(If you like this ongoing narrative, I hope you'll start at the beginning, with the Companion, Volume 1! Buy it here!)
The next phase of my training involved specific and shameful ways of conducting myself when my husband's cock was exposed or inside me, so as to demonstrate the proper respect and to give him as much pleasure as my body was capable of providing to him. This unit was divided into several segments, with respect broadly to the area of my person my trainer was interested in enjoying with his cock.
To my surprise and delight, we began with my ass.
"There are various theories of training, Miss Tilton," said my trainer. I was lying in my uniform (black garter-belt and stockings) over his lap, where he sat on the straight-backed "training-chair"--chosen of course for its convenience in this precise regard, since a girl placed over a trainer's lap while he was sitting on it was upended in the undignified and submissive way peculiar to such chairs, and might be instructed to position herself in various ways whether for punishment or for education. Currently, I had been ordered to grasp the chair-legs at the bottom and to raise my ass and spread my knees, so that my bottom might be offered fully to my trainer's eyes and fingers. He had left his dressing-gown open so that I could feel his cock, arrogantly rising and threatening my naked loins from beneath, reminding me what my body was for, and why I was in training.
With one hand on my bottom and the other on the back of my head, he urged me further forward, to give my ass to him, until my head was hanging down almost to the living-room carpet and I could feel that my bottom was fully presented for training, framed in the black garter-belt and stockings. As many times as I had given my ass to him in submission, I felt then that I had never put it so completely at his disposal as I did now. God bless training.
"Many trainers would begin with your mouth, it is true, or even your pretty little breasts."
"Oh!" I said, for he had started to fondle me between my thighs, almost idly, just stroking the lips lightly and possessively, so that it began to be hard to hold my position without trying to move against his hand.
"They might teach you to display your breasts shamelessly, and to use them to give pleasure to your husband's cock, or they might use various vegetables and fruits--and dildos, of course--to ensure that you knew how to take a man's cock deep in your throat.
"Here at Smith's, though, we believe that a girl's natural proclivities are always our best guide. And I don't think there's any doubt about what your natural proclivities are, Miss Tilton." He laid his hand, cupping, there, across both cheeks.
"No, Sir," was all I could say, with a little moan at the feel of his hand.
"Here at Smith's," he continued, "much of what we do by way of training involves training you to various important disciplinary devices. One of the reasons we will begin with your bottom is that you have on your own already initiated this process there, using what you have taken to calling your 'little trainer' or sometimes just 'it.' Is this not so?"
I nodded, fearful of what was coming. Charles took hold of my ponytail, though, and pulled my head up to tell me my response was inadequate. "Yes, Sir," I said, melting at his dominance so that I could feel my stickiness on his thigh, "that's so."
I felt him turn to reach for something to his right, and heard a drawer being slid open. I got the fluttery feeling I always get when I wait to find out what one of his surprises is. Then there was the familiar snapping of the top of the lube bottle--was it just going to be lube tonight? That was a little dis. . .
My thought broke off mid-word, the way it tends to when Charles puts something there, between my bottom-cheeks. And it was most assuredly not his finger he had there now. Whatever it was (OK, fine, I knew exactly what it was, but I've got an innocence/ageplay thing going on, and little girls shouldn't know what big butt-plugs feel like), it was firm--firmer than Charles' cock--and round, and big.
"This is not your little trainer," said Charles, redundantly. "This is your big trainer." My heart skipped a beat.
"How big?" I managed to whisper.
"Very big, Emily." He pressed it, just a little, into my anus.
"Ah! How. . . how--how very big?"
"Very, very big, sweetheart."
"Ah, oh, please. . . Sir. . ." The pressure eased.
"When I train a girl this way, Emily, I find that it's best to spare her the sight of the big trainer, much as a merciful executioner spares his victim the sight of the axe or, conversely, as a torturer often elicits a confession by the simple showing of his implements."
Pressure, again. "Oh, fuck, Charles," I groaned. "I can't."
"You will, sweetheart, you will. You will because it pleases me."
More immodest, unladylike sounds emerged from deep in my throat. My pulse pounded in my ears and the blood seemed to be heating my cheeks and forehead, hanging almost to the floor, to the boiling point.
"Shh. Shh, Emily. Give yourself. Give your bottom to me to train and to enjoy. You know how."
"B--but. . ."
The pressure eased, then returned, more firmly. I pushed, and cried out, and yielded, and received into my bottom what to my surprise was really not all that big a protuberance, feeling, with pride, that I had taken it.
"There. You've taken the first part."
"The first part?" I asked weakly. His response was to begin, ever so gently, to push the second part in.
I screamed. He stopped pushing.
"I won't make you take the second part tonight, Emily."
"How many. . .?"
"You'll have to wait and see." I gave a little sob of frustration. "Because, despite appearances, the essential part of our training here at Smith's is intellectual, and not physical--though the physical, to be sure, is also of interest--your reception of each part of your big trainer will be accompanied with a special thing for you to say. Next time, you will say this as you take the first part. For now, repeat after me: nates parvae meae uxori meo sunt." (My little bottom-cheeks belong to my husband.)
"Nates. . . parvae meae. . . oh, no, please" (for Charles was moving the butt-plug inside me, gently but insistently, pulling the first part out a little, then re-seating it inside me).
"Dic, Emilia mea, aniconiunx, verba illa quae iussi!" (Say, my Emily, ass-wife, the words which I have ordered!)
"Nates parvae meae. . . uxori meo sunt!"