The next part of my training began a few nights later. Charles had found the vibrator deep in my closet when he was looking for my secret lingerie stash; his initial intention had been to surprise me with something from my own collection as my uniform. The magic wand's capacity to drive a girl practically to the edge of insanity was something he instantly wanted to explore, and so, at the end of our usual sort of take-out dinner, he said, "Miss Tilton, please don your training-uniform, and go to your training-room, and wait for me."
After looking at the state of the feet of my stockings following our first training-session, he had decided that stockings didn't have to have feet, and had ordered some footless stockings. It was an odd feeling, but I had no objection; the alternative was shoes of some kind, and although I like nice shoes, they don't have any role in my erotic life, and I'd much rather play BDSM scenes in bare feet than just about any other way. So I put on what amounted to sheer nylon leg-warmers, and the gorgeous garter-belt, and I went to the dungeon to await my trainer.
He entered in his own uniform--black dressing-gown over nothing. We were a pair: in the dark basement, in dark clothes, playing dark games.
"Raise your hands above your head," he said, softly, and I complied, feeling again the thrill of stretched exposure, of rendering myself completely helpless in my trainer's power. In the mirrors I saw the auburn-haired young woman, shamefully dressed, shamefully exposed: white and pink skin flushed with arousal, small pink nipples standing wantonly at attention on her little breasts, cunny-slit visible to anyone who should happen by, lovely young bottom, seen in the back mirror, inviting stern discipline, both framed in the black lace of garter-belt and stockings like prized possessions whose use my trainer reserved to himself.
He put my cuffs on my wrist, and clipped them to the chain, just high enough that my arms were nearly at full length, and I could hang easily, if I wanted. I realized suddenly that I wanted him to take me further; I wanted to be on tip-toe, straining, like in the books.
"Tonight," he said, "we will be exploring the bounds of your immodesty, much as Mrs. Smith explored the same bounds with your great-great-grandmother."
He drew the low stool up so that it was directly in front of me, only two feet or so away, and sat on it, so that his face was mere inches from my shaved pussy.
"I see you are blushing at what must seem to you the shameful liberty I am taking, to use my power over you to enjoy the sight of your pretty little cunt at my leisure."
Still, after all this time, when Charles uses the c-word, it makes me blush, and it enflames me. Never mind that I've tried to claim its power for myself--when the man who owns you calls your tender cleft that. . . the power is his (as you have willed it to be his).
"Your blush does you credit, and bodes well for the state of your modesty, and for your potential for training in the ways of the pleasing wife.
"I am afraid, though, that my duty to your husband to make you pleasing for him demands that I violate that modesty, for your own good, and, of course, for his."
I had my eyes closed, too terribly aroused by the sight of Charles, as my trainer, examining me so minutely down there, where the heat came unbidden, and the moisture began to flow. Now I opened them, as I felt his hands start to urge my knees apart. Oh, no: this was bad, from a modesty standpoint.
"Ah," I said. "Ah, I. . . hadn't thought of that." He spread my legs slowly, making my feet inch out until they were slightly more than shoulder-width apart. I felt. . . I felt the air moving against parts that the air shouldn't move against, parts that I had shaved, for him, which made them even more sensitive to the moving air.
"That's why your husband pays me the big bucks, Miss Tilton," Charles said, drily.
"Asshole," I said, unhappy at his breaking the scene with humor. For once he didn't let me get away with it: he rose, and strode to the shelf of training implements, and got my paddle.
"Oh, please. . . sir. . . no. . . ah!" He was behind me, and he was paddling me hard--very hard--, alternating quickly between my spread cheeks.
"That sort of language will not be tolerated in training," he said after three strokes to each bottom-cheek, strokes that turned them a fiery red and made them burn so fiercely that I strained at my cuffs with the need to rub the sting away, and whimpered with the pain and the heat that now spread itself forward. . .
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