Soon enough, it was time for me to take the next part of my big trainer. "Nates parvae meae uxori meo sunt," I managed to groan out, on my husband-trainer's command, as the first segment went in. I was in my uniform of black garter-belt and stockings, bent over the side of "my" bed, receiving my training like a good girl.
("My" bed is the guest-room bed; it's just very convenient for certain kinds of play to call the guest-room "my" room: "Go to your room and wait for me to come punish you" is just much hotter than "Go to our room" or "Go upstairs." Not to mention all the lovely ravishment scenes we've played there: "For shame, Sir! What are you doing in my chamber? . . . no, you mustn't get into my bed. . . oh, what are you doing? Why are you raising my nightgown? . . . Is it not wicked to touch me there? You shan't do it, sir! . . . Oh, sir--that feels so. . . oh, please--be gentle with me, sir--you are so strong, and big, and my tender cleft is so small.")
So: bent over, with a pillow under my hips to furnish me to my trainer's ministrations. Knees spread. Cheek against coverlet. Hands at my side, palms up (as specifically instructed by Charles, for reasons that would soon become evident, but hadn't just yet).
My heart raced as I felt how stretched I was, and remembered how hard I had had to work just to receive that first part, and then considered the diameter--the unknown diameter, since Charles refused to allow me to see the obturamentum, as he now usually called the big trainer--of the next segment.
"Why?" I'd said. "I'd be less scared. . ."
He had looked into my eyes, and replied, as if challenging me to say "Pineapple," "But I want you to be scared."
"Glug," I managed, meltier than I could remember being, recently.
"Alright, Emily," my trainer said now. "You are going to put your hands on your bottom, and feel how full you are. Listen carefully. You may not touch the obturamentum in such a way as to ascertain its size. The size of the holy obturamentum is forbidden knowledge--if a girl were to know how big a butt-plug she had to take, her training would be ruined."
"The holy obturamentum?" I asked, giggling.
He spanked me with my paddle, hard, once on each cheek, making the holy obturamentum move in such a distinctly profane way that I tried vainly to rub my throbbing clit against the pillow, and made one of the little submissive sounds that always put a smile on Charles' face (on the rare occasions I can see his face at the time, at least; mostly I make the sounds when my face is buried in sheets or pillows or something).
"Do as I've said, ass-wife," he commanded, and, now with the added incentive of rubbing away the sting of the spanks, I put my hands on my burning cheeks.
Orthography fails me at moments like these. If I tried to onomatopoeticize the sound that came from me at that moment, it might be something like "Aahoouhr." At any rate, rubbing my bottom-cheeks with the first bit of my big trainer in place, my rectum having closed firmly about the narrowness that divided that bit from the next, bigger one, felt shamefully, terribly wonderful. "Sacred discomfort" is my private phrase for the feeling, and so, although I'd giggled at "holy obturamentum," I knew, and appreciated, precisely what my trainer meant by it.
I moved my fingertips inward, not wanting and wanting at the same time to touch the holy thing. . . and at length I did touch it, and I gasped to feel it, as if it were electric: not because there was anything remarkable about the feel of what I thought must be lube-covered silicone, but because I was touching it. If you retain any traditional Catholic beliefs, please don't read the next clause, but for me it's exactly like Communion: there's nothing actually special about the wafer and the wine, but we've done everything we can to make it feel special and, through our imaginations, it does.
There was no chance I was going to disobey Charles and try to feel how big or how long it was; my big trainer, my holy obturamentum, was simply too sacred. It was a mystery I knew I should not try to fathom. I was full of that mystery, because my trainer-husband wanted me to have it there, and I belonged to him.
That was the moment he chose to apply more lube, and push again.
"Oh! No, Charles--please--not yet!" I was still too small, I thought; my poor bottom wouldn't, couldn't. The emphasis in "sacred discomfort" was decidedly on the "discomfort."
"Yes, Emily. Open up."
"Please. . ."
"Repeat after me: natis mea aperit cuicumque quod dominus meus imponat." (My bottom opens to whatever my Lord imposes.)
"Oh my God, you asshole. . . ow! Oh, please. . ."
"Repeat it." The pressure, the stretching. My husband was insisting: his ass-wife's ass was going to open wider than it ever had, tonight. I groaned, and gushed onto the pillow under my pussy, and sobbed, and said (well, grunted, more like):
"Natis--mea--aperit. . . cui--cumque quod--dominus. . . meus imponat!" I pushed down, trying to open, taking what my lord gave, and at last screamed in triumph as I felt the second segment closed inside my anus.
"Translate," commanded Charles, as he began to stroke my heated inner labia tenderly with one hand while with the other he moved the holy obturamentum ever so gently back and forth.
"MY ASS. . . OPENS TO. . . WHATEVER MY LORD. . . OH, FUCK. . . WHATEVER MY LORD. . . IM--POSES!" More noises not worth onomatopoeticizing followed.
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