Elicitation (The Training of Eileen)

by William Vitelli

  Steel manacles closed around her wrists. She jumped in surprise, and a touch of fear quickened her breathing. “What are you going to do to me?” she asked, her voice small.

  “I’m going to train you, of course.” He knelt. Hard metal closed around her ankles, just above her shoes. When he rose again, she heard the heavy clanking sound of chains. Something tugged on her wrists, and she gasped as she felt herself pulled abruptly away from the wall.

  He led her by the cuffs around her wrists. Chains dragged behind her ankles as she moved, weighing down her steps. She walked with exaggerated caution, unable to see, legs wide apart; with every step the fear grew stronger, and her heart pounded more wildly. Vivid memories of what he’d done to her when she was chained to the bed flashed through her head. A tear leaked from beneath the blindfold and rolled down her cheek.

  “Right here. Step up a little bit.” His hand steadied her as she stepped forward onto something slightly soft and perhaps as thick as an exercise mat. He rotated her body slightly. “Good.”

  Chains clanked. Her feet were pulled apart abruptly; she stumbled and nearly fell. By the time she recovered, he had secured the chains around her ankles to some fixed point on each side of her, and her legs were spread wide. His voice sounded in her ear. “Take off your shirt.”

  Hands trembling, she obeyed. She dropped it and stood naked save for her shoes, her ankles chained to the floor.

  More clanking. He pulled on the chains around her wrists, lifting her arms over her head. She cried out as he hooked the chains to a point above her, then tightened them until her body was stretched taut. She was chained upright, standing spread eagle, arms bound so high overhead that she was nearly forced her to stand on tiptoe.

  Fear became panic. Her breathing sounded ragged in her ears; with every breath, her breasts bobbed and swayed. Hands caressed her body from behind, flowed over the curve of her breasts. “Your nipples are very hard, little whore. You must like this.”

  “No!”

  “Suit yourself.” Tight clamps bit down hard on her nipple. She screamed and struggled against the chains. “There we go,” he said.

  She felt a painful tugging, and realized that he had attached some kind of chain or cord to the clamps. She felt him hook the cord over something above her. Her breasts were dragged upward painfully as he drew it tight. She screamed again and rose to her tiptoes, trying to ease the pain.

  Something large and thick shoved deep into her pussy. It forced its way farther and farther into her until it bottomed out within her, painfully deep. She shrieked at this new violation and tried to move her hips, but the dildo within her, attached by a steel rod to the platform on which she stood, held her fast. She could not raise herself off it, could not move her hips in any direction.

  Each breath, each tiny rocking of her body, made her breasts bob and sway in small motions, causing the clamps to tug cruelly on her nipples. The dildo impaling her forced her to stand on tiptoe; she could not lower herself without pressing it far too deep. The manacles dug uncomfortably into her wrists, already tender from her earlier struggles. She began to cry; the sobs shook her body, made her breasts bounce and jerk against the clamps pulling them upward.

  He lifted off the blindfold.

  She realized with horror that she was chained up directly in front of a giant, floor-to-ceiling window. The illumination in the room was a cool, dim red, save for a single spotlight just above her head that bathed her body in bright while light. Beneath her in the late afternoon sun, the London street spread out, crowded with hurrying people.

  “No!” she wept. “What if somebody looks up?”

  “Then they’ll see a naked woman chained in the window fucking herself on a dildo,” he answered, his tone matter-of-fact.

  She hung there for many long minutes, fighting not to move, struggling to control her sobs. She could not force herself to remain completely still. Her breasts hung heavily from the clamps, jiggling with every tiny movement. The muscles in her legs began to quiver from the strain of holding herself on tiptoes. Before long, she felt them give out. She used the last of her strength to lower herself as gently as she could. As she settled on the dildo, she cried out in pain, giving herself the first of many bruises deep inside.

  The cord attached to the clamps on her nipples tightened, dragging her breasts upward. Tears poured down her face. The full force of her weight on the dildo quickly became more than she could bear, and she lifted herself onto her tiptoes again, shuddering with relief.

  She could not hold it. Her strength failed again, even more quickly than it had before. She was forced to lower herself once more onto the dildo. She shrieked and tried to rock her hips, to keep it from pressing in the same place. Before long, the pain became too much to bear, and she rose onto her tiptoes once more, sobbing.

  The third time she gave out and was forced back down onto the dildo, she found she could no longer summon the strength to rise any more. She shifted and rocked her hips back and forth, afraid to stop moving lest the pain become unbearable.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Fuck that dildo. Ride it good.” White cream flowed from her, coated the rigid phallus, dripped onto the platform beneath her. Her desperate cries of pain softened, began to take on a different character.

  “That’s it, little whore. Keep raping yourself. Give it to yourself. You like it when it hurts, don’t you?”

  Her motions grew more frantic. As long as she kept moving, it could almost, almost feel good; but if she stopped, even for an instant, the pain became too intense. She struggled in her bonds, her body stretched tight, her nipples screaming, and a familiar tension began to grow inside her.

  “No!” she sobbed. “I don’t like it! I don’t want it!” She willed herself to grind down onto the thing inside her, hurting herself, heedless of the people flowing in a river beneath her window. Her moans became screams. “I don’t like it!”

  Then, without warning, it happened. A wave of pleasure, ferocious in its intensity, roared over her, taking her completely by surprise. She came hard, fast, thrashing and crying out in ecstasy. She contracted sharply around the dildo, every squeeze an explosion of exquisite pain. Her orgasm went on and on and on, unstoppable, for several minutes.

  When it finally tapered off, she hung limply from the chains, twitching and moaning. He lowered the rod supporting the dildo. It slid from her abused and aching pussy, smeared thickly with creamy juices. She scarcely stirred.

  He reached around her and unclamped her nipples. Fire bloomed as blood rushed into them. She whimpered at this new pain. He released the metal rod from its base and picked it up, the hard black rubber dildo still attached to its end. Its head touched her lips.

  Without protest, her mouth opened. She did not struggle as he shoved it deep, against the back of her throat. Aftershocks from the orgasm rippled through her body in time with his thrusts. She accepted the way he violated her mouth with the dripping, come-covered dildo, her mind far away. He pressed harder, and it slid without resistance down her throat until the base reached her lips. She remained still, eyes closed, heedless of the gathering crowd on the sidewalk below staring up at her.

  Eileen returned slowly to her body, as if traveling back into it from a great distance. Then, in a rush, she was aware of her own physical self, of the steady ache between her legs, the burning pain in her nipples, the thickly textured rubber penis down her throat, the heavy, musky taste in her mouth. She tried to scream and gagged instead. Her throat closed around the intrusion. She choked and struggled in her bonds. He pulled it from her mouth. She coughed as it slid free.

  “Mmm, good,” he said. “Your body is getting used to this already.” Working quickly, he unfastened the chains from the bindings around her ankles, then did the same for the manacles around her wrists. She sagged into his arms, incapable of mustering the strength to stand. Anthony carried her to the bed. She he sat heavily, and let out a small yelp as the spikes around her thighs, forgotten, dug into soft skin.
She blinked and opened her legs.

  “There you go, that’s better,” he said. “It won’t be long before keeping your legs spread will be second nature to you.” Gently, almost tenderly, he laid her down on her back, with her arms above her head. She remained still while he attached a second set of chains to the shiny steel cuffs, binding her wrists to the headboard. She made no outward reaction save for a subtle quickening of breath as he attached more chains to the restraints on her ankles and affixed them to the head of the bed, drawing her legs up and apart.

  “Now let’s see,” he said when she’d been securely chained down. “Where did I put that package?” His dark eyes cast around. “Aha!” He retrieved the small bag he’d bought from where it lay on the floor, grinning. “If we’re going to get you properly trained in just two weeks, we’ll need to use some special tricks, hmm?” He arched his eyebrows and pulled a gnarled root from the bag. “I think you’ll like this. It’s a ginger root.”

  Whistling cheerfully, he drew a large folding knife from his pocket and set about carving the root. In short order, he’d whittled out a thick, roughly cylindrical plug from its heart. She watched silently, eyes wide with apprehension.

  When he’d finished, he sat on the bed next to her. “This will encourage you to relax. You’ll see.” He caressed the smooth, soft skin of her inner thigh. She whimpered, heart beating fiercely, as he brought the carved ginger root against the puckered entrance to her anus. “Try not to clamp down on it.”

  He pressed, gently at first. The root was slightly damp, and she felt a tingling where it touched her. He pressed harder; as the tip penetrated her, the tingle grew, became a mild itch. She shifted uncomfortably.

  The root slipped fractionally deeper. The itching sensation intensified. She whimpered softly, clenched tight against the intrusion. The itch became a burning. “Don’t fight it,” he said. “Relax. It gets worse if you clamp down.”

  He held it there with firm, steady pressure. Slowly, it slipped deeper, and the burning, itching feeling grew. She moaned and tried to force herself to relax. All at once, it slid deeply inside.

  She shrieked and closed tightly around the invader. Almost instantly, her ass was filled with molten fire. She screamed and arched her back, lifting herself partway off the bed; her struggles seemed to intensify the burning, making her stretched sphincter clamp down harder. She thrashed frantically against the chains.

  “Shh.” He stroked her thigh softly. “Don’t clamp down. Relax.”

  Her struggles subsided bit by bit as she forced herself to relax. The burning faded to a sharp, nagging itch inside her. “There. See, isn’t that better?”

  He watched her for a long time. Every beat of her heart, every small vibration of her body brought with it new little flashes of discomfort. Every so often, she would tighten involuntarily around the root, and a bright burning pain would explode through her, making her cry out and writhe on the bed.

  Soon her entire attention was focused on the steady burning inside her. She struggled for control, making herself relax, overriding her body’s desire to clench against the invading object. Steadily, inch by inch, bit by bit, she loosened her grip on the ginger root. The burning faded to a warm glow, and before long she found herself moaning and rolling her hips steadily.

  Anthony smiled to himself. Her arousal was plain; she could not stop herself from thrusting her hips in the air in long, slow undulations. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes closed, as she twisted sensuously on the bed, oblivious to everything save for the heat radiating through her.

  He started carving some more, slicing out a small triangular sliver of ginger. He whittled it flat, then carefully scooped out a rounded indentation in the underside. Eileen remained lost in herself; the exquisite heat was unlike anything she had ever experienced before, and it awakened in her a strange, formless desire that she didn’t understand.

  Gently, carefully, he parted the folds of her labia and pulled back her clitoral hood, then placed the triangular slice of ginger root directly on the nub of her clitoris.

  It began as a tingling in her clit, mild at first. She sighed with pleasure and arched her back. Slowly, the tingling grew stronger, making her clit throb and pulse. As it grew, it spread, becoming a maddening, demanding itch deep inside her dripping cunt.

  Her breathing came in fast, shallow gasps. An overwhelming feeling of need consumed her. She writhed in her chains, desperate to come, craving release; she ached for orgasm, hungered for it so badly that the desire consumed her from within. She thrust her hips toward him, making small mewling noises of raw desperation.

  He sat back and watched as the ginger worked its sinister magic. The frantic need overpowered her, swept aside her rationality; her body burned with unquenchable fire. The itching strengthened, and her need became more desperate still. “Please! Please!” she whimpered. Her world shrank until the only thing she was aware of was this yearning to come. Tears of frustration and need leaked from her eyes. “Please!”

  He held her in that place, merciless, for a long time. She shuddered, her body helpless in the chains and in her need. His hands roamed freely over her body, pinching her aching nipples, caressing her face, trailing his fingers feather-light over her mound. She squirmed and shook, needing more. “Please!”

  A small smile. “Please what?”

  Her body yearned. “Please!”

  His hands left her body. He slid the briefcase from beneath the bed, removed the leather satchel. From the satchel, he withdrew the same long, slightly curved metal probe he had used on her earlier, the one she’d taken only with difficulty. He squeezed a glistening blob of lube on the end of the probe, and knelt carefully on the bed between her legs.

  The ginger root slipped easily from her ass. She whimpered at the sudden feeling of emptiness. Wet white fluid dripped down between her legs. A quick flick of his fingernail and the small wedge of ginger was gone from her clit; the touch of cool air, so intense it was almost excruciating, made her squirm. Her body screamed its need at her.

  “Good,” he murmured. She felt wet slick at the gaping entrance of her ass, and then the probe, cold and rigid, slid effortlessly, deeply into her. The cold, slippery metal felt shockingly, surprisingly good inside her, quenching the burning itch, and she drove herself onto it, pressing against it all the way to the base.

  Warm breath caressed her aching clit. The tip of his tongue flicked lightly across it. She twitched and yelped, sensitive, and heard him chuckle. “Very good.”

  That began a long period of endless, relentless teasing. His tongue danced over her, skillfully bringing her to the edge of orgasm, over and over, only to back off just as she started to contract. He drove her to the brink again and again, each time pulling her back precisely when she thought she’d reached the point of no return. She moaned and wailed and thrashed against her chains, and still that damnable, infuriating, exquisite tongue teased her. She clenched and tightened around the probe in her ass, thrust her hips against his face, all for nothing; he seemed to know, almost by magic, exactly how to keep her hovering on the threshold of ecstasy without permitting her relief. She screamed in frustration, aching to come, relishing and hating the feel of his tongue. He denied her again and again, working her need, playing it, creating art out of sexual desire.

  At the exact moment she could bear no more, he stopped, just like that, and stood. She lay bound beneath him, sheened with sweat. “I think that’s enough for you right now, little whore.”

  “Please…please…”

  “Not tonight. You’ve had enough, I think. I’m going to leave you chained up tonight, so that you don’t touch yourself.” He lengthened the chains binding her wrists, so that she could move her arms and turn freely, careful to keep them short enough that she was unable to reach between her legs. With that, he undressed quickly, slid beneath the covers, and pulled them over her. “Sleep well. Tomorrow’s your second day of training.” He smiled and drew close to her, body pressing warmly against hers. S
oft lips kissed her cheek. “Good night.”

  She writhed and twisted in frenzied, throbbing, agonizing need. Tears streamed down her face; at that moment, she felt that there was nothing, no matter how filthy, she wouldn’t do to feel his lips and tongue again. “Please, please, please, please,” she sighed, “please…”

  Beside her, his breathing became slower and deeper, and she knew he was asleep. She stayed awake for a long time, trembling and making soft noises of need. When sleep finally found her, it brought dreams of hands and tongues and things entering her.

  Chapter 6

  The next day, Eileen woke to the watery light of the early afternoon sun streaming through the windows. Her dreams melted away, unremembered, but the need and arousal did not. She woke still bound, her frantic desperation only a little bit abated. Almost as soon as her eyes had opened, she was writhing on the bed. He watched her from the chair, a cup of coffee in his hand. His expression was soft, adoring. When he realized she was awake, it changed into something more predatory. “Good morning! Did you sleep well?”

  She didn’t look at him.

  He rose, stood over her. At last she turned to face him, but didn’t meet his eyes. She felt vulnerable; but more than that, she felt her pulse quicken, felt a strange longing at his nearness. His robe fell to the ground with a rustle. He was sporting a huge erection; she knew what was coming, but couldn’t quite decide how she felt about it.