Evocation (The Training of Eileen)

by William Vitelli

  “Now there’s a lovely sight!” Anthony’s voice came from behind her. “A tied-up sex slave humping a pillar.”

  Eileen realized she’d been so lost in the fantasy that she hadn’t even heard the door open. The knowledge made her turn bright red in embarrassment. “I—I don’t…I didn’t…”

  “Of course you did.” He walked up behind her and cupped her ass with one hand. “Slut.” His fingers probed her pussy, and the sensation took her breath away. She moaned, pressing back against his hand.

  His fingers probed deeper, found wetness. She moaned again as they slid between her folds and stroked her clit. Her eyes closed, visions of strangers watching her growing more vivid behind her lids. The breeze caressed her bare skin, raising goose bumps. Her moans grew louder, more urgent; then, all at once, the tension released and she came hard against his fingers.

  He took his hand away; her hips moved backward, following it. He laughed. “Later! I’ve made breakfast, and I don’t want it to get cold.” Nimble fingers untied her bonds. “Besides, tomorrow starts an important new phase in your training, and I won’t be able to feed you breakfast the way I did on our honeymoon any more. So I wanted to be able to have one last time lingering over breakfast with you, you know? For old time’s sake.” He chuckled. “If ‘old time’ can mean a few days ago.”

  “What are you talking about? Anthony! Let me go!”

  He bent to untie her ankles. She stepped away from the pillar, trailing rope, and felt suddenly, acutely self-conscious. The low rumble of a passing truck on the road startled her, making her hide behind the pillar again. Anthony laughed. “In the house, little whore!”

  He took the rope still bound to her wrists and led her through the door. She followed sheepishly, feeling like a pet on a leash.

  Like a pet on a leash… The thought echoed in her head. Her heart thudded. He’s leading me around like I’m his pet! Her body quivered in sudden excitement. She felt her nipples harden. Between her legs, she twitched and grew wetter. Something stirred inside her, some deep inner part of her that seemed fascinated by the idea.

  He led her through the living room and into the kitchen, flooded with warm coppery light reflecting from the pots and pans hanging over the stove. Sunbeams fell on the small wood table where he had laid out breakfast. He’d placed two chairs at the table, low-backed wood without arms. One of them had a familiar dildo jutting upward from the seat.

  She shrank back away from him as far as the rope would let her. “Anthony, no!”

  “Yes. After today, things will change, and I won’t have the opportunity to do this to you any more. A different part of your training will take precedence. I enjoy feeding you breakfast, though. Besides, it will be a nice way to bridge your honeymoon training with your at-home training, don’t you think?”

  “No! I don’t want to!” She shrank back farther. That sense of objectification intensified, bringing with it a sudden, overpowering feeling of helplessness. She felt soiled, filthy, unfit to be seen or touched. She wanted to hide, to flee away from his sight.

  He pulled the rope hand over hand, reeling her closer, bringing her to the chair step by reluctant step. “Sit down, little whore. It’s time for breakfast.”

  “Anthony!” she begged. “I don’t want to!”

  Without a word, he steered her over to the chair. His hand on her shoulder pressed her down. She flinched when the dildo touched her, hesitated for a moment, then slowly lowered herself onto it. When her ass touched the seat, it filled her completely, painfully deep. She quivered and moaned.

  When she was fully seated, Anthony untied her wrists. She tried to rub the marks the rope had left behind, but he intercepted her hands and pulled them behind the chair. Moments later, her wrists were once again bound, this time behind her back. He tied the rope to the chair, to prevent her from moving.

  “Anthony,” she whimpered weakly, “no…”

  He brought a plate over to her, heaped with pancakes, eggs, and sausage. Ignoring her protestations, he sat next to her and fed her, one forkful at a time. Every tiny motion made her shockingly aware of the dildo impaling her, and before long her eyes were closed and she was moaning softly. He caressed her tangled hair, and kissed her defiled cheek softly. She felt degraded, but also cherished and cared for. The contradiction quickened her pulse. Every bite of pancake was a violation and a tender moment of intimacy at the same time, making her feel conflicted, uncertain.

  When she had had enough, Anthony sat across from her and prepared a plate for himself. Amusement danced in his dark eyes. He watched her steadily, until the weight of his gaze made her blush. His eyes followed the curves of her breasts, rested for a moment on her hard nipples, continued down her body to the place where the edge of the table interrupted his view. He seemed pleased, as though admiring a cherished piece of art that brought him great joy.

  Her heart beat faster. She moaned again. The covetousness in his look excited her. He watched as her moans came faster, louder, and her eyes closed. He could see with vivid clarity the rapid beat of the pulse in her neck, the lifting of her breasts with each breath.

  But the orgasm he expected never came. She pursued it, felt it tighten inside her, but never quite caught it; the edge of ecstasy slipped away from her, left her panting and aching. Her eyes opened and she stared pleadingly at him, gasping. He smiled and returned his attention to his breakfast.

  After he was finished, he untied her and helped her rise up off the dildo. She kept her eyes down, embarrassed by his look. He took her chin and turned her head up to meet his gaze. “Now you may get cleaned up. I’ll take care of the dishes.” He placed a small kiss on her lips that sent shivers of longing through her body.

  She retreated to the bathroom in a daze. As the shower warmed, the feeling of dirtiness grew stronger, until by the time she stepped beneath the spray it threatened to overwhelm her. She began scrubbing herself. As she did, the feeling she’d first experienced in London, the sense of being dirty in a way that could never be cleaned, came back.

  This time, it was coupled with a powerful arousal. She soaped and scrubbed her body, excited and repelled in equal measure by the semen that clung stubbornly to her skin. One hand traveled over her breast and descended between her legs. Her knees buckled.

  No! she told herself. This is what he wants! He is trying to make me want his come all over me. I am not going to give in! She took her hand away, heart beating fast, and tried to push the arousal aside. He will not train me to enjoy this filth! She turned the stream of water as cold as she could get it and forced herself to stand beneath the icy spray. I am not a sex slave! I am not going to touch myself this way! Not after what he did to me!

  She stayed under the cold water until it had blasted away the last tattered remnants of sexual arousal. Only then did she turn it off and reach for a towel. Her nipples stood hard, from cold rather than heat. She wiped fog off the mirror and stared at herself. Determination mounted in her, to stomp out and tell Anthony that she had had absolutely enough, she was going to let him know how little she cared for the things he was doing to her…

  No, she thought. I am not going to let him see the way he is affecting me, I am not going to give him the pleasure of knowing how he is getting to me. She smoothed her expression into something pleasantly neutral, dressed, and walked out. Inwardly, locked in a secret room, her arousal simmered.

  When she returned to the kitchen, Anthony had finished cleaning up the last traces of breakfast. “Oh, hi!” he said, and planted an affectionate kiss on her cheek. “All clean, little whore?” The phrase sent a small blaze of heat through her. She pushed it down and smiled blandly.

  “The movers should have brought all your boxes over while we were away and put them in one of the bedrooms upstairs. If you want, you can start unpacking this afternoon before the party.”

  “Okay,” she agreed, glad of the opportunity to distract herself with something else. Without another word, turned her back on him and left. She cli
mbed the sweeping stairway to the second floor and moved down the hallway, opening doors as she went.

  The movers had indeed done their job; Eileen found all her boxes stacked in a small, Spartan bedroom. The sight of all her worldly possessions, boxed up and neatly labeled, awaiting her in her new life, reminded her of how little she actually owned. She’d already sold or given away most of her furniture just before the wedding; the rest of her possessions occupied a surprisingly small space.

  She spent the next several hours in the bedroom alone, opening boxes, sorting her things, trying to decide what to do with them. Anthony had told her that any of the bedrooms upstairs could be hers if she liked. Somehow, arranging her things around the room didn’t seem to make the space feel like it belonged to her. The house was already completely furnished with Anthony’s things, and standing in the room trying to figure out what to do with the odds and ends of her life reminded her of that. She felt like she had set out to capture a husband, and bring him into her life, and somehow the exact opposite had happened.

  After a while, she grew restless and bored with unpacking, and decided to explore. The elaborate renovation and modernization of the house that Anthony had done downstairs didn’t seem to extend to the upper floor. Most of the upstairs doors opened into small bedrooms like the one in which her boxes were stored, each equipped with a small bed and night stand and each with a musty, disused feeling. One door revealed a narrow bathroom with an antique pull-chain toilet, a small porcelain sink, and white lace curtains.

  The only upstairs room she found that seemed to be in use was Anthony’s office, a large space with a computer desk and an enormous drafting table. A worn leather office chair on wheels sat in front of the largest monitor Eileen had ever seen, and stacks of drawings and papers sat piled around the desk in barely controlled chaos.

  The door at the very end of the hallway was locked. Eileen twisted the knob fruitlessly.

  She went back downstairs to find Anthony cleaning the enormous table in the formal dining room. “Anthony!” she said. “What’s in the room upstairs at the end of the hall?”

  He grinned his most mischievous grin, eyes sparkling. “I was wondering when you would ask me that. Follow me. Let me show you something.”

  Eileen followed him into the master bedroom. From the drawer in the night stand, he took a small, intricate wooden box, long but very narrow, and handed it to her. “Here. Look inside.”

  She opened the tiny latch and flipped back the lid. Within it, nestled in red satin, was an old-fashioned skeleton key made of silvery metal. She lifted it out of the box; it felt surprisingly heavy in her hand. Her name had been engraved in a flowing script along the barrel of the key.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s a key, silly!” he answered. “For the door. See for yourself!”

  She half-walked, half-ran up the stairs, suddenly overcome with curiosity. The key fit easily into the keyhole on that mysterious door, and it opened outward toward her.

  She had expected to see a room on the other side, but the door opened into a tiny space that looked like it had once been a closet. A narrow flight of wooden stairs angled steeply upward. They seemed to be an architectural afterthought, installed in the confined space long after the house had been built. She climbed the high wooden steps carefully, and found herself on a tiny landing barely large enough to stand on, facing another locked door.

  This one, too, submitted to the ministrations of the key and opened silently. Eileen stepped through into the room beyond.

  The space looked as though it had once been an attic that had been partly refinished but never quite completed. It was as wide as the bedrooms downstairs, and very long. The floor underfoot was made of narrow strips of wood, rough and slightly uneven. Daylight flooded in through three dormer-style windows extending outward through the wall, illuminating the space in a golden glow. Shafts of light hung like living things in the dust that danced in the air. The ceiling overhead slanted upward steeply along the length of the room, scarcely five feet tall where it met the outside wall, but more than twice that on the other wall.

  The entire length of the room was filled with a jumbled assortment of things that she had to work to make out.

  Beneath the window nearest to her, Eileen saw a low, wide bed, made of black iron, with a mattress that seemed to be covered in leather. Four manacles on short chains rested on the corners of the mattress, open, waiting. The chains seemed welded to the bed frame.

  Farther down, in front of the center window, she saw an old-fashioned stock, a heavy plank of wood with holes for a person’s head and arms resting on a wood pillar. It reminded her of the things she had seen in movies about colonial America, devices into which a person could be locked in the town square for some transgression, and ridiculed by the people passing by.

  Farther down still was the thing that Anthony had strapped her to in London, the device he’d called a “Sybian,” with its modifications—the dildo projecting through the upward arm, the cuffs into which he had placed her wrists.

  At the end of the room were two cages in black iron, one very tall and narrow, barely large enough to stand in, the other wide but only a couple feet high. The door to each cage stood open. Each had a large, black metal padlock hanging from the latch

  The far wall, opposite the windows, was lined with pegboards. From metal pegs hung an array of objects—a wide variety of paddles, some narrow, some wide, some made of leather and lined with fur, others made of wood; blindfolds; gags in different sizes and colors; clamps of all descriptions, some attached to long, thin chains; cuffs; coils of rope. Below the pegboards ran a long shelf with a row of dildos in an astonishing array of sizes, colors, and textures lined up neatly along it.

  Large bins of some white plastic were stacked in one corner. Vague shapes, unrecognizable through the milky plastic, lurked inside.

  From the ceiling overhead, heavy chains dangled. Round metal rings were bolted to the floor at regular intervals.

  Eileen took a trembling step backward. Strange, conflicted emotions battled in her. Her eyes moved wildly around the room, not quite able to take it all in. The arousal she had battled down earlier came roaring through her, causing sudden dampness between her legs. Her nipples hardened in response to the tension and longing that bubbled up from some deep wellspring inside her. She took another half-step back and ran into Anthony, who had climbed the stairs silently behind her.

  His hands slid around her from behind. “What do you think, little whore? I made this room just for you. When you are disobedient, you must be punished.” He kissed the back of her neck tenderly. “This is where your punishments will take place.” He cupped her breasts. His fingers danced over her nipples, drawing a moan from her. “And if experience is any indication, this is where you will have many orgasms indeed.”

  She shrank away from the room and its contents, pressing herself against him. She felt his erection through his pants, pressing into the cleft of her ass, and shuddered. The feel of his hands on her breasts brought the roiling arousal almost painfully to the surface. Without intending to, she ground her hips back against him. The feel of his hands on her body, his warmth, and the firmness of the bulge between his legs pressing against her were suddenly overwhelming. In that moment, the thing she wanted most in the world was for him to strip her bare, chain her down to that bed, and force his cock roughly into her. She moaned over and over again, pussy clenching.

  Then the moment was gone, and horror replaced the arousal. She squirmed away from him and fled for the stairs, nearly tripping in her haste to escape. The key dropped from her hands and bounced down the stairs after her. Anthony watched her go, smiling slightly. The door below slammed shut. He followed her at a leisurely pace. When he reached the key, he bent and picked it up, rolling it thoughtfully between his fingers.

  After he had locked the room back up and gone downstairs, he found Eileen sitting on a corner of the couch watching TV. He grinned and moved to kiss
her, but she pulled from him and turned away.

  He went into the bedroom to return the key to its box in the night stand. When it was safely tucked away, he thought for a moment before he opened the drawer again and withdrew a compact folding knife—the same one he had used in London.

  When he came back out, Eileen was still sitting exactly where she had been, arms folded. Slowly, deliberately, Anthony stripped naked. A muscle in her neck twitched, but she gave no other indication that she was even aware of him.

  He sat next to her on the couch and moved to kiss her. She drew away again. He grabbed her arm and pulled her body toward his. She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened. He turned her around and kissed her hard. She squirmed and twisted in his grasp.

  He unfolded the knife one-handed with a practiced motion. She froze, her breath catching in her throat. He slipped the blade sideways under her shirtsleeve, and with one sweep sliced it almost all the way across. A flap of fabric fell away from her breast. She shivered and gasped.

  Anthony bent over to wrap his lips around her exposed nipple. She pressed into him, fingers curling through his hair. His tongue swirled around her nipple, and she sighed softly.