“I suppose because we tried anal sex in the past and it didn’t work.”
“Didn’t work?”
“It hurt, sir, miserably, I screamed—yelled at him and he gave up.”
“First time can be painful if you’re not relaxed. But there’s really no reason to fear. It will take some time and a good deal of focus on your part. I can’t do it alone. Your cooperation will be mandatory, and if I think you’re evading the difficult issue because of your past experience with anal sex, you will be soundly punished. You are a slave now by your own choice. You’ve agreed to obey every order your master gives you as well as those I give you on his behalf.” He spoke directly without needing to be harsh, which made his words like a cool bath, washing away her fears but not her excited apprehensions. If anything, the sexual effect on her body was profound. Her tummy stirred with sexual elation. Her mind was intrigued, her being mesmerized. He made her slave desires come alive in her the same way they came alive when she first stumbled on Justin’s favorite websites and his graphic correspondence.
“I feel very untried, sir, but this is still what I most desire.”
“And you come to your slavery belatedly.” He seemed genuinely puzzled. “Your husband has been a master many years.”
“I didn’t know my own thoughts before I saw them on the Internet,” she explained. “What was once very fuzzy is so clear now that I’m surprised that I didn’t see it before. I suppose it’s because I had no point of reference. I do now.”
“There are a hundred points of reference that could suggest your desires. Justin Booker is one, I am another, and the permutations of the fantasy stretch far and wide beyond the two of us.”
She was reminded of her research, though he was implying a personal twist—what would apply to her.
“You are a neophyte, coming on the scene in an unusual way, though that’s actually predictable. I think we all have a twisted story to tell about how we found ourselves doing such extraordinary things. You need your own anchor. You could presume that it is Justin Booker and his fantasy; but in fact, you might be better off in another kind of sexual lifestyle than he can give you.”
“Excuse my presumptuousness, sir, but are you trying to dissuade me from my own husband?”
“No. I’m introducing reality, giving you permission to let your thoughts stray as they will. Most new slaves believe that they can’t waver from their master’s viewpoint. But facts are facts. None of us is perfect; none represent the perfect fantasy because there are no perfect fantasies. You have a good master; you’ll do well to obey him, while at the same time you seek your own vision. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” It hadn’t dawned on her to question Justin, or even if it was allowed. “And may I question what you do?”
“No,” he stated without a ripple in his pleasant expression. “What I do to you here is by Justin Booker’s design. If you have a problem, you’ll speak with him. I am his trainer. If I think you cannot do what you’re told, I will speak with him as well. But between the two of us there is only the rule, the task and its accomplishment.”
Emily’s mounting arousal flooded through her like a rampaging beast. Though she didn’t understand why, each word the man spoke seemed handpicked to stimulate her jumble of emotions and her leaping physical desires.
“You will be humiliated by the process I take you through, but for sadists like me and your master, the humiliation is an important part of our game. Whether that humiliation arouses you is of little importance to either of us.”
Humiliation. The word electrified every nerve ending.
Dylan Kincaid continued, “Hopefully, what I do will educate you in the life you will lead. I understand that you are on probation—not in the negative sense, but more as a trial to determine if you really want to be a slave.”
“Sir, I don’t know how many more ways to tell my master that this is what I want. He distrusts my feelings, while I know them well.”
“He understands slaves, em. He understands that even the best of them are smitten with fantasy, but sometimes too frightened by reality to make their dreams work right. He’s tough and exacting. He’ll demand a lot and because of that, I will too. If you’re likely to wash out, better now than later. Take that at face value and don’t argue the point.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dylan Kincaid’s discourse was more information that she’d received in the week since she became her husband’s slave. Did Justin understand what this master would tell her? Would he approve? Or did he prefer to keep his slaves guessing and unaware? Did he prefer to test them and examine the results? And decide if his slave was worthy of his mastery? She had a hundred questions rattling through her dizzy mind. She doubted they’d be answered, or even addressed. But she’d be led, which was what she wanted. Her heart desired this abdication… out of some mysterious depths these curious feelings had arisen, and had become so painfully acute that this moment, like so many other moments in the last few days, she was tempted to cry out in an elated kind of anguish.
There were no cries now, however. Emily was more subdued, seeing her trainer’s expression turn more serious and fixed. His eyes were disturbing, as coolly critical as she expected, but more than critical or cool, they held her spellbound. This kind of waiting was hell of the sweetest kind!
“Are you wearing underwear, em?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Then turn around, bow your head to the floor and raise your skirt above your ass.”
Emily repeated the instructions to herself, wondering how she could accomplish anything so brazen. And yet, her body began to obey even when her thoughts were frozen. Trembling painfully, petrified and embarrassed, she turned around, raised her skirt and bared her ass for inspection.
From Dylan Kincaid’s vantage point slightly above the lovely em, he viewed two of the most delightful female mounds of flesh he’d seen in some time. Her thighs were strong but graceful; and atop them was a pale sheet of milky skin glowing lustrously in the room’s soft light. His eyes fell to the darkness of her anal cleft. She was not spread quite wide enough for what he wanted.
“Part your legs,” he ordered.
Hearing the command, each knee moved a few inches to the side.
“More,” he urged.
Emily obeyed, realizing as she did that her privates were no longer privates anymore, but completely exposed for his careful scrutiny: the parted cleft, her anus and the plump labia at the nexus of her pussy, covered by a soft, pale red fluff of pubic hair. On careful inspection, he could make out the bud of her sex peeking proudly from between the nether lips.
“Have you ever probed your ass?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
Popping up from his chair, Dylan moved to the antique desk and fished through one of the drawers. Emily heard it open and close though she had no idea what he was doing. When he returned, he stood at her side, then crouching, his hand unscrewing a cobalt blue jar.
“Take some.”
Emily looked to her side into her trainer’s eyes, then at the blue jar with its bright white cream inside. Her hand shook as she complied with the demand, dipping her fingers into the jar withdrawing a thick greasy substance.
“Now in your ass,” he said.
Dylan Kincaid stood upright and watched from high above as Emily greased her own behind. While obeying the order, the cowed novice tried to forget, not to think—hadn’t someone advised her so? Her rude behavior made her blush, but she could not stop herself. Pressing her fingers to the puckering bud of her ass, she massaged the area, realizing as she did how arousing the effort was. “Fingers in your ass, em,” her trainer prompted.
She paused. Scared. Thinking of the miserably humiliating act, and how she must appear to this master’s eye. What crude and degrading extremes her desires had taken her to! Could there be anything more shameful than this?
“In your ass, em. Use your fingers like a cock,” he urged.
Hot tears b
urned her eyes. Her mind screamed, No! How could he ask anything this crude? This vilely shameful?
“Don’t think about what you’re doing, em, just do it,” he urged.
She tried again, reaching back with her hand. For several seconds it seemed that her fingers wouldn’t budge; and once they finally lubricated the shriveled rosette, the tiny thing wouldn’t give. She tried again, coaxing the unyielding opening with a gentle massage. As the cream finally work its way into the crevice, her muscles started to give, the opening relaxed and her fears eased.
“Very good, em, keep going,” her trainer prompted her.
The sensation stirring at her anus was remarkable. And it only multiplied in intensity as she pressed and pushed the digits further.
“Deeper, em.”
Yes, she wanted more. She could feel the desire taking hold, the physical and the emotional. Humiliation didn’t matter—in fact, the degrading act only made her work harder to obey her trainer’s command. Willing it, wanting it, she slipped two fingers past the first joint and the second knuckle until both were buried to her palm.
“Fuck yourself, em.” She felt his urgency and her own.
Her fingers slipped easily now, moving in and out of the channel like a cock might fuck her ass. The vibration raised the sexual stimulation, finding some strange connection with her cunt. Her breathing deepened and her mind swam despite the image of herself that filled her with shame.
“You find this mortifying,” Dylan Kincaid put his words on her feelings. “You can’t imagine that you’ve come to this and yet you love every second of it.”
She was about to cry hearing his observation.
“Speak to me, em,” he spoke more harshly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t make light of my questions.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This turns you on, am I right?”
“Yes, sir.”
He let her continue several minutes more, until he told her to stop.
Was it relief she felt, or disappointment? She could feel a climax not far off, something body-consuming that would tear through her in a way she’d never felt before. Pulling her fingers out of her ass, she waited for more instructions.
“Sit up.”
She obeyed, holding her soiled hand gingerly in the palm of the other, looking up her trainer’s jeans and shirt to find his eyes drilling her from above.
“nan will direct you to the shower where I want you to shave yourself, all the body hair from your neck down.”
The idea intrigued her, making her hot pussy spasm sharply. She understood the task, knowing the focus was on her pubis where she’d kept her soft red bush trimmed but never shaved. She’d never bothered to use the razor beyond the neat triangle that highlighted her Venus mound.
“Clean and smooth. Not a trace of hair. Not around your pussy or your anus. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When you’re finished, you’ll return to this room.”
Dismissing her by turning his back, he’d seemed to have had enough of her for the time being. And still nurtured by the wondrous sensations of humility, Emily scrambled to her feet, being surprised to see the maid who’d attended her earlier standing to one side of the door. She must be nan, Emily thought to herself as she followed the woman into the hallway and through the back of the house to the maid’s stairs, which led downward to the servant’s quarters in the basement.
***
Emily’s labia felt like a washed peach: smooth and sensuously tactile. They would be lacking only in taste and smell, for now she was freshly washed, smelling of the pleasant soap she’d been given to accomplish her task.
She was again in Dylan Kincaid’s receiving room—the only name she could come up with to describe the elegant space. The antique desk was not the kind used in offices or studies, and except for the tall single tier of shelves, there was nothing to suggest that this was his library. It was simply a gentleman’s room, nothing softened by flowers or the niceties that women would use to decorate their favorite places. Despite its innocuous appearance, however, Emily imagined that there was more to the room than she first suspected. After all, how many men keep jars of cream hidden in drawers for anal penetration? She wondered what other devices or curiosities were concealed inside the cabinets and closets. Were there whips and dildos, riding crops and paddles? Her mind wandered as she searched the room more closely. In the brief interim before her trainer returned, Emily was alone to muse as she pleased, create all the fantasy her heart desired and contemplate the titillating possibilities the room might eventually reveal.
“Ah, that was quick!” she heard Dylan Kincaid speak as he strode purposefully into the room.
Just hearing his voice, her body warmed, “Yes, sir?”
“And let me see the results,” he said brusquely as he moved in front of her.
Emily started to lift her skirt.
“No, no, no,” he stopped her. “Take it off. In fact, take off all of your clothes. I’d like to see all of what I have to work with.”
Fright again. And embarrassment. Another flushed face and hot cheeks. She felt like a piece of her modeling clay, shaped and reshaped by his ingenious plans. Yet, his request once again shook her dubious calm, and rocked her sexual insides with promise.
As Emily hesitated, her trainer stood before her, circumspect and unruffled—though with a trace of impatience beginning to show on his brow. Perhaps he had other things to do and didn’t have time to wait for her to gather up her courage. Seeing that hint of irritation, Emily worked fast, undoing the buttons on her blouse and unzipping the skirt she’d just put on. Her face reddened brightly, growing more heated the more she stripped her clothes away. And though her eyes were wet with tears—these were tears of unspeakable exhilaration, a strange sort of wild joy. She turned her head from him with her embarrassment so profound. Here she’d already probed her ass before the man. Could this be worse?
Unbelievable moments seemed to be piling on one after the other…could she take more?
Stripped. Naked. Unveiled for who she was and had become. Her pussy was denuded of its natural hair, now pink and freshly scrubbed, childlike, though she was no child but a womanly slave humbled for the task of being trained.
Dylan probed her now aggressively, making crude demands of her body: parting her ass cheeks, sliding fingers in her ass and cunt, poking them as far as his fingers could reach. Her crotch went mad. Moving upwards, he massaged her ass, her upper thighs, the sensitive joining of her torso to her legs. He mauled her breasts, sharply snapping her nipples between his fingers, pulling them and letting go.
He ran his hand through her sandy red hair, jerked it roughly so she nearly shrieked, then probed her mouth.
He backed off at last, “Bend over and spread your cheeks for me.” His voice turned gruff and chilling.
The trainer inspected her shaved anus, looking for stubble and finding none. He smacked an ass cheek, “Stand up and let me see your pussy lips!” How cold!
Her heart beat on excitedly as she quickly obeyed, making an obscene show of her naked pubic cleft where there was not one speck of hair—no more stubble here than there was around her anus. Though Dylan Kincaid had already inspected her thoroughly, she understood this lewd twist as a way to distance herself from him. She was a slave, property and nothing more. The reality of her choice for slavery was becoming more real every moment she walked the peculiar path of her desire.
“That’s all I need to see,” he finally said. “Get dressed. I’ll see you tomorrow at the same time.”
She looked back at him stunned; but her tears were real and so too her embarrassment. She practically ran from the room and the house as if she were escaping a savage compulsion erupting heedlessly within her.
***
On Dylan Kincaid’s instructions, Emily returned every day for additional training—all with the same specific goal in mind outlined clearly by her husband and her master. He gave he
r just enough coin to make the trip across town and back, with thirty-five cents extra in case she needed to phone him. This was em’s slave adventure—a time for herself out of the normal routine of life, distanced from everything she knew, quiet, contemplative and surrendering.
Her next training session was as profound as the first and the humiliation as acute. Dylan Kincaid received her in the same formal room, making her stand in front of him while he spent some moments in conversation on the phone. When he was finished, his eyes glanced over her body in the same circumspect way he had the day before, and when he was finished, he finally ordered her in a grim monotone, “Remove your clothes.”
She didn’t hesitate this time, but scrambled out of them quickly, doffing the skirt, blouse and bra with the ease of an experienced slave. There were no panties covering her shaved pubis.
“Come here,” he motioned her to him, as he took a seat in the leather chair behind him. His moves were swift, his grip on her steady. In seconds, she was over his lap like a child about to be spanked. For all she knew, she would feel the palm of his hand connecting with her ass. “nan!” he called for his maid, who must have been just outside the door. She bustled in.
“Sir?”
“My tray of probes, please.”
The gentle maid with the kind voice and the buxom build hastened to the far side of the room, through a simple door, and returned just seconds later with the requested tray in hand.
Emily could see little from her position over her trainer’s lap. She twisted slightly to get a better view, only to have the man soundly smack her left ass cheek.
Placing the tray of probes at his side, nan stood waiting for another instruction, and finally asked, “May I be excused, sir.”
“No. I want you here,” he answered without explaining.
Emily felt her trainer’s hand probing her nether regions between her cheeks, seeking the tautly secured aperture in order to pry it wide. He began with his fingers first, massaging cream to soothe the puckering bud. Yet, it seemed her efforts the day before had no lasting effect; the hole was as tight and impenetrable as it had been when she made her first attempt to breach it. Dylan Kincaid was hardly daunted. He reached for a second substance to lubricate and loosen the tight muscles.
His Latest Acquisition Page 9