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Subject: {ASSM} Allie {Les Evans} (Mf cons rom oral anal mdom 1st fsolo inc  bd, sm, spank, slave, slow, mc)
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Date: Thu, 23 Jun 2005 12:10:03 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Allie.txt" begin>

Allie {Les Evans} (Mf cons rom oral anal mdom 1st fsolo inc 
(stepparent), a little bd, a little sm, spank, slave, slow. Just a whiff 
of some MC-ish activity)

Introduction:

This fantasy has been living in my head for a year, and it was time 
to let it out so maybe it would stop bothering me. It concerns the 
lengthy seduction of a stepdaughter by her stepfather.

The phenomenon of 'false memory' is real, and there is a real 
article in "Scientific American" on the subject (Scientific 
American September, 1997, volume 277, number 3, pages 70-75). 
I suspect the "trigger phrase" stuff may be hokum, at least used the 
way it is here.

If you're looking for a stroke story, this probably isn't it. All 
places, events, and persons (including the author) are fictitious.

Acknowledgements: The single best example of intentionally bad 
writing I know of, from Penelope Ashe. The idea of the notebooks 
comes directly from "Second Best," by Thinking Horndog. A line 
from "Guns of Navarone," by Alistair MacLean. The yoga lesson, 
from a yoga book by Jean Couch. Other influences will be obvious 
to those who spend too much time reading this sort of thing. 
Thanks to all. 

Chapter 1: The Perils of Prevarication

Jane Adams was my first wife, and I was her second husband. She 
had been widowed several years earlier by a drunk driver, leaving 
her with an 8-year old daughter to raise on her own. She stood up 
to the challenge, and did her best after her own lights, which is as 
much as anyone can ask of a parent. We met in the line of work, 
found that we hit it off, and in due course we decided to marry. 
After the wedding ceremony, which was not memorable to any one 
not directly involved, I moved in with them. Work it out: she had a 
house that had already accommodated a married couple with child, 
and, while I was very well off from my work in technical training, 
I had up to then chosen to stick with a bachelor pad. The three of 
us worked into a comfortable household. Jane had traditional 
views, and changed her last name, and her daughter's, to mine 
(Kennedy, if it matters). 

Of my relationship with Jane and her daughter at the time, the only 
element that is germane to this story is that Jane had firm and non-
negotiable ideas about how her daughter should be raised: 
Catholic/parochial girls' schools, and no dating until college. That 
wasn't right to my way of thinking, but Allison wasn't my 
daughter, and I didn't get to vote on it. I'll spare you any stories 
about sexual activities between her daughter Allison (*never* 
"Allie") and myself as Allison grew up, simply because they didn't 
happen. I did what I could to help with Allison's school courses, 
tried to provide when asked whatever passes for wise advice to an 
adolescent of any gender, be a provider, and be a model of the 
male role. In Jane's mind, the male role included the exercise of 
discipline, on the extremely rare occasions that Allison's usually-
exemplary behavior warranted it. In time, Allison accepted me as 
Father, Version 2.0, and called me "daddy," and no, it didn't give 
me any special charge. When it became clear that the now-teenage 
Allison was beginning to chafe under the "no dating" rule, it was 
made clear that that was Jane's rule, and that was that. 

Not that my prick didn't scent Allison from time to time. Allison 
had bloomed into a beautiful specimen of the feminine gender. But 
Jane was a good wife"she'd had years of practice in a previous 
successful relationship, after all. Some say that the way to a man's 
heart is through his stomach, or his balls. Jane kept both of those 
avenues well serviced. Some say that the way to keep a man 
faithful is to keep him happy, and tired. She ensured that I was 
both. 

Then, during Allison's junior year at Saint Virginia High School, 
the universe of drunk drivers visited again, and took Jane from us. 
In a paradoxical way, Allison took it better than I did, perhaps 
because it had happened to her before, and she had learned how to 
cope, a little. We were both damaged"there's no other word for it. 
No, it didn't "drive us together," and I didn't see her step in to be 
"the woman of the house."  After a month or so we began to return 
to something like normalcy in our reduced household, and we 
redistributed the chores between the two of us.

When the mourning period had passed, I became aware that 
Allison was restless. I had been around her for more than several 
years now, after all, and I'd have to be denser than a brick not to 
pick up on her moods, at least a little bit. And I could guess the 
cause: she was approaching the end of her junior year of high 
school, and she wanted to date. Her hormones were undeniably 
active, witness her enchanting growth, and I suspected that she felt 
that after her senior year, she'd be an "old woman." I also 
suspected that she felt that she had a window of opportunity to 
appeal the "no dating" rule that her mother had enforced. In any 
case, I knew enough about parenting not to offer advice until it was 
demanded. 

Consequently, it was no great surprise when, one Friday evening, 
Allison came up to the doorway of the study/office of the master 
bedroom suite and made it clear that she wanted an audience. I was 
sitting at my desk, and she stood across from me.

"Um, daddy, I'd like to talk to you about switching schools next 
year."

"Oh? Where to, and why?"

She had clearly rehearsed this speech in her mind. "I'd like to 
switch to Central High." (the local public high school) "I think I'd 
get a better science education there, in prep for going to college. 
The Sisters at SV" (local speak for "Saint Virginia") "don't have 
the science labs to give what it takes to prepare us for the best 
schools." She stopped. End of prepared speech. In her mind, the 
next thing that happens is that daddy agrees.

I regarded her. The silence dragged on, her gaze wavered, and she 
began to shift from one foot to the other. I began to show anger.

"Young lady, the last time I visited them, the science labs at Saint 
Virginia appeared entirely up to snuff, and I know something about 
the subject. I don't know why you want to switch schools, but it 
has nothing to do with science labs. You're lying to me, Allison, 
and I don't take kindly to being lied to." She went pale. 

I made a show of restraining my mounting anger. "I'll offer you a 
choice. I can punish you for your lying, after which we can start 
this discussion over again, without prejudice, but with no promises 
on my decision one way or the other. Or, you can avoid the 
punishment, but go to Saint Virginia again next year, no appeals. 
What is your decision?" 

This was clearly not the way she expected or wanted the discussion 
to go. "W-what punishment do""

I practically frothed, spittle flying. "Stop! This is not a negotiation! 
Which is it"punishment, without knowing what it will be, but 
with a chance to present your case again, or Saint Virginia next 
year?"

Four or five deep breaths on her part, with delightful effects upon 
the front of her white oxford-cloth Catholic school blouse. A final 
shuddering inhalation: "Punish...punishment."

I made it look as though I was trying to get a grip on myself. "Very 
well. You will receive a bare-bottom spanking, as is just for such 
an infantile stunt." 

"But, I'm too old to""

I slammed the flat of my hand down on the desktop. "*Silence*!" 
She flinched. "Once again, which is it?"

Another delightful deep breath. "I'm sorry. P-punish me for lying 
to you, daddy. I want to try again to talk about the schools."

I let time pass while I watched her discomfort. I found the situation 
too delicious to rush it. I had spanked Allison in the past, but it had 
been years. Back then, she'd been a preteen with the genderless 
bottom of that age. Now, she was a blossoming woman. Oh, 
goody! Oh, woody! 

"Very well, young lady. Over my lap." I'm left-handed, so I had 
her approach around the desk from my left. As I wear my wrist 
watch on my left wrist, I took it off; I remembered the bruises it 
could cause"to me, not to her. She knelt down and draped herself 
over my lap, left to right. The sensation of her young breasts on the 
outside of my right thigh was electric. I told her to give me her left 
wrist, which I twisted up between her shoulder blades with my 
right hand to control her struggles, and used my left to sweep her 
plaid school skirt up, tuck it into her waistband, and sweep her 
panties down. She was already whimpering. 

No time like the present, so I laid into her with all I had. When I 
spank, it hurts everyone involved. Somewhere in the back of my 
mind I was reminded of the old line "This hurts me more that it 
does you." While my hand began to smart and swell from the 
blows I was inflicting, I doubt that the old line held in this case: 
she was rapidly reduced to blubbering mush. I don't know how 
many times I struck, but her rump glowed by the time I was unable 
to continue. Frankly, I stopped because the squirming she was 
doing over my lap would have made me come in my pants with 
one more strike, which would not have helped the image I was 
working on. I heard wailing coming from the vicinity of my right 
ankle. My hand would be swollen for several hours. Her ass would 
be red/purple for several days. I thought that was fair.

"All right, young lady. Up." I released her wrist, and she sobbed to 
her feet, panties still around her knees, skirt still tucked up. "Leave 
your clothing as it is. Go put your nose right in that corner," I 
pointed, "and stay there until I call you" Her face was flushed red, 
from her head having been lower than her body when she was bent 
over my lap, but also from her crying, and from the humiliation of 
the situation. With the tears still streaming, she wiped her nose on 
her wrist, looked at me for a moment through swimming eyes, then 
shuffled as best she could to the indicated corner of the room and 
pressed her nose firmly into the plaster. I swear that I could have 
turned off the lights and read a newspaper by the light given off by 
that glowing ass.

I left the room, and spent half an hour in the kitchen with my left 
hand in ice, drinking a Scotch-rocks with my right, and thinking 
about how I wanted the conversation to go, before I refreshed my 
drink and returned to the study off the master suite. I switched the 
icy Scotch tumbler to my left hand to continue my treatment. She 
was exactly where I had left her, and her sobbing had subsided to 
the occasional sniffle. I went back to my desk. It was a power 
dynamic, right? The person sitting at a desk has rank on the person 
standing in front of it"think about the last time you were in your 
boss's office. She heard me come in, but didn't move. I sat, and 
waited, watching her bottom.

"Very well, Allison, turn around and put your clothes back 
together." She turned around, unaware that she was giving me a 
breathtaking show, and made a delightful shimmy to get the 
panties back in place. It wouldn't have surprised me that she'd 
rather have avoided the contact of even the wispy nylon with her 
burning rump. She pulled the hem of her skirt out of the waistband. 
"Blow your nose." She did, and wound up standing in front of my 
desk again. "You have taken your punishment, and I'll say no 
more about it. You wanted to make a case for switching to Central 
High. We both know that the issue at hand has nothing to do with 
science labs. What does Central have that Saint Virginia doesn't?"

She gave me another look, then it all rushed out. "Boys! I want to 
date! Please, daddy...?" and she ran out of steam. Well, duh.

I decided that it was time to alter the dynamic of the situation. The 
master suite had a small wet bar. "Allison, pour yourself a glass of 
sherry and join me on the couch." Jane and I had let Allison drink 
a glass of wine with us at dinner from time to time. I watched as 
she poured herself a rather full glass, probably thinking sherry was 
like wine, right? I didn't say anything. She came over to the couch, 
put her glass down on the end table, and sat down, v.e.r.y carefully. 
I sipped my Scotch and waited until she nibbled her sherry.

"You want to date." It wasn't a question, but she nodded, staring at 
the surface of her sherry as though it held answers. Perhaps it did. 
"So if I had agreed to let you go to Central next year, and later 
you'd asked to date and I said 'no,' you'd have accomplished 
nothing." Another nod, and a shuddering sigh.

"Let me draw you a picture, figuratively speaking. If you went to 
Central, you would walk into a social situation as a senior where 
the other boys and girls would have been dating for two or three 
years, and some of them fucking for one or two years." Her head 
whipped around as though I'd slapped her. Profanity wasn't often 
heard under this roof. "Look, that's what they'll be talking about at 
Central, and what they'll be calling it. Get over it. The girls will 
have been honing their skills in the dating game for several years, 
and the boys will have expectations about what a girl will do on 
the first date, and the second, and so on." She took a bite of her 
sherry. The level in her glass was dropping nicely. I was in full-
lecture mode.

"How would you survive, let alone compete? For example, to have 
that hunky guy in your senior physics class ask you out, he has to 
notice you, and think maybe you'll be worth his time, more than 
the girls he's been dating for several years. What have the good 
Sisters taught you about attracting male attention?" That got a little 
rueful smile from her. "Then suppose you somehow got a first 
date. Maybe you sink to asking him out. High school boys want 
one thing"sex. It may be your prerogative to meter out the rate 
and kind that you give, but that's what they're after. Maybe a kiss 
at the end of the first date, a grope on the second, and so on. If they 
don't think they're going to get what they're looking for, you'll 
wind up sitting at home on Friday nights, and again, you'd have 
accomplished nothing by switching schools. Suppose it's the end 
of the first date, and he tries to French kiss you"if you flinch and 
giggle, the word will be all over school in 30 seconds: 'Allison 
Kennedy is a baby, don't waste your time.'" Her glass was nearly 
empty.

"At the other end of the problem, let's assume that you develop the 
skills needed to get a boy interested in you, and yes, I mean 
sexually interested. He's going to be doing things that will get you 
'interested' too. What practice do you have in controlling yourself 
when your hormones get flowing? Because without those skills, 
without that practice, your body will take over on autopilot, and 
you could wind up fucking in the back seat of some guy's car, just 
because he kissed your earlobe or something." Unconsciously, her 
hand stole up to her ear. Her glass was empty. Time for the close.

"I'll summarize. First, you don't know how to get noticed." I 
ticked the points off on my fingers. 

"Second, you don't have the skills to keep a guy aroused and 
interested and wanting more. Why do you care? Because in order 
for him to get 'more,' he's got to ask you out again, and that's 
what *you're* after, right? Not just a first date, but something 
ongoing, a relationship? For which, you've got to be better at those 
skills than the next girl."  

Her body language said that she felt like she was being pounded 
into the ground like a tent peg, each of my points like the blow of a 
mallet on the top of her head. Exactly the reaction I wanted.

"Third, you don't know what that 'more' would be, how to offer 
and control the progression of increasingly arousing activities, 
activities that the girls at Central have been practicing for several 
years now."

Pound.

"Fourth, once you've got him aroused, you don't have the skills to 
satisfy him or yourself without intercourse, because you don't 
know what the alternatives are to fucking. And without those 
alternatives, you either fuck, or you wind up frustrated, both him 
and yourself, which is not the path to happiness." 

Pound.

"And finally, you don't have the skills or training to keep control 
of yourself when he arouses you. All of this thanks to the good 
Sisters at Saint Virginia. Have I missed anything?"

Another long silence. She had not raised her eyes from her empty 
glass. A single tear ran down the side of her nose. "No, daddy, 
that's about it. I'll forget about Central." She made as though to get 
up.

"Allison," I said kindly, "just a moment. Let's ignore Central for a 
second. What happens the year after, when you go to The College 
Of Your Choice? Do you think the situation will be any better? On 
the contrary, everyone else will have had yet another year of 
practice. Sending you off to college in your current state brings to 
mind the phrase 'a lamb to the slaughter.'" Her eyes were open but 
vacant, seeing I suppose some vision of Hell.

"Look, you're going at this all wrong. This is about skills and 
training and practice, and I know a thing or two about training. 
You have a summer ahead of you with no major demands on your 
time, right? I'll give you a chance, if you're willing to work for it." 
She looked up, for the first time in several minutes. "I'll work with 
you to teach the skills you'll need. It will take a lot of time, a lot of 
energy, and a lot of focus on your part and mine, and it will 
involve a fair amount of discomfort from time to time, both 
physical discomfort and embarrassment, because you'll be learning 
to do new things you've never done before, and before you can 
make progress you'll need to get over some of the nonsense that 
the good Sisters have been pouring into your head." She bristled at 
this. As much as she wanted out of Saint Virginia, they and their 
kind had built her entire belief system for her whole life. Well, we 
had a summer to work on that. A man such as myself could 
accomplish much in three months. "But if, by the end of the 
summer, you demonstrate to me that you've learned all the 
essential skills, I'll switch your registration to Central High and 
you'll have permission to date, if you still want to. Otherwise, 
Saint Virginia next year. It's up to you."

She mulled it over for a long time, maybe three seconds. It meant 
giving up her free time for the summer. And there was this 
worrisome note about "discomfort." But it was the only path to 
what she'd asked for. "OK, daddy. I appreciate it. And I'll work 
hard, honest. Sign me up."

"Very well, Allison. I'll spend some time putting together a lesson 
plan. Come up to the study here after lunch tomorrow and we'll get 
started." She carefully got up and walked unsteadily toward the 
door, having to correct her course in mid flight, as it were. The 
sherry had hit her pretty hard.

Chapter 2: Cats and Dogs

The next day was Saturday. We each had our own errands to run in 
the morning, and finally crossed paths when we wound up in the 
kitchen, each of us foraging for sandwich makings. We sat at the 
kitchen table, munching. She, of course, sat carefully. We 
adjourned to the study.

"OK, daddy, where do we start?"

I looked down at the lesson plan I'd put together. "Well, I've 
blocked out the skills you'll need to demonstrate this summer, and 
the order in which they need to be learned, which is more or less 
the order that you'd need to use them in a sequence of dates over a 
period of months. After you've had some time to learn and practice 
a skill, I'll test you on it. The most appropriate method of testing a 
skill mimics the conditions under which you'd use the skill." She 
looked blank. "You need these skills for dating, right? We'll go out 
on a 'date,' you and I, every week or so. I'll take the part of your 
'boyfriend,' and you'll need to show that you can use the skills 
appropriate to that stage of a relationship under simulated 'live 
fire.' Who knows, you might even enjoy the date.  They'd 
probably be rather more classy affairs than the pizza and a movie 
you'd likely get from a high school boy on an allowance, but that's 
not all bad."  I laid just a little disparaging emphasis on "boy." It 
seemed to me that it wasn't too early to start setting her 
expectations. I had my own agenda here. "All work and no play, 
after all."

"So, what's first?"

"Unfortunately, several things. There are three skills that need to 
be second nature, things that you can do without thinking. I want to 
get you started on all three today, because it will take time for them 
to become natural, and you'll work on them all summer. 

"The first skill is managing your posture. You want to date, which 
means that you need to have a first date, which means that you 
need to get noticed. How are you going to get a high school boy to 
notice you from across the room? By giving a particularly 
intelligent answer in calculus class?" I snorted, and she giggled, 
then looked down at her chest, and back at me with a question in 
her eyes. "Right, if he notices you, it will be because he notices 
your body. So how do you stand out in a field of other senior girls? 
By using what you've got to best advantage, and not hiding it in a 
teenage slouch." 

She squared her shoulders a bit. "That's the general idea, and you 
can do much better with training. There are four exercises in this 
group. And remember, this has to be something you do without 
thinking, a part of how you carry yourself, without even realizing 
it, whether you think someone is looking at you or not. We'll begin 
with a little yoga, for which you are not appropriately dressed. I'd 
suggest that you go change into your swimsuit, and I'll make a 
space here on the carpet."

She returned in a few moments, wearing a modest one-piece. The 
bottom almost completely covered the bruises I had placed there 
the day before. I moved easily into my Trainer persona. I mean, 
it's what I do for a living, after all.  "OK, the basis of posture is the 
pelvis. We'll begin with the 'dog tilt' and 'cat tilt' positions. The 
purpose of these exercises is to make you aware of the bone and 
muscle structure around the pelvis, to do some gentle stretching of 
the lower back, and to strengthen the muscles of the abdomen.

"Get down on your hands and knees and make yourself into a 
table, one hand directly below each shoulder, one knee directly 
below each hip. When I say 'cat tilt', you need to do several things 
at the same time: exhale, arch your back like an angry cat, let your 
head drop so that you're looking down through the space between 
your legs, and curl the bottom vertebrae of your spine as though 
you were trying to touch your pelvis to your nose. Cat tilt." She did 
nicely. I prompted, "Don't clench your buttocks, hold the position 
with your tummy muscles only. Squeeze every particle of air out of 
your lungs. Curl the spine more. Hold it." I put my hands on her 
belly and at the base of her spine and helped her refine the 
position. I wanted to get her used to my touch. 

"Now relax" and she dropped back into the neutral position, 
inhaling. "Good. The 'dog tilt' is exactly the opposite: when I say 
'dog tilt', inhale, raise your head to look forward, open your chest, 
let your upper spine hang from your shoulders, and swing the base 
of your spine back and up. Dog tilt. Good, rump up, inhale more, 
pull all of the air in the room into your lungs until they can stretch 
no more." I positioned one hand on each of her hips and made 
some adjustments. "Good. Good. Hold it. Now...'cat tilt.'" 

We spend 20 minutes on those poses until I was sure she had 
learned them. She'd worked up a light sweat. "You'll do those 
poses every morning and afternoon for five minutes. I've put it on 
your copy of the homework list.

"With that as a basis, the next exercises will be a little easier. Stand 
up in front of the full-length mirror here. We're concerned with 
both sitting and standing posture, and we'll start with standing. 
Slouch for me. What's that position?"

She looked up, puzzled, then her expression cleared. "Oh, 'cat 
tilt!', sort of."

"Right. And what's it look like?"

She smiled. "Not much."

"Right. Now, 'dog tilt.'" She did, and her breasts came out from 
wherever the had gone and rose proudly on her chest. "Nice, huh?"

She admired herself, then frowned. "But it makes my bottom stick 
out and my tummy bulge!"

"Excellent! No dummy, you! Think of your pelvis as a bowl of 
spaghetti: if you tip it, all the contents run to the front and try to 
flow over the edge. So here's the final pose: from the middle of the 
spine up, 'dog tilt,' and for the pelvis, 'cat tilt.' Remember, curl the 
base of your spine. Pull your pubis up into your navel." It took her 
a moment to make the neural connections, but she got it right. 

"Oh, wow. That flattens my tummy, and raises my, uh, bosom."

"Allison, if you use that vocabulary at Central, you'll be laughed 
all the way back to grade school. The boys will call them tits, or 
jugs, or hooters, or boobs, or bazooms, or lungs, or knockers, your 
rack, or two dozen other terms you'll pick up in time. But dear, 
'bosom' went out with Queen Victoria."

She blushed, a charming sight. "OK, it raises my...tits."

"Very good. We'll work on your anatomical vocabulary as we go. 
Now for sitting posture. It's almost the same, except that the 'cat 
tilt' is hard to maintain while sitting. So sit on the couch and do a 
full 'dog tilt.'" She sat, and flinched. "Delightful. Sit on the front 
half of the seat"your back should never touch the back of a chair. 
Yes, I know your bottom is still sore. Your back should be very 
straight. Think of a hook descending from the ceiling and pulling 
your head and spine into a column. 'Sit tall.' Perfect. You'll 
consciously work on sitting and standing posture for ten minutes 
every morning and afternoon. The muscle-awareness of what good 
posture feels like should trigger the sensation that 'something's 
wrong' if you let it slip. That completes the first two exercises, on 
pelvic and spinal control, sitting and standing. Any questions?"

"No, dad. But you sound an awful lot like you're delivering a class 
in database design, or something." 

We shared a laugh. "Sorry, baby. Old habits die hard. Now, the 
third exercise on posture. Here, have a look at this." I showed her a 
Victoria's Secret catalog. "Now that you've started to think about 
posture, look at the models. What do you notice about their 
elbows?"

That one really threw her. Here she was, confronted with dozens of 
images of flesh and nylon, and impossibly perfect, well, bosoms, 
and I wanted her to look at *elbows*?

"Uh, oh I see, they're all holding their elbows back."

"Right, so we have the third exercise, to strengthen the muscles of 
your upper back, and to reinforce the 'dog tilt' posture of the upper 
spine." I took out a length of broomstick I had cut and steered her 
over to a spot about three feet from the wall. "Now, this is sort of a 
Zen thing. I'm going to give you an instruction that is manifestly 
impossible to do. Don't let that worry you. But I do expect you to 
sweat bullets trying to do it anyhow. Understood?"

"I...guess so."

"That's my trooper. OK, here's how this one goes. Stand here, 
proper standing posture, 'dog tilt' above and 'cat tilt' below, about 
three feet from the wall. I want you to pull your elbows back, as 
though you were trying to make them touch behind your back. 
Now, I'll slide this broomstick horizontally behind your back"
hold it there with the crook of your elbows. Got it? Good. Now for 
the exercise. Keep your heels flat on the floor, and look up to the 
place where the wall in front of you meets the ceiling. Here we go. 
Look at that seam between wall and ceiling. I want you to touch 
that seam with your nipples."

She turned and goggled at me. "Remember what I said? I don't 
expect you to succeed, but I do expect you to try very, very hard."

"Oh. Uh, ok."

It was magical to watch. Her tits rose another impossible inch, and 
her whole posture fell into line. "Right, keep that 'cat tilt' going. 
I'll be back in a few minutes." And I left her to it.

Ten minutes later, I returned. She was again sweating lightly from 
the exertion, even though she was motionless. Kind of an isometric 
exercise. "Don't change your position, and tell me about your 
sensations. What's your body saying to you?"

"I'm getting sore between my shoulder blades. My rib cage feels 
like it's expanded. I can feel the muscles in my tummy pulling up 
on my pelvis."

"Terrific! Damn, you're good! Now, relax." She positively wilted 
with relief. I took the broomstick from her. "Those are the 
sensations that tell you that your posture is perfect. If ever you 
*don't* feel like that, something's wrong. You'll do that exercise 
for five minutes every morning and every afternoon, just to remind 
your muscles of what they should feel like. It's on your copy of the 
homework list. Here's some water. Only one more exercise in this 
set, baby, and we'll take a break, OK?"

"Sure. I'm getting tired."

"I don't wonder. Fortunately, the last exercise is more mental than 
physical. I need you to do some mental imaging. Close your eyes. 
Remember when you worked at the library last year? I saw you 
pushing around some heavy carts of books. Whenever you went 
through a doorway, the cart went first, and you followed it into the 
room. Got that image? Make a mental movie of it. Feel it in your 
muscles. Now, in the movie, it's not a cart of books, but your tits 
that you're pushing. Heavy, and way out in front of you. They 
enter the room first, the rest of you follows along. Play that 
movie."

Eyes closed, she got an embarrassed little smile. "I see it."

"Here's another image. Two famous and powerful people are 
walking briskly down a corridor, side by side, trailed by short 
female assistant behind and between them. She almost has to jog to 
keep up. At the end of the corridor, they sweep into a room. 
Everyone pays attention to the famous people, who are imposing 
and handsome, while mousy little secretary behind and between 
them is ignored and almost invisible. Got it?"

Another smile. "I think I know where this one is going."

"Of course. Nobody said you were slow. Ok, now alter the image. 
The famous people are your jugs. Their faces are your nipples. The 
little office girl is the rest of Allison. In your mind, play a movie of 
the three of you entering that room."

"Not good for the self-esteem."

"Aw, don't start. If it bugs you, remember that the three of you 
have to work together. Or come up with your own movie, the exact 
image doesn't matter. Now, enough for one session. You're off for 
the rest of the afternoon. Take it easy and relax. Be conscious of 
your posture, and every time you go through a doorway, lead with 
your chest. I'll see you at dinner."

"Thanks, dad. Whew, what a workout." She followed her nipples 
out of the room.

I smiled. Things were starting well.

Chapter 3: Arousal and Relief

It was my night to make dinner, and I did some simple fish thing. 
Allison had changed from her swimsuit into a spring dress. I gave 
her one, ONE, glass of wine with dinner, not enough to get her 
tipsy. After we cleaned up the kitchen, we adjourned to the living 
room. It was still pretty early.

"All right, Allison, this afternoon you learned some skills that 
should help you get noticed, help you get first dates with guys in 
your classes. What happens at the end of the first date?"

"He brings me home?"

"Well, we can hope so. And you're standing on your doorstep. 
What does he expect?"

"Oh. The goodnight kiss."

"Right. Without which, will there be a second date?"

"Probably not."

"So here we have another essential skill, and we're going to spend 
the next hour on it."

I turned down the lights, and we did, delightfully. We had to get 
beyond the peck on the cheek, and the tongue thing, but after 
twenty minutes or so she really started to get into it. I won't claim 
to be an Olympic Medalist in kissing, but she didn't have much to 
compare me with. The smell of feminine musk became noticeable, 
and she wasn't paying a lot of attention to where I was putting my 
hands. At the end of the hour, I broke the clinch, and waited for 
our breathing to return to normal.

"Oh, daddy, I never knew..."

"Allison, you're a gifted student and a delightful lab partner." She 
blushed. "We'll do a lot of that this summer. But you remember 
what I said about needing to deal with your own arousal, so you 
wouldn't lose track of what was going on and do something you'd 
regret? Look down at your dress."

"Aack! Daddy, you...." And she hurriedly buttoned up, and pulled 
down the hem of her dress. Her blush, impossibly, had become 
deeper.

"Right. Have I made my case?"

"Yes, but geez, daddy, you shouldn't be touching my..." she 
paused, searching for another word "...knockers. You're my 
stepfather!"

"We'll talk a lot about relationships and their limits this summer, 
Allison. But I had to shock you, because if you didn't believe in 
the power of your hormones, you wouldn't do what had to be done 
to deal with them."

"OK, OK, I'm shocked. I believe. But geez. So what is this magic 
antidote? Cold showers?"

I smiled. "Nope, just the opposite. Cold showers sounds like 
'mortification of the flesh,' good Catholic doctrine, but not very 
good for relationship management or mental health, And not 
effective in the long run. No, the strategy here is to permit yourself 
to be aroused, knowing that you can release the frustration at a 
time and place of your own choosing."

"That sounds suspiciously like, well, masturbation." She made it 
four distinct syllables, and it was clear that each of the four distinct 
syllables of the word tasted bad on her tongue.

"Yes, Allison, that's..."

"But the Sisters say that's a sin! Touching yourself 'down there' is 
self-abuse, it makes you want to have sex, it...!"

"Allison, down!" She stopped, and deflated. "Let me show you 
why the good Sisters have it all backwards. The object of the 
exercise here is to *avoid* intercourse, not to pave the way to it." 
Well, that was half the truth. And maybe not all of a lie. "If you 
find yourself on a date feeling like you did a moment ago, thinking 
that if you don't do something you'll explode, with no relief in 
sight, isn't the natural impulse to "go all the way?" But if you 
know that you can provide yourself with relief in just a few 
minutes, isn't it more likely that you can use that to hold on to your 
principles just a little longer?"

"Well, if you put it that way."

"I do put it that way. And there's more." OK, the other half of the 
truth. "The time will come as a relationship develops that you will 
want your boyfriend, or lover, or husband to bring you to orgasm. 
The female body is a wonderful thing, because the more often a 
girl comes, the easier it is for her to come. Your lover will feel 
pleased and proud of himself if he can bring you off quickly. And 
you can make that easier for both of you by practicing your 
orgasm, frequently."

A tiny nod. She was mortified to be discussing this. Too bad. I told 
her she'd have that feeling when she signed up for this.

"Finally, 'playing with yourself' provides a good tool for 
evaluating possible relationships." I'd lost her again. "Look, you 
have fantasies, daydreams about guys, right?" More blushing, just 
visible in the dim light. "I'll take that as a 'yes.' You imagine 
different situations, sometimes he's a strong adventurer, sometimes 
a nurturing homebody, sometimes he sweeps you off your feet, 
sometimes he pursues you on bended knee...." An anatomical 
mixed metaphor there, I realized. Oh well. "You have the 
opportunity to find out whether a kind of relationship really lights 
your fire. If you find yourself masturbating with one particular 
image more often than others, that may be a sign that that's the 
kind of relationship you seek at that point in your life. You can 'try 
on' a lot of different relationships, keep the ones that work, discard 
the ones that don't, and no one needs to know. It's a lot cheaper 
than divorce."

"But..."

"Allison, masturbation is one of the essential skills you need to 
demonstrate to get to Central High. What's it to be?"

A long pause, stretching into minutes. She studied her lap. Then, 
very quietly, "OK, what do I do?"

I silently let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. That had 
been the Rubicon. After this, it would all be easier.

"Tonight, we'll go back to kissing. It should be obvious, but the 
rules of posture don't apply. Take off your panties"look, dammit, 
it's not as though I didn't get well acquainted with that end of you 
yesterday!" She remembered the spanking with chagrin, and 
swallowed her objection. "When you begin to feel aroused, go 
ahead and touch yourself in any way that feels good. And I'll offer 
direction as best I can. I'm just a guy, but I have some experience 
with female anatomy.

"OK, but don't look."

"Oh, come on. How can I tell you how to get better if I can't see 
what you're doing?"

"Humph."

And then we were back at the kissing game, in each other's arms. 
Actually, she was in my arms. After a little while, hers were 
otherwise occupied. 

"Allison." Her head came up and she tried to focus. "Eyes open. 
You'll want to watch your lover, and he will want to watch you. 
Don't close your eyes." After that I didn't really need to do much 
to help things along, the occasional caress, a word of direction now 
and then, a kiss on an earlobe, and in a while she was bucking and 
shuddering against me. And she dissolved into tears. Good, I 
thought, almost certainly her first orgasm, looking into my face, 
and with my arms around her, with my hands on her skin. If there's 
anything to "imprinting," we should be well on our way.

"Shh, baby, wasn't that good?"

Her reply was inaudible. Slowly she returned to reality, and pulled 
down her dress. "I...need to pee." 

"Of course, baby. But come back."

She reappeared in a few minutes. It looked as though she'd 
splashed some water on her face. "Allison, look at me." She 
dragged her eyes up off the carpet, and I took her hands in mine 
and looked into her eyes. "You can't know how honored I am to 
have been here for that." A little half-smile from her. "You'll do 
that at least twice a day, once each day in front of me." Her eyes 
got wide, but I bulldozed ahead. "As I said, part of the value of 
masturbation is that it let's you 'try out' relationships. Here's a 
stack of stories, each of which is an example of some relationship." 
Wonderful thing, asstr-mirror.org. "Read one each time you play 
with yourself, and sort them into folders I'll give you"one each 
for 'Ugh!', or 'Nice', or 'Oh, wow!'" Over time, you may begin to 
see a pattern in the ones that light your fire. Review the folders 
now and then. Again, Allison, thank you. It's been a wonderful 
evening." And I meant it.

And so to bed. I had a date with my hand.

Chapter 4: Mutual of Omagawd

The next morning, Sunday, got going slowly. I was down in the 
kitchen working my way through a cup of coffee when Allison 
made her appearance, following her nipples into the room. Her 
posture was perfect. I wasn't sure, but I thought she looked a little 
flushed. In any case, she avoided my eyes.

"Allison." Finally she looked up. "Good morning, beautiful." I 
kissed her, at considerable length. If she wasn't flushed before, she 
was now.

"Good morning, dad." A shy smile.

I took her hands and brought them to my nose for a sniff. "Good 
girl." I'm sure she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her. 
"Now, none of that. You've done a beautiful thing. You had a lot 
to absorb yesterday, so nothing new today. Just keep up with the 
exercises in your homework list. We'll do a refresher this evening 
after dinner. Otherwise, go enjoy the day." 

That evening, after dinner was cleared, we went up to the study. I 
had her bring her sheaf of stories, and make herself comfortable on 
the couch, with a good reading light. I said, "OK, peel off another 
story and go ahead and 'enjoy yourself.' I may coach from time to 
time, but otherwise I'm not here." This was a new situation for her. 
This morning, she had done the deed in the privacy of her room, 
and yesterday, it had been in the heat of the clinch. Now, she had 
to bring herself off, from a standing start, and with a watcher. I 
gave her a glass of sherry and went to my desk, pretending to 
work. The configuration of the room for this exercise was no 
accident: she was more-or-less facing me. I wanted her looking at 
me as she came. After a moment of hesitation her eyes dropped to 
the page and she submerged herself in the story, this one with a 
strong theme of dominance and submission. I had taken care to 
ensure that her pile of stories had that theme well represented. A 
few pages into the story, she dipped her hand into her shorts and 
began stroking, and a bit later she laid down the story, closed her 
eyes, and began to work herself in earnest.

"Allison. Eyes open. Try pinching your nipples." She was far 
enough gone that she didn't try to respond verbally. The fantasy 
and her own manipulations took over again, and though her eyes 
were glazed, seeing god knows what, they were open and pointed 
in my general direction. Good enough. A few minutes later she 
came, with something between a groan and a whimper. I let her 
recover, then said, "That was beautiful. Thank you." I gave her a 
thorough goodnight kiss, and sent her to her room with a "See you 
in the morning. Remember your exercises. And you have a date on 
Saturday. Some guy is going to take you to dinner and the Opera."

The next morning brought a new work week, and I did have to 
make a buck. I spent most of the day trying to nail down some 
training contracts with three potential clients. The bad news was 
that two of them took lower-priced bids from competitors, but hey, 
if you're never underbid, you're not charging enough. The good 
news was that the third one signed, and would give my small 
organization all the work it could handle for a month, at a premium 
rate. So I was feeling pretty good about the day as evening 
approached. It was then that I realized I hadn't seen Allison all 
day. As I was pouring myself a Scotch, and laying out things for 
dinner, she made her appearance in the kitchen, in a little wrap 
dress thing I hadn't seen before. 

I'm slow, but two and two eventually got together. "Shopping 
day?"

She smiled, almost coquettishly, the first full, unembarrassed smile 
I'd seen from her for several days. She did a spin in the dress, 
which resulted in showing an improbable amount of thigh. "Yes. If 
I'm going to have a date at the Opera this weekend, I need to have 
the weapons and the warpaint." Good, she was getting into this.

I smiled back. "That wasn't the only purchase, then? Do I hear my 
credit cards whimpering? I think a sauvignon blanc with this 
fettuccini"would you drag one out of the cooler?" And we were 
off into the evening. 

Later, we convened in the living room. I put on some quiet jazz, 
and turned down the lights. 

"Let's review." 

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, teacher." But she smiled when she said 
it.

"You've got the skills, and the body, to get a first date. You are 
starting to get some experience dealing with what it feels like when 
your hormones start pumping. And you're starting to get some 
practice with what to do to relieve yourself when aroused. But 
what about your date?"

"My date?"

"Come now, dear. Guys have needs, too. If you aren't thinking 
about where his hormones are taking him, if you aren't one step 
ahead, then you're hopelessly behind."

"Oh. Well, can't he go home and 'play with himself?' This cuts 
both ways, doesn't it?"

"Sure he can. And will, at first. But string that along too far, and 
he'll go elsewhere, or deliver an ultimatum along the lines of 'put 
out or I'm gone.' You don't want that, because at this phase of 
things, you want to avoid intercourse, but you want to keep the 
relationship going. You don't want to have to choose between. So 
you want to take things gradually, as you sense the kind of 
relationship it's going to be, and whether you want that 
relationship, and with this guy. But the time will come when you 
need to do more than arouse and frustrate him, if you want to keep 
him. Think about the feelings you've been able to give yourself 
over the last few days. Imagine what a gift you'd give your lover to 
make him feel like that, and to have him give you those feelings in 
return. Whether you call it 'heavy petting' or 'mutual 
masturbation', it's a wonderful experience. And it's tonight's 
lesson."

She swallowed, hard, at that one. "Here we go again," she said.

I made a show of exasperation. "Dammit, I didn't come to you and 
say 'Please let me teach you about sex.'" 

Actually, I'd said something more like, I'll teach you about sex or 
else. 

I continued, "Look, if this isn't what you want, I've got other 
things to." And, I didn't have to add, you will go to Saint Virginia 
in the fall. 

"No, no, I'm sorry. You're right. How do we start?"

"I don't want to spoil that nice cocktail dress. Change into your 
robe and meet me here in fifteen minutes." I used the time to 
change into my own robe, pour us a couple of glasses of wine, and 
spread out some cushions on the living room floor.

"So, we meet again, my pretty," I said, twirling an imaginary 
moustache. She snickered. "OK, I get no respect. Join me here and 
let's neck." And we did. When things had warmed up sufficiently, 
I said, with as steady a voice as I was able, "The way this will 
work is, I will do for you what you've been doing for yourself the 
last several nights, and you will do for me what I've been doing for 
myself the last several nights."

Her fogged vision cleared for a moment, and she said, "Oh. Oh, 
my" as the realization of what I'd said, and what it implied, hit 
home.

I continued, "Feel free to coach me, as I will coach you." And I 
reached for her. She flinched at my touch. I took it very slow, 
because after all this was to be a learning experience for her, so it 
wouldn't do to have her too worked up to think. I dialed my fingers 
to "simmer" and waited. She hesitantly opened my robe, and came 
face-to-face, or face-to-cock, with her first penis. I'm only average, 
but again, she didn't have anything for comparison, and I was 
gratified by her response.

"Go ahead and explore. If you're gentle you can't hurt me." She 
looked as though she'd rather touch a corpse, but my caresses had 
her going, and she reached out with her fingertips and made 
contact. Of course, I already was fully erect. I'd have had to be a 
corpse to be otherwise. "A little bit about the male anatomy that 
the good Sisters didn't tell you. That's the head, or crown, and the 
rim you see there is very sensitive. Run the tips of your fingers 
around it. Ahhhh....good. Wrap your fingers around the base, a 
little more firmly, and stroke upwards. Uhh. You're doing fine. 
Now relax your fingers until you're barely making contact, and 
stroke downwards. Ahh...nd repeat. Loose on the down stroke, 
firm on the upstroke. Yes."

I shut up at that point, because she was doing fine, and because I 
was finding it very hard to speak. And this was not the time to 
teach her the subtleties of the hand-job. So I concentrated on 
keeping her just below a boil, with pleasant results. Maybe she'd 
learn a thing or two about how to do herself. The hard part here 
was trying to achieve near-simultaneous orgasm. You know the old 
one: "To go together is blessed, to come together is divine." Not 
that it was indispensable, but at this stage of her training, the 
associations would help matters along.

"Baby, slow down for a minute, let me talk." I was on the edge, 
and while she was still hearing me, I sensed she was, too. "When 
girls come, it's usually rather tidy. The good Sisters have told you 
about semen. When men come, it makes a bit of a mess. I'm going 
to come about when you do, and it may get a trifle sloppy. Don't 
let it put you off. OK, here we go." I put my mouth back over hers 
and, as I felt that familiar almost-painful sensation begin to build in 
my crotch, I diddled her clit for all I was worth. She lost control of 
her body, yelling into my mouth as she came, and damned if she 
didn't try to rip my dick out of my groin in her convulsions. But 
that sent me over the edge, too. And she kept the soft-down, hard-
up rhythm the whole time.

It took several minutes before either of us was aware of the outside 
world. I kissed the side of her neck and said, "Thank you."

She looked down at her hand, now aware of my goo on her fingers, 
which were still wrapped around my shrinking cock. "Did I do 
that?" she said with wonder in her tone.

"Yes, baby, and very well you did it, too."

She giggled. "Like you said, a bit of a mess. What do I do about 
it?" 

"Very good" I said. "If not quite one step ahead, at least catching 
up fast. The answer is, whatever you want. Most men find it 
intensely sexy if you lick it up. You could clean it up with a 
washrag. Or leave it to be my problem. It's your call."

Though she didn't move a millimeter, physically, I could sense that 
she recoiled from the image, but she kept her hand around me. 
After a minute or so, she shivered a bit, looked back into my eyes, 
then bent around to clean up her hand, my dick, and my belly with 
her tongue. It was heavenly.

When she was done, she came back up and nestled in the crook of 
my arm. The expression on her face and the tension in her body 
told me that she was, as they say, 'deeply conflicted.' "Allison," I 
said. She looked up. "Thank you." And I kissed her deeply. I tasted 
myself on her tongue, not my favorite sensation, but this was all 
for the greater cause. The kiss went on. And on. After a while I felt 
her relax in my arms, as if she had come to terms with what she'd 
done with her hand and her mouth. Yet later she broke the kiss.

"Jack," she said. I looked at her. That was the first time she'd used 
my given name. "Thank you." And she put her head back on my 
chest. A long while later, I sent her to her room, and tidied up the 
living room.

Chapter 5: Celeste Aida

The rest of the week, I left her pretty much to her own devices. I 
didn't touch her, once. 

We had the usual cursory chat at breakfast/coffee before I dove 
into work each day. Somebody had to pay those credit card bills. 
We had a pleasant dinner together, one or the other of us doing the 
cooking. Every evening, she would read a dirty story to herself and 
masturbate on the couch in the study in opposite me, her eyes on 
me. I would remind her to do her "exercises." And that would be 
that. Except that I would find her watching me from time to time. 
When I made eye contact, she would blush and vanish into her 
room. And we were back to "dad," not "Jack."

And we both knew we had a 'date' coming up on Saturday. I told 
her, "Look, forget if you can that this is some sort of 'test.' I'm 
going to treat you the way you should expect and demand to be 
treated on a date. Here's the scenario. Be dressed and ready at 
5PM. I will drive up to the front curb. I will come to the front door, 
not honk the horn. I will come in to the house to greet you, not 
expect you to come out to the car. If I were going to do this really 
right, I'd have a discussion with your father about my 'honorable 
intentions,' but I don't feel right talking to myself." She laughed 
into her hand. "We'll do whatever the date is, in this case, dinner 
and the Opera. Relax and enjoy yourself"if you can't, one of us is 
doing something very wrong. If you don't feel like a princess at 
least at some time during the evening, ask yourself whether you 
want another date with this clown. But will you be 'one step 
ahead' of me? In this case, assume that we've been dating for a 
couple of months, progressed to necking and touchy-feely, but 
you've refused more. I've made it clear that I'm ready for more 
than a smooch and a grope, and I'm about out of patience. 
Otherwise, tonight is a 'last hurrah.' You've decided that the 
relationship has matured enough for the next step. Sometime 
during the evening you'll have an opportunity to show off the 
skills you've been learning. Let the situation develop. Play the 
role. Take the initiative if feels right. You're a high school girl 
being taken on a date by an 'older man' named 'Jack.' As an 
instructor, I'll be watching for your technical execution of the 
skills, but more importantly for your judgment on what's called for 
given the development of the relationship. As your date, I'll bring 
you home and walk you to the front doorstep. If the evening has 
gone well, I'll kiss you goodnight. Again, in the real world I'd turn 
you back over to your father, but too bad. I'll drive away. A few 
minutes later I'll park the car in the garage, and we can 'drop role' 
and do a post mortem of the evening over coffee or drinks. OK?"

And so it happened that in the fullness of time Saturday rolled 
around. I put on the suit that I kept in the closet for meetings with 
other 'suits', dragged the Lexus out of the garage, drove around the 
block, and pulled up to my own front door. Funny, I had to corral 
the butterflies in my gut as though I were a teenager again. Deep 
breath, Jack, and center. I walked up to the house and pushed the 
button. After making me wait just the right amount of time, the 
door opened, and there was my Allison. No, not my Allison. She 
stood, well, regally. A teenage incarnation of sex, in another dress 
I'd never seen, a maroon item that was classy, but too tight in too 
many places, too short in too many others. If I were acting as her 
father, I'd forbid her....

"Jack!" she squealed, and was in my arms. Instant erection. No 
wonder I was dizzy: all the blood in my brain had rushed to my 
dick. She twisted around in my arms to face the open front door. 
"Daddy!," she tossed over her shoulder into the hallway behind 
her, "byee!" Never mind that the house she was shouting into was 
empty, it was clear that she was into the role. She freed one arm 
from my embrace to close the door behind her and offered me that 
arm. "Shall we?"

I won't bore you with the most of the proceedings. 

Dinner was at a small, quiet restaurant on the fringe of downtown. 
We were early enough that the dining room was mostly vacant. 
Service was instant without hovering, the scallops were perfectly 
done, and we begged off of dessert lest we fall asleep during the 
Opera. Allison glowed. Her spine never touched the back of the 
seat.

And then the Opera. Ah, yes. Verdi's "Aida," and not by accident. 
The next week would have been "Othello," which wouldn't have 
done at all. But here we have the queen enslaved, falling in love 
with her owner, who has fallen in love with her. Perfect. As we 
waited at the curb for the car afterward, Allison gushed about the 
lead soprano. I turned to her, wrapped my hand under her chin, 
kissed her, and said, "But who had the power in that relationship?" 
I might as well have spoken Swahili. But the question sank in, and 
I could almost hear the gears turning in her head on the silent drive 
home. 

"OK," she finally said. "I think I get it. It's a kind of vicious circle, 
isn't it?" I glanced over her as I drove, her face illuminated by the 
instrument lights on the dashboard, and kept my mouth shut. "I 
mean, they owned her, she was property, like...I don't know...a 
pet rock, or a goldfish, or something." She shivered. "Aida was a 
slave, for chrissake! But he loved her. So she had the power. She 
betrayed him, and when he was punished for what he'd done for 
her, she found that she loved him, and he had the power. And then 
around it went until it blew up. And everybody died, of course, like 
all operas."

I said I thought that would do as a plot synopsis. As I got back to 
our suburb and pulled off at the usual exit, Allison turned to me 
and said, "Could we stop by Cornell Park, 'Jack,' just for a couple 
of minutes? I don't have to be home just yet." I said sure. Cornell 
Park was a small park in a nice neighborhood cut off by the way 
the freeways had cut through the town, and there wasn't a lot of 
traffic through that area. I pulled into a dark spot and cut the 
engine. The almost imperceptible grumble of the engine died 
away, and she was in my arms, her lips to mine, pressed to me as 
best she could over and around the center console of the Lexus. 
Damn, I hate making out in a car. I thought I got over that when I 
got my own place. One of us was going to need a chiropractor. I 
pushed her back. "Allison," I said, staying in role, "we need to talk 
about whether this relationship can continue like this. I really don't 
think I want to hurt you by...."

"Please?" she interrupted me. I played dumb. "Please," she said 
again, "touch me, there?"  She had twisted around so that she was 
lying across the two seats, facing rearward, and therefore facing 
me, and her hand fell to open my fly and begin her own kneadings. 
Her position made it easier for me to put my right hand where it 
needed to go, to do what it needed to do. The whole thing was not 
quite anatomically impossible.

Never one to refuse a desperate woman, I ran my fingertips 
beneath the hem of her dress and up her thigh. "Imagine my 
surprise," as the saying goes, when I found, not pantyhose, not 
panties, but thigh-high stockings and moist flesh. "Well, what do 
we have here?" I said as I commenced exploratory manipulation. 
"Sluts dress like this. Are you a slut, or do you just dress like one?"

She began to squirm under my efforts. "Ah, 'Jack,' you know I 
want keep seeing you, but I've been raised to be a 'good girl.' I've 
held you off, I know you're fed up, but can you accept that I want 
to take it slow? Can I make it up to you a little, like...this?" A 
squeeze. "I've never...touched any man...like...this before." 
Academy Award stuff, this. And loose on the down stroke, firm on 
the upstroke. Where did she learn that little twist of the wrist? 
OJT? "Tonight felt special. I knew I was ready to give you more, 
at least a little more. At the intermission I knew I didn't want 
anything to get in the way, so visited the little girl's room to...clear 
the way. For you. I'm not a slut, ah, yes, there, but I'm beginning 
to think I might want to be *your* slut, if you'll...teach me? Am I, 
am I doing it right, for you?" Real desperation in her voice, or at 
least, really good acting of real desperation. I found that I didn't 
care which.

My efforts were being rewarded, as were hers. Both of us were 
standing on the cliff. I drew a ragged breath. "Baby, I'm going to 
make a mess on my suit if you do that any longer." Her eyes 
focused on my face as best she could, and she made a little smile 
without slacking the motions of her hand. Then the next thing I 
knew, her mouth was around the head of my cock and I was 
erupting into that hot cavern, and her thighs clenched around my 
hand as I pushed her off of her own cliff.

The short drive home was, you'll forgive the expression, 
anticlimactic.

I did the walk, did the kiss at the front door, did the "I'll call you 
this week, maybe" and she let herself in and, with a lingering 
glance, closed the door. Through the closed door I heard "Dadeee, 
I'm hoome." I shook my head, took a deep breath, and went back 
to drive the car into the garage.

By the time I got into the house, she was in her robe, and had a 
sherry for herself and a Scotch for me already made. I excused 
myself to change, hung up my suit, and was back in the living 
room in a few minutes. We sat in our robes and nibbled our drinks, 
and I said, "OK, post mortem time. Talk to me."

She looked up at me through her eyelashes (where do they learn 
that?). "What do you want me to say? What an evening! You told 
me I should feel like a princess. I did. I had a relationship with 
'Jack' that I wanted to keep going, but 'he' was tired of waiting for 
me to decide to keep 'him' happy, happier than I'd been willing to 
do in the past. I wanted the relationship to continue. I made some 
decisions, dressed for the occasion, took some risks, and used what 
I've been taught." She paused, with a small smile. "Tell me, 'Jack', 
how did I do?"

It was odd, being referred to by my own name as though it were a 
pseudonym. I tried to put on my face of an instructor doing an 
evaluation. It didn't work. "Ahhh. Where do I start? You did fine. 
More than fine. Obviously, you ...." Damn. OK, Jack, another 
deep breath. "Two things. I was astonished when you took me in 
your mouth. Very good. Oh, very good. On the other hand, you 
might have been a little more 'hard to get.'" 

She placed the brilliantly red nail of her forefinger to her brilliantly 
red lips and put on a wide-eyed, puzzled expression. It was a 
caricature, a '50s pinup. "Hard to get!? But Jackee, baby, whatever 
would I have done with my hands?" We both collapsed in roars of 
laughter. I sent her to her room, and went upstairs.

Chapter 6: Relational Data

So we started July with a certain amount of momentum, and I 
made some changes in our routine. She still did her posture 
exercises, and twice a day read her smut while masturbating. 
Maybe more that twice a day, for all I know. Her three folders of 
stories were filling up. 

No, the changes were more subtle. The training always remained 
separate from our day-to-day relationship, but a little less so. I 
stopped referring to the weekly testing events as 'dates.' They 
were always for testing purposes, but they became dates, without 
the quotation marks, and then became just enjoyable special things 
we did together, that provided an environment for the testing. I 
stopped being 'Jack,' some fictitious guy she had a 'date' with, and 
was myself, a stepfather trying to teach his stepdaughter what she 
needed to know to get along, and show her a good time in the 
process. And after our weekly dates, we brought things to a climax, 
so to speak, in my bed. No more wrestling in cars, thank you. The 
post mortems continued, as we cuddled and talked about our 
sensations. But when we were done, I always sent her back to sleep 
in her own bed. This process was still 'training,' and not an almost-
incestuous affair. We had started the process with a goal, and it 
was continuing toward that goal, even though we didn't speak of it 
any more.

And after the first 'date,' I didn't bring up Central High, or high 
school boys.

All the same, if I wanted to have a harvest at the end of the 
summer, I needed to plant some seeds now. They would take time 
to sprout.

"Allison, tell me what you know about relationships." I loved 
dropping these things on her out of the blue. But I'd done it often 
enough now that she had learned to keep her mouth shut until 
she'd begun to organize an answer.

"You mean, like husband-wife?"

"Be more general. People relationships."

"Hm. From what I can see, one way to organize them is by how 
much they have legal recognition. You've got employer-employee, 
which often has a written contract, husband-wife which may, 
boyfriend-girlfriend which won't, and like that."

"Fine. Take that set, though obviously there are others, of varying 
durations: shop clerk-customer, parent-child, ex-husband-ex-wife. 
Pimp-whore." She gave me a shocked look. Still some prudishness 
left from Saint Virginia. "Each one is a type of relationship. 
Generalize across all of them. What's a relationship?"

"They all have a set of assumptions and permissions, I guess. Each 
participant assumes certain things about the behavior of the other, 
and gives permission for behaviors to the other."

"A little pop-psych, but that's a start. And are the assumptions and 
permissions permanently defined?"

"Sometimes, in part." The girl would make a good consultant 
someday. "I mean, take husband-wife. There are legal restrictions, 
like about economic support, and assumptions, about sex and such. 
Some behaviors society or laws don't permit in a relationship if 
anyone complains, like abuse in a marriage, or intercourse between 
a parent and child. Beyond that, I guess the couple gets to choose, 
like who takes out the garbage."

I summarized, "So all relationships of any type are not the same, 
and any given type of relationship may change, within limits, over 
time. No surprise: look at us, stepfather-stepdaughter. We changed 
our relationship in some ways when Jane died, and again when we 
began this training. And usually, two people can change the *type* 
of relationship they're in, if they choose. Of course, some types of 
relationship are forever and can't be left behind, like biological 
parent and child. But generally, you see changes of type all the 
time: clerk-customer become boyfriend-girlfriend, become 
husband-wife, become father-mother, become ex-husband-ex-wife. 
Relationships often fall apart if the permissions and assumptions of 
one party don't match the other's. Sometimes two people can't 
find a 'pre-defined' relationship that works for them, and have to 
make up a new type of their own. And each change of type has a 
ceremony or event that marks the transition, maybe as simple as 
the first kiss, maybe signing a contract, maybe as elaborate as a 
church service."

"Sure, what's the point?"

"Exactly, what's the point of all this training you asked for?" Well, 
she didn't exactly ask for it, but I took every opportunity to 
confuse her recollections on that point. "Why do you want to date? 
Is this just in support of, I don't know, 'random social activity?' 
Does it stop at that, or are you looking beyond that to a goal, 
something more permanent, and if so, have you thought about what 
you want? You want to land a guy? If so, how do you choose 
which one to go after? What's the relationship you want? How do 
you want to be treated? What lights your fire? As you said, what's 
the point? I don't want an answer. I don't expect you to have an 
answer, and if you did, I expect it would change as you grow. But 
to misquote the Cheshire Cat, if you don't have an idea of the 
relationship you want to wind up in, any guy is as good as any 
other. Think about it as you go through the summer." I went off to 
make lunch. All this hoeing and seeding was hard work. Out of the 
corner of my eye, I saw her pick up her three folders of stories and 
start leafing through them. Good.

Chapter 7: Endless Summer

Things progressed quickly. I'm sure she felt that she was 
constantly being bombarded with new things that stretched her in 
ways, and places, that she never expected. But I had to hurry her a 
bit. I had a plan with a deadline, and the most delicate part of it 
required a stretch of downtime on her part, and I couldn't rush that 
or control how long it might be.

She was an apt student, I'll give her that. We went from handjobs 
after the Opera, to fellatio after a jazz festival, to 69 after a day at 
the beach. Each new technique was still being justified under the 
heading of  "avoiding intercourse." Each date involved a complete 
review of all the previously-learned skills. So it came about that, 
on a weekend as July turned into August, after "As You Like It," 
we were in my bed, spooned, me buried to the hilt in her rectum. 
And yes, anal was pushing the "avoiding intercourse" justification 
as far as it could be pushed. 

She had waddled around all week with a butt plug in her ass, and a 
pained expression on her face. The build-up had begun in the 
middle of July, when I started playing with her asshole, running a 
finger around the rim, then into it, then two fingers. When she got 
beyond the revulsion, the squeamishness, when she admitted that 
she liked it, a little, then a lot, I took her along slowly, to wind up 
where we were now. The butt plug lay glistening on the side table 
next to the bed. I was pleased with her: she had come without any 
clitoral stimulation after the foreplay. She had fully learned 
"relaxed going in, grip coming out." I waited for the sweat to dry.

"Allison, baby."

"Mmmm, so full."

"Allison, honey, it's time."

"Nnnnn, a little longer?"

"No honey, off you go to bed," and I pulled out, gently, got a hot 
washcloth, and cleaned us both up.

She rolled over in my arms for a last kiss. "Jack, I keep saying this, 
but I never knew, so much pleasure.... I can't wait to see the 
lesson for next week!" And she gathered up her robe and made her 
way with careful steps to the door. She'd be a little sore for a few 
days, in spite of the preparation.

And she'd be surprised at next week's lesson.

Monday came and went with making a living. I shut down at five 
and found her on the back porch, wearing a little halter number, 
and handed her her drink. She had developed a taste for Scotch-
and-soda.

She sat in my lap, a big smile on her face, careless of the amount 
of thigh she showed. Her kiss tasted of Scotch-and-soda. She put 
her arms around my neck and asked, "What's the new 'skill' for 
this week, teach?"

"Nothing." She sat up, her face blank. "You're done. You passed. 
You've mastered the 'essential skills.' You can go to Central High 
in the fall if you want, and date, if you want. There's one more 
thing you could learn, but I can't teach it to you."

A little chuckle from her. "I'd sort of forgotten about Central. And 
high school boys. Why would I want to date one of those?" 
Another kiss. She used the same disparaging tone I had used on the 
words "boys" and "those." The kiss lingered.

After a long while she came up for air and looked up. "What about 
the 'one more thing,' and why can't you teach it to me?"

Here we go, I thought. Show time. Everything on one throw of the 
dice.

"You remember when we talked about relationships? Permissions 
and assumptions? Changing relationships? Flexibility in defining 
what's permitted?" A nod. "The stepfather-stepdaughter 
relationship isn't really well defined, but whatever it is, you and I 
have been pushing the envelope of what society permits, really 
hard. The 'one more thing' would be the skills of actual 
intercourse, and that, baby, is *not* permitted to us in this 
relationship."

I shut up. Now I'd learn whether the seed I'd planted a month 
earlier would sprout. 

Her hand crept under her skirt. Having spent two months playing 
with herself in front of me, she no longer had any shame on that 
score. "And actual screwing, it's even better yet?" I nodded. "I 
can't imagine anyone I want to give my virginity to more.... But 
we can't?" I shook my head, not saying anything. "If it's better 
than what we've done, god, just the idea. I mean, I've been reading 
all those naughty stories all summer, but it's just words. But if I 
can't do it with you, Jack...."

The silence stretched on. Had I been too subtle? I had to keep my 
peace though, because she had to think that this was her idea.

"Waaait." She drew out the word. "You said 'in this relationship.' 
Do *we* get to change the type of relationship we're in?"

I barely resisted the impulse to pump my fist in the air in victory. 
"Well, doll, I haven't really thought about it." Like hell, I hadn't. 
"I mean, parent-child is forever, but like I said, the stepparent role 
sort of loosely defined, and it's by ceremony, not by blood. Are 
you thinking...."

"Well, if we can't 'do it' as stepfather-stepdaughter, and god, do I 
want to 'do it' with you, then maybe we should choose another 
relationship."

My little seed had become a beautiful little sprout.

"Honey, my legs are going to sleep with you sitting on me like 
that." She dismounted, still deep in thought. Now for the next step. 
"It's an interesting idea." I made a show of giving it some 
consideration. "Look, if you're thinking about changing the type of 
relationship we have, we need to go at this carefully. I think both 
of us want something more permanent than 'boyfriend-girlfriend,' 
and I don't want to marry again: Jane was my first and last wife." I 
stopped, and let the silence stretch out. "You remember the 
"What's the point?" discussion?" A nod. "Any thoughts on what 
kind of relationship you want? Do your folders of stories tell you 
anything?"

"Yes, daddy." She blushed, "I..."

"Wait." I stopped her. "Here's what I want you to do. Think it 
though. You're going to be making a decision that will affect your 
happiness for a long time to come. When you're ready, when 
you're sure, write me a love letter. In the letter, seduce me into the 
relationship you've chosen. Sell it to me. Make me want it, too. 
Anticipate my doubts and objections, and overcome them. Draw 
me a picture of how we'd live. Writing the letter should make you 
want to play with yourself. When I read it, I should have the same 
reaction. Understand?"

"Hmm, interesting. Yes. When do you want to see the letter?"

"When you're really ready, and really sure." And that closed the 
discussion. We finished our drinks and went in to start dinner. 

Two weeks passed. I didn't touch her, not once. I told her she no 
longer needed to play with herself, certainly not in front of me. 
After all, all those things had been "training," and the course was 
over. I was her stepfather. I was not her lover, never had been. 
Yeah, right. Nothing was said about the letter. But I could see that 
she was spending a lot of time in her room, on her computer at all 
hours, and no, she wasn't on the Internet. The way her wastebasket 
was filling up, she was going through a lot of drafts of something. 

No, I didn't dig through her trash. I didn't think I needed to, 
because I knew what stories wound up in her "Oh, wow!" folder.

Chapter 8: Billet Doux

Dearest Jack, my only love,

You have given me so much pleasure this summer, without 
demanding anything in return. I'm sure it's getting old to hear it, 
but I never knew my body could give me such pleasure. The 'good 
Sisters' can go to Hell. I hope my body has given you a little 
pleasure, too? All this time you thought you were going to turn me 
over to a bunch of pimply high school boys to play with. 

You didn't touch me these last two weeks. I've been climbing the 
curtains with need, but it proved to me that you really thought of 
all that stuff we did as 'training,' not a chance to grope your 
stepdaughter. Thank you, and I'm ashamed that I ever doubted.

You asked me, what relationship would I pick? I've watched you 
work, and you taught me to think about 'requirements.' What a 
dusty sounding word for something so juicy. Requirements: I want 
to please you, give you pleasure the way you have given me 
pleasure. All day, every day, any way, without limits. I want you to 
take without waiting for me to give. But what relationships are 
without limits? Even a mistress can say 'no,' and how can 'no' 
give pleasure? And what relationship would accommodate my 
desperate desire to please?

You told me to go through my folder of stories. I didn't really need 
to, because weeks ago I knew what fired my rocket. It was the 
stories of submission, of dominance, of helpless slave girls 
weeping and coming as they served the lusts of cruel and 
demanding masters in some jungle or on some faraway planet. The 
words I've written look so corny on the page. Dammit, they are 
corny. But I look at the words and say, that's what I want. Because 
those girls give pleasure, no, it is demanded of them, taken from 
them, without limit, and 'no' is gone from their vocabulary.

You will say that slavery is dead in modern America. But we're 
defining our own relationship, and we can use slavery as a 
metaphor, a starting place, can't we? There's no property 
ownership of people, any more, but in terms of permissions and 
assumptions, it's a relationship where everything is permitted to 
you, and I may assume nothing, call the relationship what you will. 
To borrow the phrase you used at the beginning of the summer, all 
my time, energy, and focus will go to serve your pleasure, and my 
discomfort means nothing. Any lapse from perfection would merit 
punishment, because any lapse from perfection would mean that I 
had failed to give you all the pleasure I could and should and must.

You ask, how can such a relationship last? What's in it for little 
Allison? I'll tell you a story. Suppose that early in their 
relationship, sometime before the Chateau, O did something for 
Renee. The task itself held no pleasure for O. It was the fact that 
Renee got pleasure from her efforts that gave O the pleasure she 
needed to make the doing worthwhile. Pleasure by reflection. Take 
it another turn. Renee knew that O didn't enjoy doing the task. 
Knowing that O imposed upon herself, or accepted being imposed 
upon, increased Renee's pleasure, even if he took no direct 
pleasure in the gift itself. That's what we mean when we say "It's 
the thought that counts." But either way, O got her pleasure from 
Renee's pleasure. The more O suffered for him, the more Renee 
was pleased, and *therefore* the more pleasure O got from 
pleasing him. And *therefore* the more pleasure O got from 
suffering. That's what's in it for me: I will get pleasure from your 
pleasure, the way the moon gets its light from the sun. And when I 
must, I will feel pleasure from your punishments, because I will 
know that they are correcting me, preparing me to please you 
better.

You want to know how we would live. And I say, any way that 
gives you pleasure. Chain me in a dungeon or let me run. Keep me 
naked or clothe me in silks. Beat me or stroke me with scented 
oils. Force me come for hours or deprive me for weeks. My last 
choice will be to do what you choose to do with me.

You have but to claim me. Have I seduced you, have I sold it to 
you?

Yours without hope, the free woman now known as Allison 
Kennedy.





Chapter 9: September Song

No, I didn't "claim" Allison on the spot, much as my dick argued 
for it. You can imagine that the letter made for interesting dinner 
conversation, which I will spare you, except the following:

"Allison, you're proposing a significant change in our 
relationship." A nod, and a shrug from her, as if to say, well duh? 
"Back to what you know about relationships. Generally, when 
there's a significant change in a significant relationship, there's a 
more-or-less public ceremony to mark the fact. Whether you're 
talking about signing a contract, or formalizing a marriage, there's 
a ceremony. That means that there are witnesses who can vouch 
for the fact of the relationship. It makes it harder for either party to 
back out of the new relationship, or claim that it's something that it 
isn't. And it makes a kind of punctuation mark in time, making it 
clear that 'before now' was the old relationship, and 'after now' is 
something new, with no going back."

"Well," she said with light sarcasm, "I'll pop over to the 
archdiocese and get a copy of their enslavement ceremony."

"Look, you write well. Write your own ceremony. I don't doubt 
that the Internet would yield endless examples with a search for 
'enslavement ceremony,' but you can get your inspiration where 
you like. Couples write their own wedding ceremonies, why not 
write your own ceremony of claiming?"

"I guess I don't have any pressing engagements just now. If I'm 
going to be a slave girl, I don't need to worry about summer 
reading lists for either Central High OR Saint Virginia."  She 
didn't need to know that I had plans afoot on the subject of 
schooling.

"Good. A little advice: keep it short. You can take a lot of the text 
from your love letter. Make it clear what you're doing, why you're 
doing it, what you expect of the new relationship. You can use a 
bit of theater: you don't have to tell your audience something if 
you can make it clear by showing them." 

She disappeared into her room, and again the wastebasket began to 
overflow. Yet in a few days, she was satisfied. I was delighted with 
the result. Invitations went out to a select few of our more open-
minded friends, and the remaining preparations were 
indistinguishable from any small garden wedding.

I didn't touch her, not even once. But I did send her to her 
OB/GYN to get on The Pill.

The great day came, and the well-stocked caterer's tent went up in 
the garden, near what they assumed to be some sort of arbor or 
trellis. Chairs were set out. The caterer's people were dismissed.

I found Allison in her bedroom, looking over the garden, dreamy-
eyed.

"Are you sure about this, baby?"

She came into my arms, urgent, squirming. "God yes. I'm scared 
as hell. I've got butterflies the size of bombers in my stomach, And 
I'm running like a faucet 'down there.' I'm glad you made me 
keep the ceremony short."

I laughed, and kissed the top of her forehead. "Enjoy your last hour 
as a free woman. The guests are starting to arrive."

I did the meet-and-greet thing, and Allison came down to circulate 
with the guests. I was in my suit, and she was wearing a white, 
lacy, calf-length, loose summer dress that she had had made for the 
ceremony. Finally we had a quorum, the guests sat on the chairs 
gathered at one corner of the garden, and Allison and I took our 
places in front of the small group. She stood at my side, we faced 
the group, I put my arm around her shoulder, and she put her arms 
around my waist and snuggled in.

Allison had taken my advice, and copied liberally from her love 
letter, so much of what follows will be familiar language to the 
reader. I started in, from the script that she had written.

"Welcome, friends, to our home and to this ceremony. What 
you're about to be witnesses to will mark a change in the 
relationship between Allison and myself. I'm confident in saying 
that you are unlikely ever to see another ceremony like it. There 
will be elements of the ceremony that are likely to profoundly 
disturb some people. Each of you has been invited because of your 
long friendship with Allison or myself, and because we believe 
you to be sufficiently open-minded to accept what you're about to 
see. If you even suspect that we might have been wrong, we 
suggest that you excuse yourself at this time." I paused. Nobody 
moved, beyond the odd raised eyebrow.

Allison took over. "I wrote this ceremony. Myself. Every word of 
it. With two exceptions, which Jack will explain when we come to 
them, I completely scripted each event in the ceremony. Not to put 
too fine a point on it: if the question occurs to you, I want this to 
happen the way it is going to happen." Several guests traded 
glances. 

I went on. "I'm glad that's out of the way. Let's begin." 

I disengaged from Allison, and we turned to face each other. The 
audience was to one side of us, and could see both of our faces in 
profile. We began the ceremony, looking into each other's eyes.

"What is your name?"

"Allison Kennedy."

"Why are you here?"

"To give myself to you, voluntarily, freely, completely, and 
irrevocably."

Not too bad so far, rather vanilla stuff.

"What relationship do you seek?"

"A relationship where everything is permitted to you. I forbid 
nothing, I may forbid nothing. I demand nothing, expect nothing. I 
accept everything in advance, without knowing what you will 
demand. I want you to take without waiting for me to give." 

I stole a glance at the audience. The eyebrows were starting to go 
up again. Back to Allison.

"What do you call this relationship?"

"Call the relationship what you will: if slavery is dead today, let 
me use it as a metaphor. All my time, energy, and focus will go to 
serve your pleasure, my discomfort means nothing. I want to 
please you, give you pleasure the way you have given me pleasure, 
give without taking. All day, every day, any way, without limits."

"What if you fail to please to your utmost?"

"I would beg you to punish me for failing to fulfill my promise to 
you, and correct me so that I did not fail again."

"Why do you want this relationship?"

"I will get pleasure from pleasing you, the way the moon gets its 
light from the sun."

"What do you offer?" 

"Absolute and instant obedience. I won't negotiate, won't 
consider, won't accept, won't even wait to understand. Just do, 
instantly, like a reflex."

"How will you be clothed?"

"My clothing has been for concealment. How can concealment 
give you pleasure? I will be clothed as you wish, even if not at all."

"How will you be fed?"

"By your hand, and by your wishes, even if not at all."

"What are your rights? What limits do you place upon the 
relationship?"

"I want no rights, because they imply choice, the option to refuse. I 
place no limits. How can refusal or limits increase your pleasure?"

"Very well." I put my hands on her shoulders. "I accept you." I 
pushed down gently, and she went to her knees. I thought absently 
that there would be grass stains on her dress. I twisted her hair into 
a rope, gripped it in my fist, and faced the audience. I raised my 
voice, a little, because this was the punctuation mark. "I claim this 
woman as my property, to do with as I see fit." 

A murmur through the audience. Rub their faces in it. I turned back 
to her and looked down. Time to show the "after." 

Still with my hand gripping her hair: "What are you?"

"If it pleases you, sir, let me be your slave."

"Why do you exist?"

"To give you pleasure."

"And if you cease to give pleasure?"

"If it pleases you, sir, I would cease to exist."

"Do you have the right to say 'no'?"

"I'm sorry sir, I don't know that word."

"What is your name?"

"You have not chosen to give me a name."

I turned again to the audience, and dropped my hand from her hair. 
"This is the first of two moments in the ceremony that Allison did 
not script. She does not know the name I will choose for her to 
wear in her new life." I walked around her, pretending to consider. 

I had a wicked thought. "You certainly are long and slender. 
Perhaps I will call you 'Sprout.'  She looked up at me with the 
look that said, "That has gone far enough."

"Yes, I will call you 'Sprout.'" She looked at me with horror. I 
could tell that she wanted to shake her head, but caught herself in 
time. Good girl.

"What is your name?"

A tear began to run down the side of her nose. "'Sprout,' sir, if it 
pleases you."

"It pleases me. Stand up, Sprout."

She stood, still facing me. Her eyes were wide, her head making 
the tiniest of 'no' motions, not of negation, but of disbelief that I 
would do this to her. I looked at her. "On the other hand, you're 
smarter than the average vegetable, a little. Maybe even as smart as 
the average alley cat." I snapped my fingers. "That's it! I will call 
you 'Allie.'"

She had hated that nickname, never permitted it, corrected 
everyone who used it. But it was a promotion from 'Sprout.'

"Thank you, sir."

"What is your name?"

"'Allie,' sir, if it pleases you."

"It pleases me."

A pause. I nodded to her. She turned to the audience for a moment, 
and said "We are beginning the last part of the ceremony. I beg 
you again to remember that the free woman I used to be wrote this 
as you will see it, and that she wanted this to happen." She turned 
back to me, and nodded. She knew what was coming. After all, 
she'd written the script.

I said, "Are you a free woman?"

"I am a slave."

She might have said "no," but her new identity did not permit it.

"Is a slave allowed to dress as a free women?"

"Only with her owner's permission."

"Do you have that permission?"

"My owner has not given me that permission."

"What is the punishment for a slave who dresses as a free woman 
without permission?"

"Whatever her owner chooses."

"Very well. Remove the offending garment." Murmurs from the 
audience. I thought they were taking this all rather well.

She reached to the nape of her neck where there was a single 
drawstring, tied in a simple bow knot. She tugged on the knot, and 
a second later she was gloriously, proudly, royally, totally naked. 
A white Aida. The dress made a white puddle about her feet.

"You will be caned for forgetting your place, for attempting to 
disguise yourself as a free woman, and for concealing the body 
whose appearance gives me pleasure." I led her to the trellis/arbor 
construction a couple of steps away. It was built far more solidly 
that would be needed to hold up a rose bush. Soon her hands were 
cuffed, separated, and raised above her head. She was facing away 
from the audience.

I faced the guests again. "This element of the ceremony is to 
accomplish three things. First, to prove to Allie beyond doubt that I 
will punish her when I wish. Second, for her to prove to me that 
she will accept such treatment if I choose to deliver it, with or 
without justification. Third, to prove to you that she voluntarily 
accepts this behavior as part of our new relationship. Allison 
scripted this scene, excepting only the number of stripes Allie is to 
receive. To tell you the truth, I don't know how many it will be, 
myself."

I put in Allie's mouth a folded washcloth, not as a gag, but to 
protect her teeth and tongue when she bit down from the pain. I 
picked up a cane that had been hanging on the trellis. Her eyes 
were closed. I pulled back the cane and struck at her ass, very hard.

She stiffened, rose on her toes, and moaned into the washcloth.

At the next strike, on the back of her thighs, she raised one leg, as 
though she were trying to mount a bicycle. 

I was looking for something, and found it on the fifth strike. The 
last three had been across her back. She had finally started crying, 
and her head hung down between her stretched arms. The sound 
coming through the washcloth was a continuous keening, like very 
distant singing. I was surprised to find that I was crying, too. I 
dropped the cane.

I whispered in her ear, "That's all, Allie. It's over. You did fine. 
Rest for a minute and I'll be back."  

I left her hanging there and went back to the guests, wiping my 
eyes. "That concludes the ceremony of the claiming of Allie, the 
woman you knew as Allison Kennedy. I would like to emphasize a 
few points. First, when Allison became Allie, you heard her give 
up the right to say 'no', which includes the right to refuse access to 
her body. However, that right was transferred to her new owner. I 
will not be pleased if anyone attempts to use my property without 
my permission. I trust that I make myself clear?" I made eye 
contact with each guest. There weren't all that many of them. 
"Second, some day you may meet Allie on the street. It is likely 
that she will be disguised as a free woman. I would appreciate it if 
you were discreet. I don't expect Allie's new life to remain fully 
secret for long, but I expect that you will use judgment in whom 
you tell, and how, and how you speak to her when you meet."

"Finally, you have seen about all of Allie there is to see. But I 
would be a poor host if I continued to dangle such a morsel naked 
in front of you, so she will be clothed, after a fashion, during the 
reception. Refreshments will be available in the tent in twenty 
minutes or so. Please enjoy the gardens for a few moments and 
then join us." 

I bent down to pick up a small piece of white cloth that had been 
lying on the ground nearby. It was a little stained from lying there, 
not entirely clean any more. I went back to Allie. I took the 
washrag from her mouth, gave her a drink of water, kissed away 
her tears, disconnected her cuffs from the arbor, and we put our 
arms around each other. "You OK?" I felt her nod her head 
beneath my chin. "Did it come out the way you wanted?"

"Yes. Yes. But oh, god, that thing hurts. Please make sure I never 
deserve the cane?" She shuddered in my arms.

It was time for one last bit of establishing the new relationship, at 
least for the moment. Without speaking, I gave her the cloth I was 
holding. She swabbed her face and blew her nose on it. She looked 
around quickly, and wiped the soaked insides of her thighs, too. 
When she was done, she handed it to me. I shook it out into a little 
tunic-like dress, handed it back, and told her to put it on and go 
serve my guests their refreshments. All she could say, with wide 
eyes and a certain air of wonder, was "Oh, you meanie." 

After the last guest had gone, I took the cuffs off of Allie's wrists 
and sent her in to bathe, then called the waiting caterer in through 
the gate to come get their equipment. When they'd finally gone, I 
went up to the master bedroom and found Allie kneeling at the side 
of the bed. The welts were beginning to turn purple. I didn't know 
how long she'd been waiting. It occurred to me that she had 
probably spent hours practicing that position, alone in her room. 

I ignored her while I changed out of my suit into a robe, and 
splashed my face. Then I came over and sat on the edge of the bed, 
took her face between my hands, and kissed her. "OK, slave, 
what's going on in your head? Just let it flow."

"I've been kneeling like this forever. My back and ass sting like 
fury. When you came into the room now I wanted to stand up, 
throw you on your back on the bed, and rape you. But somewhere 
deep down where I hadn't realized it before, I knew that 'I want,' 
is gone, gone, gone. They told me you were crying when you 
caned me. I'm making a wet spot on your carpet."

I smiled into her eyes. "Come to bed, Allie. It's time."  I guided 
her up onto her feet, re-cuffed her hands behind her back, and 
purely for theatrics, chained her ankle to the bedpost. It's not as 
though she was wanting to escape. But if she wanted the "slave 
girl" shtick, who was I to spoil it for her by denying her the 
trimmings that came with it? I ran her quickly through her 
repertoire, as best she could with her hands cuffed, skipping the 
anal. Then I got on my back and had her straddle and mount me. 
She took two or three shallow strokes up against her maidenhead, 
set her face, and plunged downward. "Eeeeeeuuugh" was all she 
could manage through gritted teeth, and she froze in position for a 
minute or two. I rested my thumb on her clit, and after a while she 
began a small, experimental movement of her hips. In a moment a 
tiny smile came to her face, and she began to "grip on the upstroke, 
loose on the downstroke." It was delightful, and neither one of us 
could hold out for long. When she came, she convulsed once, 
twice, and pitched forward in a dead faint. I narrowly avoided 
getting my nose broken by her descending forehead. Serves me 
right.

I disconnected her cuffs, leaving the chain on her ankle. I spread 
her out on a little mat at the foot of the bed, covered her with a thin 
blanket, cleaned myself of the fluids of her inaugural fuck, and 
went to bed.

Chapter 10: The First Day of the Rest of your Life

The next morning, a Sunday, I awoke before the alarm, and got to 
my feet. Allie was still zonked. Her thighs were encrusted and 
bloody. She was beautiful. I prodded her belly with my toe, not 
gently, and was rewarded with an "Oof." 

"Up, lazy wench. This is the first day of the rest of your life."

She groaned, and then, with surprising grace, flowed into a 
kneeling position. I say surprising, given how stiff and sore she 
must have been. "How may I serve you, master?"

I reached around and took the chain off of her ankle, and the cuffs 
from her wrists. "Go make my coffee, shower, put on your robe, 
and get back here. You have twenty-five minutes." I went to take 
my own shower.

She made it in time, just, put the coffee on my desk, and knelt at 
my feet. It was clear that she wasn't eager to sit, just yet.

"OK, it's time to establish the expectations under which you'll live 
in your new role. Here are two notebooks, and a pen. On the cover 
of the first, write 'Policies and Assignments.' I'm about to give 
you a list of policies, which are long-term rules you must obey any 
time a given policy applies. Assignments are one-time things I 
want you to do, like pick up a quart of milk on the way home, or 
whatever. Policies go in the front of that notebook, assignments in 
the back."

"On cover of the second, write 'Discipline.' I expect you to put an 
entry in that notebook any time you feel that you have done less 
than demanded, less than your best, less than perfection. Call my 
attention to it. I will put in the correction I consider appropriate, 
and will check it off when it has been executed, which may be 
some time later. At the top of the first page of each notebook, 
write, in large letters, 'ABSOLUTE OBEDIENCE.' You will keep 
a copy of your love letter attached to the inside front cover of the 
'policies' notebook. You are to keep both of these notebooks 
available to me. As a practical matter, that means that when we're 
in the house, just don't lose track of where they are. When we 
leave the house, you must have them in your hand, or in your bag."

"Now, policies. When you are in the master bedroom suite, you 
will not speak without permission. Anywhere else, I love the sound 
of your voice, and I want to hear you. You are smart, and witty, 
and I want you to talk to me, whenever you wish. But in this suite, 
no. How do you get permission? If I ask you a question that you 
can't answer by pointing, or nodding, or raising so-many fingers, 
you automatically have permission to speak. Otherwise, take a 
position where I can see you, and raise your hand, just like in grade 
school. If I give you permission, you may speak. Write that down. 
Not verbatim, but make notes of the important points." She wrote.

"I do not want to be called 'master,' or 'sir,' or any other honorific. 
Let your actions show your respect. If you find it necessary to use 
a noun of direct address, you may call me 'Mr. Kennedy.'" She 
wrote.

"Some owners want a slave that does exactly what she's told, when 
she's told, never anticipates an order, and no more. I own you in 
part because of your mind. Be inventive. Anticipate my desires. 
Look for ways to please me that I don't expect. Surprise and 
delight me. Astonish me! Of course, if you get it wrong, it will go 
badly for you."

"You will not normally be naked during the day. I want you to put 
together a wardrobe of clothing that you will wear around the 
house. I'm thinking in terms of the degree of coverage of a tennis 
dress, or a swimsuit coverup, or an ice skater's costume, or the 
kind of thing a desperately horny girl would wear clubbing. Use 
your imagination. It should be clothing you'd be mortified to be 
seen wearing in public. We may have guests here from time to 
time, some of whom will not know of our relationship, and I won't 
give you the opportunity to dress any differently for them from the 
way you do for me. Maintaining anything like decency should be a 
constant struggle, and a losing battle. I want you clothed, but only 
just, not because I expect to become bored with your enchanting 
naked figure, but because I want to have the ability to deny you 
clothing as punishment, or for my amusement. I don't want you to 
get used to being naked. This is implies an assignment." She 
flipped to the back of the notebook and looked up. "Go shopping 
for day clothes."

"Further on clothing." She flipped to the front of the notebook. 
"You will wear nothing that blocks my access to your cunt or ass 
at any time, in public or in private. No panties, no pants, no 
pantyhose. Now that I've broken you in, use a tampon during your 
period."

"Policy: you will be totally hairless below the neck. Assignment: 
shave, then acquire and use a home electrical depilatory kit."

"You will keep your asshole greased for my use at all times."

I waited while she caught up.

"I will demand that you take care of yourself, both physically and 
mentally. Assignment: enroll in a health club and sign up for any 
exercise regimen that keeps you limber and fit. I don't care if it's 
yoga or kickboxing or anything else. Work up a sweat five days a 
week."

"In terms of keeping yourself fit mentally, I've had some 
discussions with Chancellor Reed of the State University here in 
town. He's reviewed your record from Saint Virginia along with 
your SATs, and sees no reason why you shouldn't be able to enter 
State as a freshman immediately. You'll..."

"Jack! State! Omigawd, State!" 

"Allie. What have you just done? Look at the policies." 

Her mouth snapped shut, and she scanned down the policies. She 
had spoken out of turn, and addressed me incorrectly. Another scan 
through the policies. I had asked her a question she couldn't 
answer by pointing, so she automatically had permission to speak. 
"I spoke without permission in the master suite. I didn't call you 
'Mr. Kennedy.' I'm sorry, Mr. Kennedy."

"You will be. Put it in your discipline book. I'm not going to beat 
you for this"too many beatings shows a lack of inventiveness on 
the part of the owner. Besides, it was your mouth that sinned, not 
your back or your ass. For 'punishment,' put 'four hours with 
gag.'" She looked up at me, and swallowed. "And there's no time 
like the present." I reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a 
penis gag, one recently made to my own specifications, in that the 
depth of oral penetration could be easily adjusted. She still had 
some trouble with her gag reflex, and this was an opportunity. I 
guessed at the right depth, and strapped it home. "Awrk! Hngrrh!! 
Hngrrh!!!" Hmm, back off a quarter of an inch? Ah, that will do. 
She was far from comfortable, gagging every few seconds, her 
chin pointed upward, swallowing constantly to fight the reflex, but 
that was the idea. "Note the start time in your discipline book." She 
did, with difficulty. "And when you drool, clean it up. Come back 
to me when the time is up and I'll remove the gag."

"As I was saying about State. You'll need to take come catch-up 
courses to make up for the year you will miss at Saint Virginia, but 
the Advanced Placement courses you took will partially offset that. 
And put in an assignment: Complete application paperwork for 
State. That will be all for now. You're dismissed." 

She stood up, wiped the drool that was already forming on her 
lower lip, and came around my desk and kissed me. That's hard to 
do with your face is as full of machinery as hers was, but she 
managed somehow. Then she followed her nipples out of the room, 
trailing behind her the occasional sound of choking.

Chapter 11: Thanks for the Memories

It was six months later that our little household changed again. 
Allie came into the study, and I saw that today was "latex maid 
day." It wasn't my fetish, but she always seemed extra juicy after a 
"latex day," so I didn't mind. The chain hobble between her ankles 
didn't slow her down all that much, except on the stairs. And the 
impressively-sized ballgag hanging loosely around her neck was 
like a bright red pendant on a necklace. The woman dressed 
kinkier every day. Yesterday had been "Catholic schoolgirl day," 
though I doubt the good Sisters would have approved Allie's 
alterations to their uniform. She raised her hand. A handcuff was 
closed around her wrist, the other cuff dangling and open, ready.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Kennedy, your birthday is coming up in a couple of months, 
and I was hoping to do something special to surprise you. But...it 
will take money."

"How much?"

She named a figure, and I raised an eyebrow. "That's some 
surprise." I thought for a moment. Business had been good, 
recently, and I had a fair amount of money laid away. What the 
hell, it's only money. "Very well, go ahead." 

"Thank you, Mr. Kennedy. You won't be disappointed." She knew 
what would happen if I were.

I wrote out the check, blank as to payee (wouldn't be much of a 
surprise otherwise, would it?) and forgot about it. In the spirit of 
the thing, I was careful not to look for the cancelled check after it 
cleared.

A couple of months later, on the day before my birthday, I received 
a thin envelope in the mail, with a return address of the Psych 
department at the University she was attending. Allie was 
downstairs, somewhere. Upon opening it, I found the following 
letter, on University letterhead:

  * * *

Dear Mr. Kennedy,

Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. ____, Professor of 
Psychology, in the Department of Psychology and Psychiatry at 
State University. I am writing you at the request of Miss Allie 
Kennedy.

My particular research interest is the human memory, and 
specifically how it is distorted. I have almost accidentally become 
an authority on the phenomenon of 'false memory,' by which 
people are induced to 'remember,' quite vividly, things that simply 
never happened. There have been multiple court cases recently in 
which this has been an important element. People have fully and 
honestly confessed to crimes they couldn't possibly have 
committed, truly believing themselves guilty. Young women have, 
in the belief that they are telling the truth, accused their fathers of 
rape, of fathering children upon them, young women who passed 
lie detector tests to support the accusation"young women whom 
subsequent medical examination shows still to be virgins. There 
are other cases that I won't bore you with. 

Suffice it that the phenomenon of 'false memory' is now tolerably 
well understood, to the point of having made the pages of 
'Scientific American.' 

Now to the present.

Miss Kennedy has spoken to me at length about your relationship 
with her. It is not my place to judge either of you. I will only note 
that you have a remarkable woman here, and I hope you deserve 
her. She came to me a couple of months ago with an extraordinary 
request: she wanted me to create in her a false memory. After 
considerable soul-searching, and after cross-examining her at 
length to ensure that this is what she really wanted, I agreed to do 
so, and have done so.

(I worked it out and thought, yeah, and the size of my check didn't 
hurt, either.)

I have videotapes of all sessions between us under lock and key, to 
protect all the parties involved.

You will find in Attachment A a manuscript in Miss Kennedy's 
hand giving you her rationale for this action. 

Attachment B is a manuscript, also in Miss Kennedy's hand, of the 
'memory' she asked me to create, which I have done. You should 
be aware that one of the characteristics of 'false memory' is that, 
once the core images have been introduced, the subject often 
unconsciously elaborates them, fills them in, with details that will 
be every bit as vivid as the core images, and which they will 
believe to be true with absolute certainty.

At her request, Miss Kennedy currently has no memory of having 
visited me, nor is she aware of the 'memory' which lies latent in 
her mind. Attachment C contains the trigger phrase that will bring 
the latent 'memory' forth. Attachment C also contains a trigger 
phrase that will enable her to remember that 'memory' is false, and 
how it came to be in her mind. The second trigger phrase exists in 
case you decide that, to speak bluntly, the whole thing was a 
mistake. Please understand that each trigger phrase can be used 
only once. This is because the transition will be almost violent, at 
the psychological level, and I felt I needed to prevent the 
psychological damage that multiple transitions could cause to her 
mind, rather as repeated concussions do to the brain.

Finally, in the event of your death, she will recall visiting me, and 
will understand that the memory, if activated, is false. This is a 
precaution to avoid potential emotional, or even legal, problems 
that are unforeseeable at this time, but which would otherwise be 
very difficult to reverse if no one knew to notify me to intervene.

I hope that you and Miss Kennedy find pleasure in what she as 
asked me to do. Remember that it can be undone. 

Sincerely yours, 

Dr. ______

  * * *

I turned the page, and was confronted with a page of Allie's 
handwriting on lined legal paper. At the top was overtyped 
"Attachment A. Page 1 of 1." In the lower corner, I could make out 
what must be Dr. ____'s initials. Careful fellow.

  * * *

Dear Mr. Kennedy, my lord and my love,

These pages I write are the only physical existence of my gift to 
you. Please bear with me while I justify my actions.

You have made for me a comfortable and protecting home, for 
which I love you. You are a demanding owner, for which I am 
grateful.

You know I want only to please you. You know that I try to meet 
your demands before you know that you will make them.  I work 
on my skills to be good for you.

I know of only one thing I have left to offer for your greater 
pleasure, but it's something you've never wanted, and that is my 
pain. I could do more, give more, but the things I could do and 
give would not bring you pleasure today, because you'd have to 
hurt me to get them, and you have been too decent an owner to 
demand that, though I'd give my pain freely and gladly for your 
pleasure.

Do you remember what I put in my love letter not so long ago? 
"The more that O suffered for him, the more Renee was pleased, 
and *therefore* the more pleasure O got from pleasing him."

You could wring more pleasure from me, more pleasure for both of 
us, but only if hurting me would please you.

My gift, if you will have it, is to make it possible for me to 
'remember' that I have gotten pleasure from being hurt, not only 
indirectly by pleasing you, but also somehow directly, in the pain 
itself. I will be able to 'remember' that you have gotten pleasure 
from my pain, AND SO HAVE I. I want to give you greater 
pleasure by making it easier for you to hurt me, to demand my 
pain, because you will know that I now believe myself capable of 
finding, and will expect to find, pleasure in the pain.

You hold the keys in your hands. Please understand that, at the 
time you read this letter, I will have no remembrance of having 
written it.

All my obedience, devotion, and love,

Allie

  * * *

My first reaction was, "Oh, really!", which is what I say when I've 
got nothing to say. The woman had, indeed, astonished me. I 
turned to the brief "Attachment B" and read carefully the things 
she'd asked to "remember," things that never happened. She 
wanted to believe that, when I spanked her that first time, she'd 
become very aroused, and tried to hump the wall while I was out of 
the room. To "remember" that, during one of her private 
masturbation sessions, she'd experimented with clothespins on her 
nipples and it got her off (her note said that she had tried 
clothespins, but they just hurt). To think that, while I was caning 
her at the ceremony, she had orgasmed from the pain in front of 
everyone. There was more, but that was the tone of all of it.

I sat at my desk for a long time after I finished reading. The 
sunlight outside began to fade into dusk. 

It took a long time for me to put my finger on what was bothering 
me. There was an assumption here: Allie was assuming that if, 
under the influence of her false memory, she 'remembered' having 
gotten pleasure from pain, her belief that it had happened to her 
before would mean that she would in fact feel real masochistic 
pleasure when experiencing real pain, something that, as far as I 
knew, she never had done. She was betting that the expectation 
would cause the reality. That was an assumption, and a risk she 
was apparently willing to take.

Did I want to take that risk with her? The problem was that, if I 
took her up on this offer, an offer that at this point she didn't even 
know she'd made, and I began hurting her, and it didn't work out, 
what then? Sure, I could back the worm out of her mind, it said 
here, but after doing so, she'd still remember that, at some time in 
the real world, I had actually been willing to hurt her for my 
pleasure, not for punishment. What would that do to our 
relationship? What would she think of me, then?

I flipped back to her letter, and re-read "...though I'd give my pain 
freely and gladly for your pleasure."  

While I was reading, Allie came silently into the room, carrying 
my evening drink. She was wearing only a very short red tunic. It 
was not sheer, but had the perfect quality of translucence such that, 
if you'd walked past her on the street, you'd be fifty feet beyond 
her before your brain said, "Did I see what I think I saw?"  She 
knelt gracefully in front of my desk, and reached up to put the 
drink on the desk's surface in front of me, meeting my eyes.

Without further thought, I turned to Attachment C. A day early, 
perhaps, but it was time to unwrap my birthday present.

End

<1st attachment end>


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