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Training Allie part 2, revised and extended {Les Evans} 
(Mf ff cons reluct rom oral anal mdom 1st fsolo inc bd sm 
spank preg slave slow CAUTION) [2/2]

"Training Allie" was originally posted as "Allie."

Introduction to Chapters 12 and on:

When I submitted the first 11 chapters of "Allie," I 
really thought I was done with the story. But then a 
request poured in for "more Allie," so here it is. The 
characters develop in a somewhat different direction from 
how I thought they might when I submitted the first 
version. Be warned, the tone of the new chapters is 
considerably darker than the first 11. If you're rigidly 
pro-life, I suggest you not read on. Thanks to those who 
provided feedback; I hope you like what I have done with 
your suggestions. Chapters 1-11 have been lightly edited.

Acknowledgements: Advice on happiness, from Marcus 
Aurelius. A chapter title, from an old Fellowes book. 
Several  images from "9-1/2 weeks." A respectful and 
grateful nod to "The Story of O."

Chapter 12: How high? What color?

Allie: As I knelt there, I couldn't help reflecting on 
how disappointed I was in how this had all turned out. I 
mean, did I somehow fail to make it clear what I wanted? 
Jack was a nice guy, which maybe was the problem. He 
insisted on treating me, I don't know, like some kind of 
/girlfriend/ or something! I kept hoping that he'd "grow 
into the job" of being a master, but it never happened. 
So the letter thing was kind of a "last hurrah." If he 
didn't get a clue, I didn't know what I'd do. It was easy 
enough to steal a page of Psych Department letterhead, 
and the check went into a savings account. Tomorrow would 
be his birthday, and then we'd see. I planned to spend 
tonight working up my courage for how the relationship 
would, or at least might, change.

Jack: I said, "Allie, I'm disappointed with you. You seem 
to think that I'm looking for some sort of /girlfriend/! 
Lots of fun sex, a little kinky dressup, and you think 
you can call yourself a slave? I've been hoping that 
you'd grow into your slavery, but it hasn't happened. 
Didn't I say, 'Surprise me'? Look, did you promise to 
devote ALL your time, energy, and focus to MY pleasure?" 
She nodded. I said, "Let me give you an example: did you 
play with yourself today?" She nodded again, with a shrug 
that said something like, "Sure, since when is that a 
problem?" I said, "And whose pleasure were you seeking, 
mine or yours? " The light slowly began to dawn in her 
eyes that she had blown it, big time. "That is part of 
what I mean by 'acting like a girlfriend,' not a slave. 
Let me remind you that the last time you forgot your 
station, I gave you six with the cane." Real fear in her 
eyes now. She knew the cane. One of those six had been 
across her breasts.

"Here's what's going to happen to you. We have the summer 
in front of us. By the end of the summer you will either 
have developed the obedience you need to be a true slave, 
or I will destroy you, which is to say, I will free you."

She wanted pain? Well, she'd get it. But not in the ways 
she was expecting.

Then, in my best imitation of Lieutenant Columbo, I 
added, "Oh, there IS one more thing. As of now, you're 
off The Pill." 

I watched her face for several minutes as a sequence of 
emotions rolled over her: realization that pregnancy 
would be inevitable, the fear of the whole medical 
process, the tentative glow at the thought of being a 
mother, the implications of not being able to finish her 
college degree, the fact that she would be an "unmarried 
mother." All of these chased each other across her face, 
finally leaving her wide-eyed and open-mouthed. She 
raised her hand.

I said "No, you may NOT speak. You just demonstrated that 
you lack the one skill you need to truly be a slave, not 
a kinky girlfriend. In the ceremony where I claimed you, 
did you not offer 'Absolute and instant obedience'? You 
promised--your words--not to consider, accept, or wait to 
understand. Yet you just spent several minutes 
considering, trying to accept, trying to understand. This 
summer, you will learn to do, not accept, or I will break 
you in the process.

"There's an old saying from the Army: When I say 'Jump,' 
you jump, and you don't ask 'How high?' until your feet 
have already left the ground. When I say 'Shit,' you 
shit, and the only question you ask is 'What color?' 
Implications and consequences are my problem, or my 
pleasure, not yours. Your problem is instant and perfect 
execution. It should be enough for you that I believe the 
action I demand will please me. 

"Over the course of the summer, I will give you many 
commands. If you learn the skill of instant obedience, if 
you confine yourself to execution, you will find none of 
the commands difficult. How hard is it NOT to take a 
pill, for example? But if you have not learned the skill 
of instant obedience, if you concern yourself with 
consequences, of what other people think, dealing with 
execution of the commands will be its own punishment." 

"And now we come to this..." I waved the letter, "...which is 
totally bogus." Her face went white. "I can understand a 
slave who, as they say in the NFL, wants to take her 
'game to the next level.' But I make no allowance for a 
slave who attempts to mislead and fraudulently manipulate 
her master in doing so. That was a stupid thing to do. 
You remember what happened the last time you lied to me?" 
Clearly, she did. It was, you'll forgive the expression, 
the seminal event in our relationship. I wrapped my hands 
around her throat. "In the old days, slaves who lied..." I 
tightened my grip "...were killed." She could barely 
breathe, sucking air noisily past the constriction of my 
thumbs. Her hands fluttered against her thighs, resisting 
the desperate desire to tear my hands away. I released my 
grip. "But I won't do that to you, mostly because the 
paperwork would be such a bother. However, I will punish 
you. You have forgotten your spanking, so I am going to 
come up with a punishment that will be unforgettable. Not 
today, perhaps not soon, but some day this summer I will 
require you to submit to a punishment that you will 
remember every time you look in a mirror, for the rest of 
your life. 

"And NOW you may speak."

Allie: My gut felt like it had a ball of lead in it. Here 
we go, I thought. I had it so good, and I had to go and 
pull that stupid stunt. Where did I get the idea that I 
could put one over on him? Saints preserve me. There was 
nothing to say but, "How may I please you?"

Jack: Allie had made a small but important mistake. How 
many people do you know that sign their names in green 
ink? Not many, right? None? Well, Allie does, a harmless 
affectation she picked up in grade school. And guess 
what? "Dr. _____," the Psych Department expert on false 
memory? The letter supposedly from "Dr. ______" was 
signed in green ink, ballpoint. As it happened, I knew 
"Dr. _____" from some work he had done for me on the 
psychology of learning, and I knew that he favored blue-
black, fountain pen. 

I had to be careful about how I did this. I realized that 
Allie was starting to bore me, because she loved 
everything I did to her. Different people "do sex" for 
different reasons: to make babies, to express affection, 
whatever. In my case, sex is an expression of power. You 
show power by making something happen that otherwise 
would not. In this case, it means making someone do 
something they don't want to do. But in the realm of sex, 
a slut will do anything, she will like anything, and 
Allie was in danger of turning into a kind of monogamous 
slut. So I had to make her do things she didn't want to 
do, hated to do, would do only because she needed to 
please me. I didn't want to "break" her, to grind her 
down to where she lost any emotional reaction to things I 
demanded: I really wanted to see that grimace of pain or 
disgust as she leapt to obey. And now I had a documented 
volunteer.

Ah, Hell. "Allie, get on your knees and elbows. Let's set 
about getting you pregnant."

An interesting thing happened. When I came in her, she 
burst into tears. Perfect.

Chapter 13: Alfresco

Jack: We were invited to a garden party of some friends 
of mine, people who weren't in on the relationship Allie 
and I had. It was one of those informal things where 
waiters circulate with drinks and canapés, and paper 
lanterns are strung through the trees. 

Allie wore a full peasant skirt and blouse. And of 
course, no panties. Early on, I found a chair at one side 
of the garden, and had her sit on my lap, facing and 
straddling me. Her full skirt fell to the ground in back 
of her, and bunched my lap. I snagged a passing waiter 
and got a drink. "Allie," I said, "open my fly and put my 
cock in you." She looked wildly around, trying to 
reassure herself that we were in some dark corner, 
unobserved. We were neither of those. "Allie," I said, 
"there will be punishment for that."

Allie: So I reached under the roll of my skirt that was 
in his/my lap, got him open, and wiggled a bit until it 
went in. Of course, I was soaking wet, but that meant 
nothing: I'm always soaking wet these days. Just as he 
popped into me a waiter came by to ask whether he could 
get me anything. I wanted to say, "Yes, please. Could you 
get me a pistol? I'd like to shoot myself." But I said 
no. Then Jack had me start squeezing my cunt while we 
necked. All the while, people he knew were coming by to 
indulge him in civilized conversation. Since neither of 
us was moving, externally anyhow, it was a long time 
before I felt him shoot into me while he was talking to 
someone about crabgrass. I hadn't come, not that that was 
his problem. Finally we were alone for a moment. He sat 
up straighter, which caused his deflating cock to pull 
out of me. He said, "Clean me off on the inside of your 
skirt, and close up my trousers." 

Jack: We left shortly thereafter. As we walked away, I 
noted a tablespoon-sized gob of come on the ground in 
front of the chair. The fact that she had looked around 
meant that she was still worried about what other people 
thought, rather than about executing my commands. Since 
her eyes were the part that sinned, I made her wear a 
blindfold for 24 hours. And I cuffed her hands behind her 
so she couldn't play with herself.

Allie: Jeeez. I mean, I used to be smart, y'know? Got 
into college a year early and everything. Hell, I know 
how to operate a zipper, right? I know how to "put it in" 
(yum). But can I do two simple things like that when my 
man sez "do?" Nooo! What do I think with? My ovaries? 
Whatever gave me the silly idea that I had a reputation 
to protect? Why did I start making things that are so 
damn easy, so damn hard? The thing that makes me weep is 
he's right: work at the task in front of me, /without 
expectations/, and I can't fail to be at peace. The last 
thing in the world I want is for him to free me.

And I remember, every time he comes in me, it could be 
the time that knocks me up.

Jack: I decided that her vaginal muscles could be toned 
up. After some thought, I went to my workshop and over a 
day or two put together an exercise machine that you'll 
never see at Geld's Gym. I called it the "Prayer Tower."

Think of an upright, a miniature tower about two feet 
high, with four legs extending horizontally from its base 
at floor level. One of the legs is thicker than the 
others, maybe 4" x 4". On the top of the outer end of 
that leg you'd see a hemisphere about the size of half a 
grapefruit, flat side up, with a dildo attached firmly to 
the flat (upper) side of hemisphere. The dildo assembly 
is kept vertical by a cord that's attached to the 
opposite (rounded, bottom) side of the hemisphere. The 
cord runs down,  through the inside of the "table leg," 
up the tower, and down to a weight, which serves two 
purposes. First, the constant tension of the weight on 
the dildo assembly keeps the dildo upright when not 
"otherwise engaged," as it were. Second, the weight 
provides an adjustable tension which challenges the 
vaginal muscles to keep the dildo in place, which is the 
object of the exercise. Of course, the dildo is my size--
why invite unfavorable comparison?

In use, she straddled the dildo, genuflected, and impaled 
herself (no hands permitted). Grip and kneel up, thighs 
vertical, pulling the dildo up with her against the 
resistance of the weight. Hold as long as able. When the 
dildo fell out, the weight reeled it in and returned the 
dildo to the starting position. Genuflect and repeat. 

Of course, as the duration and number of reps increases, 
the dildo gets wetter, which increases the challenge, 
just as she is also tiring. Just as at Geld's, both 
weight and duration can be increased. When she got pretty 
good, I increased the weight.

I even added a little surface to the top of the tower, 
like a music stand, so she could have a book to read 
while she was exercising. So considerate, I am.

Chapter 14: Ringing the Belle

Jack: A few days later, I sat her down in the study. 
"Allie, I'm going to try a little 'art therapy.' In the 
western world, we associate different emotions and 
rational capabilities with different parts of the body. 
The ancient Greeks thought that emotions originated in 
the belly. Our modern romantic view has them coming from 
the heart. Aristotle thought that the function of the 
brain was to cool the blood. We associate that organ with 
the rational facility, planning, weighing consequences, 
and such. Draw me a sketch of Allison, not a likeness of 
her outside, but a symbolic representation of what went 
on inside." 

Allison had always been clever at the arts, and after a 
couple of tries, she came up with a Picasso-esque left-
to-right sweep in which disembodied eyes were linked by 
two broad ribbons to a brain, which was linked by a 
broader band to a heart, which was linked by two bands to 
a pair of hands.

I picked up the riding crop and said, "Fine. Sort of 
'Guernica' looking. Now, how would we represent Allie, 
the slave? You have a cunt--no, you ARE a cunt. And an 
ass, and a mouth. Those three warm, moist holes ARE 
Allie. Everything else is transportation," (here I tapped 
her thigh with the crop), "advertising," (a flick to one 
nipple), "or mission control," (I grabbed her by the hair 
and shook her head), "for Allie, who is HERE," (and I 
cupped her pussy). "As a slave, you have no need for 
planning, or weighing consequences, only doing, immediate 
compliance. Emotions are tied up in some mess of past and 
future and what-if and could and should and might. Draw 
me a picture of Allie, the slave." And I left the room.

Allie: I suppose it was denial on my part. I kept doing 
doodles of Arabian Nights girls in chains, with my face. 
It took me an hour before I got serious. I wound up with 
a thing: an open vagina filled the center of the page, a 
toothless mouth and tongue sat above it. A tiny rectum 
was an asterisk hanging from the bottom. Little feet were 
attached left and right to the bottom of the vagina as 
though it were a torso, little hands where the 
"shoulders" would be, little tits on the sides of the 
vagina. No brain. No heart. Just the essentials for 
Absolute Obedience. Just then he came into the room, and 
looked at the drawing. He asked, "What's that?" and I 
answered, "That's me, now." He grunted, "Good. When 
that's your self-image, you'll be happier. Hang that 
drawing up where you'll see it."

Then he had me dictate my "love letter" into my iPod, 
along with the tape we had made of the claiming ceremony. 
I was to listen to those segments all the way through 
once each day. I couldn't decide whether they sounded 
sappy or exquisite.

After lunch, he handed me a card. He said, "You have an 
appointment at this address at two o'clock. Ask for Ken. 
They have their instructions. If you leave now and take 
the bus, you can just make it. Go." So I grabbed my purse 
and got. I knew the general part of town, not one of the 
best, so it wasn't hard to work the busses to get there. 
I found myself standing in the gritty street in front of 
a gritty tattoo/piercing parlor, trying to keep the 
gritty wind from blowing my short skirt up around my 
waist as I wrestled with my feelings, my eyes stinging 
from unshed tears. It didn't matter whether he wanted a 
piercing or a tattoo: I'd be DAMNED if I was going to 
have some obese biker stick NEEDLES (I hate needles) into 
MY BODY. I'd be DAMNED if I was going to have MY BODY 
violated with some kind of pagan decoration. I'd be 
DAMNED if...if...I'd be DAMNED if I would forfeit this chance 
to please him. I don't know how long I stood there.

"Ken" turned out to be Kendra, a little half-oriental 
girl who ran the shop. She had her instructions from 
Jack, and the first thing she said to me was, "You're 
late. You know I'll tell Mr. Kennedy that?" Then she was 
in to getting the necessary bits uncovered, cleaned, and 
punched. I walked out of there an hour later with my 
nipples, clit, and septum starting to throb. My nose ring 
was in an envelope in my purse: he had specified a kind 
of grommet in my septum, into which a removable ring 
could be placed when he desired. I guess he wanted to 
spare me the embarrassment of going to class with a ring 
in my nose. What a guy.

He gave me hell for being late for the appointment: 
Kendra had ratted me out. Actually, not for being late, 
but for standing on the curb and wrestled with 
"consequences," trying to "accept." After all, as he 
said, "You've known how to walk for a long time." All I 
had to do was walk; is that so hard? Walk right on 
through the door of the tattoo parlor. But oh, no, even 
knowing that my master wanted this, I had to /decide/ for 
myself whether it was a good thing. Dumb. Made me feel 
three inches tall. 

At the beginning of the summer, he threatened to free me 
if I don't start getting my act together. The threat of 
freedom fills me with dread, and I sure haven't given him 
any sign that I'm learning obedience. 

Since I /wouldn't/ walk, my punishment was that I 
/couldn't/ walk: my ankle cuffs were locked together for 
the next week. I had to go up and down the stairs on my 
bottom. I couldn't spread my legs for him. 

And every waking hour, the cloud of my pending punishment 
for lying hung over my head.

My masturbation was now always in his presence, at his 
initiation, for his entertainment. Sometimes he'd have me 
do it standing up. Sometimes, use the "wrong" hand, or 
wear gloves. Sometimes, I'd have to hump myself on his 
thigh. In bed, he'd have me straddle him in the "cowgirl 
position" and bring him off with whichever hole he'd 
chosen, and myself off with my fingers. As he said, why 
should he have to do all the work around here? 

And he had me "count myself down." When I got close to 
orgasm, I had to count down from ten, nine, ... and come 
before "zero." If I was gagged, I had to signal him, and 
he'd count. At least he never said "blastoff" at the end.

Chapter 15: Center of Gravity

Jack: Her punishment for lying came sooner that I had 
hoped. No sooner had her piercings healed than the events 
I wanted were lined up. Without explanation, I had her 
pack an overnight bag, loaded her in the car, and took 
her to a building in a pleasantly landscaped industrial 
park a couple of miles from downtown.

Still in the car, I turned to her. "This is your 
punishment for lying. This is a plastic surgery clinic. 
You have an appointment. I have made all the 
arrangements. You will go through the door, sign all the 
forms they give you, go where they tell you to go, do 
exactly what they tell you to do, ask no questions. You 
will keep a straight face. I will be there when you come 
out of the operation. Now go."

As I expected, she broke down in tears. Of course. Again. 
In other circumstances, I would have enjoyed the show. 
She still didn't get the idea of "Don't accept, do." Of 
course. Finally, she recovered control enough to say, 
"Please..." and I stopped her right there. "Allie! One more 
time. You said that you signed up for this life to please 
ME. When you start a sentence with 'please,' almost 
always the person you're trying to 'please' is YOU. You 
do have a choice here, but if you refuse me, I will 
destroy you, which is to say, I will free you. What's it 
to be, woman?" 

After a while, she quit with the waterworks. She cleaned 
up her face, blew her nose. Deep breath, a nod, and she 
picked up her overnight bag and walked into the clinic. I 
went back to the house. As a footnote, the exercise was 
funded, in part, by the "check to the professor" that I 
had recovered from her savings account.

Allie: He was too nice to me, calling me "woman." I've 
been such a twit. He should have said "girl." I walked 
into the clinic in a daze, like a robot. I signed papers, 
heard little, felt nothing. There was the pre-op prep, 
and they put me under. Just after the needle went it, I 
realized that I had no idea what was going to happen to 
me.

When I woke up in post-op, of course, I was disoriented. 
It took a while to realize that I was in a clinic, and 
why. Jack was there, holding my hand. Nothing hurt, yet. 
I still didn't know what had been done. It took an hour 
or two before I was fully conscious and able to sit up, 
at which point part of the answer was instantly obvious. 
My chest was suddenly heavy. Oh, dear God, no!

Jack: Allie had been a nice B cup. I don't have a tit 
fetish, but I whoever said "More than a handful is a 
waste" was of limited imagination: more than a handful is 
a lot of fun to bat around. Perhaps as much as the 
function of her ovaries, a woman defines her body through 
the size and shape of her tits. Allie was now a solid D 
cup, not monstrous, but considerable. I figured that 
there was no better way to give her something to remind 
her of her transgression. As I said, every time she 
looked in a mirror, for the rest of her life. And for 
good measure, a bit of collagen in the lips. 

Allie: The first time I stood up, I overbalanced and 
nearly fell over, my center of gravity had shifted so 
much. It took a long time before I could even walk with 
confidence. After recovery, he took me home. As we left 
the clinic, I started to run ahead of him as I always 
have to, to open the car door for him (after all, I'm a 
slave, why should he ever have to open a door?), but I 
had to slow down after a couple of steps--the damned 
things were bounding all over the place, and they hurt. 
On the way home, I wore a baggy sweatshirt over his new 
milk bags. On the way, we stopped at a mall and I bought 
a dozen industrial-strength bra's, and some tops to 
display his investment. 

I hated them immediately, my Silicone Sentence. I gave 
them names: the left one was "Liar" and the right one was 
"Stupid."  Jack calls them my "funbags."

Let me tell you, I had to learn to put a bra on. Little 
B's are bumps. Little B's just get wrapped up. D's are 
Capital Equipment. D's require technique: bend way over, 
let the udders hang, mold the cups around them, do up the 
snaps, do up the straps, then straighten up. Just when I 
thought there was nothing else that would surprise me, he 
had me modify the bra's. Each cup received a buttonhole, 
vertically in the center of the cup. When I put the bra 
on, I had to rotate each nipple ring 90 degrees, thread 
it through the buttonhole, and rotate the ring back 
horizontally, with nipple and ring now on the outside of 
the cup. Imagine what it looked like. Imagine what it 
felt like.

It was a good thing Jack had spent a year working on my 
posture and back muscles, or I'd never have made it.

And of course, men immediately started talking to my 
chest. Which made a kind of gruesome sense--until I could 
start to get this obedience thing right, I was a pretty 
worthless slave girl. Clearly there was nothing between 
my ears worth talking to. Some days it seemed that my 
head was nearly as large as my tits, and nearly as smart.

I never learned to love those mammaries. They were a 
punishment, after all, a life sentence: "The Word was 
made flesh, and dwelt among us." What was The Word? Jack 
had said, "You lied to me. That was a stupid thing to 
do." And I could tell you, stupid girls do stupid things. 

Here's how life changes with juggs. Imagine that you have 
a heavy cardboard box, maybe 18" on a side, that you have 
to get across town on a crowded bus. It's too big to tuck 
under your arm. Most people would carry it against their 
chests by cupping a hand under each outside corner. Think 
about getting on the bus with the box. You'd have to plot 
your course so the box didn't bump into things or people, 
you'd have to lean way backwards to avoid intruding into 
other people's space, apologize when you failed, couldn't 
see where you were putting your feet. Other people bump 
into you, brush against you, in ways that wouldn't happen 
if it was just you, not the box. The damned thing is 
always in the way, is always an inconvenience, always has 
to be accounted for, planned for.

Now, add to that the fact that it wasn't a box, but 
boobs. With sensitive, exposed, ringed nipples, that are 
constantly erect. Where every brush sent a jolt of 
sensation to my pussy. And, of course, a lot of men on 
the bus worked hard to make sure that the "brushing" 
wasn't accidental.

They attracted unpleasant attention of another sort, in 
bed. Jack would cuff my hands behind me and have me ride 
him, and after I got really worked up he'd start to spank 
Them, like he was clapping his hands but with titmeat in 
the middle. A couple of minutes of that, I could take. 
Much more would have me howling into the gag, even as I 
struggled to thrust Them forward for the next slap. God 
forbid I should break rhythm or miss a "grip on the 
upstroke." It seemed that he wasn't laying into Them as 
hard as he'd like because of the implants, and in a 
strange way, I wanted to apologize to him. But the worst 
part? The worst part of it was that a long session of 
boobie bongos, followed by a sharp yank on the nipple 
rings, would pitch me right over the edge into 
mindblowing orgasm. I really am a painslut after all!

Jack: Cuffing her hands behind her, of course, meant that 
she couldn't inadvertently defend her breasts. She knew I 
enjoyed her reaction to the pain, and so great was her 
desire to please that she'd do everything she could to 
allow, even assist, her own torture. But /in extremis/, 
it would be unfair to expect that she could control 
herself. 

When she was bound, in bed or out, she had to work 
harder, and hurt more, to please me. And if sex is about 
power, as it is for me, the trick is to drive her right 
up to the point where the need to escape the pain, 
emotional or physical, almost overcomes her desire to 
stay. 

Of course, a woman's bound body can be a work of art. Her 
writhing to deal with the pain caused by enforced 
immobility can be a ballet.

The hard part of this for me as a new master, 
technically, was ensuring that there was--as one Internet 
master put it--no unintentional pain. Ropes should not 
chafe. Straps should not pinch. There should be no cramp. 
The suffering must come from the position itself. Or--with 
great care--loss of circulation. Or the humiliation of her 
submission.

Chapter 16: Table Manners

Allie: About this time, he started to come up with new 
ways to use my mouth.

After I made his dinner, he would have me back under the 
table in front of his chair, and he'd hook my nose ring 
by a short chain to the underside of the table rim. He'd 
begin to eat dinner, and I'd begin to eat him. I had to 
get him off quickly, or there would be no table scraps 
for Allie. All this was a greater challenge because the 
chain was too short to let me really use my throat, and 
boy, did that ring hurt when I forgot the chain was 
there.

Then, there was the conference call routine, with the 
opposite objective. Some of those calls lasted an hour 
and a half, and it was my job to make sure he did, too. I 
had to crawl into the knee-space of his desk, where he'd 
hook my tit-rings to the front of his chair. He had a 
small chain to my nose ring, which he'd yank if he 
thought I was getting bored. Bored? Worshiping that 
magnificent rod? Though sometimes I'd get distracted, 
what with an aching jaw and sore throat. But nobody said 
I couldn't diddle myself during the exercise. At least 
his new balloons gave me more maneuvering room than my 
former knobbies would have. And I learned to kneel on a 
towel so I didn't mess up his carpet with drool from 
either end of me. I could always tell when he was closing 
a deal, because his hand would go to the back of my 
skull, and it would be a very long time indeed to the 
next breath. If his business gets any better, I'll have 
to learn how to breathe through my skin, or through my 
ears, or adopt blue as my color.

And the "endless loop." He'd come in one of my nether 
holes, and I'd have to put stupid's mouth to work to get 
him up again. I never learned to like doing it when the 
hole involved had been my ass, but you have to understand 
the tradeoff: in that case, if I could get him going 
again, then he'd be back in my cunt, which I admit I 
liked best. I guess I'm just an old-fashioned girl with 
traditional family values. It took me too long to learn 
that if Jack was feeling frisky, I should find a way to 
sneak off and give myself an enema: at least that way I 
got to choose the flavor. And never, NEVER forget to 
grease up.

Of course, now that I had cleavage, I had to learn to 
tittie-fuck. That was kind of fun. But I would have 
nightmares about a giant serpent slithering out of a 
mountain cave to devour me.

His favorite, I think, was "fetch." He would double my 
arms up, strapping each forearm to its upper arm. He 
would strap each calf to its thigh. He'd attach small 
bells to each of my rings--nose, tits, and clit. Then, 
he'd get out the rawhide dogbone and fling it across the 
room. And Allie would have to go galloping and jingling 
and jiggling across the carpet, my nipples scraping along 
the carpet, pick up the dogbone in my mouth, bring it 
back, and "sit up and beg." Repeat, endlessly. After the 
first iteration or two, the rawhide would be wet from 
saliva, and sticky. It would pick up any dust bunnies I'd 
missed in my cleaning. Yech! It was bad enough when it 
went under a chair, worm and squirm. But the worst was 
when he tossed the damned thing down the stairs. At least 
I didn't have to pay health club fees for the exercise.

Chapter 17: And Baby Makes Two

Jack: As it turned out, it was only about a month after 
the initial confrontation that I woke up one morning to 
the sounds of retching coming from the bathroom. Morning 
sickness usually doesn't start until about the fifth 
week, but my Allie was an overachiever, and she must have 
"caught" almost immediately after we started trying. 
Well, /I/ started trying. I reached for the phone: I had 
an appointment to set up. When she emerged from the 
bathroom, her face was the color of oatmeal. We exchanged 
a look, and I hugged her. No words were needed.

Over the course of the next week, the changes that had 
been there, but too subtle for me to notice, became more 
obvious. Her nipples became more sensitive. She 
lubricated more easily. The morning sickness intensified. 
And the mood swings--oh, the mood swings! She collected 
several lines in her Discipline Book, and many hours of 
progressively more uncomfortable gags, for letting her 
hormones run her tongue. But those things aside, she 
seemed to be getting into the idea of being pregnant. She 
glowed. She started thinking about baby names.

Then one morning the next week, I told her to get 
dressed, that we were going out on an errand. The tone I 
used admitted no discussion, and she did. 

After a short drive to a nearby medical complex, I pulled 
into a parking place in front of a single-floor 
"professional building." In front was a discreet sign 
that let one know that this was the Adams and Adams 
Family Planning Clinic. She looked at the sign, then back 
at me, then at the sign again. In some parts of the 
country, "family planning clinic" is a code phrase for 
"abortionist." Ours was one of those parts of the 
country, and she knew it. 

I turned to her and said, "You have an appointment in ten 
minutes. Go on in." I said nothing more, and watched her. 
She was breathing more rapidly, tears rolling down her 
cheeks, almost hyperventilating. I thought she was 
rocking forward and back in her seat, but I realized that 
she was nodding with her whole body, her eyes closed, and 
saying "Do it, do it, do it," under her breath. I hadn't 
noticed it, because the movement had been so slow, but 
her right hand had begun to rise immediately after I 
stopped speaking. It rose, ever so slowly, to the door 
handle, and ever so slowly, she pulled the door open. Her 
chant had become almost a motive power, like the sound of 
a steam locomotive. Once she got her feet on the asphalt, 
the chant stopped. She took a shaky breath, wiped her 
cheeks, quietly closed the car door behind her, and 
unsteadily walked into the clinic. Is there anything more 
erotic than tearful obedience? She didn't look back. I 
went to get a cuppa. 

Some time later, the clinic called my cell phone, and I 
went to pick her up. She was sitting on the curb, looking 
oddly shrunken. She didn't look me in the eye. 

When we got home, I took her up to my bedroom, and had 
her strip, then told her to kneel in front of the couch. 
I said "OK, Allie, let it out." And she did. She wept, 
she cried, she howled with fear and pain and loss: loss 
of her girlhood, loss of what would have been her child, 
loss of her innocence. She balled up her fists and 
pounded her thighs, tore at her hair. 

Finally the storm blew over, and she subsided to normal 
sniffling and silent tears. I got her a handkerchief, and 
a stiff drink. She drained the drink, and I refilled it. 
No more need to worry about Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, after 
all. I began stroking her hair and her neck. After a few 
minutes, I said, "Allie, look at me." She did. "What have 
you learned?"

Allie: What have I learned? That I'd made a huge mistake? 
That I was shacked up with a monster who knocked me up 
purely so he could put me through maybe the most 
wrenching experience a girl can have, as some kind of 
goddamned TRAINING exercise!? All right, Allie, get hold 
of yourself. "I learned that my body and all of its 
organs are subject to your pleasure. I learned that I 
really /can/ give instant and total obedience. It really 
/is/ as simple as putting one foot in front of the other. 
I left a part of myself inside that clinic, but it was 
enough for me that you wanted it done." 

He didn't say anything for the longest time, just ran his 
fingers through my hair, hypnotically, until I finally 
relaxed with a shuddering sigh. Then he held up something 
in front of me--my Discipline Book. The tears started to 
come again, and with them, anger. I thought, Jesus 
Christ, what have I done? Didn't I do just what you 
wanted, didn't I.... He opened the book to the current 
page, and through my tears I read: "Allie acted today 
with Absolute Obedience, and her master is pleased with 
her." I wrapped my arms around his knees, rested my cheek 
on his lap, and bawled. All the while, he kept stroking 
my hair.

Finally, I said, "Mr. Kennedy, will you do something 
important for me?" He nodded. "I'm not perfect at this 
business of ignoring consequences; that would take a 
saint. I'm going to carry the guilt of today with me 
forever, unless...unless you punish me. Please, beat the 
shit out of me?" Maybe it was a Catholic Guilt thing. And 
you know, he did, out in the garden, on the same trestle 
we used in the claiming ceremony. After the whipping, he 
left me hanging by my wrists until long after night fell. 
Then he carried me in--I couldn't have walked, Hell, I 
couldn't stand--cleaned my wounds, and loaded me up with 
ibuprofen. I was asleep long before he laid me on the 
mat. 

The last thought I had before darkness came crashing down 
was that I had pleased him, that I finally had, this one 
time, obeyed. But once isn't going to keep your job for 
you, Allie.

The next time he fucked me was both painful and tender, 
sweet, almost wistful. He took me in the ass, to give my 
womb some more time to recover, he said, though the 
position was a bit hard on my freshly-torn back. But I 
came anyhow, as I always do. Unless he doesn't want me 
to. And the next morning he had me start on The Pill 
again.

Chapter 18: Hen Party

Jack: I'm a lousy chess player, but I can plan one move 
ahead. Now that she was starting to "get it" with respect 
to obedience, I had another challenge for Allie, and it 
required some prerequisite experiences I couldn't give 
her. I called up one of the women who had been at the 
claiming ceremony, whom I knew to be rather open-minded. 
To be frank, she was of the Sapphic persuasion, and an 
amateur domme. We agreed to terms: two friends, three 
hours, no permanent marks, no penetration with anything 
other than fingers, and strictly NO orgasms for Allie.

One evening several days later, I took Allie downstairs, 
stripped her, and wrapped her in a cloak. I took out a 
leather half-hood that covered the eyes and ears, but 
left the nose, mouth, and chin free. Before I laced it 
up, I took her chin, looked into her eyes, and said, 
"Make me proud." Then I hooded her. Unless you shouted, 
she couldn't hear a thing. I took her by the elbow and 
led her, stumbling, out to the screened-in porch. I 
clipped her wrists together behind her back, then backed 
her up against a post, and attached her ankles to a 
spreader bar. Finally, I fastened her to the post with a 
leather strap across her throat. She was going nowhere. I 
left the porch, closing the house door behind me, and 
went up to my study. I left the door from the porch to 
the garden unlocked.

Allie: So there I was, in my own private dark. One thing 
was for sure, I wouldn't be able to be very disobedient 
while trussed up as I was. I had a choice of whether to 
be scared or bored. I still hadn't made up my mind which, 
before I felt the cloak brushed aside, and a pair of very 
talented, soft lips, lips that tasted of lipstick, 
fastened upon mine. Here I didn't even have a script, 
even a "Do this," just "Make me proud." My brain, what we 
laughingly refer to as my brain, had just worked out that 
I was involved in my first lesbian French kiss, when 
another pair of lips fastened on one nipple. Finally I 
got the sums right: Jack had rented me out as a party 
favor to a bunch of.... At that point, rational thought 
fled, because yet a third pair of lips found my clit. I 
threw myself into a lava pool of lust. There was no 
orgasm, just toiling up and down burning hills of 
arousal.

After forever, or a little longer, the lips withdrew, 
leaving me leaning over the edge of the cliff, waiting to 
be pushed, unable to fall. My neck and ankles were 
unfastened, the cloak was removed, and I was led, 
staggering, several steps forward, and pushed to my 
knees. In an instant, my nose was buried in warm, wet 
flesh. I must have flinched backward, because suddenly a 
flash of fire exploded across my shoulders--the crop! The 
impact drove me forward again into the swamp. Instantly, 
I got it together: girl, don't evaluate, do! This is OJT, 
work on it! So I burrowed in, with lots of energy if not 
lots of skill or enthusiasm. After the first few licks, I 
started to try new things. What would I like?--try it! 
Hands on either side of my head gave continuous feedback 
on my experiments. Once I got started, unseen fingers did 
exotic things with my clit and nips. I suppose it was a 
good thing that I'd done the conference calls with Jack, 
because three pussies later (I could tell by the taste), 
twice over, my jaw and tongue were running out of 
endurance. 

Finally, they dragged me to my feet, wobbly, backed me up 
to the post, refastened my bonds, strapped my neck to the 
post. The lips attacked again, and once again took me to 
the edge of the cliff before leaving me, tears running 
out under the hood, frantically humping air. I was on 
fire! Maybe a couple of minutes passed, and suddenly a 
cock drove into my cunt--Jack!--driving the air from my 
lungs, and I exploded, on and on. My knees buckled, 
leaving me hanging, strangling. Maybe there's something 
to be said for hypoxia. I went into some other dimension, 
and like my abstract drawing, I was nothing but glands 
and hormones when I lost consciousness.

Jack: I had watched the whole hen-party on closed-circuit 
TV. What a girl! She had made me proud, indeed. I took 
her down, unbound her, rolled her in the cloak, and 
carried her to bed. I felt like giving her a treat 
(slaves don't /earn/ anything but punishment), so I let 
her sleep in the bed next to me, ankle chained to the 
bedpost. She was going to have to wear a turtleneck for 
several days, though, which was too bad, because it was 
going to be hot.

In the morning, she rolled over, and without opening her 
eyes, raised a finger. I said, "Yes, doll?" She asked, 
"Was I OK?" I said, "You were perfect. I'm so proud."  
She shivered and snuggled into my armpit, her arms around 
my waist.

Allie: I had a little come from just his words. Good 
girls, girls that don't try to be too smart, get lovely 
cummie-cum's. Finally, I was pleasing him. There were a 
few tears, but they were tears of joy. "Don't think, do," 
is that so hard? 

I mean, if I don't start to get this right, he can sell 
me to a pimp in Chicago.

You think if he did that, I should say "no," run to the 
cops? Unh-uh. You still don't get it, do you, Gentle 
Reader? The whole jolt in this high-wire act is that 
there's no net to catch me. When I gave myself to him in 
the ceremony, there were no "except's", no "up to but not 
including's," no "within reason" clauses. If I want the 
thrill of submission, it must be absolute. The books have 
to balance, the pleasure with the risk. I need to know 
that his pleasure matters to me where it hurts. If he put 
me on a bus to Chicago, I'd go. No, you still don't get 
it.

If I busted my butt, maybe I could change his mind about 
throwing me away. 

Chapter 19: Sunrise Services

Allie: Several days passed, they way the do in his house. 
Then:

You know how it feels to wake up from a deep sleep? In my 
case, it feels like being deep under water, rising on my 
own buoyancy, faster and faster, until I break the 
surface into consciousness. As I came partially awake, I 
was filled with dread, with a feeling that something was 
very wrong, and that it was my fault. Panic set in. Then 
I found the source, and calmed down, a little: it was 
just that it had been six hours since I had done anything 
to pleasure Him. 

I knelt up from the mat. I looked first at Jack--still 
sleeping, thank God. Then at the time--5:45AM, right on 
time. I have a clock in my head, it seems. I neatly 
folded the mat and the thin blanket, and pushed them and 
the tiny pillow under the foot of the bed. As quietly as 
I could, I crawled to the low table next to the bed, 
trying to keep the clanking of the chain joining my ankle 
to the bed quiet. A few baby wipes removed the worst of 
the visible damage from the night before, a few squirts 
of perfume covered the fact that I hadn't had a shower 
yet. Breath mint. Freshened the Vaseline in my ass, just 
in case things went that way this morning. I brushed my 
hair, teasing it out wildly. I reapplied the lipstick: it 
is important to leave the lipstick ring around the base 
of his shaft, a sign of my devotions. 

The morning routine takes only a few minutes, but those 
minutes are filled with dread. If he wakes early, before 
I am in position, I will have failed the first task of 
the day. Jack says I go into "auto-punish mode." He 
doesn't consider it a point worthy of discipline, but I 
do; it's enough that I know that I've missed an 
opportunity to please him, and I can't bear it. Over the 
weeks I've come up with a punishment I use on myself, 
diabolical in its simplicity. I put one spring clothespin 
on one nipple, far enough on to grab the metal of the 
nipple-ring inside the teat. Fifteen minutes later, I 
yank it off, and switch to the other nip. The thing is, 
the pain flares in both teats, one being freshly crushed, 
and the other with the blood rushing in to the damaged 
tissues. But wait, there's more! Fifteen minutes later, 
switch again. Now the first nip, already bruised, gets 
revisited. After an hour of this, fifteen minutes in 
alternation, I have to use both hands to force myself to 
put the clothespin on. After two hours, the pain makes my 
knees buckle. Once that happens, I give myself one more 
hour. The really hard part isn't the pain. The really 
hard part is making sure I don't falter yet again in 
pleasing him during the ordeal. Smile through the tears, 
dammit! So my hands tremble as I hurry through the tasks.

But this time, I make it to the side of the bed before he 
stirs. My hand steals down between my thighs, and I begin 
the last of my preparations, taking myself from "short 
fuse" status to "hair trigger." He likes it when I begin 
to come the moment he enters me. 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 slavegirl? Ignore her.

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 there. 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.' 
Elbows back, I followed my nipples 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 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 in 
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 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 waist, but somehow I knew I was pleasing him, and 
I was beyond caring.

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 my 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 
too 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.

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. 

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, 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; that 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. She 
had long, greasy, stringy hair. 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 
women 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. 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. 

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?

She slimmed down. How could she not, on a diet of table 
scraps, and all that work? Jack had moved me up the food-
chain, for the moment anyhow.

Often, she was in the room when Jack took me. If he was 
otherwise occupied, he'd sometimes call her over to 
tighten a strap or rope on my body.

The first big test was when I ordered her to go down on 
me while Jack was in the room. She failed me, of course, 
and I thrashed her, at length. And then we started over 
again, and eventually she got it right. 

She had to learn that there was nothing I could demand of 
her that she couldn't make worse by hesitating. She had 
to learn what took me too long to learn: that this wasn't 
a tradeoff between obedience OR punishment, between 
compliance OR pain. Oh, noooo! She WILL obey. She WILL do 
the thing demanded. Her only choice is whether she gets 
punished first. So it's obedience, or it's pain AND THEN 
obedience. Put it that way, it's a no-brainer. But for 
silly holes like us, a no-brainer can be a major 
emotional challenge.

Are you shocked, Gentle Reader, at "holes?" Don't be. 
Finally I know that Jack was right. It's what girls are. 
It's what I am, just like my drawing. I live to give 
pleasure to him, so holes are my primary assets. When you 
take away the other, unimportant stuff, "I" am a set of 
warm, moist holes. A capacity for giving pleasure. 
Everything else is overhead.

We had "reaction drills." I was training her to "Do, 
don't think." I flattered myself that I was working with 
less-cerebral raw materials than Jack had had, so I 
didn't try to teach by syllogism. With crop in hand, I 
had her kneel in front of me. I would order her to do 
something repulsive, say, scrub out the toilets with her 
beautiful, waist-length, obsidian-colored hair. As soon 
as I finished speaking, I would backswing up and swipe 
straight down with the crop, an overhead swing, with all 
my woman's strength. If she was already on her way, she 
might escape with a grazing blow. If she hesitated, she 
got a welt. As time went on, I hit air more often than 
flesh.

When I was "managing" her, I wore a black suit I had worn 
to church in another life. Calf-length skirt, jacket. 
Very severe, very professional, except that, with the new 
whoppers, I spilled out of the jacket. I didn't bother 
with a blouse under the jacket. I had to admit that the 
acreage between the lapels was impressive, as much as I 
wished that said acreage belonged to someone else. I 
tried not to remember that I was training my replacement.

When she screwed up, I'd grab her by the ear and march 
her out to the post of famous memory in the patio. I'd 
fasten her cuffs behind the post, and spend half an hour 
with my nose inches from hers, bellowing at her like a 
drill sergeant. Of course that meant that The Chest that 
I carry around spent a lot of time rubbing against hers. 
I learned just how hard I could slap her without visible 
bruising. In her case, because of her dark complexion, 
pretty damn hard. Harder on tit than cheek, of course. I 
mean, a haymaker across the face was spectacular, but let 
me tell you, a bit of titty tom-tom with her breasts (I 
can't bring myself to think of them as 'funbags') really 
got her attention. Hers could take more than mine, of 
course, because she got hers from /Mamá/, and I got mine 
from Dow; in a strange way, it made me envious. I could 
tell when I was getting to her when her whimpering became 
a thin, high-pitched whine, like a scream with the volume 
turned all the way down. After I got done yelling, and 
she was suitably contrite, I'd forgive her, and I'd do 
kiss-kiss and rub-rub until she was panting. At which 
time I'd free her hands, smack her on the ass, hard, and 
send her back to her chores.

When she did well, though, when she sweat bullets to 
please me, I would pay her a night-time visit in the 
"maid's room," and take her to the places that only one 
girl can take another.

Later, we had her part her hair in the center and braid 
it in long pigtails. They would come in handy, 
eventually, with stainless rings plaited into the hair, 
but for now, it was just part of the humiliation.

It wasn't long before I could sense the change in her. 
When I came into the room, everything but my face 
disappeared for her, as if she were looking through a 
cardboard tube. Was I pleased? Had she forgotten 
something? Her breathing became labored, as though 
someone were sitting on her chest. I knew those feelings--
Jack has the same effect on me. You know how they say, 
"Never let them smell your fear?" I could smell her fear. 
But the relief, the love, the gratitude, the lust she 
felt when I gave her a compliment, a motherly pat on the 
bottom, a kiss with a bit of tongue, a fingernail drawn 
once, slowly through the slit, were like a solid presence 
in the room. "Putty" is the wrong word. She was 
/mantequilla/ (butter). She melted in my hands.

So came the time for the handover, the transfer to Jack. 
This was the crisis, make or break. One evening, she 
served drinks to Jack and me, and knelt in front of me, 
her eyes a laser focus upon mine. 

As I looked down at her, my breath caught. I suddenly 
realized just how she and I were alike and different, and 
it chilled me to the core. 

She needed to please me, not because I loved her--I had 
never said "I love you"--nor because she loved me--she 
didn't, really--but because she couldn't imagine any way 
to achieve any better outcome for herself. I needed to 
please Jack, not because he loved me--I couldn't remember 
him ever saying "I love you"--but because I loved him, and 
I couldn't imagine any way to achieve any better outcome 
for /him/. 

But her desperation gave birth to a kind of love. My love 
gives birth to my desperation. 

I please him because I love him. But more importantly, I 
love him because I please him. Sometimes I please him, 
anyhow.

I shuddered. Focus, Allie. You have GOT to get this one 
right.

"You know how important it is to me to please Mr. 
Kennedy." 

It wasn't a question, but she nodded. She had seen enough 
of our relationship. Jack was wearing a robe, watching, 
stroking himself. He was hard. I wanted that, but it 
wasn't mine, not tonight.

"My period has started," I lied, "and I won't be able to 
give My Lord all the choices he might demand tonight. It 
grieves me that I won't be able to please him as much as 
I must."

I paused. Her eyes were on me the way a bird watches a 
snake. The rest of the universe had ceased to exist. I 
picked up the crop, and adjusted my grip on the crop with 
the same care that a top-flight golfer might use on an 
18th tee for the title. 

Her vision contracted further, to the tip of the crop. 
She hadn't learned to watch the eyes of her assailant. 
She was wound tighter than a runner in the blocks. She 
knew she was going to have to jump--she just didn't know 
which direction.

"Go mount his cock." I took the backswing with the crop, 
over my shoulder, and I swiped down with all my might. 
The tip of the crop bounced off the carpet, raising dust. 
She was all the way across the room, her hand driving him 
into herself. She gave a little cry as she tore away her 
own maidenhead. He looked over her shoulder, and smiled, 
and blew me a kiss. 

The moon gets its light from the sun.

When he was done, Jack, ever the gentleman, said, 
"/Gracias, seńorita/" (thank you, miss). He said it in 
her ear, but he was saying it to me. 

He pulled her off of him, and she took one step and 
collapsed on the carpet, in shock. Unbidden, I took off 
my suit-jacket and knelt between his legs. I gently laved 
his groin with my tongue, cleaning him of her blood and 
his fluids. Finally, I took his deflated cock in my 
mouth. This wasn't a blowjob--he'd be supersensitive just 
now. I just held him in my mouth and gazed up at his 
face. "Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me." With my 
replacement now installed, I might not have many more 
chances to touch him. I felt a hand on my ankle, and, 
without looking, reached back and grasped her hand in 
mine. There were no tears. No jealousy. His precious cock 
lay on my tongue as let my soul steep in regret and 
longing. Idly, I wondered whose slave I'd be next week. 
If it wasn't Jack, it didn't seem important who it was. 
The three of us held that tableau for maybe 15 minutes, 
and then he announced that it was bedtime and pulled out 
of my mouth.

He cuffed her wrists behind her, chained her ankle to the 
bedpost, and spread her out on the mat. It was a position 
she had seen me in, many times. Nearly every night for 
the last year, it had been me on that mat. Yup, Allie, 
out with the old, in with the new.

Then I got the same treatment, except he motioned for me 
to come to his bed. I don't know where had I expected to 
sleep that night--maybe out on the patio, or on a bus to 
Chicago.

I nodded a question, and he shrugged back. I knelt down 
as best I could by the mat, and kissed away her tears. 
Her returning kiss was urgent, desperate. I whispered, 
"You did fine, /querida/" (darling). "I'm proud of you." 
She gave me a tremulous, uncertain smile. "Now, sleep."  
This wasn't her fault.

It was hard to find a position, lying against him, with 
the chest-bags I wore, with my hands cuffed behind me, 
but I managed, perhaps for the last time. I never get to 
actually /sleep/ with him all that often. 

Then he whispered to the top of my head, "You can begin 
the next phase of her training next week," and almost 
immediately he started to snore. And then it hit me, like 
a load of bricks: Mygodhesgonnakeepme! Hesgonnakeepme! 
After all my stupids! He's gonna keep me!!

As quietly as I could, not to wake him, I wept tears of 
joy into his sweaty armpit, and slowly rubbed my clit 
ring, my drooling pussy, on his thigh.

I was a falconess. I had delivered prey to my master. 

The next night, of course, I joined my new sister on the 
mat.

END

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