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Subject: {ASSM} "Allie" Part 1
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Date: Tue, 04 Oct 2005 16:10:02 -0400
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"Allie", Part 1, revised and extended {Les Evans} (Mf-teen ff cons reluct
rom oral anal mdom 1st fsolo inc (stepparent), bd, sm, spank, preg, slave,
slow, CAUTION)

   Introduction to Chapters 1-11:

   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).  A Google search for "scientific
american false memory" should pick it up.  In any case, I commend it to the
attention of other authors, particularly in the MC genre, because I haven't
exploited it to the full.

   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, near the end of 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, in
fact, the day she finished her junior year, Allison came up to the doorway
of the study/office of the master bedroom suite and made it clear that she
wanted an audience.  She was still in her school uniform from the day.  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
finished your junior year today, and 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 Medallist 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 a 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 one end, and a
pained expression on the other.  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.  That
was unfortunate, but it was the price that had to be paid.  Perhaps I could
fix that over time.  "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
through. 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 out 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 called?"

   "I will have no name, unless you wish to give me one."

   "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 wiped the tear from her cheek, and
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 than 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.  There is nothing less interesting than a slut.  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."

   "Your lips will be slack and your mouth open at all times."

   "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.  "Write it.  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, and right at
the end of Allie's freshman year, 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 has 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.  The girl wanted to please
me, and if it took her pain, she was ready to deliver 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
looked at it as you 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.  She pulled the hem of
the tunic down to cover her slit, and blushed.

   Without further thought, I turned to Attachment C.  A day early,
perhaps, but it was time to unwrap my birthday present.
   END Part 1

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