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Training the slut
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
This story is another from the archives, and is not written by me.
Requests for just about anything concerning these posts will be ignored.
See the FAQ in a.s.s.d for more information. And stop sending talk
requests. Even when I'm logged in to this posting site, I usually
have the window closed, and if I don't, it's because I'm WORKING
Training the Slut, Part 1
The woman of my dreams is shy about wearing the clothes I buy her.
She's a big, exuberant, outspoken blonde, the kind you always wish you
could give another inch of cock or hour of cunnilingus...
But she's so busy and willful, sometimes you just *have* to kidnap her.
She's glaring at me as I dictate this; the gag is perhaps just a tiny
bit on the tight side. I'll give her jaws a rest soon, I think.
Her well-developed pecs and lats look absolutely stunning at the
moment; she's been heaving around and getting that worked-up glow.
The quartz heater in the corner of this little room really helps keep
her from getting chilly now that Autumn is here. For effect, I've put
some Wratten gels in the track lighting fixtures; the room is awash in
red, purple and gold. A sumptuous, cozy feeling.
I sit in the papasan chair with my snifter of cognac and admire her.
A slow camera tilt from the 20-ton rated chain over the 8x8 ceiling
beam down down past the lace-leather gloves that make her fingers look
so delicate from the back, so dangerous from the front. She though
they made her look butch, the dear silly thing. The strong,
sweetly-struggling wrists trapped in the padded cuffs. The hair,
bright highlights even in the stained-glass ambiance, sweeping back and
forth over her shoulders as she sways. The dog collar is _de rigeur_
now, of course. We'd no more think of having a scene like this
without it than... well, it's _de rigeur_.
I won't describe the gag, except to say that it suits her, and the
major effect it has is to bring out the lines of her face most
charmingly. Also, there's such a childlike quality to the tiny line
of saliva dripping off her chin. Such a baby.
Bare from there to the waist, suntanned and squirming.
Her tits, ahhh. Her scrumptious bumps got special treatment today.
We were out Christmas shopping most of the day, and she wore a big
scratchy sweater. She was under strict instructions to tell me every
time her nips failed to stay erect. She was very good about this;
consequently we took no less than eight breaks during our trip to the
malls. I am pleased to report that after the last session of
freshening up in semi-private, her poor suffering tit-tips actually
stayed hard for over an hour. By that time, of course, she had gotten
into the spirit of the thing and was "accidentally" bumping or
brushing against me with pleasant frequency. Sometimes she can be
*so* *sweet*...
I've modified the snakebite kit... the two absurdly-colored (Blaze or
International Orange, I think) suction cups now have rings dangling
from them. They've been set to "stun" and applied to her nipples
along with a dollop of food-grade glycerine on each. A single long
taut run of the magic-shop woven cotton cord connects the two
symmetrically: from one ring down around her labia, tugging her
panties snugly against her sopping pussy, then around her waist over
her hip-line and so, as Pepys might have said, to tit. For lagniappe,
I've added a third cord front-and-center from the dog-collar into her
cunt-crack. It's digging in nicely; the free end goes back up between
her lush ass cheeks, then 'way up over the beam and down nearly to the
floor, where it is attached to a four-pound weight. Her satiny
panties are so wet around the crotch, I can actually see the color of
her cunt showing through. I had to teach her about not wearing panty
shields when she's going to be with me; it took some time, but I think
she understands. She's wearing black one-piece suspender hose, the
kind with big oval cut-outs that give a look similar to
garterbelt garterbelt&stockings stockings, but clean and uncluttered. Black back seams,
but of course.
She's teetering on six-inch patent-leather pumps with her legs splayed
wide, held apart by a three-foot length of 1.5 inch PVC pipe.
She has never looked more adorable. But the night is young.
Experimentally, I kick the weight attached to the longest crotch rope.
I am rewarded with a muffled *pweam* of anguished lust. She was already
starting to get a little glazed while we were out shopping. The poor thing.
"Do you want to come?" I ask, silkily. My cock is straining against
my crossed legs. She stares at me, shakes her head in the
semi-defiant way that means "let me talk"--so I stand, my erection
showing clearly through my Dockers, remove the gag, and wait for her
mouth to come back to normal. While I wait, I gently caress and
massage her lips and cheeks. She sucks and licks my fingers every
time one strays within range of her lips. I make a mental note to
reward her for this spontaneous display of affection.
Her breathing has been just a touch ragged since the kick I just
delivered. Breathy, deep, like a bad girl in a Bogart movie, she
says the bad-girl thing:
"Think you can _make_ me?"
I let one corner of my mouth go up while the other one goes perfectly
flat. I touch her nose, the little-child "beeeep" gesture.
I reach to where I keep a knife, just there. Tantos look _so_
dramatic in red light. And mine is hollow-ground like a razor. A
pause to show her clearly that the knife is real. She stops
struggling. That's my sweet little girl. I give her the look she
likes me to give her when we both know she's been _had_. She drops
her head, and the crotch ropes slide in opposing directions. Mmm.
Snickflash, toss to the other hand with a juggler's practiced seeming-
ease, snickflash again and her panties are an hourglass-shaped wreck.
I take my time working them free from the crotch ropes and hose, still
holding my knife in my off hand. She stays as still as she can; the
knife is still out. I tuck the knife away as I fondle the soft,
soaking satin.
She is squirming again, and it appears that she may be quite close to
orgasm. Now I get it--she's got this idea that she can beat me to the
punch, and make me have to build her up all over again. I should have
guessed.
Out comes the knife again. She freezes. I go around behind her and
pause for a moment. SNICKWHUMP and the four-pound weight hits the
floor. A frustrated burbling moan from her; she knows she has lost
her orgasmic momentum, though she's still wound up tighter than a
ten-day Timex.
Knife stowed once more, I return into her field of view.
"You've been wondering if you could ever suck off a woman," I tell her.
She looks puzzled. I always feel proud when that happens in this sort
of context; it means I'm about to surprise her.
I store the ruined panties on my shoulder, the way a mother does a
diaper. I get out the Dermicel tape, the kind that's porous enough to
breathe through if you're not in a hurry.
She still looks puzzled.
I tear the tape into five-inch lengths, storing each on a separate
finger of my off hand.
She still looks puzzled.
I stand a hair's breadth away from her.
"Want to get any toastier?" I ask.
"It's plenty warm in here... Oh." She says. "Yes, I think that would
be very nice right now."
I wad up the torn lengths of tape without telling her what they're for.
The pipe is prepared. I suck in a lungful and feed it to her,
dribbling it out my lungs quickly so she'll get most of the benefit.
Two more hits and it's time to move on. I take my boots off so I
won't be tempted to do anything stupid with the knife while I'm in
this state.
I rub her all over while it comes on, not focally sexy, just feel-it-
all-move sensual. She bumps back, dancing in a perfect wordless
conversation. Her face has that rapt look she gets when she never
wants it to end, and isn't headed anywhere in a hurry.
Nice, but I'd like to do something a little more galvanic.
More lengths of tape, and then I'm ready again to show her what
they're for...
I pick the panty remnants off my shoulder, sniff them theatrically, and
announce:
"You're already bisexual." She looks puzzled again, the dear.
"Think about it," I continue, "What is the sex of the person you've
had more sex with than anyone else?"
I shush her, my finger to her mouth, before she can frame a reply.
"Why, *female*," I say. "You've had more sex with *you* than with
any other partner. That makes you a cunt-fingering, wet-holed little
tit-tugger, doesn't it?"
As I speak, I roll the panties into a ball.
She's into the description. I see the way her eyes crinkle and I want
to take the next step... She puts on a defiant air, though, and I know
I'll have a good excuse soon for what I want to do next.
She doesn't fail me.
"That's utter bullshit."
I pull her hair back, _hard_, and pop the smooth ball of panty into
her gasp-gaping mouth. I hold it there, nibbling the line of her chin
and listening to her breathing. Both nostrils sound OK. On goes the
tape; I smooth the corners into place while her hair is back out of
the way.
"The next thing", I say, "is to get you used to the taste of cunt. I
figured you'd be most comfortable starting with your own. Don't you
agree?"
I begin to rearrange her restraints.
=====
Training the Slut, Part 2
The woman of my dreams has her mouth full of herself.
I wish for fantasy physics; I'd like to order her to bend double and
eat herself out real nice and slow...
But supple as she is that's not possible with current technology; so
instead I've gotten her pussy dripping and stored the juice in the pair
of satiny panties she was wearing. At the opportune moment, I stuffed
these into her mouth and sealed it over with Dermicel tape. Isn't
medical science wonderful? She's lying curled head-over-heels on the
egg-shaped papasan chair, still wearing those impossible spiked heels,
the suspender hose, and the slim leather gloves with the so-femmy lace
backs. The padded wrist- and anklets have been loosely attached to the
rim of the papasan by free-running steel "C" fittings of my own design
and manufacture. Just call me 'Ardware 'Ank. She is completely
free to move--as long as she stays on the chair. In principle, this
means she _could_ eventually work her way around upright... *if* I let
her alone.
She's a big girl, but that's a *big* if.
I'm sure her muscles and joints can use the rest. The position is
novel enough for her that I get to take a little time springing the
next surprise on her. I'm glad I found time to practice first.
Out of sight, around the little corridor, I look in the odd round
strategically-placed mirror that lets my eyes see hers, but little
else.
I give the order with a greasy, sleazy leer: "Close your eyes, you
hungry little cuntlapper." Reflexively, her eyes blink shut for a
moment and hold for a few beats. They blink open for a second.
I wasn't fooled, I haven't moved. I wait and repeat the instructions.
This time I add, "If you don't, I'll get the cat to lick your tits."
A flash of indignation and perhaps just a little titillation, and
she loses her eyes firmly.
I step into the warm-lit room, making tiny wispy sounds with my thighs.
"You may open your eyes now," I say, and my voice is so soft it
surprises me.
She does so, and I'm pleased by the inrush of her breath. I'm
standing with my crotch a scant a half-inch away from her head, which
would be in the perfect upside down posture for a nice languorous
session of forced-French-to-completion--but her view is of a panty
girdle and gartered stockings. The foundation garment keeps my cock
pressed so tightly that it's almost invisible to her, even though it
was far too hard to tuck back under in the approved TV way. I can see
a small dot of precum has oozed through all the lycra. Five pounds
thinner, indeed.
Her mind is blown for a full five seconds. From this vantage, she
can't see my face, isn't sure I'm even in the room. So I speak again
to let her know it's me towering over her.
"Would you like to eat my pussy?" I ask, and swing my hips in a slow
suggestive circle.
She thinks about it. To spur her on, I reach for the riding crop.
I've always wanted to be a lesbian dominatrix; today is as good a day
as any to start. I'm loving this so much I really hope she says NO.
I stroke her puss ever so gently with the leather bat-tip, the rhythm
a tender lullaby, then four strokes of the crop, just hard enough to
hear it *voop* through the air...
"_Would_ you _like_ to _eat_ my _pussy?_" I say, the strokes stretching
each word out. Left thigh, left labium, right thigh, right labium.
She nods her head quickly, the tip of her nose grazing my smooth
bulge. I smile down at her.
"Perhaps you're expecting to have those nasty panties of yours taken out
of your mouth?"
She nods again, and makes a noise that I think means "Please". Her
breathing still sounds fine. I'm glad. I'd hate to have to rush.
I begin to play with her upturned pussy, the lips, the depths,
slippery and pulsing. "I'm afraid that's not in the cards just yet,
my dove. Since you're so very _very_ inexperienced, we should
probably practice under more... *controlled*... conditions." I wipe
my hands, wet with her fresh oily offerings, on the bottom front panel
of my panty girdle. Her reward. I tell her: "No, this way is really
for the best. I'm sure you'll understand soon."
I reach out for one of her loosely-chained hands, place it high on the
back of my thigh, and say:
"Suck my cunt, you prissy little bitch. I don't expect you to make me
come, but I sure do expect you to TRY."
I bump my mock-pussy back into her gagged face. Even under all the
spandex, I can feel my prick working its way to a world-class hard-on.
I love it.
======
Training the Slut, Part 3
The woman of my dreams has a beautifully strong neck and shoulders.
I can attest to that, because she's been straining to give me the best
head she can under the difficult conditions she's been presented with.
The term "head" is really awfully appropriate; I've deprived her of
the use of that succulent mouth of hers, and she's limited to rubbing
my slick-sheathed cod with her tape-muffled mouth, face and head.
She's bound handsomely but firmly to the oval rim of the papasan chair
in which she sprawls inverted. Her long blonde hair is in disarray.
All in all, she's being a real trouper. I keep my hands lightly
circling her tit-handles: I make sure to administer a tug on the small
bright orange suction cups affixed to her long-suffering nipples every
time she gets a nice smooth stroke in just the way I like it. At
first, that sent a shock through her body that would throw her rhythm
off for a bit, but she seems to have sunk into a steady, steamy,
mindless quivering that comes in waves at a regular pace.
Those little suckers have been on for quite a while. Time for some
air, I think. Without warning, I slip my thumbs under and *pop* they
go. She bucks like she's been given an electrical shock.
"Keep sucking." I warn. She resumes the rhythm against my aching
dick. I start resuscitation on her less-favorite tit first, rubbing
light smooth circles in the glycerine slick, then pinching and
stretching her breasts into taut conical cartoons of themselves. I
alternate sides, left and right, and fantasize milking her tits and
serving it at supper.
She is making a little rhythmic noise now, "Ooohm... Ooohm..." I'm
entranced. It's like some tribal song that goes on forever, 'til all
the women in the village are fucked limp and all the men are comatose.
I reach up and work two fingers from each hand into her saucy slit.
Both my thumbs can get at her apex; one takes the hood, the other the
nub of her rosy clit. She works her hips to the same rhythm,
involuntary, a slave to her own sexual abandon. She sure gets worked
up when I'm around.
Grinding my Arpege-scented panty-girdle into her face, I keep up the
commentary, telling her that she has a fine future in store for her as
a pussy-worshipping little whore, once she gets the basics down. As
I'm narrating, I feel the barest hint of a breeze. I look up.
I split my attention.
In the hallway outside,
"You think you'd be
I hear the faint
worth money on the
sound of unshod
streets, you cunt-crazy,
stocking feet. She's
twisted little tramp?
early, but I don't
You think you could
blame her. The way
drop to your knees
I described the scene
in a crowded smoky
I wanted to make happen
dyke bar and do this
probably made her leave
'til your new friend
work early. The brazen hussy.
told you to stop?"
I pull my hands out of her unceremoniously, and wipe them on her
face and hair.
She looks glorious.
I get out the snug-fitting glove-leather blindfold and apply it, then
gently remove the tape and panties from her mouth. She asks for
water, so I give her some. I make up her mouth with ruby red
lipstick, blotting up the excess with a tissue or two.
Another cool gentle breeze from outside the warm room. I smile.
It carries the faint smell of Arpege perfume...
======
Training the Slut, Part 4
The woman of my dreams has a lot to learn.
She's due for another installment. I aim to help her learn what I can.
I've removed her killer shoes and rubbed her feet, clipped her
wristlets together in front of her and slipped the disciplinary dildo
into her pussy. Oh, that? I've nicknamed it the F-111. It's
basically a ratchet like gadget I cooked up a while back and built
especially for her. Part speculum, part Doc Johnson. She's very full
now, knows/hopes it won't be long now 'til she comes. Or _some_ sort
of climax.
She wears the blindfold with dignity, I think. I see her as having
resemblance to a hooded hunting-bird, perhaps a gyrfalcon. Her legs
are very weak from all the time spent almost-coming, so I've pulled
all the cushions off the papasan and made a heap in the center of the
room.
"Kneel," I say.
She does so.
"Dog Posture," I say, and with a jingle she crouches over the
cushion-heap, hands and knees. I know that jingle turns her on. I
think about what her pussy feels like, how it bites my cock when I
take her that way. I feel a strange crushing explosion inside me; I
want to possess her utterly; I want to take her power completely away,
just for an instant, and give it back doubled. Maybe someday.
Maybe tonight.
"Relax," I say, and she stretches out prone over the pile of padding,
her gloved hands sliding on the carpet with a tiny scuffing sound, her
wrist tackle still tinkling faintly. She wiggles her butt as she
settles in.
She makes a contented sound. I love how she looks. She might
actually go to sleep on me--if I let her.
No chance.
Zoomer will help me with that. She has entered the room under the
auditory cover of my subject kneeling and getting comfy. We agreed on
Arpege as the scent of the day, so we're both wearing a little. The
better to confuse you with, my dear...
She's a slim tall brunette with a face that can go from innocent-
seemingly-vapid to voluptuous to kill-crazy in less time than it takes
a crocodile to bite.
Her ass-length head of hair is braided back and held by some filigreed
trifle that probably cost more than my car. I know the most _impulsive_
people...
We get along. We both know who we're in love with.
Zoomer brought a toy or two along. She has them tucked under her arm.
She's already half-undressed, with her leotard top off-the-shoulder
clear to her waist and her Steinem-revival midi-skirt slit turned to
the front and buttoned an easy inch or so down the waist. She's a
dancer, in case you hadn't guessed. I'll spare you the stereotypes.
She *does* look good.
"Time to get down to business," I say, and clap my hands together.
My subject turns her head toward me and says, "Sleepy."
"We'll see," I say. Perhaps we can get the fires roaring...
I deliver a sharp series of slaps to her buttocks, open palm, lots of
snap. She's startled, even though she must have been expecting this;
I stop and examine the results: several distinct red handprints and an
extra inch of prod protruding from her vagina. I nudge the errant
dilator back in, and make the adjustment that widens it a little
inside. I check for lubrication: ample. She's wet clear up to her
navel, the trollop. I'm pretty sure her breasts have had enough
punishment.
I make a face to Zoomer, indicate the riding crop.
She nods. As soon as she's handed me the crop, her hand drops down
and slips inside her panties. Zoomer likes this. Aiming to miss the
fucktoy filling her twat, I begin giving my subject a thorough
going-over on her butt and upper thighs. Voop-voop-voop. The cheeks
are brought slowly up through pink to bright red, though that's a
little hard to judge in this light. Regrettably, white light is
required. I reach over to the remote, arrange things to improve
matters. Now most of the light comes from a couple of 500-watt
torchiers. Still a fairly satisfactory dungeonlike mise-en-scene.
It may be time to make her cry. I never know what that will take, but
it seems to be something she's thankful for afterwards. I can't
describe how that makes me feel. Proud. Other things.
She is crying now, I think.
It's time to comfort her.
Wordlessly, Zoomer lowers herself on hands and knees toward the
radiant, injured flesh. She throws the roweled Western-style spur to
the side. Maybe later. Zoomer puckers her lips and blows air as she
floats her face over the contours of thigh and hip and sweet ass. The
breathing deepens and slows under her tender ministrations.
I back the F-111 down to a bearable size and work it a little, twist
and push, rub her outer pussy lips, letting her vulva take care of
itself, wet itself back to comfort. If I believed in auras, I'd have
to say I sense hers, like a great gentle evening bonfire's coalbed.
Zoomer switches to rubbing oh-so-lightly with her titties, back and
forth, her braided hair providing occasional quirky brushstrokes in
counterpoint.
The woman of my dreams is sighing now. I begin to croon wordlessly
back to her, and for a few moments Zoomer does too.
I signal a shush to my partner in crime. I don't think she noticed
the three-part harmony. Time for some different music, I believe.
"Sometimes it's silly," I say, all kind heart and rough-gentle hands,
"Sometimes it's just silly what people will do to convince themselves
they can't get just what they want."
We turn her to one side, her hands still chained together; we sit
cross-legged near her. Zoomer strokes my lovely's sight-deprived
face. Is she so far gone she can't tell there are three of us in the
room?
"Honey, here," Zoomer says, simple like a woman, and just like Eden
slips her cool tit into the waiting, hungry, lipsticked mouth.
======
Training the Slut, Part 5 [Conclusion(?)]
The woman of my dreams is learning things I can't teach her. I'm happy.
She's lying curled on her side, mostly off her remarkably red behind,
on the pile of cushions. Her mane of yellow is a lovely loose sweaty
pile over her blindfold, behind her head. Zoomer has been getting her
breast sucked just a little, and has slipped down from her position in
tailor's-seat onto her side, too. This puts them curled symmetrically
in what I've always liked calling the Half-69 position. The two ladies
are so arranged that they can kiss and fondle each other's breasts.
Zoomer's tits are in my love's face, getting attention one at a time.
The recently-painted lips are leaving red smudges in their wake.
Delightful.
I think she's doing really well, the dear. I unclip her wrists, not
removing the padded wristlets, and toss the locking carabiner aside.
I rub her arms for a few seconds, letting her know by my touch that
she doesn't need to keep them poised over her head to please me.
I remove one of her gloves. I move her gloved hand to the back of
Zoomer's neck. She puts her newly-exposed other hand on Zoomer's
head, delicately. I imagine the sudden cool detailed contrast
available to her touch, and I shiver in appreciation. So beautiful.
After a moment, her ungloved hand strays to caress her gloved one,
both sides, black lace and black leather. Then, tentatively, it
reaches out for Zoomer's other breast. Zoomer sighs and cuddles
closer.
I caress her blindfolded face, say her play name, soft and low. I slip
a finger under the blindfold, hooking it to stay out of the way of her
eyes, and tug it up with a few ounces pressure. "Off?" I ask, tenderly.
"No," gasps my love. "Please. Not..." and she writhes and puts her
mouth back to work. I think she means "not yet." All right, my very
dear. I stroke her head with my hand once more, rub her back for a
second and rise to my feet. Christ, what *time* is it?
Time for me to be doing something else. I change back into something
approximating street clothes, though my sense of that has changed a lot
since I took up with that woman. What can I say? She inspires me.
I look at the two of them, such an entrancing mandala, a study in
harmonious contrasts. I look at my best girl--I want a lot. For
starters, I want to press my hands on her toasty buttocks. Somehow, I
refrain. As I walk to the door, my gaze falls on the telephone
crouching solitary on the little desk. I think of the last time I
almost spoiled a surprise she wanted to share with him, her
law-husband... She shushed me with a look that could peel paint. No,
it's her right, not mine.
There's a tear in the corner of my eye. Where do these thing come from?
I sling my ten-pound leather jacket over my shoulder, idly slapping it
against the wall. I don't care if I leave marks. I laugh at the
thought.
Whistling part of an old song, I go. As the door closes, I remember
the words, from Jefferson Airplane: "Know I love you, baby; yes I do..."
--
I will ignore all requests for: reposts, e-mailing parts, ftp/gif/archive
sites, and subscription requests. These stories get deleted immediately after
they are posted. For more info on the ARCHIVE postings, read the FAQ posted
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