Chronicles of Raan (Three BDSM Fantasy Novellas)

by Tara Crescent

  Leila’s Training (A BDSM Fantasy Novel)

  By Tara Crescent

  Chapter 1: The Inconvenient Matter of my Virginity

  It was two years into my training as a pleasure slave when I first realized something wasn’t quite right with the way I was being trained.

  Let me explain.

  There are many worlds in the galaxy that provide pleasure slaves, but all of them – the pleasure slaves of Sarth; the pleasure slaves of Nushur; the pleasure slaves of Tibra; they all paled into insignificance when compared to the pleasure slaves of Argentia. One only contracted with a pleasure slave from Sarth or Nushur or Tibra, or any of the others, if a pleasure slave of Argentia was not available.

  In my youth, I assumed that was because the pleasure slaves of Argentia were the most beautiful; the most submissive; the ones best able to tolerate pain, and the ones best able to provide pleasure.

  As my training began, and I spent the first two years untouched by any, I started to realize my mistake. I was rushed from class to class; languages, music, art appreciation, protocol, geography, politics, advanced politics, economics, advanced economics. Knowledge was being poured into my open mind; I was getting an education that the rulers of many worlds in the galaxy would be happy to receive.

  Slowly I started to realize, the pleasure slaves of Argentia were the best in the galaxy not because of the toughness of their bodies but because of the strength of their minds.

  “Lust is in the head, Leila,” my mentor Arya said to me once, when I asked her about it. She was getting ready for her final exam, though anyone who knew her knew there were few doubts that she would graduate with flying colours. “You entice because of who you are; your intelligence and wit keep your contract holders coming back, not the softness of your skin or the tightness of your body. There are many in the galaxy with a tight body and soft skin. You are better. You have a mind.”

  I redoubled my efforts in class, determined to be the best pleasure slave I could be. I was also secretly glad. When I had arrived on Raan, to apply to be a pleasure slave, I had been conflicted. My body craved submission and pain, but I was reluctant to give up my individuality. It seemed that as a pleasure slave of Argentia, I would not have to choose between the two.

  My raw edges were smoothened, of course. Endless hours of dance lessons made me graceful; music lessons lowered my voice to a lyrical murmur; one designed to give pleasure to any listener. Painful posture lessons corrected my tendency to slouch; hours spent in utter stillness posing as a model for art class corrected my restlessness.

  Then, two years into the program, the pleasure training began.

  ***

  Aah. Pleasure training. The words were a misnomer, of course. I was training to be a pleasure slave; it was not my pleasure that was important; just the pleasure of my contract holders. If I’d thought my dance trainer harsh, it was nothing compared to the trainers that were training me in the art of pleasure.

  New classes were added to my schedule. Classes where my ass was trained to accept a contract holder’s cock, fist, or almost anything else they chose to insert, classes where I would practice contracting the muscles in my vagina to best pleasure my contract holder. I was trained to swallow a cock, lick a glistening pussy, and much more.

  Very few things were not taught. There were some restrictions on what a contract holder was allowed to do with a pleasure slave, of course, but they were few and far between.

  ***

  But first, there was the matter of my virginity.

  I was taken to get an examination by the Healer before my pleasure training started. He measured the diameter of my jaw, used a device to open up my ass so he could see how much it could be stretched; and had started doing the same to my pussy when he stopped abruptly.

  “You are a virgin?” His voice was surprised.

  I nodded. He made a notation; dismissed me. I headed to my Advanced Politics class, thinking nothing more of our conversation.

  My Head Trainer was waiting in my quarters when I returned from class. I eyed her with surprise; I saw her once a week as part of my ongoing evaluation, but I’d never seen her outside of that.

  “I hear you are a virgin,” she said without preamble.

  I blushed. I didn’t understand why they were making such a big deal about it. Surely some of the girls were virgins when they applied for training. I said that to my Head Trainer.

  She laughed. “You’d be surprised,” she said wryly. “Most of our applicants find out they like to submit, to fulfil their partner’s desires, and then they apply. It’s pretty rare to find a virgin here, actually.”

  “We’ve all discussed it,” she continued. “Your pleasure training will be harsh, often very painful. It seems a shame to have that experience be your first exposure to sex. So, Leila, for once, and once only, you get to choose. If there’s any trainer or teacher here that you’d like to pleasure you for the first time, speak, and if that person is willing to instruct you, you will be deflowered by him or her.”

  I gulped. Choice was the first thing you gave up in the training. I wore a uniform daily; my schedule was determined for me; every hour of my life tightly allocated. And now, I could choose anyone I wanted to sleep with.

  I knew who I wanted, of course. For over a year, I’d been fantasising privately about my Advanced Economics instructor. Hassan. He was tall and lean, with a trimmed beard just starting to grey, and a caustic sense of humour that made us all scramble to do our best work in his class; else be the target of his sarcasm.

  “Hassan…” I mumbled, my eyes on the floor, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment.

  My Head Trainer laughed out aloud at my fiery cheeks. “Oh, Leila, you’ll soon get over that; Hassan also teaches some of your pleasure training classes. But I’ll send him a note, ask if he’ll do me a favour.”

  It stung; the way she worded that. Sleeping with me was a favour Hassan would do for my Head Trainer, not something that was pleasurable in its own right. But then I considered the nation of Argentia, where women were well-versed in the art of giving pleasure; arts that I, as yet knew nothing about. I flushed at my presumption.

  But that evening, I received a message from Hassan, telling me to show up to his quarters.

  Chapter 2: The Bull of Mah’reb

  Hassan eyed my body up and down as I stood in the doorway. I’d worn my uniform, as always, the standard brown ankle-length column of fabric, bound at the waist by a red sash. But I’d tried to add some allure to my face; a slight application of kohl to my eyes, some forbidden rouge to my cheeks and lips.

  “Come in…” he said, his voice expressionless, standing aside at the doorway.

  His quarters were larger than mine, as befitted his status as a trainer. There was a fire in a corner, the room was blazing warm. A low divan near the fire, piled with cushions and rugs; a four-poster bed in another corner; again piled high with rugs and silks. Lush. This room was lush; almost carnal. There was some music playing in the background; slow drumbeats, setting a steady cadence. I felt my blood beginning to pound; responding to the warmth and the drums and the sex to come.

  Hassan handed me a goblet, filled with an amber liquid. I took a sip, felt the warmth light a fiery path down my throat.

  “In Argentia…” Hassan said, “Your virginity is an inconvenience; something standing in the way of learning to give the most pleasure…”

  “But on my homeworld, Mah’reb, a woman’s virginity is a special thing; one she gives as a gift during the Ninety-nine Night Festival.” His voice was a low counterpoint to the drums; my body was reacting to his words, to his voice; to the feel of this place. My cheeks were flushed; my nipples erect. My pussy was damp with longing.

  Reaching for a semblance of poise, I tried to remember what I’d learned of Mah’reb. A world steeped in ritual. The Ninety-Nine Night Festival was one of their most ancient rites, where women lost their virginity in public, in front of awed crowds, as they took the final step on the pat
hway to become a woman. The men that were chosen to deflower the girls were typically high-ranking nobility; chosen for their virility and their ability to give pleasure.

  “A few special men are chosen, the Bulls of Mah’reb; and they come, the girls, they come and offer their gift so that they may become women. And all of Mah’reb watches, and all are moved.”

  His hand ran over my free arm; the one not clutching at the goblet. Goosebumps rose on my skin; I very slightly moved towards him; my lips parted, swaying, swaying in response to his words.

  “Once, I was a Bull of Mah’reb, and for ninety-nine nights, women offered themselves to me…” His voice is soft, remembering. A small part of me is surprised by this statement. Why would someone of Mah’reb nobility choose to leave his birthright, and teach instead at the foremost pleasure-slave training center in all the galaxy?

  “You have invoked a forgotten pleasure, Leila,” he said, coming up to me, taking the goblet from my nerveless hands; setting it down on a table, and then, tracing a path with one finger down my jaw, tracing the outline of my lips… “And I am honoured to accept your gift.”

  The drumbeats played in the background. The beats had sped up slightly; my heart resonated in response.

  My goblet was filled once more, and handed to me. I took a sip, and another, feeling the warmth run through me. The drink was easing my nervousness and my awkwardness around this instructor that I’d fantasised about for over a year. What remained was pure arousal.

  I gazed at him; drinking him in. His dark brown eyes; his dark beard, just starting to grey, I ached to feel his beard against my breasts and my pussy. Would it itch? Tickle? I burned to find out. I took an instinctive step towards him.

  He took a step towards me as well, his hands reaching for my sash, untying it, pulling my dress over my head. I was naked underneath; and his hands caressed my body, tracing the curve of my hips, the swell of my breasts, the softness of my thighs. I moaned, my arms reaching blindly towards him, wanting to feel his length against mine.

  “When the girl presents herself during the Ninety-Nine Night Festival, there are handlers who take her, and carry her over to the bed.” His voice was like smooth wine; it was velvety soft, yet it burned me. My eyes were fixed on his face.

  He lifted me easily, his actions echoing his words, placed me on the bed. My thighs were instinctively closed, I fought against covering my breasts from his smouldering gaze. But he was having none of my coyness.

  “The handlers tie her hands to the bed, so she may not touch, only be touched…” His hands were on mine; and my wrists were swiftly tied to the two corners of the bed. The sound of the drumbeats rose; they were beating faster now; harder; and the intensity in this room was rising to match the cadence of the drums, and blood was pounding in my veins…

  “And then, so the girl may not falter at the last, her legs are pried open and tied, so the gift be freely given…” His hands were on my ankles; parting my legs; tying them to the opposite ends of the bed.

  I moaned again, my eyes closed; longing crashing in waves over me.

  He sat at the end of the bed, his eyes gazed on my pussy. I could feel the flush wash over my entire body; there was nowhere to hide.

  “Sometimes, when the girl is something truly special…” he said, his eyes soft, as they caught mine, “a treat is added. The girl is gently whipped so that she might rise, even higher…”

  The strokes were soft on my skin; leaving flickering trails of heat. I whimpered in arousal and in utter pleasure, as the strokes gently caressed my thighs and my stomach; struck my breasts and my nipples with just enough speed to them that I moaned aloud with extreme pleasure. The strokes moved lower, still lower, making their unerring way towards my pussy, and I could feel myself raise my hips in a mute plea…

  But the strokes didn’t fall on my pussy, instead, I felt Hassan’s tongue on my pussy, sucking on my lips, licking my slit, flicking my clitoris in a move that was driving me towards an edge; an edge that I both feared and welcomed.

  There was no respite; Hassan’s hands were on my thighs, his mouth between my legs, and I was moaning, whimpering, begging him to continue; crying in need as his tongue licked me steadily. The sound of drumbeats rose in the background; and I thrust my hips into his mouth; my hands clenched in their bindings, as the edge approached, and I could do nothing to hold myself back from it.

  And then… the world exploded. Waves of pleasure shuddered through me as the drumbeats erupted in crescendo; I could hear my moaning over it all; a thin keening noise; as the most intense pleasure I’d ever felt in my life washed all over me.

  The drumbeats slowed again, and with them, my breathing. I lay back in my bindings; limp and satiated.

  I felt movement at the edge of the bed, and then, Hassan came into view. I gasped; a swift, inward breath. He was naked, and his sculpted body was lean perfection. His cock was erect; beads of precum forming at the head, and I wanted to feel his hardness in my mouth; I ached to give him the same pleasure he had given me.

  “Once the girl’s initial need is satiated…” he said, softly, drumbeats in the background, “then, then the true taking and giving of pleasure can begin…”

  He didn’t untie me, but he lay down on top of me, his length pressed against mine. My body was fevered with pleasure; I moaned again as I felt his weight on me; as I felt every hard inch of his against me.

  His fingers caressed my jaw slightly, and then his lips were on mine, and there was a gentleness in his touch, but I could sense the underlying steel, and I craved his power. Our lips ground into each other, as the fever rose, our tongues duelling as I savoured the taste of him.

  His hand moved to my breasts, as he continued to kiss me, taking small, nibbling bites along my neck. His fingers moved over my nipple, and he watched my face as my nipple immediately responded to his touch, hardening instantly. The same treatment on the other nipple, and now, he was straddling me, and his hands were moving on my breasts, rolling my nipples between his sure fingers, pinching them and pulling them towards him, stretching them out in a move that sent a fresh surge of lust and longing cascading through me.

  “So responsive, sweet Leila…” he muttered. I could feel his cock stir between my legs; and I arched my hips hopefully, in a mute plea. He just laughed at that; a warm male laugh of utter satisfaction. “Patience, little one…” he said, as he lowered his mouth down on my nipple, sucking it between his lips, and biting it gently between his teeth. I whimpered in need. Arousal was once more starting to rise in me, and primal, instinctive forces were pushing my body towards his in a gesture as old as time itself.

  His mouth was now on my other nipple, while his fingers kept the first one erect and engorged. His movement was sure and steady, utterly unhurried; and tied up as I was, there was nothing I could do other than to accept the pleasure.

  My world shrank; everything that mattered was in this bed; and nothing else was relevant.

  I could feel the heat blazing off his body as he straddled me. My ass chafed slightly against the fur I was laid on. I was acutely conscious of the bindings at my wrists and ankles, holding me open. The warmth of the fire caressed my skin; the drumbeats played in the background, and the smell of incense was in the air, mixed with the scent of my arousal.

  My longing built, my body reacting to his expert touch.

  “Please, Hassan…” I begged, my voice thin and high and needy. “Please… I need you…”

  Perhaps it was my pleading; perhaps he too was ready, but at the sound of my plea; his control finally faltered. He leaned forward, looked at me. “Keep your eyes open…” he ordered. “I want to watch you feel me.”

  I bit my lip, nodded.

  I could feel his hardness at the entrance to my pussy, feel him move slightly in me. Then, with his eyes locked on mine, he was deep in me in one smooth thrust, tearing past my inner wall, causing me to clench in momentary pain that quickly gave way to deep pleasure. He moved in me, his movements sure, stroke
s that had me sighing in need. New, unknown sensations rose in me as I felt him deep in me, and the waves of lust were once again threatening to overflow, and then, as his hands reached down and found my clitoris, urging me higher, higher, I exploded, yet again, into orgasm, feeling him explode into me at the same time.

  The drumbeats pounded on in the background, as my breathing steadied. Hassan had collapsed next to me; he reached forward and untied my hands, then my feet.

  He spoke softly, a continuation of his story. “In the end, if the Bull has done his job well, the girl shudders in pleasure, and is welcomed into womanhood.”

  I sighed. His voice was soft, magical. There was true art in what he had done; the way he had made me feel. “Thank you, Hassan…” I said quietly, as I sat up, prepared to leave.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, his mouth curving into a smile of male desire. “Tomorrow is your day off, isn’t it? I have you scheduled here for tonight, tomorrow, and tomorrow night. There’s much more pleasure to give and take, sweet Leila.”

  I flushed. “Thank you, Hassan,” I said again, as I reached for him, so we could begin the cycle of taking and receiving pleasure all over again.

  ***

  What can I say about pleasure training? It was impossibly difficult.

  Oral training, where I was trained to ignore the need to breathe, to suppress my gag reflex as I struggled with a cock deep down my throat. Once that initial bit of training was complete; I then had to focus on the movements of my tongue; to give pleasure while I was struggling to breathe. I was trained to hold myself in the most alluring manner so as to give the most pleasure; to make eye contact as this invader pounded in and out of my throat; to make noises representing only pleasure and to show only longing and lust in my eyes. Worse that than, the training was designed to make me feel only longing as I was struggling to breathe; I would never feel fear or panic.

  The training was designed to redraw the deep patterns of my mind, to remove fear, so that all that remained was pleasure.