A few moments later, you are startled to feel something hard
pressed against the small of your back, almost knocking you forward.
But before you pitch over, you feel the press of my palm against your
shoulder, pulling you back, and you realize that it is, in fact, that
low, small stool that normally sits against the wall near the front
door. You feel me bend down and my fingers grip your thigh, just above
your knee, urging it even further open. You strain to press it outward
and then feel the forelegs of the stool slip down between your calves,
just below the knees, holding you now spread to the limit. You shift
slightly, and realize that the stool is now placed so that it sits
almost gripped by your lower legs, it's four firmly planted posts
touching the insides of your ankles and your upper calves, just below
the knees.
	"Hands behind your, please, Whitney" you hear me say, and
unclasp your fingers from behind your neck, moving your arms around
until they encounter the sides of the stool. It is a bit of a strain
to turn them so that they come to rest at the small of your back, but
the instant you feel the long, silk scarf beginning to wind around the
wrists, you relax them, and the tension ebbs from your now oddly
positioned elbows and shoulders.
	You feel the wrapped fabric of the scarf pulled tightly into
place and knotted securely, trapping your hands in that familiar
arrangement, but before you can relax and begin to absorb that
delicious sense of helplessness, you feel the end of a second scarf
looped over the first a single time and tied off.
	Before you can figure out just what this new sensation
portends, the answer is driven home to you, as you feel this silken
leash gently pulled back, drawing your bound wrists outwards behind
you, sliding them over the seat of the stool, causing your body to
bend backwards. Just when it reaches a point that puts the maximum
tension on your spine and shoulders, you feel your wrists slip down
the opposite side of the stool and plunge straight down behind it,
causing your upper body to arc back until it is virtually lying across
the seat.
	A torrent rushes through your mind, as you realize that you
have never felt this exposed, this vulnerable, your body bowed back
and all your most sensitive flesh exposed. You feel the other end of
the silken leash pulling tight and assume it has been tied off to the
center of the spreader bar. In fact, it is almost possible to relax
your body and lay flat long the seat of the stool to which you are now
securely bound, but the tension of the moment prevents this.
	You hear me rise from behind you and move around your side,
kneeling once more on the soft carpeting. Your breathing is now
becoming shallow and rapid, both with apprehension and excitement,
wondering what next will occur to you. You do not have long to wait
for the answer.
	The very faintest tickling at the join of your hip tells you
that my fingertips have grasped the small bow that holds together that
side of the tiny thong that covers your nakedness, and you feel the
bow being slowly pulled, until, with an almost audible jerk, it opens,
allowing the thin triangle of cloth over your naked, smooth mons to
peel down, exposing your sex.
	You groan at this and deep inside you feel the clenching of
your sex which causes your body to tingle and begin to moisten.
	From before you, you hear the gasp of the woman, quickly
followed by a low, appreciative moan as she catches the first sight of
your naked sex. And perhaps even the rustling of cloth, as if her
skirt is being moved asside, allowing her to fully appreciate her
admiration of you through gentle carrasses to her own body.
	You feel the other strap similarly tensed as the knot loop is
gently pulled and then it too slips free and the thong falls away from
your hips, exposing you completely.
	In a few moments you sense rather than feel something close to
your face, and then you catch the scent of your own lust, and quickly
realize that the bundled thong is now being waved before your
nostrils.
	"Give it to me" you hear the woman hiss, urgently, and the
scent fades as the thong is moved away.
	"Whitney" you hear me say, calmly, "What is the second most
distracting sense?"
	"Hearing, Sir" you manage to gasp, and a shudder rolls through
you, knowing what is to follow.
	In a few moments, you feel the thick padding of the headphones
being slid down over your ears, gripping them snuggly, and then the
faint hiss as the cassette tape is switched on, followed by the quiet
strains of the music pumping directly into your mind. And, in the
background, almost so faint as to be barely noticed, the steady
moaning and whimpering of the woman, undergoing some delicious
torment... and you realize that that woman is yourself, having been
recorded on a number of previous occasions and mixed with the music to
create this tape.
	The next few minutes you merely hang there, bent back and
exposed over the stool, your mind gently assaulted by the sounds of
your own past lust. You try to reach out past the darkness and
distracting melody, wondering what might be going on mere inches from
your pinioned body.
	A sudden sharp chill explodes on the point of your right
nipple and your whole body shudders in response, as the wave of
sensation ripples through you. Something intensely cold has been
brushed against the already tight bud of flesh and then, as the dull
throbbing begins, you feel it slowly begin to change... alter... and
the nerves beginning to tingle.... The medicated cream which had been
sitting in the freezer since our arrival produces a torrent of
sensations that roll through your chest and sink down into your
stomach, which flutters in response. And you feel the chill of the
ointment beginning to mix with the rapidly growing chemical "heat",
the two contradictory sensations blending in an explosive assault on
the sensitive, tight, throbbing skin.
	Between your legs, you can feel the first droplets of your
lust oozing to the edge of your lips and beginning to bead there,
waving gently back and forth, this tiny movement adding the faintest
tickle to the assualt upon your nipple.
	The other nipple erupts with a stab of cold, and the entire
process is repeated, doubled, as both of your nipples now are
throbbing and aching under the icy, heated attack by the lotion.
	And even before your mind and flesh can fully adjust to the
ripples of sensations that now roll through your entire chest and
settle deep into your sex, a third sensation... a sudden, shocking
stab of something which explodes as a pinpoint of heat against the
outer ring of one nipple, is added.
	Your entire body shudders deeply as the melted wax strikes the
outer edge of the areola and slowly trickles down an inch or two
before cooling enough to begin hardening.
	You are whimpering now, your upturned chest under the first
stages of a slow, methodical assault by the varying sensations of heat
and cold... and your mind begins to draw down, tightly, rushing to
focus on each pinpoint along your skin where every fresh droplet of
melted wax strikes and awakens the nerves with an intense stab of
something that almost brushes the underside of something a little like
pain, but which quickly becomes mere intense sensation.
	For how long this continues, you have no way of knowing. Your
mind begins to drift off, stretched between the shattering burst of
each new pinpoint of torment on your flesh and the deliciously wicked
images called up by the sounds of your own past lust faintly drifting
into your ears.
	But this combination of trickling, burning, chilling stabs of
sensations against your vulnerable skin and the racing congurations of
your mind carries you up to a constant throbbing deep in your sex, and
your reddened, swollen clit begins to ache for release.
	Again, the sensations begin to ebb, your body adjusting to
them, absorbing them, and your mind turns to reach out once more,
wondering what might be occuring outside the confines of your trapped
flesh....
	Then you feel the it... first the light touch, then the grip,
and finally the pinch of the clamp as it slides down and captures your
nipple, holding it tightly, and this fresh attention sends the nerves
soaring once more, fresh waves of throbbing rolling deep into your
flesh.
	You cry out in alarm, your voice a gentle, innoscent "oh" that
dissipates into the blackness surrounding you, as the second clamp
slips around and takes your other nipple prisoner.
	You feel the chain which connects the clamps playing out along
your skin, and when it's center finally touches the upper reaches of
your stomach and is slowly released, you realize from the light
tugging on your now captured nipples that a slight weight has been
afixed to it, appling a slight pressure to it's assault.
	Now your head is rolling slowly back and forth, as if seeing
to stretch out and allow some form of escape or relase, your throat
producing a low, steady moan with every breath, a mantra from your
over-stimulated flesh sung out to the void that surrounds you.
	Then you feel the first of the caresses... the light, almost
tickling fingertips, begin to sweep over you, like the breath of an
angel on the downy hairs of your body. They sweep slowly, deliberately
over you, lightly touching every part of you, your neck, your chest,
your arms, your legs... even slipping up your inner thighs and toward
your now aching and throbbing clit. But, maddeningly, drifting away
before providing that single touch that might ignite the explosion
your body now craves.
	And every place the fingers touch, fresh waves of need burst
through you, sinking deep and settling inside your now trembling,
flooded sex. You feel your back arching, urgent, hungry and desparate,
but to no avail.
	When it first brushes the tight pucker of your nether opening,
the tip of the small, slender vibrator causes you to suck in a gasp of
breath and expell a loud whimper of shock. But as the slickly coated
invader is pressed against you, parting your opening and sliding up
into you, stretching you and contacting those as yet untouched nerves,
your cry is one of abject surrender, as the heat of this new torrent
of sensations boils up, stabbing deep into your sex from beyond the
thin membrane of flesh.
	Your body is twitching now, short rapid shudders sending
automatic quivers through every part of you, as if each nerve were
charged with some electric spark and every muscle was tensing against
it's own will.
	You feel the invader sink slowly to it's hilt, impaling you
fully, like a stake through the soul.
	When the larger vibrator is pressed against the naked lips of
your sex and begins to part them, your cry is that of an animal, and
the fleeting image in your mind is of a butterfly, as the pin stabs
through it, pinning it to the soft bed of cotton below.
	The second vibrator penetrates deep into you, it's angle
bringing its slow inward stroke firmly against the front of your inner
sex and releasing even more explosions of assaulted nerves into you,
which roll outwards and lap against every part of your skin. Then it
too is fully seated, deep within you, and you feel as if you are split
and filled and trapped on a pair of soft pikes that will hold you in
place until the end of the world.
	When they are both switched on, and begin to tremble inside
you, you scream, your mind shattered by the assault, it's thousand
pieces flung into the void and only the overwhelming waves of your own
lust, your own heat, your own need remaining.
	And when the tip of the finger lightly slips between the
parted, throbbing, aching and desparate lips of your sex, and gently
brushes over the base of your clit, stroking up along it's length, a
deep sob escapes you and the explosion ignites.
	Your body goes rigidly tense against the searing heat of the
cumming that flares through every nerve, every pore, every atom of
your flesh, washing away the last of your identity in an explosion of
fire and ice that devestates the very core of you. And even before it
begins to ebb, the fingertip slowly starts to move, it's gentle
strokes tracing over the outer edges of your clit, beginning a
rhythm... and the second blast of cumming leaps up to burn the ashes
left by the first...
	
	Your eyes slowly open, and you realize you are lying on the
couch, a soft blanket pressing gently down on your naked flesh. Across
the room, I am standing by the open door, just shaking hands with the
strange man who turns to smile at you with deep appreciation before
stepping through. The woman leans in to plant a grateful kiss against
my cheek and, even as she holds my arm, slowly turns her head to fix
her gaze upon you, the blaze deep inside her eyes now dulled to a
contented ember. And you watch as she slowly raises a hand, extending
her middle finger toward her slightly parted lips, her tongue slipping
out just enough for her to lay the fingertip against it and lick it,
savoring something sweet and special, before she too turns and moves
through the door, which is quietly closed behind her....
E-mail with comments: MarArch@ix.netcom.com

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