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From: lesevan@attglobal.net
Subject: {ASSM} "Allie" Part 2
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Date: Tue, 04 Oct 2005 16:10:03 -0400
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   "Allie", Part 2, {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 12 and on:

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

   Acknowledgements: Advice on happiness, from Marcus Aurelius.  A chapter
title, from an old Fellowes book.  Several images from "9-1/2 weeks." A
respectful and grateful nod to "The Story of O."
Other influences will be obvious to those who spend too much time

reading this sort of thing.  Thanks to all.



   Chapter 12: How high?  What color?

   Allie: As I knelt there, I couldn't help reflecting on how disappointed
I was in how this had all turned out.  I mean, did I somehow fail to make
it clear what I wanted?  Jack was a nice guy, which maybe was the problem.
He insisted on treating me, I don't know, like some kind of /girlfriend/ or
something!  I kept hoping that he'd "grow into the job" of being a master,
but it never happened.  So the letter thing was kind of a "last hurrah." If
he didn't get a clue, I didn't know what I'd do.  It was easy enough to
steal a page of Psych Department letterhead, and the check went into a
savings account.  Tomorrow would be his birthday, and then we'd see.  I
planned to spend that night working up my courage for how the relationship
would, or at least might, change.
Jack: I said, "Allie, I'm disappointed with you.  You seem to think that
I'm looking for some sort of /girlfriend/!  Lots of fun sex, a little kinky
dressup, and you think you can call yourself a slave?  I've been hoping
that you'd grow into your slavery, but it hasn't happened.  Didn't I say,
'Surprise me'?  Look, did you promise to devote ALL your time, energy, and
focus to MY pleasure?" She nodded.  I said, "Let me give you an example:
did you play with yourself today?" She nodded again, with a shrug that said
something like, "Sure, since when is that a problem?" I said, "And whose
pleasure were you seeking, mine or yours?  " The light slowly began to dawn
in her eyes that she had blown it, big time.  "That is part of what I mean
by 'acting like a girlfriend,' not a slave.  Let me remind you that the
last time you forgot your station, I gave you six with the cane." Real fear
in her eyes now.  She knew the cane.
"Here's what's going to happen to you.  We have the summer in front of
us.  By the end of the summer you will either have developed the one skill
you need to be a true slave, or I will destroy you, which is to say, I will

free you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   "And NOW you may speak."

   Allie: My gut felt like it had a ball of lead in it.  Here we go, I
thought.  I had it so good, and I had to go and pull that stupid stunt. 
Where did I get the idea that I could put one over on him?  Saints preserve
me.  There was nothing to say but, "How may I please you?"
Jack: Allie had made a small but important mistake.  How many people do
you know that sign their names in green ink?  Not many, right?  None? 
Well, Allie does, a harmless affectation she picked up in grade school. 
And guess what?  "Dr.  _____," the Psych Department expert on false memory?
The letter supposedly from "Dr.  ______" was signed in green ink,
ballpoint. As it happened, I knew "Dr.  _____" from some work he had done
for me on the psychology of learning, and I knew that he favored
blue-black, fountain pen.
I had to be careful about how I did this.  I realized that Allie was
starting to bore me, because she loved everything I did to her.  Different
people "do sex" for different reasons: to make babies, to express
affection, whatever.  In my case, sex is an expression of power.  You show
power by making something happen that otherwise would not.  In this case,
it means making someone do something they don't want to do.  But in the
realm of sex, a slut will do anything, and Allie was in danger of turning
into a kind of monogamous slut.  So I had to make her do things she didn't
want to do, hated to do, would do only because she needed to please me.  I
didn't want to "break" her, to grind her down to where she lost any
emotional reaction to things I demanded: I really wanted to see that
grimace of pain or disgust as she leapt to obey.  And now I had a

documented volunteer.

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

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

   Chapter 13: Alfresco

   Jack: We were invited to a garden party of some friends of mine, people
who weren't in on the relationship Allie and I had.  It was one of those
informal things where waiters circulate with drinks and canapés, and paper
lanterns are strung through the trees.
Allie wore a full peasant skirt and blouse.  And of course, no panties.
Early on, I found a chair at one side of the garden, and had her sit on my
lap, facing and straddling me.  Her full skirt fell to the ground in back
of her, and bunched my lap.  I snagged a passing waiter and got a drink. 
"Allie," I said, "open my fly and put my cock in you." She looked wildly
around, trying to reassure herself that we were in some dark corner,
unobserved.  We weren't.  "Allie," I said, "there will be punishment for

that."

   Allie: So I reached under the roll of my skirt that was in his/my lap,
got him open, and wiggled a bit until it went in.  Of course, I was soaking
wet, but that meant nothing: I'm always soaking wet these days.  Just as he
popped into me a waiter came by to ask whether he could get me anything.  I
wanted to say, "Yes, please.  Could you get me a pistol?  I'd like to shoot
myself." But I said no.  Then Jack had me start squeezing my cunt while we
necked.  All the while, people he knew were coming by to indulge him in
civilized conversation.  Since neither of us was moving, externally anyhow,
it was a long time before I felt him shoot into me while he was talking to
someone about crabgrass.  I hadn't come, not that that was his problem. 
Finally we were alone for a moment.  He sat up straighter, which caused his
deflating cock to pull out of me.  He said, "Clean me off on the inside of
your skirt, and close up my trousers."
Jack: We left shortly thereafter.  As we walked away, I noted a
tablespoon-sized gob of cum on the ground in front of the chair.  The fact
that she had looked around meant that she was still worried about what
other people thought, rather than about executing my commands.  Since her
eyes were the part that sinned, I made her wear a blindfold for 24 hours.
And I cuffed her hands behind her so she couldn't play with herself.
Allie: Jeeez.  I mean, I used to be smart, y'know?  Got into college a
year early and everything.  Hell, I know how to operate a zipper, right?  I
know how to "put it in" (yum).  But can I do two simple things like that
when my man sez "do?" Nooo!  What do I think with?  My ovaries?  Whatever
gave me the silly idea that I had a reputation to protect?  Why did I start
making things that are easy, so damn hard?  The thing that makes me weep is
he's right: work at the task in front of me, /without expectations/, and I
can't fail to be at peace.
And I remember, every time he comes in me, it could be the time that

knocks me up.

   Jack: I decided that her vaginal muscles could be toned up.  After some
thought, I went to my workshop and over a day or two put together an
exercise machine that you'll never see at Geld's Gym.  I called it the
"Prayer Tower."
Think of an upright, a miniature tower about two feet high, with four
legs extending horizontally from its base at floor level.  One of the legs
is thicker than the others, maybe 4" x 4".  On the top of the outer end of
that leg you'd see a hemisphere about the size of half a grapefruit, flat
side up, with a dildo attached firmly to the flat (upper) side of
hemisphere.  The dildo assembly is kept vertical by a cord that's attached
to the opposite (rounded, bottom) side of the hemisphere.  The cord runs
down, through the inside of the "table leg," up the tower, and down to a
weight, which serves two purposes.  First, the constant tension of the
weight on the dildo assembly keeps the dildo upright when not "otherwise
engaged," as it were.  Second, the weight provides an adjustable tension
which challenges the vaginal muscles to keep the dildo in place, which is
the object of the exercise.  Of course, the dildo is my size-why invite

unfavorable comparison?

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

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

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

   Chapter 14: Ringing the Belle

   Jack: A few days later, I sat her down in the study.  "Allie, I'm going
to try a little 'art therapy.' In the western world, we associate different
emotions and rational capabilities with different parts of the body.  The
ancient Greeks thought that emotions originated in the belly.  Our modern
romantic view has them coming from the heart.  Aristotle thought that the
function of the brain was to cool the blood.  We associate that organ with
the rational facility, planning, weighing consequences, and such.  Draw me
a sketch of Allie, not a likeness of your outside, but a symbolic
representation of what goes on inside."
She had always been clever at the arts, and after a couple of tries, she
came up with a Picasso-esque left-to-right sweep in which disembodied eyes
were linked by two broad ribbons to a brain, which was linked by a broader

band to a heart, which was linked by two bands to a pair of hands.

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

   Allie: I suppose it was denial on my part.  I kept doing doodles of
Arabian Nights girls in chains, with my face.  It took me an hour before I
got serious.  I wound up with a thing: an open vagina filled the center of
the page, a toothless mouth and tongue sat above it.  A tiny rectum was an
asterisk hanging from the bottom.  Little feet were attached left and right
to the bottom of the vagina as though it were a torso, little hands where
the "shoulders" would be, little tits on the sides of the vagina.  No
brain. No heart.  Just the essentials for Absolute Obedience.  Just then he
came into the room, and looked at the drawing.  He asked, "What's that?"
and I answered, "That's me, now." He grunted, "Good.  When that's your
self-image, you'll be happier.  Hang that drawing up where you'll see it."
Then he had me dictate my "love letter" into my iPod, along with the
tape we had made of the claiming ceremony.  I was to listen to those
segments all the way through once each day.  I couldn't decide whether they

sounded sappy or exquisite.

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

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

   He gave me hell for being late for the appointment: Kendra had ratted me
out.  Actually, not for being late, but for standing on the curb and
wrestled with "consequences," trying to "accept." After all, he said,
"You've known how to walk for a long time." All I had to do was keep
walking; is that so hard?  Walk right on through the door of the tattoo
parlor.  But oh, no, even knowing that my master wanted this, I had to
/decide/ for myself whether it was a good thing.  Dumb.  Made me feel three
inches tall.  Since I /wouldn't/ walk, my punishment was that I /couldn't/
walk: my ankle cuffs were locked together for the next week.  I had to go
up and down the stairs on my bottom.  I couldn't spread my legs for him. 
And every waking hour, the cloud of my pending punishment for lying hung
over my head.
My masturbation was now always in his presence, at his initiation, for
his entertainment.  Sometimes he'd have me do it standing up.  Sometimes,
use the "wrong" hand.  Sometimes, I'd have to hump myself on his thigh.  In
bed, he'd have me straddle him in the "cowgirl position" and bring him off
with whichever hole he'd chosen, and myself off with my fingers.  As he

said, why should he have to do all the work around here?

   Chapter 15: Center of Gravity

   Jack: Her punishment for lying came sooner that I had hoped.  No sooner
had her piercings healed than the events I wanted were lined up.  Without
explanation, I had her pack an overnight bag, loaded her in the car, and
took her to a building in a pleasantly landscaped industrial park a couple
of miles from downtown.
Still in the car, I turned to her.  "This is your punishment for lying.
This is a plastic surgery clinic.  You have an appointment.  I have made
all the arrangements.  You will go through the door, sign all the forms
they give you, go where they tell you to go, do exactly what they tell you
to do, ask no questions.  You will keep a straight face.  I will be there

when you come out of the operation.  Now go."

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

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

   Allie: He was too nice to me, calling me "woman." I've been such a twit.
He should have said "girl." I walked into the clinic in a daze, like a
robot.  I signed papers, saw little, felt nothing.  There was the pre-op
prep, and they put me under.  Just after the needle went it, I realized
that I had no idea what was going to happen to me.
When I woke up in post-op, of course, I was disoriented.  It took a
while to realize that I was in a clinic, and why.  Jack was there, holding
my hand.  Nothing hurt, yet.  I still didn't know what had been done.  It
took an hour or two before I was fully conscious and able to sit up, at
which point part of the answer was instantly obvious.  My chest was

suddenly heavy.  Oh, dear God, no!

   Jack: Allie had been a nice B cup.  I don't have a tit fetish, but I
whoever said "More than a handful is a waste" was of limited imagination:
more than a handful is a lot of fun to bat around.  Perhaps as much as the
function of her ovaries, a woman defines her body through the size and
shape of her tits.  Allie was now a solid D cup, not monstrous, but
considerable.  I figured that there was no better way to give her something
to remind her of her transgression.  As I said, every time she looked in a
mirror, for the rest of her life.  And for good measure, a bit of collagen
in the lips.
Allie: The first time I stood up, I overbalanced and nearly fell over,
my center of gravity had shifted so much.  It took a long time before I
could even walk with confidence.  After recovery, he took me home.  I wore
a baggy sweatshirt over his new milk bags.  On the way, we stopped at a
mall and I bought a dozen industrial-strength bra's, and some tops to
display his investment.
Let me tell you, I had to learn to put a bra on.  Little B's are bumps.
Little B's just get wrapped up.  D's are Capital Equipment.  D's require
technique: bend way over, let the udders hang, mold the cups around them,
do up the snaps, do up the straps, then straighten up.  Just when I thought
there was nothing else that would surprise me, he had me modify the bra's.
Each cup received a buttonhole, vertically in the center of the cup.  When
I put the bra on, I had to rotate each nipple ring 90 degrees, thread it
through the buttonhole, and rotate the ring back horizontally, with nipple
and ring now on the outside of the cup.  Imagine what it looked like. 
Imagine what it felt like.
It was a good thing Jack had spent a year working on my posture and back

muscles, or I'd never have made it.

   And of course, men immediately started talking to my chest.  Which made
a kind of gruesome sense-until I could start to get this obedience thing
right, I was a pretty worthless slave girl.  Clearly there was nothing
between my ears worth talking to.

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

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

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

   Chapter 16: Table Manners

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

was there.

   Then, there was the conference call routine, with the opposite
objective. Some of those calls lasted an hour and a half, and it was my job
to make sure he did, too.  I had to crawl into the knee-space of his desk,
where he'd hook my tit-rings to the front of his chair.  He had a small
chain to my nose ring, which he'd yank if he thought I was getting bored.
Bored?  Worshiping that magnificent rod?  Though sometimes I'd get
distracted, what with an aching jaw and all.  At least his new balloons
gave me more maneuvering room than my former knobbies would have.  And I
learned to kneel on a towel so I didn't mess up his carpet with drool from
either end of me.

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

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

   His favorite, I think, was "fetch." He would double my arms up,
strapping each forearm to its upper arm.  He would strap each calf to its
thigh.  He'd attach small bells to each of my rings-nose, tits, and clit.
Then, he'd get out the rawhide dogbone and fling it across the room.  And
Allie would have to go galloping and jingling and jiggling across the
carpet, pick up the dogbone in my mouth, bring it back, and "sit up and
beg." Repeat, endlessly.  The worst was when he tossed the damned thing
down the stairs.  At least I didn't have to pay health club fees for the
exercise.

   Chapter 17: And Baby Makes Two

   Jack: As it turned out, it was only about a month after the initial
confrontation that I woke up one morning to the sounds of retching coming
from the bathroom.  Morning sickness usually doesn't start until about the
fifth week, but my Allie was an overachiever, and she must have "caught"
almost immediately after we started trying.  Well, /I/ started trying.  I
reached for the phone: I had an appointment to set up.  When she emerged
from the bathroom, she looked like death warmed over.  We exchanged a look,
and I hugged her.  No words were needed.
Over the course of the next week, the changes that had been there, but
too subtle for me to notice, became more obvious.  Her nipples became more
sensitive.  She lubricated more easily.  The morning sickness intensified.
And the mood swings-oh, the mood swings!  She collected several lines in
her Discipline Book, and on her bottom, for letting her hormones run her
tongue.  But those things aside, she seemed to be getting into the idea of

being pregnant.  She glowed.  She started thinking about baby names.

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

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

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

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

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

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

   Allie: What have I learned?  That I'd made a huge mistake?  That I was
shacked up with a monster who knocked me up purely so he could put me
through maybe the most wrenching experience a girl can have, as some kind
of goddamned TRAINING exercise!?  All right, Allie, get hold of yourself.
"I learned that my body and all of its organs are subject to your pleasure.
I learned that I really /can/ give instant and total obedience.  It really
/is/ as simple as putting one foot in front of the other.  I left a piece
of myself inside that clinic, but it was enough that you wanted it done."
He didn't say anything for the longest time, just ran his fingers
through my hair, hypnotically, until I finally relaxed with a shuddering
sigh.  Then he held up something in front of me-my Discipline Book.  The
tears started to come again, and with them, anger.  I thought, Jesus
Christ, what have I done?  Didn't I do just what you wanted, didn't I....
He opened the book to the current page, and through my tears I read: "Allie
acted today with Absolute Obedience, and her master is pleased with her." I
wrapped my arms around his calves, rested my cheek on his lap, and bawled.

All the while, he kept stroking my hair.

   Allie: Finally, I said, "Mr.  Kennedy, will you do something important
for me?" He nodded.  "I'm not perfect at this business of ignoring
consequences; that would take a saint.  I'm going to carry the guilt of
today with me forever, unless...unless you punish me.  Please, beat the
shit out of me?" Maybe it was a Catholic Guilt thing.  And you know, he
did, out in the garden, on the same trestle we used in the claiming
ceremony.  After the whipping, he left me hanging by my wrists until long
after night fell.  Then he carried me in, cleaned my wounds, and loaded me
up with ibuprofen.  I was asleep long before he laid me on the mat.  The
last thought I had before darkness came crashing down was that I had
pleased him, that I finally had learned how to obey.
The next time he fucked me was both painful and tender, sweet, almost
wistful.  He took me in the ass, to give my womb some more time to recover,
he said, though the position was a bit hard on my freshly-torn back.  But I
came anyhow, as I always do.  Unless he doesn't want me to.  And the next

morning he had me start on The Pill again.

   Chapter 18: Hen Party

   Jack: I'm a lousy chess player, but I can plan one move ahead.  Now that
she was starting to "get it" with respect to obedience, I had another
challenge for Allie, and it required some prerequisite experiences I
couldn't give her.  I called up one of the women who had been at the
claiming ceremony, whom I knew to be rather open-minded.  To be frank, she
was of the Sapphic persuasion, and an amateur domme.  We agreed to terms:
two friends, three hours, no permanent marks, no penetration with anything
other than fingers, and strictly NO orgasms for Allie.
One evening several days later, I took Allie downstairs, stripped her,
and wrapped her in a cloak.  I took out a leather half-hood that covered
the eyes and ears, but left the nose, mouth, and chin free.  Before I laced
it up, I took her chin, looked into her eyes, and said, "Make me proud."
Then I hooded her.  Unless you shouted, she couldn't hear a thing.  I took
her by the elbow and led her out to the screened-in porch.  I clipped her
wrists together behind her back, then backed her up against a post, and
attached her ankles to a spreader bar.  Finally, I fastened her to the post
with a leather strap across her throat.  She was going nowhere.  I left the
porch, closing the house door behind me, and went up to my study.  I left

the door from the porch to the garden unlocked.

   Allie: So there I was, in my own private dark.  One thing was for sure,
I wouldn't be able to be very disobedient while trussed up as I was.  I had
a choice of whether to be scared or bored.  I still hadn't made up my mind
which, before I felt the cloak brushed aside, and a pair of very talented,
soft lips, lips that tasted of lipstick, fastened upon mine.  Here I didn't
even have a script, even a "Do this," just "Make me proud." My brain, what
we laughingly refer to as my brain, had just worked out that I was involved
in my first lesbian French kiss, when another pair of lips fastened on one
nipple.  Finally I got the sums right: Jack had rented me out as a party
favor to a bunch of....  At that point, rational thought fled, because yet
a third pair of lips found my clit.  I threw myself into a lava pool of
lust.  There was no orgasm, just toiling up and down burning hills of
arousal.
After forever, or a little longer, the lips withdrew, leaving me leaning
over the edge of the cliff, waiting to be pushed, unable to fall.  My neck
and ankles were unfastened, the cloak was removed, and I was led,
stumbling, several steps forward, and pushed to my knees.  In an instant,
my nose was buried in warm, wet flesh.  I must have flinched backward,
because suddenly a flash of fire exploded across my shoulders-the crop! 
The impact drove me forward again into the swamp.  Instantly, I got it
together: girl, don't evaluate, do!  This is OJT, work it!  So I burrowed
in, with lots of energy if not lots of enthusiasm.  After the first few
licks, I started to try new things.  What would I like?-try it!  Hands on
either side of my head gave continuous feedback on my experiments.  Once I
got started, fingers between my legs did exotic things with my clit and
nips.  I suppose it was a good thing that I'd done the conference calls
with Jack, because three pussies later (I could tell by the taste), twice
over, my jaw and tongue were running out of endurance.
Finally, they dragged me to my feet, wobbly, backed me up to the post,
refastened my bonds, strapped my neck to the post.  The lips attacked
again, and once again took me to the edge of the cliff before leaving me,
tears running out under the hood, frantically humping air.  I was on fire!
Maybe a couple of minutes passed, and suddenly a cock drove into my
cunt-Jack!-driving the air from my lungs, and I exploded, on and on.  My
knees buckled, leaving me hanging, strangling.  Maybe there's something to
be said for hypoxia.  I went into some other dimension, and like my
abstract drawing, I was nothing but glands and hormones when I lost

consciousness.

   Jack: I had watched the whole hen-party on closed-circuit TV.  What a
girl!  She had made me proud, indeed.  I took her down, unbound her, rolled
her in the cloak, and carried her to bed.  I felt like giving her a treat
(slaves don't /earn/ anything but punishment), so I let her sleep in the
bed next to me, ankle chained to the bedpost.  She was going to have to
wear a turtleneck for several days, though, which was too bad, because it
was going to be hot.
In the morning, she rolled over, and without opening her eyes, raised a
finger.  I said, "Yes, love?" She asked, "Was I OK?" I said, "You were
perfect.  I'm so proud." She shivered and snuggled into my armpit, her arms

around my waist.

   Allie: I had a little cum from just his words.  Good girls, girls that
don't try to be too smart, get lovely cummie-cum's.  Finally, I was
pleasing him.  There were a few tears, but they were tears of joy.  "Don't
think, do," is that so hard?  If I busted my butt, maybe I could change his
mind about throwing me away.  I went back to sleep.

   Chapter 19: /La Cazadora/ (The Huntress)

   Jack: Allie's self-esteem had been taking it on the chin all through the
summer, not without cause.  Now that she had learned a little obedience, I
wanted to build her her up again.  So we started dating, just like last
summer.  She had to get a new formal wardrobe to accommodate her new
dimensions.  She loved shopping, so that was no burden upon her, and I did
verify that none of the pieces was too modest.  We would go to classy
events, dinner, musicals, operas, museums.  I made sure that I praised her
looks, her intelligence, her eagerness to please, every time I screwed her
in some stairwell or janitor's closet or alley.  And she never hesitated an
instant when I motioned for her to lift her skirt.
Allie: I hated the alleys.  It's bad enough being top-heavy, bent over,
holding my purse with one hand and myself off the wall with the other. 
It's bad enough wearing those towering, tottering heels.  But being taken
from behind, in heels, while trying to keep my balance in the rubble of an
alley, in the drizzle, was hard on a girl's attitude.  But I came, of
course.  Every time.  Unless he didn't want me to.
Jack: She had some new blouses, and I funded a renovation of her
informal dresses, too.  My favorite was built on the model of the peasant
blouse.  You know, the gauzy, billowy things with the elastic neckline,
meant to be worn off-the-shoulder.  She got one that came to mid-thigh, IF
she pulled it down far enough that the bazooms threatened to spill out the
top.  But we've all seen that the elastic neckline of the peasant blouse
tends to make it creep up around the wearer's neck, as does any motion if
the wearer raises her arm.  I got endless hours of entertainment watching
her try to maintain some semblance of modesty as we wandered, tug down,
ride up, tug down, ride up.  For variation I'd tie 3-4" of fishing line to
her clit ring, with a tiny split-shot fishing weight at the end.  The
weight would bounce off her thighs as she walked.  Drove her nuts.  Gave
her another reason to be conscious of her hemline.
As summer came to a close, I reminded her that her anniversary was
coming up.  The anniversary, of course, of her claiming.  I asked her what
she wanted for an anniversary present, thinking she might want some jewelry
or such.  She got all dreamy-eyed, and said, "If it please you, may I call

you 'My Lord'?" I gave my permission.

   I couldn't think of a better way to rebuild her self-esteem than by
giving her something really hard to do, but something that she could
succeed at if she really tried.  And now that the summer was over, and she
was ready to start her sophomore year at State, it was time to put the plan
into action.  I found her in her old room, where we had set up the Prayer
Tower.  As I stood in the doorway, she was in profile to me, unaware of my
presence.  She was in the 'kneel up' position, reading a paperback.  When
she turned a page, I got a glimpse of the cover: The Perfect Victim by
Christine Mcguire and Carla Norton, still the best nonfiction pornography
I've ever encountered, about the kidnapping and brainwashing of a college
co-ed.  Yes, I said NONfiction.  I winced when I saw the amount of weight
she had on the Tower; that could be painful-for me.

   Finally she noticed me, and the dildo dropped back onto the base with a
thump.  She pivoted gracefully and knelt before me.  She began to shake
slightly, not the trembling of fear, but that of an eager hunting dog,
straining at the leash.  She was waiting for, eager for, hungry for an
order, any order.  "Yes, My Lord?"

   I said, "Allie, I have a challenge for you.  This is not intended to be
a test, though I expect that you will learn a lot from the experience, and
you may even find it a pleasure.  I want to reassure that you have mastered
the skill I put before you at the beginning of the summer, and that I have
no current plan to dispose of you."

   Allie: And then he said, "I want you to get yourself a sister.  Go
hunting at State, and bring me a girl that we can train together." I had
learned something this summer, because my mouth was saying "Yes, My Lord.
How long do I have?" while my brain was saying "See, toldyaso, he's looking
for a replacement!" My ears were hearing "All year, if you need it," while
my brain was saying "Don't cry, you twit, you'll blow it all!" It was a
struggle to listen to his suggestions and requirements, because I was
telling myself, "Allie, this is YOUR 'last hurrah;' make him proud, or you
go back to being just a stepdaughter, and dating college boys."
I threw my self into making notes.  Action is a wonderful anaesthetic.
"Just do" has the side effect of killing any ability to spend time
uselessly worrying.  His idea, and it was a good one, was that my grades
last year would make it easy for me to get a volunteer job in the student
counseling center, where marginal students go for tutoring, where disturbed
students go to get their heads together.  Happy hunting grounds.  I made

that my first stop.

   And the school year was starting for me, too.  I had to sign up for
classes, get books, meet professors.  And think up an answer to the
question from my friends from last year: "What did you DO to yourself?!"

   The year started the way any academic year does.  A tidal wave of work
in the new subjects, that began to recede as new concepts began to make
sense.  What was new this year was the tidal wave of offers for dates,
which began to recede only as salivating boys eventually got the message
that Allie's tits were somehow spoken for.  About the time I got my head
above water in my coursework, business started to pick up at the counseling
center, as students who didn't weather the storm started to realize that
they needed help, or there wouldn't be a "next year." And then I began to
hunt.  I was looking for a frosh girl who was not necessarily beautiful,
but salvageable; not stupid, but undisciplined; not disturbed, but with
really low self-esteem.  The others, I referred to tutoring or clinics, as
required.

   I found what I was looking for after six weeks.  A Chicana from Los
Angeles, away from home and daddy's discipline for the first time, who
spent too much time learning to get drunk, too many hours in residence-hall
bull sessions, and not enough time just doing the work.  She had long,
greasy, stringy hair.  She was already succumbing to the tendency of her
maternal ancestors to put on fat.  She dressed like a duffel bag.  But
those things could be cured, and under all of that, there was a women with
the blood of Aztec princesses in her, waiting to be brought to heel.

   Then the hunt began.  I tutored her.  Sat down and commiserated with
her. Learned that, if she flunked out, daddy dildn't want her back home:
"He'll tell me to go get a job as a /camarista/ (maid) just like Mama did,"
she wept.  Slapped her upside the head, once, when she wasn't putting in
the work.  An allnighter cram-session at Jack's house for one of her exams
gave her the first glimpse of my relationship with Jack, and in the wee
hours of studying, her first faint whiff of girl-girl contact.  Two nights
after the exam, which was a disaster for her, she came over to cry on my
shoulder, and I took her to bed in my old room.  It was nice to sleep in a
bed again, even if a twin bed was a bit crowded for two.  My brief
indentured servitude as a party favor helped with the mechanics.

   My Lord, I think we've got a live one.

   In some sense, the seduction was the easy part.  She was rapidly running
into a blind alley, with no alternatives, no one else to turn to.  She was
doing a fine job of flunking out on her own, and I was rapidly becoming the
center of her universe.  Even though we were actually the same age, I
became an authority figure.  It would be a mistake to try and force her
into Jack's hands.  I had to set things up so that she viewed that outcome
as by far the most desirable from a field of miserable alternatives.

   Softly, softly, catchee....!

   The day came when she arrived in my cube in the counseling center with
her "grey slip" from State in hand: "Thanks, but you're outta here." Now it
was time to make my move.  She was looking at her assimilated life going
down the toilets that she'd be cleaning as a maid from now on.  I said,
"Look, if you're going to do that kind of work, why not do it for someone
who cares about you?  Jack's been thinking about getting a maid for some
time.  I could work with you to try and get you back in to State next year
(yeah, right!), get your head squared away, give you some life skills and
self-discipline.  You could take my old room-I rarely use it.  Think about
it, and let me know." Such a juicy worm, wiggling there in the water.  Tell
them what they want to believe.  Give the lady what she wants.  A week
later, she moved in.

   So close, My Lord.  Just a little patience.

   It was a lot of fun coming up with a Hacienda take on the French Maid's
costume, embroidered "peasant blouse" and all.  The wrap skirt was kind of
an embroidered apron, modestly below the knee in front, ascending and
wrapping around to cover the rear.  But if she bent over or knelt, it
unwrapped, like a tulip, exposing everything below the waist.  And no
panties, of course.

   The important thing was that she was totally dependant upon me.  I had
pried her away from all of her support systems, her family, her friends. 
She had no plan other than Allie.  If she failed to please me, I withheld
my favors, and she was desperate, because the outside world was a cold,
dark, and unwelcoming place.

   She was a third-generation American, and her family in LA was rather
well-to-do.  Jack suggested, and I agreed, that she was to speak to us only
in Spanish, which he and I understood tolerably well.  We would speak to
her only in English.  The idea was to put her into the role of a /mojada/
(literally, "wet" back, an illegal immigrant).  We decorated the "maid's
room" with pictures of hacienda life and religious icons.  She was
delighted when we got her an iPod.  She was less delighted when she found
that it was loaded full of mariachi and Mexican pop music.  We got her a
/metate/ (grinding stone) and taught her to make corn tortillas.  I told
her she stank of /manteca/ (lard), and made her wash, several times a day.
The whole effort was a particularly unsubtle, cruel, and effective form of
psychological warfare.  And what was her alternative?

   She slimmed down.  How could she not, on a diet of table scraps?  Jack
had moved me up the food-chain.

   The first big test was when I told her to go down on me while Jack was
in the room.  She failed me, of course, and I thrashed her.  And then we
started over again, and eventually she got it right.  She had to learn that
there was nothing I could demand of her that she couldn't make worse by
hesitating.

   Often, she was in the room when Jack took me.

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

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

   When she screwed up, I'd grab her by the ear and march her out to the
post of famous memory in the patio.  I'd cuff her hands behind the post,
and spend half an hour with my nose inches from hers, bellowing at her like
a drill sergeant.  Of course that meant that The Chest that I carry around
spent a lot of time rubbing against hers.  After I got done yelling, and
she was suitably contrite, I'd forgive her, and I'd do kiss-kiss and
rub-rub until she was panting.  At which time I'd free her hands, smack her
on the ass, hard, and send her back to her chores.

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

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

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

   So came the time for the handover, the transfer to Jack.  This was the
crisis, make or break.  One evening, she served drinks to Jack and me, and
knelt in front of me, her eyes a laser focus upon mine.  I said, "You know
how important it is to me to please Mr.  Kennedy."

   It wasn't a question, but she nodded.  Jack was wearing a robe,
watching, stroking himself.  He was hard.  I wanted that, but it wasn't
mine, not tonight.

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

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

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

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

   He looked over her shoulder, and smiled, and blew me a kiss.  When he
was done, Jack, ever the gentleman, said, "/Gracias, senorita/" (than you,
miss).  He said it in her ear, but he was saying it to me.  I came.

   That night, he cuffed her wrists behind her, chained her ankle to the
bedpost, and spread her out on the mat.  I got the same treatment, except
he motioned for me to come to the bed.  I nodded a question, and he
shrugged back.  I knelt down as best I could by the mat, and kissed away
her tears.  Her returning kiss was urgent, desperate.  I whispered, "You
did fine, /querida/" (darling).  "I'm proud of you." She gave me a
tremulous, uncertain smile.  "Now, sleep."

   It was hard to find a position, lying against him, with the chest-bags I
wore, with my hands cuffed behind me, but I managed.  And then it hit me,
like a load of bricks: mygodhesgonnakeepme!  Hesgonnakeepme!  After all my
stupids!  He's gonna keep me!!

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

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

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