The Training tst-6

by Tara Sue Me

  “Beautiful,” he said when he was finished. He sat back on his heels. “Now you may serve me.”

  I picked up a skewer, noticing immediately how the chain swayed when I moved. Everything I did caused the chain to move, to slightly tug at the clamps. It would be a long lunch break. I hid a smile just thinking about it.

  “Now, Abigail,” he said, pulling the chain and making me moan.

  I looked back down at the platter. Should I take the veggies off the skewer and feed him by hand or just put a banderilla up to his mouth?

  He hadn’t given me any instructions, so I was fairly certain I could do either one. What would he want?

  I wasn’t sure.

  I knew, though, what I’d want if the situation were reversed.

  I slipped a cucumber off a wooden skewer and fed it to him. His lips parted. His tongue brushed my fingertips as the cucumber disappeared in his mouth.

  Fuck, that was fun.

  The bulge in his jeans told me he was just as turned on as I was. I fed him an olive and a baby onion, each time offering him the food from my fingers and feeling the electric shock as his lips brushed my hands. Between that and the still-noticeable ache of my nipples, I was a quivering mess when I lifted a small piece of aioli-covered bread up.

  Again, the chain swayed. Again, his lips lightly kissed my fingertips.

  It was the same when I fed him the meatballs. Same when I went back to the banderilla. How was it possible feeding him was such a turn-on?

  I wasn’t sure, but it was.

  I realized serving him was just that: offering myself to him in any capacity he wanted. It was the sexual offering of my body. The way I served him breakfast in the dining room. How I prepared myself for him, whether that preparation be yoga, jogging, or waxing. And it was as simple as feeding him an olive.

  “Are you hungry, my lovely?” he asked, eyes dark with longing and need.

  “Yes, Master,” I whispered.

  He silently took the plate from me. His eyes watched mine as he slid a cucumber from a skewer and pressed it to my lips. I parted my mouth, accepting his offering.

  When I’d chewed and swallowed, he brought his bare fingers to my mouth.

  “I have marinade on my fingers,” he said. “You need to clean it off.”

  I took his fingers, one at a time, into my mouth and gently licked off the marinade. When I finished, he took an olive and fed me. Again, he lifted his fingers and again, I cleaned them of every trace of marinade.

  Once he bumped a nipple as he dropped his hand to the platter, and I stifled a whimper. Nathaniel feeding me, combined with the ache of my nipples, left me feeling wanton and primal, because it wasn’t his finger I wanted in my mouth.

  “Patience,” he ordered as I shifted in my seat. “I’m going to extract every ounce of pleasure I possibly can from your body, and when you don’t think you can bear any more”—he tugged the chain—“I’m going to show you what you have left.”

  I shivered, believing his every word.

  He smiled at my response, picked up a meatball, and finished feeding me lunch.

  “You’ve had the clamps on long enough,” he said when we’d finished. “Stand up and put your hands behind your back.”

  Lunch had turned me on more than I would have imagined. He’d fed me at a leisurely pace. Every so often, he’d hold the water bottle to my lips and instruct me to drink. Only when I’d had my fill of the water would he have some himself.

  In between feeding me, he played with the nipple clamps. Sometimes, he would lightly bump one as if by accident, but I knew he never did anything accidental. Other times, he would brazenly tug the chain or flick the skin around a clamp. No matter what he did, though, the end effect remained the same. By the end of lunch, I was a trembling mass of need.

  At his command, I waited until he stood before rising to my feet before him. I dropped my head and waited for further instruction.

  After removing the clamps, he tied my upper arms behind my back with a soft rope. “Move to the table,” he said.

  I spent the short walk to the table doing my best not to think ahead. Instead, I tried to focus on doing what he told me to do, not trying to anticipate or guess his next plan. It took a few minutes to work my way onto the table, what with my arms behind my back and all.

  When I’d managed to get onto the table, in what had to be one of the most graceless moments of my life ever, he positioned me on my stomach so my lower body rested on a padded wedge and propped my upper body up with pillows.

  I heard him walk away only to return seconds later. His hands worked their way around and fastened a blindfold around my head. I felt a fleeting moment of panic, but calmed when he stroked my hair.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Yellow or red if you need me to slow down or stop,” he said, still caressing my hair. “I have a few more things to do in preparation. Relax.”

  His voice was low but held his normal no-nonsense tone. Between that and his hands making their way down my neck, across my shoulders, and tapping lightly along my spine, I felt myself yield.

  “Lovely,” he said, hands never leaving my body.

  I realized after a bit that the preparations he mentioned had to do with me. I was what he was preparing.

  Gah.

  My suspicion was confirmed when he took one of my arms and tied a rope to my wrist. I shifted slightly on the table.

  His hand came down across my bottom in a hard slap. “I didn’t tell you to move.”

  I held perfectly still as he tied another rope to my opposite wrist. His hands moved lower and massaged my waist, his strong fingers kneading my lower back. I relaxed further.

  My lower body was already exposed to him, but he took my left ankle and tied it to my left wrist; then he repeated the action with my right ankle and right wrist, exposing me even further. I felt helpless.

  “Beautiful,” he said.

  I didn’t feel particularly beautiful. I felt helpless and awkward.

  The sound of a camera clicking behind me made me jump.

  “Just because you might not believe me,” he said. I heard his footsteps as he walked around me. Again the camera clicked.

  Holy fuck. He was taking pictures of me.

  “Just look at this,” he said, slipping a finger into me briefly. “I think you rather like the idea of me taking pictorial proof of your beauty.”

  He moved closer to my head and tsked. “But look at this. My fingers are all messy again.”

  Said fingers brushed my lips, so I opened my mouth and cleaned them off. He was right; the thought of him taking pictures did turn me on, especially bound the way I was.

  “Look at you. All spread out, waiting for me.” His fingers skimmed my entrance. “Just think about all the things I could do to you.”

  He swirled his fingers around my clit. “The things I could do here.” He thrust two fingers deep inside me, and my body shifted. I moaned as my aching nipples rubbed against the pillow in the most agonizingly delicious way.

  He chuckled.

  “Or here.” He moved his fingers and they teased my other entrance. I sucked in a breath.

  Oh, yes. Again. I want him to consume me again.

  I let out a whimper when he spread the warm lube on me.

  “So needy,” he said. Some sort of plug slowly circled where he’d prepared me. “Remember?” he asked. “Paul and Christine?”

  I searched my mind, trying to decide what he meant.

  “How you wondered what it felt like?” He pushed, gradually inserting the plug into me.

  I was stretched.

  Stretched and open and exposed and waiting.

  He delivered a hard smack to my backside.

  “Remember now?” he asked.

  Oh, yes.

  “Answer me.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  His hands were gentle again, teasing me, running along my slit. They slowly grew rougher and p
inched my outer lips. Then he spanked me again. He alternated, spanking and teasing, until it became hard for me to tell what was pain and what was pleasure. Under his hands, they combined.

  Something hard and leather pressed against me. A leather strap? He ran it up and down, playfully slapped it against my clit and brought it down hard against the flesh of my backside.

  I groaned.

  “Like that?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I half said, half moaned.

  The strap came down harder and hit right where the plug was.

  Dear, sweet heavens.

  “Yes, what?” he asked.

  “Oh, God,” I panted. “Yes, Master.”

  He struck me again. “Better.”

  The leather gently tapped my growing, aching need, and his fingers once more circled my clit. I felt as if I was balanced precariously on something and almost fell completely when he brought the strap down hard. Harder.

  I didn’t want it to ever end. For a while, it felt as if it wouldn’t.

  The plug inside me. His fingers teasing me. And the strap, how it somehow brought both of them together in a mixture of pain-touched pleasure.

  “I’m going to take you like this,” he finally said, his breathing heavy. “Filled as you are. Nice and spread out.”

  I heard the sound of a zipper and felt a rush of air. He steadied his hands on my hips, and with one hard, deep thrust, he buried himself inside me. I yelped. The sensation was incredible: filled by both him and the plug. Stretched and pulled and bound, I wondered how much my sensitive skin and teased body could stand.

  “Come when you want,” he panted.

  He pulled out again and again and filled me over and over. Slowly and deeply, he took me. His thrusts were controlled, measured. I was balancing again and wanted to hold on to how I felt.

  My body shook with impending release, my muscles tight and tense. He moved faster behind me. Moved faster inside me. I clenched my fists as he entered me, as he thrust and hit the plug. Again.

  I was . . .

  I was . . .

  Screaming my release.

  I felt weightless.

  Or heavy.

  Yes, that was it. I was too heavy to move and my body couldn’t hold me. A faint tremor shot through me.

  Residual effects of my massive orgasm, I decided.

  His hands caressed me as he untied me, his voice soft and low. I couldn’t make out what he said, but it didn’t matter. He was there. My limbs were loose and untangled, but he was gentle.

  He removed the blindfold. The playroom was dark.

  “Relax,” he said. “Rest now.”

  His lips touched mine once in tender affection before my eyes closed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  —NATHANIEL—

  I held her while she slept.

  I’d carried her from the playroom to our bedroom, where I wrapped her in blankets and stroked her hair. Our day had been longer and more intense than ever, and I wasn’t sure how she would react. I did, however, expect her to sleep afterward and knew she’d be sore the next day. When she woke, we would spend some time in the hot tub, relaxing and soothing her muscles.

  I couldn’t help but compare my actions and plans with Abby to what I’d done with my previous submissives. I took care of them, of course, but even after a day like the one I’d just put her through, they would have slept in the submissive bedroom. Never, never in my bed.

  I asked myself if it was different because it was our bedroom? If Abby had never agreed to move in with me, would I have had her rest down the hall?

  No. I knew, even if she’d kept her apartment, she would be resting in my bed.

  The shadows in the room were growing long when she finally stirred. I kept my hand on her shoulder, lightly caressing her while she woke. She stretched against me, unknowingly pushing her backside into my groin and releasing a soft moan.

  She is sore.

  I had water and Motrin waiting for her, but the most important thing in that moment was for her to know I was with her. She’d fallen asleep in the playroom; she might have been disoriented.

  I propped myself up on an elbow and whispered to her. “You’re in our bedroom,” I said. “When you feel like getting up, let me know.”

  “Mmmm,” she mumbled, still half asleep.

  “I made chicken Caesar salads for dinner tonight,” I said, knowing it was one of her favorite light meals. “I thought maybe we’d go down to the hot tub when you got up.”

  She became more talkative in the hot tub. Especially when I suggested she sleep in our bed for the night.

  She twisted in my lap and faced me. “May I ask a question, Master?”

  “Yes,” I said, pleased that she felt more comfortable talking with me during a weekend. “Of course. Speak freely.”

  “If I wasn’t me,” she said. “If I was one of your other submissives, would you be asking me to share your bed?”

  “No. But I fail to see what that has to do with anything.”

  “If the bedroom down the hall was good enough for them, why isn’t it good enough for me?”

  A strand of hair had slipped from her ponytail and dangled in front of her eyes. I tucked it behind her ear. “You aren’t one of my previous submissives,” I said. “You’re you.”

  “I don’t want you to treat me differently.”

  “I appreciate that, but everything about you is different. And,” I said, lifting her chin slightly with my hand. “My previous subs were experienced. You are not.”

  Her nostrils flared. “And I fail to see what that has to do with anything,” she said, repeating my words to me.

  “Are you being petulant again?” I asked, partly teasing, but partly serious.

  “No, Master,” she replied quickly. “I just want you to explain it to me.”

  I took a deep breath. “Would you agree that our time in the playroom today was longer than ever?” I asked. “And more intense?”

  She nodded.

  “There can be certain”—I searched for the word I needed—“feelings after such intense and lengthy play,” I said. “It can be hard—coming down.”

  She sat, deep in thought for a few minutes. “Is it the same for you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But I’ve gotten used to it. I know what to expect. How I react. And I have ways to deal with it.”

  “Would you mind if I don’t sleep in our bedroom tonight?” she asked. “It’s just, I want you to be the exact same with me as you were with your previous submissives.”

  “You want to stay in the other bedroom tonight?” I knew I’d never treat her exactly like I did my previous submissives, but I did appreciate the context of her request.

  “I’d like to,” she said, running a tentative hand down my chest. I stifled a groan. Sore as she probably was, I didn’t want her to do anything else strenuous.

  “Promise me you’ll come to me if you need to talk?” I asked. “Or at the very least, call Christine?”

  “I promise.”

  “We’ll still talk tomorrow,” I said. “Probably Monday as well. I want to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine,” she assured me.

  “Are you sore?”

  “Just slightly.” She shifted in my lap. “Nothing horribly uncomfortable.”

  “I want you to take more Motrin before you go to sleep tonight. You’ll probably really feel sore tomorrow.” I’d planned for a very relaxing Sunday, nothing too active or intensely physical. I dropped my lips down to hers and gave her a quick kiss. “You’ll let me know if anything feels too uncomfortable?”

  She smiled against my lips. “Yes, Master.”

  On Sunday, after I took off her collar, I pulled her to the couch and started rubbing her feet. It had not escaped me that she felt more comfortable talking while we touched, and I wanted her comfortable while we talked. Plus, it helped soothe me.

  “Favorite thing we did this weekend?” I asked by way of leading off.

  She dropp
ed her head back against the couch and sighed. “When you took me yesterday. It was so surreal. All of yesterday was. I can’t even remember parts of it.” She smiled. “Did you carry me to the bedroom? I don’t remember walking.”

  “Yes. You were completely out of it.”

  “Is that normal?”

  “It obviously is for you,” I said. “I was expecting you to crash, though, based on your previous reactions.”

  “I want to feel that way again,” she said, with an evil gleam in her eyes.

  “Excellent. I want to make you feel that way again.”

  She reached for one of my legs. “Why don’t you swing your legs up here and let me rub your feet?”

  “No. Let me do this for you.”

  “I’d like to return the favor.”

  “Remember when I told you how I had ways to handle my own feelings when I came down?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This is one of them.” I worked on the upper part of her foot. “It helps me.” She didn’t say anything. “It’s not that I did this with my previous submissives, because I didn’t. I’ve just found it helps with you.” I cocked an eyebrow. “Humor me?”

  She thrust her foot into my hand harder. “Sure, as long as you make it good.”

  I brought her foot to my lips and kissed the soft underside. “Don’t I always?”

  She only shivered in response, so I dropped her foot back down and continued rubbing.

  “Least favorite thing we did all weekend?” I asked.

  “No question,” she said. “I hate crawling. Hated it. Hated it. Hated it.”

  “Really?” I asked. Not that her answer surprised me. I’d noticed her look of displeasure a few times.

  “Yes, I don’t want to do it a lot.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said. “That you didn’t like it, I mean.”

  “You liked it?” She lifted her head up off the arm of the couch. “Tell me you didn’t like it.”

  “I liked it,” I said, and she just groaned.

  “Why? Why can’t you like me kissing your feet? Why do you have to like the crawling?”

  “Because when you kiss my feet, it doesn’t show off your ass.”

  “What?”

  “I said.” I smiled. “When you kiss my feet, it doesn’t show off your ass.”