Trained to Obey 1
Title Page
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
In the near future a paranoid new regime persecutes those it considers enemies. Kirsten has been in hiding for years to evade arrest, her only escape from isolation being the affairs she has with covertly hired female prostitutes. However, when one of her lovers turns out to be an undercover officer for the government, she is captured and taken to an underground facility where her enslaver awaits. The beautiful officer ruthlessly trains Kirsten via sexual torment, humiliation, stringent rubber bondage and hi-tech discipline to be her completely obedient pet.
During her indoctrination she is constantly torn between hatred for her imprisonment and adoration for her slavery and the dominatrix who controls and protects her. Similarly the officer fights between loving her submissive pet and treating her with the disdain her superiors demand, because it is Kirsten’s fate to be a bound animal to her owner’s cruel will and the service of the state.
By using her skills to hunt down the last few of her kind and recruiting others into the same regime of training, it is in her captivity that Kirsten finally finds a freedom that she had never have thought possible.
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Trained to Obey
Copyright © 2012 Bruce McLachlan
ISBN: 978-1-77111-277-2
Cover art by Angela Waters
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by eXtasy Books
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Smashwords Edition
Trained to Obey
Part One
By
Bruce McLachlan
Chapter One
After smoothing the second fine denier stocking onto her leg, Kirsten ran her thumb down the dark seam scrolling along the back and arose from her seat.
Stepping out before the mirror she regarded her appearance, scrutinising the minutiae to ensure everything was perfect. Her heart was fluttering with excitement. She wanted this to go well, she needed it to go well. It was too dangerous to indulge again for at least a few weeks.
Her elegant body was strong and nubile from compulsive aerobics and martial arts routines, these being the only diversions that stopped her from wasting away in her self-imposed cell. Her skin bore a paleness that would have been attractive if she did not passionately long to feel the sun whose prolonged absence was responsible for draining its colour.
Her tumbling sable locks shimmered in the dull light, the tresses captured in a tight pony tail that held them up, the tips brushing the base of her shoulderblades rather than reaching the middle of her back as they normally would. She had left her fringe free, the semicircle of hair running as a curtain across the peaks of her plucked and arched eyebrows. Some shades around her emerald eyes served to highlight them and her full lips had gathered a striking crimson shade. She had also used this colour on her short fingernails and on a spurious whim added it to her toenails as well.
Dressed in a black lycra thong and lace-top seamed stockings, she stepped into her stiletto heeled court shoes and paraded her anatomy before her own gaze, luxuriating in the feel of her own sultry curves with hands clad in long lycra opera gloves.
Lost in a libidinous haze she slid back into her chair and switched the monitor on again. The details of the screen emerged from the blackness and after logging on she accessed the site that was prompting this night’s activities.
Tapping in her membership code and then the profile number of the woman she sought, Kirsten lounged back into the comfort of the chair as the delicious sight formed before her in gathering percentile clusters.
When it was complete she ignored the personal details rolling down beside it and fixated on the image, her hungry mind pawing through fantasies of what might occur between them. She wished she didn’t brood so much on what might be because her elaborate conjurations always grew to such insane levels that no mortal agency could ever live up to them in reality. But imagination was what she had instead of freedom.
The woman stood proud, aloof, and defiant of the many eyes that would widen and leer at her adorable form. It was this air of arrogance that had captured Kirsten’s interest in the first place as she scanned the many profiles for a possible commissioned partner.
She was not tall, slender, or astonishingly comely—she was not a porcelain goddess of media appetite. This woman was a creature built to act, not awkwardly pose for the voyeuristic desire of others. Her body was curvaceous with pert breasts and rear, her short white hair spiked on top and shaved at the sides, the albino spines contrasting drastically with the dark lines of her cosmetics and acute ferocious eyebrows. Her dark lips were curled into an iniquitous smile, her eyes flicking with mischief as she stood rigid, rejecting the lounging crass sprawls of the more licentious women, their splayed limbs and wanton expressions reeking of available slut. Kirsten was after a little more dignity than that. She wanted a woman, not a reedy stick whose paltry assets could have her mistaken for male given the right attire.
Many times since discovering this profile she had taken a break from her monotonous work and treated herself to a vibrator while staring diligently at this frozen view of a sultry beauty. After two weeks her resolve had finally broken and she entered the network to make an online appointment with her. When the woman accepted, Kristen had almost fainted, half expecting to be denied on the spot. Her mind was so attuned to being intolerant of permitting her anything she wished that she was sure she would be refused.
The doorbell gave a merry trio of chimes, wafting its song through the deserted house above and into her subterranean sanctum. With a gasp of jiggling enthusiasm she switched off the screen and checked her appearance one last time before grabbing her silken robe and scampering upstairs like a teenager answering the door to her first dream date.
The porch light was deliberately broken, so when she looked through the peephole all she could see was a single dark silhouette set against the suburban road beyond.
Leaving the hall light off so that she would remain hidden to the neighbo
urs across the street should they peek from their windows, Kirsten unlocked the door. The six additional heavy bolts had previously been unfastened, her defences dropped lest the woman be suspicious as to why her client had such fortifications. Kirsten couldn’t be too careful—others in her position had been lax and had paid the price.
“I’m here to see Miss Kirsten,” said the shadow, her voice like a purr, a melodious sensual hum that entranced Kirsten and left her speechless as she savoured the words like sweetmeats.
“Is she in?” repeated the woman after enduring Kirsten’s delay.
“I’m sorry. Kirsten is, I mean, I’m Kirsten. W…won’t you come in?” she stammered, wincing inwardly at her own clumsiness and stepping back, opening the door wide for the guest.
The woman moved in cautiously, checking the scene, clearly nervous about the lack of light in the house. Kirsten shut the door and flicked on some illumination once her barricades were once more in place. The scent of fresh air was in her nose, the chill night that had slithered in making her yearn to step free of the house, just for a minute, just for a second, to taste one solitary instant of real freedom.
The woman appeared as she did on the screen, a relief because Kirsten had encountered pictures that were sometimes well out of date, cheating her of the visage she had been besotted with. The woman stood in a long black trenchcoat, her hands in her pockets, allowing a glimpse of patent leather ankle boots whose wicked dagger heel she walked on with the greatest of ease.
“Nice place,” she commented, her token glance to the interior revealing it as nothing more than a pleasantry to help break the tension between them.
“Thank you. I…I’m upstairs,” she replied, cursing her nervousness once again as she walked past the woman and started to stroll up into the second floor, her robe billowing about her legs. Stepping around the professional, Kirsten caught her scent and felt her eyes flutter with desire. Mixed with the slender trails of a delicate and frugally applied perfume was the cool, fresh tang of the night clinging to her body, the hesitant aroma of her warm breath and a minuscule clue of something else, almost like rubber. A flock of goosebumps lifted the hairs on Kirsten’s arms and spine as she relished the scent and started up the stairs.
Without word the woman followed in her wake, their paired heels clicking on the bare polished wood of the flight before traversing the balcony above and stopping before a plain door. Kirsten threw it open and stepped into the doorway, extending an arm to indicate the bedroom.
Kirsten never slept in this room—she couldn’t risk it. Instead she hid herself in the basement, the underground domain where she worked, ate, and slept, safe behind the shielding walls and sensor scramblers. The small home above was completely forsaken because there was no way to protect herself from the sweeps of the Scanner teams, forcing her into hiding. But to take the woman into her true home in the basement might rouse suspicion, so Kirsten had sent in some fake anonymous tips to despatch the Scanner teams elsewhere so she might quickly prepare the upstairs bedroom and make it look genuinely lived in.
The danger of exposing herself to detection by being here, in the open, with this woman made her twitch with nervousness, the jeopardy spicing her lust.
“This is the be...” she began and then froze in mid sentence as gentle hands arose from behind, laid themselves on her shoulders and then softly massaged the joints. Kirsten’s eyes floated shut and she felt her innards liquefy as the expert digits caressed her.
Without word the woman closed in and let her lips brush Kirsten’s neck, the velvet kiss tracing pecking lines, causing Kirsten’s head to loll backwards, delivering her into the woman’s embrace.
“Wh…what’s your name?” she quizzed on heated pants, her need for an identity rather than a number drawing her from her dissolute stupor.
“Dressur,” whispered the woman, her hands emerging around Kirsten’s hips and unfastening the belt of her robe.
“Are you German?” asked Kirsten, her mind trying to retain some sort of normality to the event.
“No,” Dressur bluntly responded, revealing it to be an alias as she parted the front of the silk and let her hands reach under the material, rustling beneath, tracing delicate paths upon the naked abdomen within.
Kirsten moaned softly and surrendered herself to the care of the woman. A hand snaked down between Kirsten’s legs, circling her loins as the other hand started to tease her breasts, circling upon her nipples, tickling the teats.
Fingers slipped under her thong and drew through her nether lips, making Kirsten stiffen and unleash a resonating groan. The rigidity drained from her as the digits started to work upon her clitoris, stealing her resistance, drowning her in sensual relish. The woman’s hand was an expert, her manual dexterity operating Kirsten with sterling skill.
Laid against the woman, quivering on her heels, Kirsten shuddered as her breasts were squeezed and cupped, the nipples toyed with as her loins were played and soft kisses rained down upon her exposed throat.
The fingers departed her moistened sex before rising up to her face and offering themselves to her lips. Lost in the charm of pleasure she glanced at the sheen of moisture coating the fingers and willingly engulfed them, closing her mouth about them and sucking at the tang of her own arousal. The scent of rubber caught her nose once more and through blurred vision she spied that the woman wore black gloves, the fingers cut off to allow the naked fingertips to emerge.
The hands came away, pulling fingers from Kirsten’s agape mouth and taking hold of her gown. Drawing it from her shoulders they let the fabric slither against her skin and she shivered with anticipation at the exquisite tickle. The folds fell into a heap about her ankles, leaving her more exposed before the woman.
An authoritative fist closed into her ponytail and turned Kirsten around, bringing her lips to those of the woman, preventing any thought of resistance. A tongue demanded entry and Kirsten was powerless to resist, hypnotised by the skilled advances of the woman.
The tip flicked along the perimeter of her mouth, circling several times before plunging in and curling against Kirsten’s own reluctant organ. The slithering embraces made Kirsten respond with more verve, her hands rising up to trace the cool folds of the trenchcoat. She ached to feel what laid within. Hands snatched her wrists and for a moment she thought she had offended the woman, but then the severity of the grab eased and her hands were guided into the flaps at the front of the coat.
Kirsten was being denied a look and was permitted touch as her only medium to explore what hidden treasures were buried within the concealing folds of the coat.
The first thing she felt was warm smooth skin at the woman’s stomach, the muscles firm, honed for athletic prowess and not show. Dressur let Kirsten feel her navel before bringing the hands higher in a slow, teasing motion, escalating the fervour of their kiss as she did so.
Just past the base of her ribs, Kirsten’s fingers rolled onto impermeable warm fields of latex. The tight fabric was stretched onto the toned, firm torso of the woman, making her seem even more immune to Kirsten’s caresses, formidable and magnificent.
The feel of the fabric was wonderful and as she traced the zip at the front, she was guided to the smothered breasts of the woman. She was being allowed to grope, yet she was also strangely denied, the fabric functioning like armour, preventing genuine exploration. With their mouths and tongues locked, Kirsten held the compressed breasts of the woman, relishing the feel of her powerful form sealed within the clinch of rubber. The cropped vest top had a significant cleavage, one that allowed Kirsten’s hands to wander upon and adore the revealed portion of her assets before the rubber-clad palms of the woman demanded that they return downwards.
Willingly obeying the strictures of the woman, Kirsten continued to kiss and felt her hands drag upon latex leggings, the low waistband travelling just above her hips. Kirsten was lost within a tactile frenzy, her hands tracing the curves of the woman, adoring the rubber skin and its organic counterpart. S
queaks of flesh on rubber sounded as her extremities were brought around and onto the pert domes of Dressur’s rear and allowed to cup and squeeze the firm buttocks. Kirsten savoured their dimensions and perfection.
Dressur released her anchors on Kirsten’s wrists and stepped back. Fixing Kirsten with a potent look she slowly let her hands rise and trace the coat before unfastening it and then sloughing the garment off, finally revealing herself to Kirsten’s ravenous eyes. The coat fell down to be clasped in her hands, hanging as a hammock of dark cloth behind her exquisite form.
Kirsten sighed with desire at the vision arrayed in an enticing stance before her. The sudden and radical change from loose folds of woven cloth to skin-tight black rubber skin made the unveiling all the more dazzling.
The laced ankle boots gave way to a shimmering polished coating of black that poured along her sultry legs before a brief band of skin surrendered to the cropped vest top. Opera gloves reached almost to her shoulder, the entire ensemble rippling with her motions, refracting winks of light on its wrinkles and tight plains. A latex band encircled her throat, dropping a steel ring at the front.
With a deft move the woman slipped a hand into a pocket and let the coat fall away and onto the floor. Before Kirsten could see what she had retrieved the woman stepped forward and with her free hand ushered Kirsten onto the bed.
On all fours, Kirsten slithered onto the red satin sheets, her stockings accentuating the sensation as the woman followed close behind, one of her hands reaching out and running fingers down the slender strip that slid through the valley of Kirsten’s wiggling rear.
A hand clasped her shoulder and flipped her, dropping her onto her back and leaving her splayed before the intense glare of the woman.
Whatever it was that Dressur had been carrying was dropped in the area at the base of the bed where Kirsten could no longer see. Forceful hands clamped on Kirsten’s stockinged thighs and prised them apart, forging a lewd split. Kneeling before Kirsten’s loins the woman leaned forward and traced her fingers in winding motions down Kirsten’s torso, starting at her collarbone, working around her breasts, and then down her stomach before slipping onto the triangle of fabric. Stroking her fingers upon the material, Dressur sent shivering vibrations through it and into Kirsten’s heated sex, the shiny material growing damp as Kirsten released purls of delight, shivering on the sheets until the fingers suddenly hooked into the fabric.
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