Last to climax was Traynor. As the moment of truth approached, he revealed his excitement by pumping with shorter, more frequent strokes, keeping the girl in rhythm with his movements by spanking her with each inward plunge. Emily was reduced to crying “Oh! Oh! Oh!” as he hand-rode her like a jockey urging his mount down the stretch at Churchill Downs.
“Fuck me, you little cunt!” he growled as he came, jamming his hips hard against her buttocks for the deepest possible penetration. “Goddammit! Fuck me!”
The three rested for a while, recovering from their strenuous labors. Traynor was the first to break the silence. “Well, well, Miss Shelly Littlehawk, you do seem to have some hidden talents, and I am not talking about your golf swing. I think we will explore and develop them tomorrow night, just the two of us.” Shelly stirred and made a faint noise that might have meant anything.
Resentment mixed with embarrassment flared in Emily. Part of her was enraged that Traynor dared to compliment Littlehawk’s performance after he have just spent the last hour using Emily like a six dollar hooker. Another part of her felt a little ridiculous at being insulted by Traynor’s preference to abuse and torment Shelly instead of her. Was it possible that she was… jealous? It was hard to accept that. It would mean that she liked Traynor’s depraved attentions, that she liked him, liked the way he manhandled and controlled her, liked the way he brutally used her body. It simply was not possible… was it?
Chapter Four: The Swing
Emily surveyed a room she had not seen before, and smiled. The room contained a sophisticated-looking swing simulator device, and more importantly, golf clubs and balls. She had been under Traynor’s instruction for a full week and had yet to hit a single shot or even so much as touch a golf club. Each day had consisted of caddying for Traynor in the morning, reading instructional books and watching videos in the afternoon, and waiting on Traynor at dinner. After dinner, she was sent packing to her room.
Shelly Littlehawk’s day was essentially the same, with her caddying taking place in the afternoon. At night, however, things were different. While Emily tossed and turned in bed trying not to remember how exciting it had been the one time Traynor had made rough love to her, Shelly was called to his bedroom where he did things to her that Emily could only imagine. She wondered if she had done something wrong, or if he had decided that she was unattractive.
Emily was proud of her cool, aristocratic beauty and her sleek, sexy body. She had been told many times that she looked like a young Grace Kelly and had seen enough film of the movie star to confirm the accuracy of the comparison. As a teen, she had been a cruel tease, flirting with older men, even married ones, just to see how easily she could wrap them around her pinky. She had never met a man that she could not reduce to a warm lump of sex-crazed putty if she wished - not before she met Roderick Traynor, that is. Emily might have been a 70-year-old nun for all the sexual interest he had shown in her since that one wild night. She was also developing a resentment verging on hatred for the virgin-turned-slut Shelly Littlehawk.
But she was able to put all of those woes aside for the time being, because here at long last she would begin to receive actual instruction on the thing that had brought her to Traynor’s den: her golf swing.
The simulator was a complicated-looking device consisting of a video monitor and a big control panel covered with lights, buttons and switches. There was netting set up on either side of an artificial turf tee-box. A big bag of mixed woods, irons and hybrids was set up next to the tee. The back wall, the target for the balls, was covered by a pressure-sensitive screen that measured the speed, direction and spin of the ball as it struck, which was then translated by the microprocessor in the simulator into the shot would have been hit on an actual golf course. Emily had seen and used simulators before many times, and she thought that she was familiar with all the models. But, she had never seen one quite like Traynor’s before. She was certain that he had modified one of the normal models somehow, to further his strange training methods. Emily could not put her finger on the differences, but somehow the machine projected a sinister air. Probably she was just imagining things, she told herself.
“Meet the Swingmaster, my little chickadees,” Traynor said, gesturing toward the simulator. “Here is where you will discover your ideal swing, and here is where you will learn to keep it forever. It may look like a normal simulator, but, believe me, there is a lot more to this gadget than appears at first sight. Now, I want both of you to stretch for a few minutes, and then take turns warming up, hitting a few before I turn it on.”
The girls spent the next five minutes twisting their lithe bodies to loosen their muscles, and then each stepped onto the tee and hit a dozen balls each. When they had finished, Traynor said, “I am turning the Swingmaster on now. Littlehawk, you go first. Start with the driver.”
The tall, slender Native American selected a club from the bag, set herself over the ball, and then uncoiled a long, beautiful swing, making the ball whack! into the screen. All three watched the video screen, which displayed the club head speed, flight angle, spin, distance and so on. The simulated shot had gone 290 yards. Emily was impressed.
“Not bad,” said Traynor, moving into the cage to stand behind her, “but when you take it back, your shoulder should be more like this.” He moved her into the position he wanted with his hand.
For the next hour, Shelly and Emily took turns hitting in the simulator. Traynor watched quietly most of the time, but occasionally made some small correction with a gentle touch on the arm, hip or thigh. For Emily, so sexually frustrated after going without his attentions for four days, each touch of his fingers made her pulse race in her throat and heat stir in her loins. She found herself glancing at Traynor out of the corner of her eye when he stood next to her, trying to see if he reacted to handling her naked flesh. As far as she could see, he did not.
After the girls had hit enough to satisfy him, Traynor had them sit down while he also sat and began jabbing at the Swingmaster’s keyboard.
“The computer will synthesize all of your swings, Thayer, and all of yours, Littlehawk, and will create the opti-max swing for each of you,” he explained as he tapped away at the keys. “Look, they’re coming up right now.”
On the big video screen appeared sets of glowing grid-lines, making 3-dimensional models of two female figures. The taller, thinner one was obviously intended to represent Shelly, and the other was Emily. As they watched, the animated grid-figures went through the motions of a golf swing. Numbers popped up on the screen as the figures moved, indicating angles, heights and speeds.
“Now the real fun begins,” Traynor said. He opened a drawer in the table where he was sitting, and pulled out a handful of little metal objects. Emily and Shelly groaned simultaneously when they saw what he was holding.
“That’s right,” Traynor said. “It’s your old friends, the Stimulaids.” He handed each girl three of the little discs. “Put ’em on. You know the drill.”
Emily made a face, and then held one of the little devices to her nipple. Slowly, very slowly, she released the spring allowing the teeth to sink into her flesh. After she repeated the action on her other breast, she spread her legs and stroked a few times until she had responded to the attention. As carefully as she could, she installed the third Stimulaid. She winced as it bit into the delicate flesh. Beside her, Shelly hissed in pain as she performed the same operation on herself.
“Here’s how it works,” Traynor said, after he was satisfied that the cruel little training devices were in place. He pushed a button on the keyboard. A broad curved shape, consisting of a thin red line flanked on either side by broader gray areas appeared on the big screen. “The red line is your optimal swing, Littlehawk. The Swingmaster has calculated it, based on your earlier practice shots. All you have to do is match it. It even allows for you to be a little off: anything in the gray area is acceptable. Step up here and hit one, Littlehawk.”
Shelly walked into the tee area,
selected a club, waggled it, then coiled and uncoiled in what looked to Emily’s naked eye like a perfect swing. However, it appeared that the Swingmaster did not agree. The slender beauty screamed, dropped the club and clutched at herself in sudden agony.
“No good,” Traynor said dispassionately. The screen now showed a new line, a black one that departed from the red-gray one about halfway along its length. “You took the club too far back,” he said, after reading the symbols at the bottom of the screen. “You went way past parallel,” he said tapping the screen.
He looked down at the huddled girl. “Come on, get up and hit another one. We don’t have all day.”
“But… but it was terrible, it hurt so much,” she protested. “It was worse than this morning.” She was referring to the shocks she had gotten from caddying for Traynor earlier in the day.
“Yeah, these are set to give a little more jolt,” he admitted. “I figured you are probably getting a little hardened to it by now, so I need to up the juice to get the same effect. Now get up and hit another one. I promise you won’t get zapped on this next swing.”
Shelly rose slowly, and reluctantly placed another ball on the tee. She picked up the club she had dropped, and then looked at Traynor apprehensively.
“I said, you won’t get a shock this time,” he told her in a tone suggesting that his patience was not infinite. “If you prefer it, I can have you pierced and install them in you permanently.”
Shelly paled at the thought, and quickly said, “No, no, I was just about to do it, Mr. Traynor.” She chewed her lower lip for a moment, set her feet, and took another swing.
Again, the big screen showed that the line of her new swing went outside the permissible area. But this time, Shelly did not cry out in pain. Instead, a look of surprise came over her face for an instant. Then, she closed her eyes, sighed and let her head fall slowly back, with her mouth hanging open.
“Oh, it... it’s so nice,” she said dreamily.
“The shock is the negative conditioning, and this is the positive,” Traynor said. “Every time you do it right, you get a nice reward for thirty seconds. Given enough repetitions, your body will learn to do it right every time. Eventually, it will be harder to make a bad swing than a good one.”
Emily was both fascinated and horrified. Was it really possible to teach a golf swing with methods not very different from those used to train rats to learn how to negotiate mazes? And if it was, did that make her the equivalent of a laboratory test animal? It was insulting, degrading. On the other hand, if it really worked…
“All right, you both see how it works, so let’s get started,” Traynor said. “Littlehawk will hit twenty shots, then it’s your turn, Thayer. By the way, you have no more than one minute between shots. If you take too long you will get a small warning zap, then a big one if you don’t swing within fifteen seconds after that.” He leaned back in his swivel chair. “All right, Miss Prodigy, show me what you can do.”
There followed two and a half hours of an intermittent nightmare for Traynor’s lovely pupils. The best either girl could do on the Swingmaster was two acceptable swings out of twenty, and after the second set of swings they managed no more than a very occasional correct swing. The machine punished them mercilessly. Shelly was crying long before she had finished her third set of twenty. Emily was tougher, but by the end she had joined the other girl tearfully begging Traynor to stop the torture.
“It’s funny,” he replied. “I thought I remembered both of you saying that you would do anything to get back on the Tour. Are you ready to quit now?”
“No, no, I don’t want to quit,” Emily said, the tears rolling down her face. “I just want a little break, just to stop for an hour to catch my breath.”
“Yes, please sir, can’t we stop for a little while?” added Shelly.
“No, you can’t,” Traynor said. “But what I can do is increase the shock levels on the Stimulaids. They’re only set at 50% right now. But if you need more motivation…”
The girls were instantly cowed by this threat, and they returned to their task. After that, neither Emily nor Shelly spoke again during the remainder of the training session, confining their utterances to shrieks of agony. Traynor said no more, contenting himself with watching their suffering in silence.
* * * * *
The girls were quite recovered by dinnertime, at least physically. The shocks had no lingering effects on their bodies. Emily was so far recuperated that she found herself again thinking about sex, about the way her breasts, her pussy, every part of her was aching to be touched. As usual, Traynor treated her as if she was invisible, while constantly stroking and fondling Shelly who responded to his attentions by kissing him, and bending low to whisper or giggle softly in his ear. It was enough to drive Emily insane.
She tried to attract his interest by posing sexily in front of him and brushing his leg or shoulder “accidentally” with a hip or breast, but he did not even bother to reprimand her for her clumsiness. At last she decided to do something that he could not ignore. She dropped a spoon by his chair then bent low as if to pick it up, but instead rested her soft, warm breast on the back of his arm. She swayed back and forth, dragging her nipple over his hairy forearm. The plan succeeded: he looked at her.
“Did you want something, Thayer?” he asked.
“No…” she answered automatically, and then corrected herself. “Yes, yes, I do want something,” she said, growing increasingly excited. “I’ve been acting like a cheap whore all evening trying to get your attention, and you won’t even look at me!” Emily burst into tears. “Why don’t you want to make love to me? Am I ugly? Do I smell bad?” At this point, Emily began sobbing so violently that she could not speak intelligibly.
“Oh, you want to spend the night with me, is that it?” Traynor asked in mock surprise.
Emily nodded her head rapidly. She felt utterly humiliated, as if Traynor had defeated her in some important contest of wills.
“Well, then, why don’t you just come out and ask me?” he said.
Emily took a deep breath, then another until she could control her breathing enough to talk. “Can I…?” she began
“No, not like that,” he corrected her. “First, get on your knees.” He waited as she sank down next to his chair. I couldn’t be humiliated any more at this point, she thought.
“Keeping in mind that you are asking a favor of me, you should phrase you request in an appropriately humble way,” Traynor said.
Emily gulped. “Please, Mr. Traynor, will you allow me to… to sleep with you tonight?” she said.
“You just want to sleep with me?” he asked. “You can sleep just as well in your own bed. Or do you want me to fuck you tonight?”
Emily looked up into his cold, gray eyes with her soft blue ones. She saw that he was demanding nothing less than her complete surrender. She dropped her eyes to the ground and whispered, “Yes, I want you to fuck me.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear you,” he said. “Could you repeat that?”
She straightened her head. Emily Thayer, product of generations of aristocratic breeding, the most desirable girl in her high school and college, the girl who had always been able to make any man she had ever met pant for her favor, looked up at Roderick Traynor and with tears flowing down her cheeks said, “Yes please, I want you to fuck me, sir. I beg you to fuck me all night long.”
* * * * *
One hour later, Emily stood motionless in Traynor’s bedroom under a bright spotlight as he had commanded. Her body trembled with a mixture of anticipation, fear and desire. She was certain that he was going to be cruel to her, that he would hurt her, but she also knew that he would finally relieve her craving for his touch, a craving that had become unendurable.
Traynor sat in an upholstered chair examining her and saying nothing for a long time. At last he stirred, tossing a bit of black cloth to the nude girl. “It’s a blindfold. Put it on,” he said.
Emily fumbled w
ith it for a second, then covered her eyes with the cloth and tied it tightly behind her head.
“Put your hands up over your head, wrists together,” he ordered. She heard the click that meant the magnetic bracelets were now locked together. She then heard the sound of his footsteps as he approached her, and then felt a little tug on her wrists. She moved her arms experimentally, and discovered that her arms were now attached to something overhead and she could not lower them.
Next, there was a quiet clanking sound coming from near her feet. She hear something click onto her left anklet, then felt him push her right leg away from the left. There was another click, this time on the left, and she discovered that something was now keeping her legs spread three feet apart.
Emily felt his breath on her cheek. “How do you feel now, Thayer?” he asked.
Bound for the Tour Page 5