Chapter 2: Training

The Saturday morning sun backlit the curtains hanging in my large bedroom window, and I both winced at the brightness and told myself for the hundredth time that I was going to invest in “blackout” curtains to solve that problem, at least on weekends, when I wanted to sleep late. The girl wasn’t beside me, but the sheet and thin blanket on my king-sized bed seemed to have transformed into a sort of igloo, right in the center of the sleeping area.

“Polly, what in the hell are you doing?”

“It’s so small and soft and cute,” a voice floated up to me. “How does it get so big and hard and mean?”

“Mean?” I tried to sound more offended than amused.

The igloo collapsed. Her head suddenly popped into view beside me, then it settled onto my shoulder, as if it had homestead rights. “Oh, sir. It pounded me! So hard and so deep! I can’t begin to describe what it made me feel!”

I huffed a noncommittal sound. “And now you think it’s cute.”

“Yes, sir. It really is! I could look at it all day!” She started to slide downward below the covers again, but I wrapped my arm around her and held her in place.

“Touch me,” I ordered.

Her hand went down to my shaft immediately, and she wrapped her fingers around me. “I was hoping you would let me do that,” she whispered.

I issued a small moan. “You can do this whenever you like.”

“I can?” She thought about that for a moment. “I don’t think you should let me, sir. I’d probably be playing with it all day long.”

“Mmm. I suppose you’re right. Okay, scratch that order. You can play with it whenever you think I’D like it.”

“Oh, gosh, sir! It’s so big again! Just like last night! So hard!” She was silent for a time, and I moved my hand to guide her fist up and down. “Like this?” she asked in a small voice.

“Yes. Just like that. And, from time to time, cup and squeeze my balls.”

“Like this?”

I issued a shuddering groan. “Yes.”

She experimented with them for a while, then stroked me some more. “And when I’ve teased you too much, you’ll jump on top of me and push way, way, way deep inside me; and then you’ll gush your pleasure.”

“I’ll cum. You should start calling it that.”

“You’ll cum inside me.” She sighed deeply.

I felt my end approaching too fast; and with a huge effort, I rolled toward her, toppling her over on her back. I winced as her grasping fingers held onto me a little too long, but it didn’t hurt overmuch. With a conflicted moan, she relinquished her hold and put her hands on my shoulders. “That’s what you do, too,” I told her. “You cum when I touch you.” I mauled her sex with my fingertips, assaulting her clitoris and labia before plunging two fingers into her depths. When she gasped in erotic shock, she arched up toward me, and I bent down and sucked a nipple into my mouth. She issued multiple noises: grunts, squeals, gasps and moans.

Within thirty seconds, I knew I had her on the edge of orgasm. Rather than give her that prize, I mounted her. This time, her fingers went unbidden to my shaft, squeezing me, guiding me; and then, she threw her arms around my neck and held me to herself as I lowered my cock slowly, slowly into her sopping hole.

Last night, in an almost frantic level of urgency, I had set up a pretty dramatic pace right from the beginning. This time, there was no pace at all. I pushed into her to the maximum extent possible, then I spent time grinding my hips and pubic area into hers, seeking to give her the greatest amount of stimulation. Two things came of that strategy, one somewhat expected, the other not. Before I had finished half a dozen of those maneuvers, her body stiffened, she arched violently up into me, and she came hard, vocalizing her pleasure through a series of sounds I can’t really describe properly. Throughout it all and beyond, I kept going without cease, slowly pushing to the absolute depth attainable, grinding, and repeating. But then I felt the wetness on my shoulder.

I backed away and looked at her. “You’re crying! Am I hurting you?”

“Don’t stop!” she blubbered.

“What’s wrong?”

She started hitting me on the tops of my shoulders with her bare palms, chanting her demands in time with her blows. “Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” Exasperated, I thrust into her again. Temporarily appeased, she took a shuddering breath. “You have to cum! You have to cum inside me! Ooohhh! Please!”

I was close anyway. A couple more thrusts was all it took, and I slammed into her body and let my passion overwhelm me. Holy shit, I came hard! For a long minute, I simply didn’t care about her pain. As I finally, finally came down from that high, however, doubts and consequences slowly worked their way into my consciousness. Her tears were still there, but they were silent tears.

“Tell me what’s wrong? Did ... Did I hurt you ... inside?”

She shook her head in the negative. “I’m just being silly.”

“You will tell me what’s wrong,” I ordered sternly. I looked down into her eyes, which were literally pools of tears. As soon as I said it, they flooded, spilling in multiple directions at once.

“I love you!” she wailed, throwing her arms around my neck and clutching me like a boa constrictor. “I love you! I love you!”

I was about to pry her off of me, but thought better of it. If she was this emotional now, I wasn’t sure how that response would play out. Matters of the female heart baffled me in the best of times. I found this one simply unfathomable. “If you love me, why the hell are you crying?”

“Because you’re going to send me away! You told me last night that your plan was meant for a pretty girl! And you told Mr. Pickening that I’d be staying for a few days! And I wish you could make me pregnant! At least then, I’d be able to take a part of you with me! And sir, I swear to you, I won’t argue or make a scene; I’ll just walk away and leave. I promise! But now, I know what true love is! And I’ll always remember...”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Polly! Shut up! I’m not going to send you away!”

She looked up at me with huge eyes. “You’re not?”

“No. If the plan works, I’ll keep you with me for as long as you want to stay.”

“But ... But you said...”

“What I said was the truth. What I tell you in the future will be the truth. That is my one promise to you: I will always tell you the truth. I have withheld the details of my plan because at some point along the way, you might tell me that you don’t want to be involved anymore. And, if THAT turns out to be the case, THEN you will leave me. And if you do decide to stay ... well, then you will be with me forever.”

“I will?”

“You will, if it is your wish.”

“And this big ‘decision’ will happen in a few days?”

I smiled at her. “That’s correct. In three days, you will make your decision.”

She hugged me tightly again. “I’ve already made my decision! I never want to leave you!”

“Never say never,” I advised, trying to unwrap myself.

She smiled gleefully. “Never never never never!”

I moved to the edge of the bed and stood, dragging her body with me, all the way. “Shower first. I will teach you how to wash a man. And after that, breakfast. I’m starving.”

She finally let go of me. “Yes, sir,” she said, smiling broadly, blushing shyly. And then, she skipped naked into the bathroom ahead of me, chanting “Never never never never!”

And that was the beginning of our first day of training for the plan.

Following the shower (during which she learned how to wash my back with her soap-slick breasts), I gave her the first of many, many rules of the house. It was my intention for her to be naked whenever she was here. She blushed at the concept, but capitulated. I made concessions, as well, bumping the thermostat up a few degrees for her comfort and consenting to let her wear an apron while cooking. During the formation of these little rules, she would often make outlandish requests that caught me by surprise. For example, she suggested that we turn the thermostat down at night so we could cuddle to keep warm under the blankets. Quite the romantic, my plain Miss Pike.

She cooked omelets (with extra cheese) while I made toast. The dining area is next to a balcony, which is accessed through a sliding glass door, though it was too cold to eat out there this time of year. “Will I have to eat out there naked when summer comes?” she asked. “We’ll see,” I answered. And the thought of it troubled her for some time.

She wanted the grand tour of this, her new home. I told her (more than once) that this would not be her home until she had made her decision. She replied (more than once) that her decision was already made. Over and over, I explained that she did not yet know all the demands I was going to make on her for my plan to work. And over and over, she told me that it didn’t matter. That whatever I insisted on, she would do. ‘Anything’ became her favorite buzzword. She claimed that she would do anything to stay with the man she loved.

All of this ‘love’ stuff was the result of the hypnosis, of course. But it was an essential element in my overall scheme, and so I continued to encourage it whenever I ‘put her to sleep,’ which I did no fewer than six times that first day. In each occurrence, I deepened and solidified her feelings of love for me, and then I began associating love with obedience. Her level of submission was already so profound that it was actually impossible to see if my suggestions were having any added effect.

I left her to her own devices for half an hour during late morning, and I walked back to the nightclub to retrieve the Prius. I could think of nothing in the apartment that would reveal anything further of the plan, so I gave her free rein, just so long as she remained naked. She mentioned, upon my return, that the rooms I called home made up the cleanest and most orderly place she had ever seen. Once again, a mark of my affliction. Sociopaths tend to be “Type A” personalities.

After lunch, I bent her over the kitchen counter and took her from behind. It was extremely satisfying for both of us. I get a big kick out of sexual domination. I used the interaction for yet another training exercise; and after I buried myself balls-deep into her sopping channel, I urged her to try and explore her inner muscles and attempt to make them do her bidding. I’ve found that the average woman severely ignores the kegel muscles, and use them only in an attempt to control her bladder when she has to pee. But working them when a man is inside her, I explained, is usually extremely pleasurable for him. She worked hard at it, which was difficult for her while I was pounding her from behind; and I decided to reward her for her efforts by reaching around her and rubbing her clit hard. I timed that little maneuver perfectly, and we came simultaneously.

Throughout the day, I became convinced that she was turning into a real slut. Polly seemed to get a sexual ‘kick’ out of just about everything, whether it was the soft caress of my fingertips on her face or a slobbery lick to her genitals. Literally everything I did to her seemed to result in a sexual reaction. Quizzing her over dinner revealed that she had never even masturbated. (“Mommy told me that touching is a sin.”) Where in the world had this overt sexuality come from? Are nymphomaniacs born and not made? I’d never really considered it before. Following another steamy hour of sex that evening, I began to get my first doubts about whether I would be able to keep up with her carnal appetites. But then again, doubts have always been my worst enemy.

As per the plan, that night in bed, after I ‘put her to sleep’ yet again, I first introduced the word “slave” into my monolog regarding love, submission and obedience. I watched her face closely as I did so, and I did not see any reaction to that at all. Encouraged, I reiterated it, several times in fact, and she seemed perfectly fine with suggestion. I turned out the beside lamp, turned her away from me and cuddled against her, holding her tenderly. She had begged me to let her turn down the thermostat an hour before bedtime, and the room was chilly, so I welcomed her warmth.

Since she was still in her trance, I suggested that she dream about being on a distant planet. She was part of a spaceship crew that had crash landed. She had been taken prisoner by the local populace, only to learn that all females in that culture were sex slaves. I, a member of the ruling family in that city, had purchased her; and now she was about to spend her first night, alone and afraid, in the bed of her new master. The servants of the royal household had forced her to drink a love potion, and she could already feel its diabolical effects.

I left it at that and settled against her slender body. In only a few minutes, I was asleep.

The bedside clock read a few minutes after three o’clock when she awakened me, her body wracked by convulsive orgasmic spasms, her cries echoing in my ears. Knowing the probable cause of this disturbance, I simply held her until she had finally calmed and had her breathing under control.

“I had a dream,” she said softly.

“Don’t worry,” I ordered. “I’ll hold you and keep you safe. Now, go back to sleep; and perhaps you can rejoin your dream.”

She sighed. “Yes, Master,” she whispered. In thirty seconds, she gave one, brief little snore; and she remained quiet and still until morning.

Sunday was to be a big day in the life of the plan. Today, she’d realize what the plan was ... or at least understand the basics of the thing. I wouldn’t identify the other players in the drama until the time came to introduce them. Hell, beyond the first one, I didn’t know them myself. I simply figured they’d materialize when the time came. But that was still weeks, perhaps months, away. Her training needed to progress ... this day in particular.

I awoke to find that the igloo was back; but this time, instead of waiting for an invitation, she was gently stroking my cock and balls. “Having fun?” I asked, stretching and rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

“Yes, sir. It’s wonderful to watch all of your parts wake up in the morning.”

“Mmm.” I let her work at it for a minute more before giving her the first order of the day. “Use your mouth,” I commanded.

I heard a sigh filter up from the covers. “My first blowjob,” she mused.

I suddenly barked a laugh and squirmed. “NO!” I objected. “Suck it. You don’t actually blow.”

Movement ceased for a moment. “A suckjob?” she queried. “Why do they call it a blowjob if you’re not supposed to blow?”

“Ah, one of life’s great mysteries. I suppose the first caveman didn’t have the proper term for ‘suck’ when the first cavewoman performed the act.”

Soon, I was sighing in bliss as my neophyte taught herself the ropes. “Continue to rub it up and down, and play with my balls using your hands,” I urged. “Most men like the maximum stimulation you can provide. And try using your saliva for lubrication as you stroke.”

“Like this?”

“Oh, God! Yes, like that. Keep sucking. Put as much of me in your mouth as you can.” I lost track of time for a while. Finally, I felt myself nearing completion. “When I cum, you need to increase your efforts even more. Men will be greatly satisfied if they know you swallow their seed. You need to get used to the taste, to the texture. Drink as much of it as you can.”

She answered in incoherent mumbles around my cock, but she made a surprised sound as I built to my orgasm and began cumming hard. She held on for a few seconds, then sputtered and coughed loudly before settling down and sucking some more. I felt hot moisture on my thighs, on my legs and on my balls. I threw back the covers and looked down at her. She was crying.

“I ... I couldn’t swallow it all. There was so much! I tried, but...”

I laughed and pulled her up to my level, holding her. I didn’t want her to be discouraged when we were getting so close. “That was a gallant first effort. It felt wonderful.”

“You get bigger when you’re about to cum. I can feel it in my pussy. I can feel it in my mouth.”

I sighed. “We have a lot to do today. Let’s get cleaned up.”

“I’ll wash your back with my soapy breasts again!”

“Nope,” I told her firmly. “Shower for me, bath for you. You need to shave.” I rubbed my chin. “So do I.”

That caused a frown. She reached down and ran her palm up and down her right leg. “Am I stubbly? I’m sorry. I...”

“I want you extra smooth. Always. And that includes your pubic hair.”

Now she was really self-conscious. She plucked at her pubis. “Am I too long? I trimmed it up before our date.”

“Smooth,” I commanded. “I want you to shave between your legs. No hair, anywhere on your body. Men like that in a woman.”

She gazed at me curiously. “You keep saying that. You said it yesterday a lot, too. ‘Men like this,’ and ‘Men like that.’ I only care about pleasing YOU.”

I gave her my sternest look. “I’ve given you a command. Are you going to refuse it?”

That made her blush. She looked down at her bare feet, which she shuffled. “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

So, I used the walk-in shower, while she ran a bath. Following that, I brushed my teeth and shaved; and by the time I was finished, she had lathered herself with a bar of soap and was intently scraping away at her nether region with a disposable razor I had given her. “Please be careful,” I commanded. “I missed the course on sutures.” She paused in her work while she giggled at that. The act of precision shaving seemed to take all of her concentration.

I left her to it. I had things to do, anyway. First, I set out items that I’d purchased when I bought the dress, but had kept hidden from her until now: a pair of blue jeans, a plain blouse and a pair of simple canvas shoes. Next, I went to the kitchen, fixed a cup of coffee in the Keurig, and checked my email. I had made appointments with two individuals for later in the day, and I was thankful that everything still seemed to be on track. Satisfied, I logged out when I heard her in the bedroom; and, carrying my cup, I meandered back.

“Oh, sir! Am I going to be allowed to wear clothes today?”

“First, let me see how you did,” I stated.

Blushing red, she held out her arms and modeled for me. The lack of pubic hair made her look little-girlish; which, I assume, is the whole point. I saw no reason to comment. “Put on the clothes, and we’ll go out for breakfast. Then shopping. You need all the womanly essentials if you’re going to live here. For now, at least, we’ll just assume that you’re going to agree to stay. If you choose otherwise, you can keep everything, and I’ll set you up in a place of your own.”

She canted her head and gave me a look of pure curiosity. “Why won’t you believe me when I tell you my decision is already made?”

“Because I haven’t told you everything yet. Trust me, when the time comes, your decision will be harder than you think.”

She just shook her head and smiled. Then she turned to the simple clothing. “There aren’t any panties or bra.”

I walked out the door into the kitchen. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to wear anything at all. Come on. I’m starving.”

Four minutes later, we were waiting for the elevator. I allowed her to claim my hand, and didn’t object as she held it possessively all the way to the car, which was down in the garage. I let her hold it in the restaurant, too, as we waited for her bagel, fruit and yogurt, and my hotcakes and bacon. I kept the conversation mundane, tasking her with committing to memory a list of the various necessities she would need in her new home ... assuming that she chose to stay when I presented her with that ultimate decision tomorrow. And, of course, as she had done consistently up until this point, she told me definitively that that choice had already been made by her. I didn’t press the point.

After the meal, we sat in the car in the restaurant parking lot; but when I didn’t immediately start out for the mall, our next destination, she glanced at me expectantly. “Lean over here, Polly. I need to put you to sleep.”

“Oh,” she said, obviously surprised by the statement. She only paused a moment, however. “Do you want me to leave my seatbelt on?”

Hmm. It was a pertinent question. “No. Unstrap and come here to me.”

She unbuckled and leaned as far over to my side as the bucket seats permitted, turning her head so that I could speak directly into her ear. To say I was pleased by this would be an understatement. It seemed to me to be the ultimate submission, giving me her mind, without question or hesitation.

“Ssshhhh,” I whispered. Almost at once, her body sagged and struggled against the overwhelming pull of physical weariness and crushing drowsiness. “Sleep,” I ordered. And she collapsed.

Well, this wouldn’t do. She was sprawled face-down across my lap, and anyone looking our way would naturally jump to the wrong assumption. “Sit up in your seat, Polly. Yes, that’s it. And now, go deeper and deeper and deeper still. Down and down and down you go. I need you to tell me when you are so deep in your trance that you would submit to anything I say and obey my every wish.”

“Oh, sir. I’m already there. Anything. I’ll do anything.”

I considered my words. “You say you are in love with me.”

“More than anything else in the world, sir. I’ll love you forever.”

“You know and understand my emotional limitations, don’t you? You know that I find it almost impossible to hold onto and express many emotions; and that I have no conscience as you, and most other people, do. Do you understand that?”

In her sleep, she visibly saddened. “Yes, sir. I know that you can never love me. But that doesn’t really matter. I love YOU! I will always love you!”

“If you choose to stay with me, what kind of relationship will we have? There are correlations in life. What are they?”

Her brow furrowed. “I ... I don’t understand, sir.”

“If I could love you, then over the years, you would become something like a spouse, even if we didn’t get married. That’s the type of relationship that NORMAL people have. But I am not normal. I will never be able to love. And so, if I keep you for years, what will you be to me?” She was becoming agitated. I didn’t want to push her to the extent that she woke up. “I have lots of things in my life already,” I hinted. “A car. An apartment. A set of golf clubs.”

“Oh.” She settled down and sobered considerably. “I ... I’ll become a possession.”

I let her hear my sigh. “I’m afraid it’s true. Could you ever find happiness as my possession? Could your love survive?”

That had the effect I thought it might. She’d be enduring love in the face of adversity. She considered it romantic. “Oh, yes, sir. I will, I promise. I’ll do anything.”

“What do you call that?” I mused. “A person who is a possession. There’s a word for it.”

“OH!” she exclaimed, the thought suddenly taking shape in her mind. “I ... I’ll be a ... a slave.”

“You keep saying that you’ll do anything. But really; will your love survive slavery?”

I suddenly realized that she was breathing very deeply. “Yes,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Oh, yes.” I couldn’t help but smile, knowing the reasoning she was undoubtedly using. If enduring adversity was romantic, then, in her mind, declared slavery had to be the ultimate level of romance.

“Hmm,” I mused out loud. “If you are to be my slave, then how should you act? What should you do? How do good sex slaves behave?” This last little phrase caused a shiver to run through her body. “If you truly want to be a slave who appeals to me, how should you act around me? How can you best display the concept that being my slave is what you desire?”

Now she was agitated again. “I ... I don’t know.”

“All of these thoughts and decisions are yours, Polly. You have figured all of this out completely on your own. When you wake up, you will remember what we have discussed in general, though you will not remember the exact words we used. But you will know that none of the conclusions you’ve made were due to either orders or suggestions on my part. All of these revelations are yours and yours alone; and you will find them deeply personal. In your mind, you will work hard to solve the unanswered questions.

“And now, on the count of three, you will awaken from your deep, deep sleep. One Two Three.”

She opened her eyes, blinked a few times, and stretched. Then, she suddenly straightened and looked at me. “Oh!” She took a few deep breaths. “Oh, sir!”

“Your subconscious and I had an interesting conversation, even though you did most of the talking.” I reached out and held her hand for a moment. I considered it an admirable bit of acting on my part. “I wish I could have been more helpful in your decision-making. Now, buckle your seatbelt, and we’ll be off to the mall. Do you remember your shopping list?”

With a worried, faraway look in her eyes, she reached across herself and worked the seatbelt mechanism. Then, after too much time had gone by, as an afterthought, she said “Oh. I’m sorry. Yes sir, I remember.” And, lost in worried thought, she didn’t say another word until we’d arrived at our destination.

We started in the huge drugstore that was located next to the mall, where she dutifully fulfilled each of the items on her memorized list: toothbrush, razors, sanitary supplies, cleansers, lotions, conditioners; the list went on and on, and filled three shopping bags when we checked out.

I noticed the changes in her in the next destination, which was a lower-end department store in the mall. She needed more pants, and when I asked what she wanted, she asked instead what I preferred. When I told her that what she was wearing now was just fine, she chose three more of the exactly the same thing. I commented that a little variation would be nice; so, she put two back and eventually picked two more of the same type of garment in different colors ... but only after asking my opinion in each case.

When I told her to pick out another pair of shoes, she did the same thing, picking another pair like I’d purchased, then quizzing me about the color before she consented. Slowly, I broke the code. She was trying as hard as she could to let me make all the choices for her.

She was stymied when it came to the blouses, however. Once again, she begged me to make the decision. I suggested plain button-up long-sleeved blouses, rather than the pullover type she was wearing. When the first choice was made, she plucked one off the rack in her size; but I made her put it back, and picked one in size medium instead of small.

“It’s too big, sir,” she said deferentially. “There will be way too much room up top. I’ll look like I’m wearing a sack.”

“I want this one,” I told her flatly. “I’ll buy you a sewing machine online, and you can alter them, if they don’t fit.”

For only a moment, logic and obedience warred behind her green eyes. Why did I insist on something that would need to be altered when we could simply choose the proper size? But then I saw it: capitulation. She lowered her gaze, clearly said “Yes, sir,” and put it with the other items we were purchasing. The same applied to the next four blouses, all in the same too-large size. I considered it an important moment in our relationship.

Laden under the strain of numerous shopping bags, we ventured out into the mall itself; and I led her to a store that sold lingerie and other sexy wares. I pointed to a display of silky briefs; but she suddenly had eyes only for the ones next to it. Frankly, I couldn’t tell the difference, though the price as a bit higher. “Oh, sir,” she gushed. I’ve never owned anything like this, ever!” Her excitement was palpable.

I smiled at her earnestness. “Go ahead and pick a half dozen,” I told her.

“Really?” She seemed overjoyed for a moment, but suddenly deflated. I could almost read the thought processes in her eyes. She was trying with all her might to defer to me the way a slave would; and now, she was unsure if she should be happy about getting something that she found so attractive. “I don’t know, sir. They’re awfully expensive. I think you should pick the ones you like best.”

I plucked the panties out of her hands, made as if to return them to the display, then smiled and handed them back to her. “I choose these.”

An over-broad smile split her features; and she laughed and bounced on the balls of her feet in excitement. “Oh, thank you, sir. They’re one of the prettiest things I’ve ever seen!” She settled down a bit, but kept the smile. “What size should I get?”

“You should get the proper size, of course.”

She laughed again. “Will you always be so incredibly baffling?”

“I promise you,” I told her flatly, “I might be mad, but there will always be a method.”

She shook her head at that. “Oohh! Can I get the yellow ones?”

“I told you to pick six. Of course, you can get the yellow ones.”

“I don’t want them if you don’t like them. Would you like to see me in red?”

And so, it progressed. She had to ask permission, each time; though her excitement clearly telegraphed her intense interest. Finally, I took the six pairs up to the register.