“Place your wrists on top of your head, crossed.”
I shudder as the position thrusts my breasts up, arching my back. The exposure is intensely humiliating, but I’m too vulnerable to hold on to my indignation. I simply feel helpless. But at the same time there is something strangely comforting about it. I have the sense that as long as I follow his rules, I will not be harmed. More than that, I will be safe. Protected. Looked after. My sex tingles in response to the thought and I feel my face grow hot. Two sides of me are at war and I’m not at all sure which one is winning.
“This is Second Position,” he says. “And now I have another question for you.” He looks me in the eye. “Where were you born?”
I feel a sudden pang of longing as I think of my home back in Nevada, deep in the desert, where towering cacti guarded me like sentinels. They’re so far away now. I swallow my homesickness and my denial. Things have changed. Forever.
My eyes fill with tears as I give him the answer I know he expects.
“Here, Sir.” In admitting it, I am accepting it.
He smiles and praises me, but his voice is a distant murmur through my haze of tears. I sniffle pitifully as my walls begin to crumble.
The instructor lifts his arm slightly, and I flinch away. But he doesn’t mean to strike me. He strokes my face and I am so weakened by the show of kindness that I almost wish he would hit me. Chaos is roiling inside my guts, and I can’t understand why I’m not fighting. I can’t understand why I’m so aroused, why I’m feeling both so rebellious and so obedient.
“Are you afraid of me?” he asks.
“Yes, Sir.”
“An honest answer,” he says, nodding. “We’ll return to that. So far you’ve done very well. If you continue to do this well you may even earn your new slave name by the end of this training session.”
Wiping my eyes, I resist the instinctive urge to feel that that’s something I want. He’s messing with my mind, but there’s no denying the effectiveness of his methods. For a girl who’s spent most of her life out of control, following his simple commands to earn praise has shown me that things don’t always have to be difficult. The rebel inside me tries to tell me not to take pride or pleasure in these achievements. I’m no one’s slave, my bad self insists, and no amount of drilling will turn me into one.
He’s watching me and for a moment I wonder if my thoughts are audible to him. Perhaps he simply knows what girls like me think in situations like this. His speeches and questions have a rehearsed quality, as though training slaves is his daily job. I’m both intimidated and excited by that thought.
“Second Position,” he says. “Step to the middle of the room.”
I obey. Then I gasp when I see the leather wrist cuffs dangling from the ceiling beam. I hadn’t noticed them before; my eyes had been on the floor.
As he fastens my wrists into the cuffs he repeats his questions.
“Who am I?”
Now the rebel is silent. My voice quavers as I reply. “The instructor, Sir.”
“What is your name?”
“Slave, Sir.”
“Why are you here?”
“To be a slave, Sir.”
“Where were you born?”
“Here, sir.”
“Why are you afraid of me?”
As he asks this I hear a strange sound and when I turn to look, I gasp. He is running the tails of a long leather whip through his fingers. Tears spring to my eyes and I whimper softly, my body trembling. I don’t know how to answer. Does he want honesty or some clever interpretation of my situation? I’m afraid to think about it too long, so I blurt out the truth: “Because you control my fate, Sir?”
He nods. “That’s true. But it’s not the answer I’m looking for. Tell me—do you think this will hurt?” He shows me the whip.
“Yes, Sir,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.
“You’re right. It will. Do you want me to use it on you?”
“No, Sir.”
He closes his eyes and shakes his head, a show of disappointment. Instantly I open my mouth to blurt out the opposite response but he places a finger on my lips, silencing me gently.
“Wrong answer. You are a slave, remember? Your duty is to obey, to give pleasure to your masters. And some masters will take pleasure in whipping you. A good slave will learn to find her own pleasure in the pain.”
His hand slips down to my bottom as he lets his words sink in. He gives me a little squeeze, reawakening the sting in my punished cheeks. I whimper, knowing he is right but fearing the reality of it. The pain earlier was terrible at first but it soon shaded into a warm glow. More than that, I actually found it erotic. And as I imagine how much more the whip will hurt I find myself remembering an old fantasy. The memory is patchy but I see myself bound and whipped, rewarded when I am good and punished when I am not. Trained. Disciplined. Controlled. I can even remember describing the fantasy to someone, but I can’t make out who it is. My mind is still fuzzy.
The instructor moves behind me and I shudder in anticipation. I was calmer when things were precise and consistent. Now I feel I’ve been tricked. Or has he merely taken things to the next level, and I’m not keeping up? Tears shimmer in my eyes, turning the room into an underwater blur as I hear the leather tails cut through the air. The lashes slap against my bare back and I yelp, mostly out of surprise. It’s not as painful as I’d feared. I relax a little as he plays the whip over my back, making me jump and yelp. But it’s bearable. Even strangely calming.
My back is warm when he finally stops, but I’m uninjured. My throat hurts from crying out, however, and he seems to know this.
“Would you like some water?”
“Yes, Sir.”
He raises a bottle of water to my lips and begins his question drill again, not feeding me a sip until I’ve answered. I feel like a lab animal being rewarded for pressing the right buttons. I’m so grateful for the water that I find myself eager to please him. The words have ceased to be humiliating.
When he decides I’ve had enough he shows me a second whip. This one has much thicker tails and looks far more intense. I know it will hurt.
“Why are you afraid of me?” he asks.
I eye the whip nervously, weighing the implicit threat. Will he thrash me severely this time if I don’t give him the right answer? I rack my brain. I can’t think what he wants me to say.
“Because you can give me pain without pleasure?” I venture at last.
“A very wise answer,” he says, “and true. But still not what I’m looking for.”
I’m astonished by my sense of failure, and at the same time I’m disgusted with myself for caring whether he’s pleased or not. I only want to go home. But his absolute confidence frightens me. If girls could escape, he wouldn’t act as though he knows it’s only a matter of time. And why do I want to go home anyway? Something about the association has soured throughout my encounter with this man. This room and this moment feel far more real than my fuzzy memories of “home.”
This time the lashes bite deep, making me jump and twist in my bonds. I cry out in pain, straining away from the whip. But I can’t get away. Again and again the vicious leather tails slice against my back, setting my tender skin on fire. It crosses my mind that he expects me to find pleasure in this, to take it with grace and dignity. Will he stop if I begin to enjoy it? Even if what he says is true, that just isn’t possible. I struggle and cry like a mistreated pet as the lash finds its mark again and again.
He whips me slowly, steadily, impervious to my cries and pleas. It isn’t long before I’m sobbing with complete abandon, frightened and in pain. And yet there is something pleasurable in the freedom to scream and struggle like this. All that’s expected of me is to suffer. And when I’ve suffered enough I will answer his questions like a good little girl. He will help me. He will guide me to the right answers and praise me. All I have to do is trust him. Submit. Surrender.
And as the strokes increase in severity the fog
in my head begins to clear at last. I remember the girl at the bar, the strange conversation about a life out of control, my unhappiness, the plaintive wish that I could change, a wish that someone could help me. I remember the man she said she worked for, the methods he used. I remember crying in her arms and begging her to take me to him. And I remember agreeing to the drug that would blur my memory and make me forget who I was for a while. It was necessary, she’d said, to ensure that the desire to change came from deep within. Only then could one truly change who one was; only then could the instructor do his job. Only then could fantasy become reality.
The pain comes in waves that wash over me, bright and sharp, soft and sweet. I scream with exquisite release as I give myself over to the possibility that my life could be different. Better. I could let people in, trust them, give myself to them. I let go completely and feel tiny spasms building between my legs. Incredible. I’m going to come.
The change in me must be obvious because the whipping stops. The instructor is beside me now, stroking me, comforting me. I weep in his arms, writhing against him and begging him with my body for what I most need now. My reward. His hands travel down my burning, punished flesh to my bottom, slipping between my cheeks and up between my legs, where I am copiously wet. He presses his fingers against my swollen sex and begins to massage me gently, alternately pinching and stroking my clit.
It only takes a few seconds. The climax hits me like an electric shock. My body leaps and bucks with the force of it but he holds me still, wringing every last jolt of sensation from me until I hang limp in my bonds, gasping and panting, my face soaked with tears.
I am barely aware when he releases me and lets me down. I sink to my knees on the floor in front of him, comforted by the subservient position.
“Look at me,” he says softly.
I obey, feeling no sense of shame over anything that’s happened. Even my vulnerability feels like strength.
He studies my face and I know another question is coming. “What was your name in your past life?”
My heart twists. I know the answer he wants. Best of all, I know it’s true.
Blinking back more tears, I whisper, “I have no past life, Sir.”
His eyes crinkle in a smile that moves me to fresh tears. “Good girl,” he says with genuine pride. “Very good girl. You’ve made me very proud, and you’ve earned your new name.”
I lower my head, no longer surprised by my submissive instincts.
“I shall call you Lily.”
My eyes shine with tears as I imagine a lonely flower withering in the parched landscape of the desert. Plucked from the wasteland and transplanted to a garden. Blooming.
And as the instructor gathers me in his arms and lets me cry some more, I know that my whole new life is just beginning.
MY PILLAR-BOX RED COCK
Tilly Hunter
When he drops his jeans, bends over and shows me the base of the plug sticking out of his ass, I just can’t believe he’s been doing this without me—not after what I said that drunken night a few weeks ago. And here I thought he’d called me up to the bedroom to admire our new rug. I heard him vacuuming, ready to roll it out. It’s hand woven by Berber nomads, don’t you know, one hundred percent wool from Atlas Mountain ewes.
But I’m not admiring the weaving. Instead I’m staring at my husband’s ass as he stands on the newly rolled-out rug, having left all his clothes in an untidy pile in one corner of it. I’m staring at the butt plug he’s put in his ass. Or rather, it’s looking at me, one pearlescent blue pupil surrounded by the iris-like filament of his asshole. It twitches a little, the eye winking out some Morse code that only I can understand. It’s saying, “Grab hold of me in your sweaty little fingers, draw me slowly out, stretch his hole with my bulbous girth, push me back in and watch the muscles close, fuck him with me.” Oh, I understand exactly what my husband’s cheap vinyl butt plug is saying to me.
“So, um, when did you get that?”
“About a fortnight ago.” He’s still bent over, hands on his knees, craning his neck round to talk to me. “Actually it was twelve days ago, exactly. Which means I’m up to an hour at a time. I started off wearing it for five minutes and increased gradually.”
We’re standing in our bedroom in broad daylight on a Sunday morning discussing how Ryan has been training his butt for penetration with military precision without telling me. I need to backtrack. Quite far back. I also need to stop staring at the plug and wondering if its round base works as a suction cup.
“Honey, I’m pretty sure you said you didn’t want anything near your ass. You do remember that night, right? That’s why I haven’t mentioned it again.”
That night. It was a few weeks ago. Cabernet sauvignon had been on buy-one-get-one-free, so of course we drank both bottles. Then we started talking dirty. “Go on, there must be some fantasy you haven’t let on about,” I dared him. His turned out to be the relatively mundane one of wanting to watch me with another woman. I’d do it for him, but I was disappointed he came up with something so predictable. He can be pretty filthy at times. But my confession put a bit of a dampener on the evening. He sobered up pretty quick when I said, “I’d really love to fuck your ass with a strap-on.”
Oops.
He still doesn’t straighten up. He’s flaunting that ass at me. And it’s the firm, muscular ass of an army PT instructor. “I know what I said.”
Yeah, so do I—it was actually a bit more vehement than not wanting anything near his back entry. It had the words don’t, ever and fucking well in it. It left me feeling small and wrong and freakish for putting into words the thing I’ve pictured over and over in my head. I’d kept it a secret so long, having already discovered his phobia when I tried to run my tongue between his cheeks early on in our relationship.
Ryan stands up at last, moaning a little as the thing shifts inside him. He turns to me and explains himself. The plug is giving his voice an urgent breathlessness, like when you’re having to talk to someone but you actually need to dash to the bathroom. “I know what I said and I’m sorry about how it came out. I was drunk; I should have been more sensitive. It was only when I saw how upset you got that I realized it was so important to you. I thought we were just messing around. But then I saw your face. I kept thinking about what you’d said and did a bit of research.”
“But why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to get your hopes up. You have to understand that nobody had ever put anything up my ass before; I hadn’t even put my own finger up there until three weeks ago. But I did some searches online. Did you know that sixty-three percent of heterosexual couples engage in some kind of anal play?”
“No, I didn’t.” So now he’s the fucking anal oracle or something? I stop myself from pointing out that the stats are probably heavily skewed toward penetration of the female.
“Well, they do. So I started to think maybe there was something in it and started to have a bit of a play. Then I ordered the plugs.”
“Plugs?” I emphasize the plural.
“Yeah, I have two more. This is only the small one. I’m not sure about the large one, but I think I’m nearly ready for the medium one.”
I want to scream, “Stop right there before I bugger you with a can of deodorant.” It’s the nearest roughly phallic object I can see. My husband’s gotten acquainted with his ass and is talking about butt-plug sizes right in front of me. I want to bend him over and possess him this very instant. I want to pound his butt until his eyes water, force my cock into his tight hole, thrust my hips like a man and give him a damn good seeing to.
“Right. So you’ve changed your mind?” I’m still not sure if this is going all the way to what my brain thinks is the logical conclusion. I need to hear it. And oh boy, do I hear it.
“Yes, I’ve changed my mind. I want you to fuck my ass. I thought we could have a look at some strap-ons together and order one.”
I’d resigned myself to this being the one fan
tasy I’d never do. Okay, I mean the one remotely feasible fantasy I’d never do, because I know that a threesome with a multi-tentacled alien ain’t happening anytime soon. I thought I’d spend the rest of my life furtively viewing those websites that show bound muscle men getting a good pounding by divine creatures in latex. I already know the strap-on I want, because I’ve looked. I’ve compared lengths and girths and colors and quality of fake cocks probably more than I’ve looked at the real thing. I only had a handful of lovers before I met Ryan in college.
The one I want is pillar-box red. I know it’s a cliché, but I want something to contrast nicely with the dark pink of his asshole. Something uncompromisingly bright. The harness is a robust webbing- and padded-plastic affair. The leather and steel ones might look the part, but I bet that leather would stretch. The firm PVC dildo is seven inches long, with a gently shaped head and a subtle flare in girth toward the base. I’ve even priced it up on different websites, wondering whether to order one just so I can wear it in secret and run my hand up and down my own cock. Sometimes I wonder if I should have been born a boy, but when Ryan fucks me and I feel my pussy clench around his dick I’m more than happy to be a girl. It’s just that I want to be fucker as well as fuckee sometimes. Not just on top, but in him.
“How about we try the medium one now? Then we can do some shopping online.” I’m going to have to be careful how I introduce him to my chosen strap-on. Even though he’s now changed his mind, I fear he’ll find my previous research some kind of betrayal.
“Oh wow, I guess we could. I was going to give it a go tomorrow. It’s a bit scary-looking, to be honest, even though it’s not that much bigger than this one.” He delves into the back of his sock drawer and pulls out a drawstring bag. When he turns his back to me to put it on the bed, I get a flash of that blue in his butt and it looks so disgustingly wonderful I want to push him down on his front and take that circle of vinyl in my teeth. I let out a funny little noise and he looks at me with an eyebrow raised as he opens the bag and places two more plugs side by side on the comforter.
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