"Very interesting." He sniffed the air. "As I thought, Miss Tilton, your case is a very difficult one. You need hardly be told, I'm sure, that the contractions I can observe here" (he put his finger there, for emphasis, making me groan, shamelessly) "are a sign of an extremely wanton nature. If for example, your husband were to apply his mouth to the problematic area. . ." He illustrated, as I sagged from the chain above me, bending my knees disgracefully to yield my cunt up to his lips and tongue. He kissed me, gently and tenderly, right on my clit, so that I sighed, then ran his tongue up and down and up again, until I was making the shameful grunting sounds that I think best reveal my inner slut.
"Please. . . sir," I moaned, for he was teasing me now.
"Please what, Miss Tilton?"
"The. . ." I saw that it was in his hand. He switched it on, and the sound itself seemed to make me wetter.
"I think," my trainer said, standing up suddenly, "that the most effective exercise might be for you to have a clear picture of exactly how immodest you are. He bent his head, almost idly, and ran the tip of his tongue around my right nipple, producing a very immodest sound from me. Then he touched the magic wand to my clit for just an instant, making my body buck and writhe, and the immodest sound to come from me again, loudly. Then he put his left hand behind my head and kissed me, hard and long, and pulled his face back, and looked into my eyes, almost in wonder, it seemed to me, at how right this felt.
Then the real exercise began. My trainer stood behind me, and he did something my husband had never done. He brought his left hand around, and grasped my throat, very gently but also very possessively. He put his right hand down, under, and split my bottom with four fingers, the middle one working its way just the tiniest bit into my rectum. At least at that moment, I felt like I had never been made so submissive. He had opened his robe, so his rigid penis was against my ribs, lowered six inches or so, my legs being spread and slightly bent.
"Look at yourself in the mirror," he said. His face, with its skin so much darker than mine, was above my pale one, and just to the right, above my auburn hair in its french braid. "Look at that pretty ass-wife in her garter-belt and stockings, with her slutty green eyes and her pert little pink breasts. Look at that wet little cunt she's showing to the mirror, with her legs spread. And I have to admit that I want to fuck this luscious little ass I'm holding, but that's what you want, isn't it?"
"You know I'm speaking the truth, you little minx." Minx? "No, you're not going to get to have this cock inside you tonight." The effect of that sentence on me was really extraordinary, and unexpected. How dare he? Wasn't his cock my right? Then, No--it wasn't my right; I was his: I was owned, and he could do with me as he pleased. If he wanted to jerk off instead of fucking me; if he wanted to go find a whore and give his cock to her. . .
In the mirror, I watched these thoughts pass across my face: anger, then shock at the wave of submission, then, finally, pleading. "Oh, Sir," I said. "Please give me your beautiful cock tonight."
"No, Miss Tilton. You don't deserve it. You have been too immodest: fucking you would only make you think your immodesty is acceptable."
I sobbed. Oh my God.
Then he switched off the magic wand, and walked to the stairs. "You are to hold this position, slut, until I return," he said. Then he walked up the stairs, and turned off the light, and left the basement.
It was not really very dark. The light from the hall came down the stairs enough so that I could make out the shapes of everything down there, especially when my eyes had adjusted.
Nor was he gone for very long. He has always refused to tell me how long he waited, that first time (I think we've probably played this kind of a scene a dozen times in the ten years since; eventually I said I wanted to try it for much longer, and that turned out to be wonderful, but if he'd left me for an hour or even half-an-hour that first time, I almost certainly would have safeworded). My guess is that it was twenty minutes, and that he was waiting (reading, maybe) right outside the basement door so that he could be sure I was OK.
When he switched on the light, he brought downstairs with him a new toy.
I gasped: it was, at last, a real version of the sort of device that I had so often imagined, and that, in my earliest days of self-abuse, I often tried to simulate with pillows, and cushions, and even, most shamefully, with towels over sofa arms and cushions on piano-benches: the lewd rocking-horse. What Charles brought down to the basement didn't look like a horse, really, in any way (it was purple, for starters), but the height, width, and length of it, together with the curvature of its top gave an unmistakable promise: Charles was going to make me go for a shameful ride tonight, and perhaps on many nights to come.
I wanted to get the scene right, so: "Sir?" I asked, I, innocent Emily Tilton, who had never imagined she might have to trot to Boston naked, or to ride the way the gentlemen ride, for a gentleman's pleasure. Still less had innocent Emily once, home from school with a cold, made a pile of sofa cushions on the floor of the living-room, and taken off her pajamas and her panties, and ridden to a hard-won climax, with one hand behind, spanking her own bottom all the while, and then immediately collapsed into sobs of shame. Not she; not I. "What's that?"
"Hush, Emily. You'll find out very soon."
He stood it on the floor in front of me, then removed from his pocket a long, curved black dildo, which he fixed in place atop the device, at the perfect angle. I swallowed hard.
"Emily," he said, from the other side of the horse. "Your immodesty has earned you a ride on my training horse. Someday, if you're a good girl, you may earn the privilege of my cock in your ass as you ride, but tonight you will ride as a punishment."