Message-ID: <52149asstr$1128456603@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-To: ckought69@hotmail.com Delivered-To: ckought69@hotmail.com From: lesevan@attglobal.net X-Priority: 3 X-Original-Message-ID: <20051004171357.520C714BEB@julie.iflc.org> X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Tue, 04 Oct 2005 17:13:56 +0000 Subject: {ASSM} "Allie" Part 2 Lines: 944 x-asstr-message-id-hack: 52149 Date: Tue, 04 Oct 2005 16:10:03 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2005/52149> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: hoisingr, newsman <1st attachment, "Allie2.txt" begin> "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 ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ This post has been reformatted by ASSTR's Smart Text Enhancement Processor (STEP) system due to inadequate formatting. ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ <1st attachment end> ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ Notice: This post has been modified from its original format. The post was sent as an email attachment and has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software. ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>| | FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> | |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}| +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+