by EdenBradley
THE TRAINING HOUSE, Book One: GIRL
by
Eden Bradley
GIRL
Copyright 2015 Eden Bradley
Cover Art by Scott Carpenter
Editing by Christa Desir
Formatted by IRONHORSE Formatting
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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DEDICATION
This one is really for my readers and friends who stood behind this book—thank you for allowing me to feel free to move forward and write something from the darkest corners of my joyously depraved soul. I think this story has been in me for a long time, and only with the support and love of these wonderful people could THE TRAINING HOUSE have ever been written.
Table of Contents
Contract and Terms of Agreement for Servitude
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Excerpt from The Training House, Book Two: Boy
The Smutketeers!
About the Author
More from Eden Bradley
Contract and Terms of Agreement for Servitude
I, ______________________, being of sound mind and body, do hereby agree and pledge myself in entirety as personal slave and property to The Training House as the Master of the House sees fit to use for a period of one year, to commence on _________ and to end on _________. I do this without reservations or stipulations, and without recourse or right of revocation. I have been informed and understand that I will not be harmed or have any permanent damage done to my body or mental well-being, nor shall any of my personal property be subject to ownership or use by The Training House, its Master, or any associates. I pledge under the terms of this contract my body, my obedience and my deep desire to serve.
I understand and agree to all terms within this contract. Terms are as follows:
1) I will remain naked while within The Training House or other outside facilities the Master of the House may visit or send me to.
2) I may be sent to outside locations and/or lent to other Masters, Mistresses or Trainers at the Master’s discretion. I pledge the same obedience to them as I do to The Training House under the terms of this contract.
3) I will be collared, cuffed, shackled or bound by any variety of means as the Master of the House or his associates see fit. Restraints will always be used in a safe manner.
4) I may be subject to piercings of the nipples and/or genitalia, to be performed only by a licensed piercer, including the Master himself.
5) I will be subject to branding with the house crest only if it is agreed upon by both parties at the term of this contract or any future existing contract that I remain in permanent service to The Training House.
6) I will be subject to sadomasochistic activities at the discretion of the Master and his associates, including various types of impact, impalement and use of any orifice for pain or pleasure, electrical stimulation, canes, whips, and implements which may scratch and/or open the skin. Any bleeding, open wounds or heavy bruising will receive appropriate medical attention by the House nurse or attending EMT.
7) I will be subject to humiliation, degradation, loss of personal identity.
8) I will have no rights as an individual, or freedom to make decisions.
9) I will remain silent unless commanded to speak.
10) I will accept without question or resistance any and all punishments or discipline the Master of the House or his associates deems necessary or desirable.
11) I am charged to learn all the ways in which I may please the Master of the House and his associates.
12) I will have no control over my orgasms, which will be given or denied at the whim of the Master of the House or his associates. I agree to never pleasure myself, saving my pleasure for the Master’s use.
I hereby certify that I am in excellent health, and had my last medical exam on ______. Paperwork to verify the state of my health will be supplied upon signing this contract. I furthermore agree that I may be subject to medical examination and treatment for my safety and for the safety of those I come into contact with, or purely for the Master’s pleasure. I also have supplied information regarding possible personal triggers any of the above activities might prompt. The Master agrees to ensure my body is kept in good health by means of diet, rest and exercise.
If at any time before the end of the contracted period the Master of The Training House is not pleased with my performance, obedience, ability to give pleasure or to endure his preferred treatment of me, he may decide to revoke this agreement, at which time I am released from the terms of this contract.
I affix my signature willingly and without any duress or under any threat of harm.
Slave’s legal name ______________________________
Slave’s signature _________________________________________
Date _____________
Master’s legal name ______________________________
Master’s signature _________________________________________
Date _____________
Witness ______________________________
Witness signature _________________________________________
Date_____________
Chapter One
He walks into the room and I don’t know where to look, what to do with my hands, what to say. Of course, I’m not supposed to say anything, am I? But even if I could—even if I dared—he is simply too overwhelmingly beautiful.
I didn’t expect it—didn’t expect him. My bare feet shift on the soft Persian rug, the wood floor beneath creaking like a quiet sigh of pleasure. Taking in a quick, gasping breath, I inhale the scents of aged wood and plaster, the papery smell these old San Francisco Victorians have. Scent and sound were all I knew until a moment ago, when someone removed the blindfold from my eyes. I know the city I’m in, but not where, exactly. I am not supposed to know. And now I know what the man I have been sold to looks like. My new Master. The man I would have served with deep devotion simply because he owns me, because this servitude is what I want—what I need—but who now is making me dizzy with indescribable lust and expectation.
He must be six-foot-four, with broad shoulders under a dark blue button-down shirt. European tailoring—the shirt fits his shoulders and his narrow waist too perfectly to be anything else—which I recognize right away from my time in Italy, Spain and London with my previous owner. A small stabbing ache in my chest at that thought, but I focus on the shirt, on the man before me, and the pain drifts, fades awa
y.
His sleeves are rolled up, revealing strong forearms. There is a tattoo of a Japanese-style dragon curling around his right arm—a symbol of power, which suddenly, inexplicably, seems funny to me, if only because this man’s power seeps from every pore and needs no sign of proof. I let out a small, stupid giggle. Unable to help it. Helpless. Perhaps that’s why the giggle.
Helpless. Yes.
Or perhaps because the giggle is more from relief, the knowledge that my desire for pain, for punishment, will soon be sated.
He raises one dark brow, his eyes gleaming like pure blue fire in the dim light of the room. His voice is a low threat. Upper class American accent. “You find me amusing, girl?”
Girl. Is that to be my name in this place? Not Aimée? Why does that frighten me so when this is everything I’ve asked for? To be rendered invisible in a way I choose.
A flash of my father, his back turned to me. How many times did that actually happen, and how much of it is purely symbolic, when in fact, I hardly ever saw him? But I don’t want to think of all that now. I am here to forget. To forget my past. To forget myself. To immerse myself in this powerlessness that is of my choosing.
Still, it occurs to me for one moment, sharp with the edge of panic, that maybe I should have read the contract more carefully before I signed it.
“Speak up,” he demands.
“No, Sir.”
“Nerves?” There’s a long pause—long enough to make me feel the truth of what he’s suggested down to my toes, in my belly, in those dark, dark recesses of my mind that brought me here to begin with.
“Of course you’re nervous,” he goes on. “If you weren’t I’d send you back. I don’t take foolish girls. I don’t take a lot of things, but you’ll find out about that soon enough.” He steps closer and even his earthy, spicy, elegant scent frightens me, partly because he smells so good I want to drop to my knees before him—need to—which scares me half to death. “What I will take…is you. Whenever I want. I will do whatever I want to you. And any time you doubt why you’re here I will find a way to remind you. I will remind you through pain. Through denial. Through darkness. I will remind you by giving you exactly what you asked for when you agreed to come to my house. The Training House never fails its…victims.”
I’m shaking now, my legs trembling so hard they’re about to go out from under me, and then I will be on my knees, like it or not. I will like it, which I already know. I am also drenched with desire, my pussy slick and pulsing, which should not be surprising, but it is. Every single detail about this moment is shocking to me.
He steps closer and I look up at his face, knowing this may be the last opportunity I’m allowed. And God, his eyes are so, so blue—midnight blue, eyes like I’ve never seen before. His hair is dark and the slightest bit unruly. His jaw and cheekbones are sharply cut, as if from stone, and his mouth is both lush and cruel. I want to touch it, with just my fingertip. I don’t dare even think of kissing him. Oh, but I am a liar; I do think of kissing him. I think of that mouth between my thighs.
Neither of those things is likely to happen in this place.
Torture.
Torture already, and I’ve just gotten here.
He strokes one fingertip along my jaw and I swear I could almost come. He slides that fingertip down, across my throat, which he grabs with his big hand and squeezes until I gasp as he takes me down to the floor. I am on my hands and knees, then elbows and knees as he slides his hand to the back of my neck, allowing me to breathe but pressing my face into the carpet. It smells like wool and despair. It smells like long-forgotten perfume and my fondest fantasies fulfilled. I don’t know what to think.
He will tell you what to think.
Yes. My body goes loose, giving itself over to him. To submission in the purest form I have ever experienced. All of the Dominants I’ve played with at the kink clubs, all of the lovers who have tied me up, spanked me, fucked me too hard, even my Master who decided to let me go, to offer me up to this place, disappear in the wake of this man who gets power play in a way I’ve never felt before.
Oh yes. This is where I need to be. At his feet. In his house. Under his hands. He has reminded me.
He kicks my thighs apart and I feel completely exposed. I know I am, that he can see everything—every small, pink curve and valley of swollen flesh. It makes me feel beautiful. It makes me afraid. But before I have even two breaths to think about it, he thrusts his fingers into me and I’m biting down hard on my lip not to writhe, not to cry out. He does something with his hand inside me—I can’t even begin to describe what it is—but desire is like a knife, cutting into my cunt… No. It’s inside me, everywhere at once. Pleasure and pleasure and some pain too, but I welcome it. Suddenly he adds another finger—a third or a fourth…I don’t know—and pumps me so hard it rocks my entire body, and I feel pressure building, building, then I scream as liquid gushes from me. Oh God, someone please tell me I didn’t just urinate all over the man who is to be my Master here!
He starts again, his fingers making that odd motion, that strange sort of snapping thing inside me, against my g-spot. This time I focus on the pressure as it builds. He fucks me hard and fast with his hand, hard and hurting, except that it’s so good…excruciating, and I am screaming again, and oh God…
“Again,” he demands.
Once more he strokes and snaps at my g-spot, and I really am hurting now, but I can’t stop as I gush again, even more this time, and it’s like coming, yet it’s different and I am already addicted.
He doesn’t say a word as he starts again. The breath absolutely leaves my body as I scream as hard as I come, or whatever it is that’s happening to me. I crumple, panting, onto the floor.
With hard hands he yanks me back up onto my knees, drags me across the rug until I am kneeling in front of him, between his knees as he sits in a chair. He grabs the back of my long, red hair in a tight fist, pulling my face toward his, and instead of yelling as I expect, he pauses, looking at me, and I am lost in the blue of his eyes, in trying to memorize his every feature. Then, to my utter surprise, he kisses my cheek, my jawline, then my cheek again. He pulls back, his gaze on mine, burning suddenly, then shadowed, and whatever was going on with him is gone, and he is closed and harsh again. He pulls my hair so hard I nearly scream from that alone. I love having my hair pulled, but this is brutal. I love it—and him, for doing this to me—even more. For the pulling. For the kisses. For whatever I saw in his eyes.
“Squirt for me again,” he demands, his voice low and dangerous as he impales me once more with his lovely, punishing fingers.
I whimper as he fucks me savagely, and it is mere seconds before I gush all over his shoes, the beautiful rug, my own thighs. He doesn’t even pause this time before doing it again once more. And God, it feels better than anything ever has in my life, and I don’t think I can take it anymore.
Tears pool in my eyes, pour down my cheeks as he makes me do it over and over again. Over and over until my screams turn to guttural groans and whimpers. Finally I slip onto the wet floor, crying in earnest, unable to move. He sits quietly, watching me, I think. Then he gets up and moves away from me. I hear sounds I can’t identify at first, but which I come to recognize as ice tinkling in a crystal glass. He is to have a nice drink while watching me cry on the floor. Oh yes, he knows exactly what he’s doing.
The crying has mostly stopped, but I’m still hiccupping. Exhausted. He moves closer, until he’s bent over me. I don’t know what to expect, which is clearly the idea, of course, and I have to order myself not to flinch as he reaches for me. When he touches a finger to my lips, I know to open for him. He thrusts into my mouth and I suck, wishing it were his cock, knowing I may never be fortunate enough to service him, this man I want so badly, want so much to serve it’s like an ache in my stomach.
He slides his finger in, then out, slowly, sensually, and I lose myself in sucking him, sucking exactly as I would if I had his cock in my mouth, tasting my tea
rs that are apparently still falling.
Oh yes…
His finger slips out, leaving me empty as his hand goes to my hair again and he yanks me to my feet.
The door opens. Blinking, I try to clear my vision, but everything is a blur of tears and whatever it was he just did to me.
Two women stand in the doorway. Both are as naked as I am except for the shining steel collars around their necks. They are a matched pair of tall brunettes, both shaved clean and with pierced nipples. Both wear a small brand of a fleur-de-lis over their left breasts I recognize as the house crest, which makes me shiver, but whether with desire or fear I don’t know.
“Intake,” he tells the girls. “You know what to do.”
“Yes, Master,” they answer in unison, like pretty little robots. Pretty little robots that I want to become.
I am so filled with envy I can hardly stand it. And in fact, I can hardly stand. But the matched brunette slaves take one arm each and half drag, half carry me down a series of narrow hallways until we reach what I think is the back of the big Victorian house. We go through a door into a small room.
Even in my dazed state I see that it’s spare, with nothing but a lovely, old-fashioned porcelain tub in the middle of the room, a pallet done up in white sheets on the hardwood floor in one corner and a bucket—a bucket!—in another.
They lay me down on the pallet, and the tears have started again. One of them holds out a bottle of water.
“Drink this,” she says. “All of it.”
I prop myself up on an elbow and drink half the bottle down. The water is cool. I didn’t realize how thirsty I was, how sore my throat is from screaming.
“Finish it,” the same girl says.
I nod, wipe my mouth with the back of my arm, take a few more sips, wipe my mouth again, then my eyes.