Message-ID: <54149asstr$1151817001@assm.asstr.org>
From: lesevan@attglobal.net
Subject: {ASSM} REV Training Allie part 1 {Les Evans} (Mf cons reluct rom oral anal mdom 1st fsolo inc bd sm spank slave slow) [1/2]
Lines: 2622
Date: Sun, 02 Jul 2006 01:10:01 -0400
Path: assm.asstr.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


 

<1st attachment, "Allie1.txt" begin>



Training Allie part 1, revised and extended {Les Evans} (Mf 
cons reluct rom oral anal mdom 1st fsolo inc bd sm spank 
slave slow) [1/2]

"Training Allie" was originally posted as "Allie."

Consider "The Story of O" and "9-1/2 Weeks." This story is 
an exploration of the question: why would any woman consent 
to persist in a relationship that, by any standard, would 
be considered abusive? There are many possible answers, 
each of which could be the basis for other stories. I hope 
that "Allie" presents one answer.

Introduction to Chapters 1-11:

This fantasy has been living in my head for a year, and it 
was time to let it out so maybe it would stop bothering me. 
It concerns the lengthy seduction of a stepdaughter by her 
stepfather. 

The phenomenon of 'false memory' is real, and there is a 
real article in "Scientific American" on the subject 
(Scientific American September, 1997, volume 277, number 3, 
pages 70-75). A Google search for "scientific american 
false memory" should pick it up. In any case, I commend it 
to the attention of other authors, particularly in the MC 
genre, because I haven't exploited it to the full.

If you're looking for a stroke story, this probably isn't 
it. All places, events, and persons (including the author) 
are fictitious.

Acknowledgements: The single best example of intentionally 
bad writing I know of, from Penelope Ashe. The idea of the 
notebooks comes directly from "Second Best," by Thinking 
Horndog. A line from "Guns of Navarone," by Alistair 
MacLean. The yoga lesson, from a yoga book by Jean Couch. 
Long after I wrote this, I realized that much of the 
"training" theme was inspired by "Owning Mother and 
Daughter" by Pedro Vila.

Other influences will be obvious to those who spend too 
much time reading this sort of thing. Thanks to all.

Chapter 1: The Perils of Prevarication

Jane Adams was my first wife, and I was her second husband. 
She had been widowed several years earlier by a drunk 
driver, leaving her with an 8-year old daughter to raise on 
her own. She stood up to the challenge, and did her best 
after her own lights, which is as much as anyone can ask of 
a parent. We met in the line of work, found that we hit it 
off, and in due course we decided to marry. After the 
wedding ceremony, which was not memorable to any one not 
directly involved, I moved in with them. Work it out: she 
had a house that had already accommodated a married couple 
with child, and, while I was very well off from my work in 
technical training, I had up to then chosen to stick with a 
bachelor pad. The three of us worked into a comfortable 
household. Jane had traditional views, and changed her last 
name, and her daughter's, to mine (Kennedy, if it matters). 

Of my relationship with Jane and her daughter at the time, 
the only element that is germane to this story is that Jane 
had firm and non-negotiable ideas about how her daughter 
should be raised: Catholic/parochial girls' schools, and no 
dating until college. That wasn't right to my way of 
thinking, but Allison wasn't my daughter, and I didn't get 
to vote on it. I'll spare you any stories about sexual 
activities between her daughter Allison (/never/ "Allie") 
and myself as Allison grew up, simply because they didn't 
happen. I did what I could to help with Allison's school 
courses, tried to provide when asked whatever passes for 
wise advice to an adolescent of any gender, be a provider, 
and be a model of the male role. In Jane's mind, the male 
role included the exercise of discipline, on the extremely 
rare occasions that Allison's usually-exemplary behavior 
warranted it. In time, Allison accepted me as Father, 
Version 2.0, and called me "daddy," and no, it didn't give 
me any special charge. When it became clear that the now-
teenage Allison was beginning to chafe under the "no 
dating" rule, it was made clear that that was Jane's rule, 
and that was that. 

Not that my prick didn't scent Allison from time to time. 
Allison had bloomed into a beautiful specimen of the 
feminine gender. But Jane was a good wife--she'd had years 
of practice in a previous successful relationship, after 
all. Some say that the way to a man's heart is through his 
stomach, or his balls. Jane kept both of those avenues well 
serviced. Some say that the way to keep a man faithful is 
to keep him happy, and tired. She ensured that I was both. 

Then, near the end of Allison's junior year at Saint 
Virginia High School, the universe of drunk drivers visited 
again, and took Jane from us. In a paradoxical way, Allison 
took it better than I did, perhaps because it had happened 
to her before, and she had learned how to cope, a little. 
We were both damaged--there's no other word for it. No, it 
didn't "drive us together," and I didn't see her step in to 
be "the woman of the house."  After a month or so we began 
to return to something like normalcy in our reduced 
household, and we redistributed the chores between the two 
of us.

When the mourning period had passed, I became aware that 
Allison was restless. I had been around her for more than 
several years now, after all, and I'd have to be denser 
than a brick not to pick up on her moods, at least a little 
bit. And I could guess the cause: she was approaching the 
end of her junior year of high school, and she wanted to 
date. Her hormones were undeniably active, witness her 
enchanting growth, and I suspected that she felt that after 
her senior year, she'd be an "old maid." I also suspected 
that she felt that she had a window of opportunity to 
appeal the "no dating" rule that her mother had enforced. 
In any case, I knew enough about parenting not to offer 
advice until it was demanded. 

Consequently, it was no great surprise when, one Friday 
evening, in fact, the day she finished her junior year, 
Allison came up to the doorway of the study/office of the 
master bedroom suite and made it clear that she wanted an 
audience. She was still in her school uniform from the day. 
I was sitting at my desk, and she stood across from me.

"Um, daddy, I'd like to talk to you about switching schools 
next year."

"Oh? Where to, and why?"

She had clearly rehearsed this speech in her mind. "I'd 
like to switch to Central High." (the local public high 
school) "I think I'd get a better science education there, 
in prep for going to college. The Sisters at SV" (local 
speak for "Saint Virginia") "don't have the science labs to 
give what it takes to prepare us for the best schools." She 
stopped. End of prepared speech. In her mind, the next 
thing that happens is that daddy agrees.

I regarded her. The silence dragged on, her gaze wavered, 
and she began to shift from one foot to the other. I began 
to show anger.

"Young lady, the last time I visited them, the science labs 
at Saint Virginia appeared entirely up to snuff, and I know 
something about the subject. I don't know why you want to 
switch schools, but it has nothing to do with science labs. 
You're lying to me, Allison, and I don't take kindly to 
being lied to." She went pale. 

I made a show of restraining my mounting anger. "I'll offer 
you a choice. I can punish you for your lying, after which 
we can start this discussion over again, without prejudice, 
but with no promises on my decision one way or the other. 
Or, you can avoid the punishment, but go to Saint Virginia 
again next year, no appeals. What is your decision?" 

This was clearly not the way she expected or wanted the 
discussion to go. "W-what punishment do--"

I practically frothed, spittle flying. "Stop! This is not a 
negotiation! Which is it--punishment, without knowing what 
it will be, but with a chance to present your case again, 
or Saint Virginia next year?"

Four or five deep breaths on her part, with delightful 
effects upon the front of her white oxford-cloth Catholic 
school blouse. A final shuddering inhalation: 
"Punish...punishment."

I made it look as though I was trying to get a grip on 
myself. "Very well. You will receive a bare-bottom 
spanking, as is just for such an infantile stunt." 

"But, I'm too old to--"

I slammed the flat of my hand down on the desktop. 
"Silence!" She flinched. "Once again, which is it?"

Another delightful deep breath. "I'm sorry. P-punish me for 
lying to you, daddy. I want to try again to talk about the 
schools."

I let time pass while I watched her discomfort. I found the 
situation too delicious to rush it. I had spanked Allison 
in the past, but it had been years. Back then, she'd been a 
preteen with the genderless bottom of that age. Now, she 
was a blossoming woman. Oh, goody! Oh, woody! 

"Very well, young lady. Over my lap." I'm left-handed, so I 
had her approach around the desk from my left. As I wear my 
wrist watch on my left wrist, I took it off; I remembered 
the bruises it could cause--to me, not to her. She knelt 
down and draped herself over my lap, left to right. The 
sensation of her young breasts on the outside of my right 
thigh was electric. I told her to give me her left wrist, 
which I twisted up between her shoulder blades with my 
right hand to control her struggles, and used my left to 
sweep her plaid school skirt up, tuck it into her 
waistband, and sweep her panties down. She was already 
whimpering. 

No time like the present, so I laid into her with all I 
had. When I spank, it hurts everyone involved. Somewhere in 
the back of my mind I was reminded of the old line "This 
hurts me more that it does you." While my hand began to 
smart and swell from the blows I was inflicting, I doubt 
that the old line held in this case: she was rapidly 
reduced to blubbering mush. I don't know how many times I 
struck, but her rump glowed by the time I was unable to 
continue. Frankly, I stopped because the squirming she was 
doing over my lap would have made me come in my pants with 
one more strike, which would not have helped the image I 
was working on. I heard wailing coming from the vicinity of 
my right ankle. My hand would be swollen for several hours. 
Her ass would be red/purple for several days. I thought 
that was fair.

"All right, young lady. Up." I released her wrist, and she 
sobbed to her feet, panties still around her knees, skirt 
still tucked up. "Leave your clothing as it is. Go put your 
nose right in that corner," I pointed, "and stay there 
until I call you." Her face was flushed red, from her head 
having been lower than her body when she was bent over my 
lap, but also from her crying, and from the humiliation of 
the situation. With the tears still streaming, she wiped 
her nose on her wrist, looked at me for a moment through 
swimming eyes, then shuffled as best she could to the 
indicated corner of the room and pressed her nose firmly 
into the plaster. I swear that I could have turned off the 
lights and read a newspaper by the light given off by that 
glowing ass.

I left the room, and spent half an hour in the kitchen with 
my left hand in ice, drinking a Scotch-rocks with my right, 
and thinking about how I wanted the conversation to go, 
before I refreshed my drink and returned to the study off 
the master suite. I switched the icy Scotch tumbler to my 
left hand to continue my treatment. She was exactly where I 
had left her, and her sobbing had subsided to the 
occasional sniffle. I went back to my desk. It was a power 
dynamic, right? The person sitting at a desk has rank on 
the person standing in front of it--think about the last 
time you were in your boss's office. She heard me come in, 
but didn't move. I sat, and waited, watching her bottom.

"Very well, Allison, turn around and put your clothes back 
together." She turned around, unaware that she was giving 
me a breathtaking show, and made a delightful shimmy to get 
the panties back in place. It wouldn't have surprised me 
that she'd rather have avoided the contact of even the 
wispy nylon with her burning rump. She pulled the hem of 
her skirt out of the waistband. "Blow your nose." She did, 
and wound up standing in front of my desk again. "You have 
taken your punishment, and I'll say no more about it. You 
wanted to make a case for switching to Central High. We 
both know that the issue at hand has nothing to do with 
science labs. What does Central have that Saint Virginia 
doesn't?"

She gave me another look, then it all rushed out. "Boys! I 
want to date! Please, daddy...?" and she ran out of steam. 
Well, duh.

I decided that it was time to alter the dynamic of the 
situation. The master suite had a small wet bar. "Allison, 
pour yourself a glass of sherry and join me on the couch." 
Jane and I had let Allison drink a glass of wine with us at 
dinner from time to time. I watched as she poured herself a 
rather full glass, probably thinking sherry was like wine, 
right? I didn't say anything. She came over to the couch, 
put her glass down on the end table, and sat down, v.e.r.y 
carefully. I sipped my Scotch and waited until she nibbled 
her sherry.

"You want to date." It wasn't a question, but she nodded, 
staring at the surface of her sherry as though it held 
answers. Perhaps it did. "So if I had agreed to let you go 
to Central next year, and later you'd asked to date and I 
said 'no,' you'd have accomplished nothing." Another nod, 
and a shuddering sigh.

"Let me draw you a picture, figuratively speaking. If you 
went to Central, you would walk into a social situation as 
a senior where the other boys and girls would have been 
dating for two or three years, and some of them fucking for 
one or two years." Her head whipped around as though I'd 
slapped her. Profanity wasn't often heard under this roof. 
"Look, that's what they'll be talking about at Central, and 
what they'll be calling it. Get over it. The girls will 
have been honing their skills in the dating game for 
several years, and the boys will have expectations about 
what a girl will do on the first date, and the second, and 
so on." She took a bite of her sherry. The level in her 
glass was dropping nicely. I was in full-lecture mode.

"How would you survive, let alone compete? For example, to 
have that hunky guy in your senior physics class ask you 
out, he has to notice you, and think maybe you'll be worth 
his time, more than the girls he's been dating for several 
years. What have the good Sisters taught you about 
attracting male attention?" That got a little rueful smile 
from her. "Then suppose you somehow got a first date. Maybe 
you sink to asking him out. High school boys want one 
thing--sex. It may be your prerogative to meter out the rate 
and kind that you give, but that's what they're after. 
Maybe a kiss at the end of the first date, a grope on the 
second, and so on. If they don't think they're going to get 
what they're looking for, you'll wind up sitting at home on 
Friday nights, and again, you'd have accomplished nothing 
by switching schools. Suppose it's the end of the first 
date, and he tries to French kiss you--if you flinch and 
giggle, the word will be all over school in 30 seconds: 
'Allison Kennedy is a baby, don't waste your time.'" Her 
glass was nearly empty.

"At the other end of the problem, let's assume that you 
develop the skills need to get a boy interested in you, and 
yes, I mean sexually interested. He's going to be doing 
things that will get you 'interested' too. What practice do 
you have in controlling yourself when your hormones get 
flowing? Because without those skills, without that 
practice, your body will take over on autopilot, and you 
could wind up fucking in the back seat of some guy's car, 
just because he kissed your earlobe or something." 
Unconsciously, her hand stole up to her ear. Her glass was 
empty. Time for the close.

"I'll summarize. First, you don't know how to get noticed." 
I ticked the points off on my fingers. 

"Second, you don't have the skills to keep a guy aroused 
and interested and wanting more. Why do you care? Because 
in order for him to get 'more,' he's got to ask you out 
again, and that's what /you're/ after, right? Not just a 
first date, but something ongoing, a relationship? For 
which, you've got to be better at those skills than the 
next girl."  

Her body language said that she felt like she was being 
pounded into the ground like a tent peg, each of my points 
like the blow of a mallet on the top of her head. Exactly 
the reaction I wanted.

"Third, you don't know what that 'more' would be, how to 
offer and control the progression of increasingly arousing 
activities, activities that the girls at Central have been 
practicing for several years now."

Pound.

"Fourth, once you've got him aroused, you don't have the 
skills to satisfy him or yourself without intercourse, 
because you don't know what the alternatives are to 
fucking. And without those alternatives, you either fuck, 
or you wind up frustrated, both him and yourself, which is 
not the path to happiness." 

Pound.

"And finally, you don't have the skills or training to keep 
control of yourself when he arouses you. All of this thanks 
to the good Sisters at Saint Virginia."

Pound

"Have I missed anything?"

Another long silence. She had not raised her eyes from her 
empty glass. A single tear ran down the side of her nose. 
"No, daddy, that's about it. I'll forget about Central." 
She made as though to get up.

"Allison," I said kindly, "just a moment. Let's ignore 
Central for a second. What happens the year after, when you 
go to The College Of Your Choice? Do you think the 
situation will be any better? On the contrary, everyone 
else will have had yet another year of practice. Sending 
you off to college in your current state brings to mind the 
phrase 'a lamb to the slaughter.'" Her eyes were open but 
vacant, seeing I suppose some vision of Hell.

"Look, you're going at this all wrong. This is about skills 
and training and practice, and I know a thing or two about 
training. You finished your junior year today, and have a 
summer ahead of you with no major demands on your time, 
right? I'll give you a chance, if you're willing to work 
for it." She looked up, for the first time in several 
minutes. "I'll work with you to teach the skills you'll 
need. It will take a lot of time, a lot of energy, and a 
lot of focus on your part and mine, and it will involve a 
fair amount of discomfort from time to time, both physical 
discomfort and embarrassment, because you'll be learning to 
do new things you've never done before, and before you can 
make progress you'll need to get over some of the nonsense 
that the good Sisters have been pouring into your head." 
She bristled at this. As much as she wanted out of Saint 
Virginia, they and their kind had built her entire belief 
system for her whole life. Well, we had a summer to work on 
that. A man such as myself could accomplish much in three 
months. "But if, by the end of the summer, you demonstrate 
to me that you've learned all the essential skills, I'll 
switch your registration to Central High and you'll have 
permission to date, if you still want to. Otherwise, Saint 
Virginia next year. It's up to you."

She mulled it over for a long time, maybe three seconds. It 
meant giving up her free time for the summer. And there was 
this worrisome note about "discomfort." But it was the only 
path to what she'd asked for. "OK, daddy. I appreciate it. 
And I'll work hard, honest. Sign me up."

"Very well, Allison. I'll spend some time putting together 
a lesson plan. Come up to the study here after lunch 
tomorrow and we'll get started." She carefully got up and 
walked unsteadily toward the door, having to correct her 
course in mid-flight, as it were. The sherry had hit her 
pretty hard.

Chapter 2: Cats and Dogs

The next day was Saturday. We each had our own errands to 
run in the morning, and finally crossed paths when we wound 
up in the kitchen, each of us foraging for sandwich 
makings. We sat at the kitchen table, munching. She, of 
course, sat carefully. We adjourned to the study.

"OK, daddy, where do we start?"

I looked down at the lesson plan I'd put together. "Well, 
I've blocked out the skills you'll need to demonstrate this 
summer, and the order in which they need to be learned, 
which is more or less the order that you'd need to use them 
in a sequence of dates over a period of months. After 
you've had some time to learn and practice a skill, I'll 
test you on it. The most appropriate method of testing a 
skill mimics the conditions under which you'd use the 
skill." She looked blank. "You need these skills for 
dating, right? We'll go out on a 'date,' you and I, every 
week or so. I'll take the part of your 'boyfriend,' and 
you'll need to show that you can use the skills appropriate 
to that stage of a relationship under simulated 'live 
fire.' Who knows, you might even enjoy the date.  They'd 
probably be rather more classy affairs than the pizza and a 
movie you'd likely get from a high school boy on an 
allowance, but that's not all bad."  I laid just a little 
disparaging emphasis on "boy." It seemed to me that it 
wasn't too early to start setting her expectations. I had 
my own agenda here. All work and no play, after all.

"So, what's first?"

"Unfortunately, several things. There are three skills that 
need to be second nature, things that you do without 
thinking. I want to get you started on all three today, 
because it will take time for them to become natural, and 
you'll work on them all summer. 

"The first skill is managing your posture. You want to 
date, which means that you need to have a first date, which 
means that you need to get noticed. How are you going to 
get a high school boy to notice you from across the room? 
By giving a particularly intelligent answer in calculus 
class?" I snorted, and she giggled, then looked down at her 
chest, and back at me with a question in her eyes. "Right, 
if he notices you, it will be because he notices your body. 
So how do you stand out in a field of other senior girls? 
By using what you've got to best advantage, and not hiding 
it in a teenage slouch." 

She squared her shoulders a bit. "That's the general idea, 
and you can do much better with training. There are four 
exercises in this group. And remember, this has to be 
something you do without thinking, a part of how you carry 
yourself, without even realizing it, whether you think 
someone is looking at you or not. We'll begin with a little 
yoga, for which you are not appropriately dressed. I'd 
suggest that you go change into your swimsuit, and I'll 
make a space here on the carpet."

She returned in a few moments, wearing a modest one-piece. 
The bottom almost completely covered the bruises I had 
placed there the day before. I moved easily into my Trainer 
persona. I mean, it's what I do for a living, after all.  
"OK, the basis of posture is the pelvis. We'll begin with 
the 'dog tilt' and 'cat tilt' positions. The purpose of 
these exercises is to make you aware of the bone and muscle 
structure around the pelvis, to do some gentle stretching 
of the lower back, and to strengthen the muscles of the 
abdomen.

"Get down on your hands and knees and make yourself into a 
table, one hand directly below each shoulder, one knee 
directly below each hip. When I say 'cat tilt', you need to 
do several things at the same time: exhale, arch your back 
like an angry cat, let your head drop so that you're 
looking down through the space between your legs, and curl 
the bottom vertebrae of your spine as though you were 
trying to touch your pelvis to your nose. Cat tilt." She 
did nicely. I prompted, "Don't clench your buttocks, hold 
the position with your tummy muscles only. Squeeze every 
particle of air out of your lungs. Curl the spine more. 
Hold it." I put my hands on her belly and at the base of 
her spine and helped her refine the position. I wanted to 
get her used to my touch. 

"Now relax" and she dropped back into the neutral position, 
inhaling. "Good. The 'dog tilt' is exactly the opposite: 
when I say 'dog tilt', inhale, raise your head to look 
forward, open your chest, let your upper spine hang from 
your shoulders, and swing the base of your spine back and 
up. Dog tilt. Good, rump up, inhale more, pull all of the 
air in the room into your lungs until they can stretch no 
more." I positioned one hand on each of her hips and made 
some adjustments. "Good. Good. Hold it. Now...'cat tilt.'" 

We spend 20 minutes on those poses until I was sure she had 
learned them. She'd worked up a light sweat. "You'll do 
those poses every morning and afternoon for five minutes. 
I've put it on your copy of the homework list.

"With that as a basis, the next exercises will be a little 
easier. Stand up in front of the full-length mirror here. 
We're concerned with both sitting and standing posture, and 
we'll start with standing. Slouch for me. What's that 
position?"

She looked up, puzzled, then her expression cleared. "Oh, 
'cat tilt!', sort of."

"Right. And what's it look like?"

She smiled. "Not much."

"Right. Now, 'dog tilt.'" She did, and her breasts came out 
from wherever the had gone and rose proudly on her chest. 
"Nice, huh?"

She admired herself, then frowned. "But it makes my bottom 
stick out and my tummy bulge!"

"Excellent! No dummy, you! Think of your pelvis as a bowl 
of spaghetti: if you tip it, all the contents run to the 
front and try to flow over the edge. So here's the final 
pose: from the middle of the spine up, 'dog tilt,' and for 
the pelvis, 'cat tilt.' Remember, curl the base of your 
spine. Pull your pubis up into your navel. That's called 
the 'mountain pose,' if it matters." It took her a moment 
to make the neural connections, but she got it right. 

"Oh, wow. That flattens my tummy, and raises my, uh, 
bosom."

"Allison, if you use that vocabulary at Central, you'll be 
laughed all the way back to grade school. The boys will 
call them tits, or jugs, or hooters, or boobs, or bazooms, 
or lungs, or knockers, your rack, or two dozen other terms 
you'll pick up in time. But dear, 'bosom' went out with 
Queen Victoria."

She blushed, a charming sight. "OK, it raises my...tits."

"Very good. We'll work on your anatomical vocabulary as we 
go. Now for sitting posture. It's almost the same, except 
that the 'cat tilt' is hard to maintain while sitting. So 
sit on the couch and do a full 'dog tilt.'" She sat, and 
flinched. "Delightful. Sit on the front half of the seat--
your back should never touch the back of a chair. Yes, I 
know your bottom is still sore. Your back should be very 
straight. Think of a hook descending from the ceiling and 
pulling your head and spine into a column. 'Sit tall.' 
Perfect. You'll consciously work on sitting and standing 
posture for ten minutes every morning and afternoon. The 
muscle-awareness of what good posture feels like should 
trigger the sensation that 'something's wrong' if you let 
it slip. That completes the first two exercises, on pelvic 
and spinal control, sitting and standing. Any questions?"

"No, dad. But you sound an awful lot like you're delivering 
a class in database design, or something." 

We shared a laugh. "Sorry, baby. Old habits die hard. Now, 
the third exercise on posture. Here, have a look at this." 
I showed her a Victoria's Secret catalog. "Now that you've 
started to think about posture, look at the models. What do 
you notice about their elbows?"

That one really threw her. Here she was, confronted with 
dozens of images of flesh and nylon, and impossibly 
perfect, well, bosoms, and I wanted her to look at 
/elbows/?

"Uh, oh I see, they're all holding their elbows back."

"Right, so we have the third exercise, to strengthen the 
muscles of your upper back, and to reinforce the 'dog tilt' 
posture of the upper spine." I took out a length of 
broomstick I had cut and steered her over to a spot about 
three feet from the wall. "Now, this is sort of a Zen 
thing. I'm going to give you an instruction that is 
manifestly impossible to do. Don't let that worry you. But 
I do expect you to sweat bullets trying to do it anyhow. 
Understood?"

"I...guess so."

"That's my trooper. OK, here's how this one goes. Stand 
here, proper standing posture, 'dog tilt' above and 'cat 
tilt' below, about three feet from the wall. I want you to 
pull your elbows back, as though you were trying to make 
them touch behind your back. Now, I'll slide this 
broomstick horizontally behind your back--hold it there with 
the crook of your elbows. Got it? Good. Now for the 
exercise. Keep your heels flat on the floor, and look up to 
the place where the wall in front of you meets the ceiling. 
Here we go. Look at that seam between wall and ceiling. I 
want you to touch that seam with your nipples."

She turned and goggled at me. "Remember what I said? I 
don't expect you to succeed, but I do expect you to try 
very, very hard."

"Oh. Uh, ok."

It was magical to watch. Her tits rose another impossible 
inch, and her whole posture fell into line. "Right, keep 
that 'cat tilt' going. I'll be back in a few minutes." And 
I left her to it.

Ten minutes later, I returned. She was again sweating 
lightly from the exertion, even though she was motionless. 
Kind of an isometric exercise. "Don't change your position, 
and tell me about your sensations. What's your body saying 
to you?"

"I'm getting sore between my shoulder blades. My rib cage 
feels like it's expanded. I can feel the muscles in my 
tummy pulling up on my pelvis."

"Terrific! Damn, you're good! Now, relax." She positively 
wilted with relief. I took the broomstick from her. "Those 
are the sensations that tell you that your posture is 
perfect. If ever you /don't/ feel like that, something's 
wrong. You'll do that exercise for five minutes every 
morning and every afternoon, just to remind your muscles of 
what they should feel like. It's on your copy of the 
homework list. Here's some water. Only one more exercise in 
this set, baby, and we'll take a break, OK?"

"Sure. I'm getting tired."

"I don't wonder. Fortunately, the last exercise is more 
mental than physical. I need you to do some mental imaging. 
Close your eyes. Remember when you worked at the library 
last year? I saw you pushing around some heavy carts of 
books. Whenever you went through a doorway, the cart went 
first, and you followed it into the room. Got that image? 
Make a mental movie of it. Feel it in your muscles. Now, in 
the movie, it's not a cart of books, but your tits that 
you're pushing. Heavy, and way out in front of you. They 
enter the room first, the rest of you follows along. Play 
that movie."

Eyes closed, she got an embarrassed little smile. "I see 
it."

"Here's another image. Two famous and powerful people are 
walking briskly down a corridor, side by side, trailed by 
short female assistant behind and between them. She almost 
has to jog to keep up. At the end of the corridor, they 
sweep into a room. Everyone pays attention to the famous 
people, who are imposing and handsome, while mousy little 
secretary behind and between them is ignored and almost 
invisible. Got it?"

Another smile. "I think I know where this one is going."

"Of course. Nobody said you were slow. Ok, now alter the 
image. The famous people are your jugs. Their faces are 
your nipples. The little office girl is the rest of 
Allison. In your mind, play a movie of the three of you 
entering that room."

"Not good for the self-esteem."

"Aw, don't start. If it bugs you, remember that the three 
of you have to work together. Or come up with your own 
movie, the exact image doesn't matter. Now, enough for one 
session. You're off for the rest of the afternoon. Take it 
easy and relax. Be conscious of your posture, and every 
time you go through a doorway, lead with your chest. I'll 
see you at dinner."

"Thanks, dad. Whew, what a workout." She followed her 
nipples out of the room.

I smiled. Things were starting well.

Chapter 3: Arousal and Relief

It was my night to make dinner, and I did some simple fish 
thing. Allison had changed from her swimsuit into a spring 
dress. I gave her one, ONE, glass of wine with dinner, not 
enough to get her tipsy. After we cleaned up the kitchen, 
we adjourned to the living room. It was still pretty early.

"All right, Allison, this afternoon you learned some skills 
that should help you get noticed, help you get first dates 
with guys in your classes. What happens at the end of the 
first date?"

"He brings me home?"

"Well, we can hope so. And you're standing on your 
doorstep. What does he expect?"

"Oh. The goodnight kiss."

"Right. Without which, will there be a second date?"

"Probably not."

"So here we have another essential skill, and we're going 
to spend the next hour on it."

I turned down the lights, and we did, delightfully. We had 
to get beyond the peck on the cheek, and the tongue thing, 
but after twenty minutes or so she really started to get 
into it. I won't claim to be an Olympic Medallist in 
kissing, but she didn't have much to compare me with. The 
smell of feminine musk became noticeable, and she wasn't 
paying a lot of attention to where I was putting my hands. 
At the end of the hour, I broke the clinch, and waited for 
our breathing to return to normal.

"Oh, daddy, I never knew..."

"Allison, you're a gifted student and a delightful lab 
partner." She blushed. "We'll do a lot of that this summer. 
But you remember what I said about needing to deal with 
your own arousal, so you wouldn't lose track of what was 
going on and do something you'd regret? Look down at your 
dress."

"Aack! Daddy, you...." And she hurriedly buttoned up, and 
pulled down the hem of her dress. Her blush, impossibly, 
had become deeper.

"Right. Have I made my case?"

"Yes, but geez, daddy, you shouldn't be touching my..." she 
paused, searching for another word "...knockers. You're my 
stepfather!"

"We'll talk a lot about relationships and their limits this 
summer, Allison. But I had to shock you, because if you 
didn't believe in the power of your hormones, you wouldn't 
do what had to be done to deal with them."

"OK, OK, I'm shocked. I believe. But geez. So what is this 
magic antidote? Cold showers?"

I smiled. "Nope, just the opposite. Cold showers sounds 
like 'mortification of the flesh,' good Catholic doctrine, 
but not very good for relationship management or mental 
health, And not effective in the long run. No, the strategy 
here is to permit yourself to be aroused, knowing that you 
can release the frustration at a time and place of your own 
choosing."

"That sounds suspiciously like, well, masturbation." She 
made it four distinct syllables, and it was clear that each 
of the four distinct syllables of the word tasted bad on 
her tongue.

"Yes, Allison, that's..."

"But the Sisters say that's a sin! Touching yourself 'down 
there' is self-abuse, it makes you want to have sex, it...!"

"Allison, down!" She stopped, and deflated. "Let me show 
you why the good Sisters have it all backwards. The object 
of the exercise here is to /avoid/ intercourse, not to pave 
the way to it." Well, that was half the truth. And maybe 
not all of a lie. "If you find yourself on a date feeling 
like you did a moment ago, thinking that if you don't do 
something you'll explode, with no relief in sight, isn't 
the natural impulse to "go all the way?" But if you know 
that you can provide yourself with relief in just a few 
minutes, isn't it more likely that you can use that to hold 
on to your principles just a little longer?"

"Well, if you put it that way."

"I do put it that way. And there's more." OK, the other 
half of the truth. "The time will come as a relationship 
develops that you will want your boyfriend, or lover, or 
husband to bring you to orgasm. The female body is a 
wonderful thing, because the more often a girl comes, the 
easier it is for her to come. Your lover will feel pleased 
and proud of himself if he can bring you off quickly. And 
you can make that easier for both of you by practicing your 
orgasm, frequently."

A tiny nod. She was mortified to be discussing this. Too 
bad. I told her she'd have that feeling when she signed up 
for this.

"Finally, 'playing with yourself' provides a good tool for 
evaluating possible relationships." I'd lost her again. 
"Look, you have fantasies, daydreams about guys, right?" 
More blushing, just visible in the dim light. "I'll take 
that as a 'yes.' You imagine different situations, 
sometimes he's a strong adventurer, sometimes a nurturing 
homebody, sometimes he sweeps you off your feet, sometimes 
he pursues you on bended knee...." An anatomical mixed 
metaphor there, I realized. Oh well. "You have the 
opportunity to find out whether a kind of relationship 
really lights your fire. If you find yourself masturbating 
with one particular image more often than others, that may 
be a sign that that's the kind of relationship you seek at 
that point in your life. You can 'try on' a lot of 
different relationships, keep the ones that work, discard 
the ones that don't, and no one needs to know. It's a lot 
cheaper than divorce."

"But..."

"Allison, masturbation is one of the essential skills you 
need to demonstrate to get to Central High. What's it to 
be?"

A long pause, stretching into minutes. She studied her lap. 
Then, very quietly, "OK, what do I do?"

I silently let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. 
That had been the Rubicon. After this, it would all be 
easier.

"Tonight, we'll go back to kissing. It should be obvious, 
but the rules of posture don't apply. Take off your 
panties--look, dammit, it's not as though I didn't get well 
acquainted with that end of you yesterday!" She remembered 
the spanking with chagrin, and swallowed her objection. 
"When you begin to feel aroused, go ahead and touch 
yourself in any way that feels good. And I'll offer 
direction as best I can. I'm just a guy, but I have some 
experience with female anatomy."

"OK, but don't look."

"Oh, come on. How can I tell you how to get better if I 
can't see what you're doing?"

"Humph."

And then we were back at the kissing game, in each other's 
arms. Actually, she was in my arms. After a little while, 
hers were otherwise occupied. 

"Allison." Her head came up and she tried to focus. "Eyes 
open. You'll want to watch your lover, and he will want to 
watch you. Don't close your eyes." After that I didn't 
really need to do much to help things along, the occasional 
caress, a word of direction now and then, a kiss on an 
earlobe, and in a while she was bucking and shuddering 
against me. And she dissolved into tears. Good, I thought, 
almost certainly her first orgasm, looking into my face, 
and with my arms around her, with my hands on her skin. If 
there's anything to "imprinting," we should be well on our 
way.

"Shh, baby, wasn't that good?"

Her reply was inaudible. Slowly she returned to reality, 
and pulled down her dress. "I...need to pee." 

"Of course, baby. But come back."

She reappeared in a few minutes. It looked as though she'd 
splashed some water on her face. "Allison, look at me." She 
dragged her eyes up off the carpet, and I took her hands in 
mine and looked into her eyes. "You can't know how honored 
I am to have been here for that." A little half-smile from 
her. "You'll do that at least twice a day, once each day in 
front of me." Her eyes got wide, but I bulldozed ahead. "As 
I said, part of the value of masturbation is that it let's 
you 'try out' relationships. Here's a stack of stories, 
each of which is an example of some relationship." 
Wonderful thing, ASSTR.ORG. "Read one each time you play 
with yourself, and sort them into folders I'll give you--one 
each for 'Ugh!', or 'Nice', or 'Oh, wow!'" Over time, you 
may begin to see a pattern in the ones that light your 
fire. Review the folders now and then. Again, Allison, 
thank you. It's been a wonderful evening." And I meant it.

And so to bed. I had a date with my hand.

Chapter 4: Mutual of Omagawd

The next morning, Sunday, got going slowly. I was down in 
the kitchen working my way through a cup of coffee when 
Allison made her appearance, following her nipples into the 
room. Her posture was perfect. I wasn't sure, but I thought 
she looked a little flushed. In any case, she avoided my 
eyes.

"Allison." Finally she looked up. "Good morning, 
beautiful." I kissed her, at considerable length. If she 
wasn't flushed before, she was now.

"Good morning, dad." A shy smile.

I took her hands and brought them to my nose for a sniff. 
"Good girl." I'm sure she wanted the floor to open up and 
swallow her. "Now, none of that. You've done a beautiful 
thing. You had a lot to absorb yesterday, so nothing new 
today. Just keep up with the exercises in your homework 
list. We'll do a refresher this evening after dinner. 
Otherwise, go enjoy the day." 

That evening, after dinner was cleared, we went up to the 
study. I had her bring her sheaf of stories, and make 
herself comfortable on the couch, with a good reading 
light. I said, "OK, peel off a story and go ahead and 
'enjoy yourself.' I may coach from time to time, but 
otherwise I'm not here." This was a new situation for her. 
This morning, she had done the deed in the privacy of her 
room, and yesterday, it had been in the heat of the clinch. 
Now, she had to bring herself off, from a standing start, 
and with a watcher. I gave her a glass of sherry and went 
to my desk, pretending to work. The configuration of the 
room for this exercise was no accident: she was more-or-
less facing me. I wanted her looking at me as she came. 
After a moment of hesitation her eyes dropped to the page 
and she submerged herself in the story, this one with a 
strong theme of dominance and submission. I had taken care 
to ensure that her pile of stories had that theme well 
represented. A few pages into the story, she dipped her 
hand into her shorts and began stroking, and a bit later 
she laid down the story, closed her eyes, and began to work 
herself in earnest.

"Allison. Eyes open. Try pinching your nipples." She was 
far enough gone that she didn't try to respond verbally. 
The fantasy and her own manipulations took over again, and 
though her eyes were glazed, seeing god knows what, but 
they were open and pointed in my general direction. Good 
enough. A few minutes later she came, with something 
between a groan and a whimper. I let her recover, then 
said, "That was beautiful. Thank you." I gave her a 
thorough goodnight kiss, and sent her to her room with a 
"See you in the morning. Remember your exercises. And you 
have a date on Saturday. Some guy is going to take you to 
dinner and the Opera."

The next morning brought a new work week, and I did have to 
make a buck. I spent most of the day trying to nail down 
some training contracts with three potential clients. The 
bad news was that two of them took lower-priced bids from 
competitors, but hey, if you're never underbid, you're not 
charging enough. The good news was that the third one 
signed, and would give my small organization all the work 
it could handle for a month, at a premium rate. So I was 
feeling pretty good about the day as evening approached. It 
was then that I realized I hadn't seen Allison all day. As 
I was pouring myself a Scotch, and laying out things for 
dinner, she made her appearance in the kitchen, in a little 
wrap dress thing I hadn't seen before. 

I'm slow, but two and two eventually got together. 
"Shopping day?"

She smiled, almost coquettishly, the first full, 
unembarrassed smile I'd seen from her for several days. She 
did a spin in the dress, which resulted in showing an 
improbable amount of thigh. "Yes. If I'm going to have a 
date at the Opera this weekend, I need to have the weapons 
and the warpaint." Good, she was getting into this.

I smiled back. "That wasn't the only purchase, then? Do I 
hear my credit cards whimpering? I think a sauvignon blanc 
with this fettuccini--would you drag one out of the cooler?" 
And we were off into the evening. 

Later, we convened in the living room. I put on some quiet 
jazz, and turned down the lights. 

"Let's review." 

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, teacher." But she smiled when 
she said it.

"You've got the skills, and the body, to get a first date. 
You are starting to get some experience dealing with what 
it feels like when your hormones start pumping. And you're 
starting to get some practice with what to do to relieve 
yourself when aroused. But what about your date?"

"My date?"

"Come now, dear. Guys have needs, too. If you aren't 
thinking about where his hormones are taking him, if you 
aren't one step ahead, then you're hopelessly behind."

"Oh. Well, can't he go home and 'play with himself?' This 
cuts both ways, doesn't it?"

"Sure he can. And will, at first. But string that along too 
far, and he'll go elsewhere, or deliver an ultimatum along 
the lines of 'Put out or I'm gone.' You don't want that, 
because at this phase of things, you want to avoid 
intercourse, but you want to keep the relationship going. 
You don't want to have to choose between. So you want to 
take things gradually, as you sense the kind of 
relationship it's going to be, and whether you want that 
relationship, and with this guy. But the time will come 
when you need to do more than arouse and frustrate him, if 
you want to keep him. Think about the feelings you've been 
able to give yourself over the last few days. Imagine what 
a gift you'd give your lover to make him feel like that, 
and to have him give you those feelings in return. Whether 
you call it 'heavy petting' or 'mutual masturbation', it's 
a wonderful experience. And it's tonight's lesson."

She swallowed, hard, at that one. "Here we go again," she 
said.

I made a show of exasperation. "Dammit, I didn't come to 
you and say 'Please let me teach you about sex.'" 

Actually, I'd said something more like, I'll teach you 
about sex or else. 

I continued, "Look, if this isn't what you want, I've got 
other things to do." And, I didn't have to add, you will go 
to Saint Virginia in the fall. 

"No, no, I'm sorry. You're right. How do we start?"

"I don't want to spoil that nice cocktail dress. Change 
into your robe and meet me here in fifteen minutes." I used 
the time to change into my own robe, pour us a couple of 
glasses of wine, and spread out some cushions on the living 
room floor.

"So, we meet again, my pretty," I said, twirling an 
imaginary moustache. She snickered. "OK, I get no respect. 
Join me here and let's neck." And we did. When things had 
warmed up sufficiently, I said, with as steady a voice as I 
was able, "The way this will work is, I will do for you 
what you've been doing for yourself the last several 
nights, and you will do for me what I've been doing for 
myself the last several nights."

Her fogged vision cleared for a moment, and she said, "Oh. 
Oh my" as the realization of what I'd said, and what it 
implied, hit home.

I continued, "Feel free to coach me, as I will coach you." 
And I reached for her. She flinched at my touch. I took it 
very slow, because after all this was to be a learning 
experience for her, so it wouldn't do to have her too 
worked up to think. I dialed my fingers to "simmer" and 
waited. She hesitantly opened my robe, and came face-to-
face, or face-to-cock, with her first penis. I'm only 
average, but again, she didn't have anything for 
comparison, and I was gratified by her response.

"Go ahead and explore. If you're gentle you can't hurt me." 
She looked as though she'd rather touch a corpse, but my 
caresses had her going, and she reached out with her 
fingertips and made contact. Of course, I already was fully 
erect. I'd have had to be a corpse to be otherwise. "A 
little bit about the male anatomy that the good Sisters 
didn't tell you. That's the head, or crown, and the rim you 
see there is very sensitive. Run the tips of your fingers 
around it. Ahhhh....good. Wrap your fingers around the base, 
a little more firmly, and stroke upwards. Uhh. You're doing 
fine. Now relax your fingers until you're barely making 
contact, and stroke downwards. Ahh...nd repeat. Loose on the 
down stroke, firm on the upstroke. Yes."

I shut up at that point, because she was doing fine, and 
because I was finding it very hard to speak. And this was 
not the time to teach her the subtleties of the hand-job. 
So I concentrated on keeping her just below a boil, with 
pleasant results. Maybe she'd learn a thing or two about 
how to do herself. The hard part here was trying to achieve 
near-simultaneous orgasm. You know the old one: "To go 
together is blessed, to come together is divine." Not that 
it was indispensable, but at this stage of her training, 
the associations would help matters along.

"Baby, slow down for a minute, let me talk." I was on the 
edge, and while she was still hearing me, I sensed she was, 
too. "When girls come, it's usually rather tidy. The good 
Sisters have told you about semen. When men come, it makes 
a bit of a mess. I'm going to come about when you do, and 
it may get a trifle sloppy. Don't let it put you off. OK, 
here we go." I put my mouth back over hers and, as I felt 
that familiar almost-painful sensation begin to build in my 
crotch, I diddled her clit for all I was worth. She lost 
control of her body, yelling into my mouth as she came, and 
damned if she didn't try to rip my dick out of my groin in 
her convulsions. But that sent me over the edge, too. And 
she kept the soft-down, hard-up rhythm the whole time.

It took several minutes before either of us was aware of 
the outside world. I kissed the side of her neck and said, 
"Thank you."

She looked down at her hand, now aware of my goo on her 
fingers, which were still wrapped around my shrinking cock. 
"Did I do that?" she said with wonder in her tone.

"Yes, baby, and very well you did it, too."

She giggled. "Like you said, a bit of a mess. What do I do 
about it?" 

"Very good" I said. "If not quite one step ahead, at least 
catching up fast. The answer is, whatever you want. Most 
men find it intensely sexy if you lick it up. You could 
clean it up with a washrag. Or leave it to be my problem. 
It's your call."

Though she didn't move a millimeter, physically, I could 
sense that she recoiled from the image, but she kept her 
hand around me. After a minute or so, she shivered a bit, 
looked back into my eyes, then bent around to clean up her 
hand, my dick, and my belly with her tongue. It was 
heavenly.

When she was done, she came back up and nestled in the 
crook of my arm. The expression on her face and the tension 
in her body told me that she was, as they say, 'deeply 
conflicted.' "Allison," I said. She looked up. "Thank you." 
And I kissed her deeply. I tasted myself on her tongue, not 
my favorite sensation, but this was all for the greater 
cause. The kiss went on. And on. After a while I felt her 
relax in my arms, as if she had come to terms with what 
she'd done with her hand and her mouth. Yet later she broke 
the kiss.

"Jack," she said. I looked at her. That was the first time 
she'd used my given name. "Thank you." And she put her head 
back on my chest. A long while later, I sent her to her 
room, and tidied up the living room.

Chapter 5: Celeste Aida

The rest of the week, I left her pretty much to her own 
devices. I didn't touch her, once. 

We had the usual cursory chat at breakfast/coffee before I 
dove into work each day. Somebody had to pay those credit 
card bills. We had a pleasant dinner together, one or the 
other of us doing the cooking. Every evening, she would 
read a dirty story to herself and masturbate on the couch 
in the study in opposite me, her eyes on me. I would remind 
her to do her "exercises." And that would be that. Except 
that I would find her watching me from time to time. When I 
made eye contact, she would blush and vanish into her room. 
And we were back to "dad," not "Jack."

And we both knew we had a 'date' coming up on Saturday. I 
told her, "Look, forget if you can that this is some sort 
of 'test.' I'm going to treat you the way you should expect 
and demand to be treated on a date. Here's the scenario. Be 
dressed and ready at 5PM. I will drive up to the front 
curb. I will come to the front door, not honk the horn. I 
will come in to the house to greet you, not expect you to 
come out to the car. If I were going to do this really 
right, I'd have a discussion with your father about my 
'honorable intentions,' but I don't feel right talking to 
myself." She laughed into her hand. "We'll do whatever the 
date is, in this case, dinner and the Opera. Relax and 
enjoy yourself--if you can't, one of us is doing something 
very wrong. If you don't feel like a princess at least at 
some time during the evening, ask yourself whether you want 
another date with this clown. But will you be 'one step 
ahead' of me? In this case, assume that we've been dating 
for a couple of months, progressed to necking and touchy-
feely, but you've refused more. I've made it clear that I'm 
ready for more than a smooch and a grope, and I'm about out 
of patience. Otherwise, tonight is a 'last hurrah.' You've 
decided that the relationship has matured enough for the 
next step. Sometime during the evening you'll have an 
opportunity to show off the skills you've been learning. 
Let the situation develop. Play the role. Take the 
initiative if feels right. You're a high school girl being 
taken on a date by an 'older man' named 'Jack.' As an 
instructor, I'll be watching for your technical execution 
of the skills, but more importantly for your judgment on 
what's called for given the development of the 
relationship. As your date, I'll bring you home and walk 
you to the front doorstep. If the evening has gone well, 
I'll kiss you goodnight. Again, in the real world I'd turn 
you back over to your father, but too bad. I'll drive away. 
A few minutes later I'll park the car in the garage, and we 
can 'drop role' and do a post mortem of the evening over 
coffee or drinks. OK?"

And so it happened that in the fullness of time Saturday 
rolled around. I put on the suit that I kept in the closet 
for meetings with other 'suits', dragged the Lexus out of 
the garage, drove around the block, and pulled up to my own 
front door. Funny, I had to corral the butterflies in my 
gut as though I were a teenager again. Deep breath, Jack, 
and center. I walked up to the house and pushed the button. 
After making me wait just the right amount of time, the 
door opened, and there was my Allison. No, not my Allison. 
She stood, well, regally. A teenage incarnation of sex, in 
another dress I'd never seen, a maroon item that was 
classy, but too tight in too many places, too short in too 
many others. If I were acting as her father, I'd forbid 
her....

"Jack!" she squealed, and was in my arms. Instant erection. 
No wonder I was dizzy: all the blood in my brain had rushed 
to my dick. She twisted around in my arms to face the open 
front door. "Daddee!," she tossed over her shoulder into 
the hallway behind her, "byee!" Never mind that the house 
she was shouting into was empty, it was clear that she was 
into the role. She freed one arm from my embrace to close 
the door behind her and offered me that arm. "Shall we?"

I won't bore you with the most of the proceedings. 

Dinner was at a small, quiet restaurant on the fringe of 
downtown. We were early enough that the dining room was 
mostly vacant. Service was instant without hovering, the 
scallops were perfectly done, and we begged off of dessert 
lest we fall asleep during the Opera. Allison glowed. Her 
spine never touched the back of the seat.

And then the Opera. Ah, yes. Verdi's "Aida," and not by 
accident. The next week would have been "Othello," which 
wouldn't have done at all. But here we have the queen 
enslaved, falling in love with her owner, who has fallen in 
love with her. Perfect. As we waited at the curb for the 
car afterward, Allison gushed about the lead soprano. I 
turned to her, wrapped my hand under her chin, kissed her, 
and said, "But who had the power in that relationship?" I 
might as well have spoken Swahili. But the question sank 
in, and I could almost hear the gears turning in her head 
on the silent drive home. 

"OK," she finally said. "I think I get it. It's a kind of 
vicious circle, isn't it?" I glanced over her as I drove, 
her face illuminated by the instrument lights on the 
dashboard, and kept my mouth shut. "I mean, they owned her, 
she was property, like...I don't know...a pet rock, or a 
goldfish, or something." She shivered. "Aida was a slave, 
for chrissake! So he had the power. But he loved her. So 
she had the power. She betrayed him, and when he was 
punished for what he'd done for her, she found that she 
loved him, and he had the power. And then around it went 
until it blew up. And everybody died, of course, like all 
operas."

I said I thought that would do as a plot synopsis. As I got 
back to our suburb and pulled off at the usual exit, 
Allison turned to me and said, "Could we stop by Cornell 
Park, 'Jack,' just for a couple of minutes? I don't have to 
be home just yet." I said sure. Cornell Park was a small 
park in a nice neighborhood cut off by the way the freeways 
had cut through the town, and there wasn't a lot of traffic 
through that area. I pulled into a dark spot and cut the 
engine. The almost imperceptible grumble of the engine died 
away, and she was in my arms, her lips to mine, pressed to 
me as best she could over and around the center console of 
the Lexus. Damn, I hate making out in a car. I thought I 
got over that when I got my own place. One of us was going 
to need a chiropractor. I pushed her back. "Allison," I 
said, staying in role, "we need to talk about whether this 
relationship can continue like this. I really don't think I 
want to hurt you by...."

"Please?" she interrupted me. I played dumb. "Please," she 
said again, "touch me, there?"  She had twisted around so 
that she was lying across the two seats, facing rearward, 
and therefore facing me, and her hand fell to open my fly 
and begin her own kneadings. Her position made it easier 
for me to put my right hand where it needed to go, to do 
what it needed to do. The whole thing was not quite 
anatomically impossible.

Never one to refuse a desperate woman, I ran my fingertips 
beneath the hem of her dress and up her thigh. "Imagine my 
surprise," as the saying goes, when I found, not pantyhose, 
not panties, but thigh-high stockings and moist flesh. 
"Well, what do we have here?" I said as I commenced 
exploratory manipulation. "Sluts dress like this. Are you a 
slut, or do you just dress like one?"

She began to squirm under my efforts. "Ah, 'Jack,' you know 
I want keep seeing you, but I've been raised to be a 'good 
girl.' I've held you off, I know you're fed up, but can you 
accept that I want to take it slow? Can I make it up to you 
a little, like...this?" A squeeze. "I've never...touched any 
man...like...this before." Academy Award stuff, this. And loose 
on the down stroke, firm on the upstroke. Where did she 
learn that little twist of the wrist? OJT? "Tonight felt 
special. I knew I was ready to give you more, at least a 
little more. At the intermission I knew I didn't want 
anything to get in the way, so visited the little girl's 
room to...clear the way. For you. I'm not a slut, ah, yes, 
there, but I'm beginning to think I might want to be /your/ 
slut, if you'll...teach me? Am I, am I doing it right, for 
you?" Real desperation in her voice, or at least, really 
good acting of real desperation. I found that I didn't care 
which.

My efforts were being rewarded, as were hers. Both of us 
were standing on the cliff. I drew a ragged breath. "Baby, 
I'm going to make a mess on my suit if you do that any 
longer." Her eyes focused on my face as best she could, and 
she made a little smile without slacking the motions of her 
hand. Then the next thing I knew, her mouth was around the 
head of my cock and I was erupting into that hot cavern, 
and her thighs clenched around my hand as I pushed her off 
of her own cliff.

The short drive home was, you'll forgive the expression, 
anticlimactic.

I did the walk, did the kiss at the front door, did the 
"I'll call you this week, maybe" and she let herself in 
and, with a lingering glance, closed the door. Through the 
closed door I heard "Dadeee, I'm hoome." I shook my head, 
took a deep breath, and went back to drive the car into the 
garage.

By the time I got into the house, she was in her robe, and 
had a sherry for herself and a Scotch for me already made. 
I excused myself to change, hung up my suit, and was back 
in the living room in a few minutes. We sat in our robes 
and nibbled our drinks, and I said, "OK, post mortem time. 
Talk to me."

She looked up at me through her eyelashes (where do they 
learn that?). "What do you want me to say? What an evening! 
You told me I should feel like a princess. I did. I had a 
relationship with 'Jack' that I wanted to keep going, but 
'he' was tired of waiting for me to decide to keep 'him' 
happy, happier than I'd been willing to do in the past. I 
wanted the relationship to continue. I made some decisions, 
dressed for the occasion, took some risks, and used what 
I've been taught." She paused, with a small smile. "Tell 
me, 'Jack', how did I do?"

It was odd, being referred to by my own name as though it 
were a pseudonym. I tried to put on my face of an 
instructor doing an evaluation. It didn't work. "Ahhh. 
Where do I start? You did fine. More than fine. Obviously, 
you ...." Damn. OK, Jack, another deep breath. "Two things. I 
was astonished when you took me in your mouth. Very good. 
Oh, very good. On the other hand, you might have been a 
little more 'hard to get.'" 

She placed the brilliantly red nail of her forefinger to 
her brilliantly red lips and put on a wide-eyed, puzzled 
expression. It was a caricature, a '50s pinup. "Hard to 
get!? But Jackee, baby, whatever would I have done with my 
hands?" We both collapsed in roars of laughter. I sent her 
to her room, and went upstairs.

Chapter 6: Relational Data

So we started July with a certain amount of momentum, and I 
made some changes in our routine. She still did her posture 
exercises, and twice a day read her smut while 
masturbating. Maybe more that twice a day, for all I know. 
Her three folders of stories were filling up. 

No, the changes were more subtle. The training always 
remained separate from our day-to-day relationship, but a 
little less so. I stopped referring to the weekly testing 
events as 'dates.' They were always for testing purposes, 
but they became dates, without the quotation marks, and 
then became just enjoyable special things we did together, 
that provided an environment for the testing. I stopped 
being 'Jack,' some fictitious guy she had a 'date' with, 
and was myself, a stepfather trying to teach his 
stepdaughter what she needed to know to get along, and show 
her a good time in the process. And after our weekly dates, 
we brought things to a climax, so to speak, in my bed. No 
more wrestling in cars, thank you. The post mortems 
continued, as we cuddled and talked about our sensations. 
But when we were done, I always sent her back to sleep in 
her own bed. This process was still 'training,' and not an 
almost-incestuous affair. We had started the process with a 
goal, and it was continuing toward that goal, even though 
we didn't speak of it any more.

And after the first 'date,' I didn't bring up Central High, 
or high school boys.

All the same, if I wanted to have a harvest at the end of 
the summer, I needed to plant some seeds now. They would 
take time to sprout.

"Allison, tell me what you know about relationships." I 
loved dropping these things on her out of the blue. But I'd 
done it often enough now that she had learned to keep her 
mouth shut until she'd begun to organize an answer.

"You mean, like husband-wife?"

"Be more general. People relationships."

"Hm. From what I can see, one way to organize them is by 
how much they have legal recognition. You've got employer-
employee, which often has a written contract, husband-wife 
which may, boyfriend-girlfriend which won't, and like 
that."

"Fine. Take that set, though obviously there are others, of 
varying durations: shop clerk-customer, parent-child, ex-
husband-ex-wife. Pimp-whore." She gave me a shocked look. 
Still some prudishness left from Saint Virginia. "Each one 
is a type of relationship. Generalize across all of them. 
What's a relationship?"

"They all have a set of assumptions and permissions, I 
guess. Each participant assumes certain things about the 
behavior of the other, and gives permission for behaviors 
to the other."

"A little pop-psych, but that's a start. And are the 
assumptions and permissions permanently defined?"

"Sometimes, in part." The girl would make a good consultant 
someday. "I mean, take husband-wife. There are legal 
restrictions, like about economic support, and assumptions, 
about sex and such. Some behaviors society or laws don't 
permit in a relationship if anyone complains, like abuse in 
a marriage, or intercourse between a parent and child. 
Beyond that, I guess the couple gets to choose, like who 
takes out the garbage."

I summarized, "So all relationships of any type are not the 
same, and any given type of relationship may change, within 
limits, over time. No surprise: look at us, stepfather-
stepdaughter. We changed our relationship in some ways when 
Jane died, and again when we began this training. And 
usually, two people can change the /type/ of relationship 
they're in, if they choose. Of course, some types of 
relationship are forever and can't be left behind, like 
biological parent and child. But generally, you see changes 
of type all the time: clerk-customer become boyfriend-
girlfriend, become husband-wife, become father-mother, 
become ex-husband-ex-wife. Relationships often fall apart 
if the permissions and assumptions of one party don't match 
the other's. Sometimes two people can't find a 'pre-
defined' relationship that works for them, and have to make 
up a new type of their own. And each change of type has a 
ceremony or event that marks the transition, maybe as 
simple as the first kiss, maybe signing a contract, maybe 
as elaborate as a church service."

"Sure, what's the point?"

"Exactly, what's the point of all this training you asked 
for?" Well, she didn't exactly ask for it, but I took every 
opportunity to confuse her recollections on that point. 
"Why do you want to date? Is this just in support of, I 
don't know, 'random social activity?' Does it stop at that, 
or are you looking beyond that to a goal, something more 
permanent, and if so, have you thought about what you want? 
You want to land a guy? If so, how do you choose which one 
to go after? What's the relationship you want? How do you 
want to be treated? What lights your fire? As you said, 
what's the point? I don't want an answer. I don't expect 
you to have an answer, and if you did, I expect it would 
change as you grow. But to misquote the Cheshire Cat, if 
you don't have an idea of the relationship you want to wind 
up in, any guy is as good as any other. Think about it as 
you go through the summer." I went off to make lunch. All 
this hoeing and seeding was hard work. Out of the corner of 
my eye, I saw her pick up her three folders of stories and 
start leafing through them. Good.

Chapter 7: Endless Summer

Things progressed quickly. I'm sure she felt that she was 
constantly being bombarded with new things that stretched 
her in ways, and places, that she never expected. But I had 
to hurry her a bit. I had a plan with a deadline, and the 
most delicate part of it required a stretch of downtime on 
her part, and I couldn't rush that or control how long it 
might be.

She was an apt student, I'll give her that. We went from 
handjobs after the Opera, to fellatio after a jazz 
festival, to 69 after a day at the beach. Each new 
technique was still being justified under the heading of  
"avoiding intercourse." Each date involved a complete 
review of all the previously-learned skills, with 
refinements, coaching, and extensions. So it came about 
that, on a weekend as July turned into August, after "As 
You Like It," we were in my bed, spooned, me buried to the 
hilt in her rectum. And yes, anal was pushing the "avoiding 
intercourse" justification as far as it could be pushed. 

She had waddled around all week with a butt plug in one 
end, and a pained expression on the other. The build-up had 
begun in the middle of July, when I started playing with 
her asshole, running a finger around the rim, then into it, 
then two fingers. When she got beyond the revulsion, the 
squeamishness, when she admitted that she liked it, a 
little, then a lot, I took her along slowly, to wind up 
where we were now. The butt plug lay glistening on the side 
table next to the bed. I was pleased with her: she had come 
without any clitoral stimulation after the foreplay. She 
had fully learned "relaxed going in, grip coming out." I 
waited for the sweat to dry.

"Allison, baby."

"Mmmm, so full."

"Allison, honey, it's time."

"Nnnnn, a little longer?"

"No honey, off you go to bed," and I pulled out, gently, 
got a hot washcloth, and cleaned us both up.

She rolled over in my arms for a last kiss. "Jack, I keep 
saying this, but I never knew, so much pleasure.... I can't 
wait to see the lesson for next week!" And she gathered up 
her robe and made her way with careful steps to the door. 
She'd be a little sore for a few days, in spite of the 
preparation.

And she'd be surprised at next week's lesson.

Monday came and went with making a living. I shut down at 
five and found her on the back porch, wearing a little 
halter number, and handed her her drink. She had developed 
a taste for Scotch-and-soda.

She sat in my lap, a big smile on her face, careless of the 
amount of thigh she showed. Her kiss tasted of Scotch-and-
soda. She put her arms around my neck and asked, "What's 
the new 'skill' for this week, teach?"

"Nothing." She sat up, her face blank. "You're done. You 
passed. You've mastered the 'essential skills.' You can go 
to Central High in the fall if you want, and date, if you 
want. There's one more thing you could learn, but I can't 
teach it to you."

A little chuckle from her. "I'd sort of forgotten about 
Central. And high school boys. Why would I want to date one 
of those?" Another kiss. She used the same disparaging tone 
I had used on the words "boys" and "those." The kiss 
lingered.

After a long while she came up for air and looked up. "What 
about the 'one more thing,' and why can't you teach it to 
me?"

Here we go, I thought. Show time. Everything on one throw 
of the dice.

"You remember when we talked about relationships? 
Permissions and assumptions? Changing relationships? 
Flexibility in defining what's permitted?" A nod. "The 
stepfather-stepdaughter relationship isn't really well 
defined, but whatever it is, you and I have been pushing 
the envelope of what society permits, really hard. The 'one 
more thing' would be the skills of actual intercourse, and 
that, baby, is /not/ permitted to us in this relationship."

I shut up. Now I'd learn whether the seed I'd planted a 
month earlier would sprout. 

Her hand crept under her skirt. Having spent two months 
playing with herself in front of me, she no longer had any 
shame on that score. That was unfortunate, but it was the 
price that had to be paid. Perhaps I could fix that over 
time. "And actual screwing, it's even better yet?" I 
nodded. "I can't imagine anyone I want to give my virginity 
to more.... But we can't?" I shook my head, not saying 
anything. "If it's better than what we've done, God, just 
the idea. I mean, I've been reading all those naughty 
stories all summer, but it's just words. But if I can't do 
it with you, Jack...."

The silence stretched on. Had I been too subtle? I had to 
keep my peace though, because she had to think that this 
was her idea.

"Waaait." She drew out the word. "You said 'in this 
relationship.' Do /we/ get to change the type of 
relationship we're in?"

I barely resisted the impulse to pump my fist in the air in 
victory. "Well, doll, I haven't really thought about it." 
Like hell, I hadn't. "I mean, parent-child is forever, but 
like I said, the stepparent role sort of loosely defined, 
and it's by ceremony, not by blood. Are you thinking...."

"Well, if we can't 'do it' as stepfather-stepdaughter, and 
God, do I want to 'do it' with you, then maybe we should 
choose another relationship."

My little seed had become a beautiful little sprout.

"Honey, my legs are going to sleep with you sitting on me 
like that." She dismounted, still deep in thought. Now for 
the next step. "It's an interesting idea." I made a show of 
giving it some consideration. "Look, if you're thinking 
about changing the type of relationship we have, we need to 
go at this carefully. I think both of us want something 
more permanent than 'boyfriend-girlfriend,' and I don't 
want to marry again: Jane was my first and last wife." I 
stopped, and let the silence stretch out. "You remember the 
'What's the point?' discussion?" A nod. "Any thoughts on 
what kind of relationship you want? Do your folders of 
stories tell you anything?"

"Yes, daddy." She blushed, "I..."

"Wait." I stopped her. "Here's what I want you to do. Think 
it through. You're going to be making a decision that will 
affect your happiness for a long time to come. When you're 
ready, when you're sure, write me a love letter. In the 
letter, seduce me into the relationship you've chosen. Sell 
it to me. Make me want it, too. Anticipate my doubts and 
objections, and overcome them. Draw me a picture of how 
we'd live. Writing the letter should make you want to play 
with yourself. When I read it, I should have the same 
reaction. Understand?"

"Hmm, interesting. Yes. When do you want to see the 
letter?"

"When you're really ready, and really sure." And that 
closed the discussion. We finished our drinks and went in 
to start dinner. 

Two weeks passed. I didn't touch her, not once. I told her 
she no longer needed to play with herself, certainly not in 
front of me. After all, all those things had been 
"training," and the course was over. I was her stepfather. 
I was not her lover, never had been. Yeah, right. Nothing 
was said about the letter. But I could see that she was 
spending a lot of time in her room, on her computer at all 
hours, and no, she wasn't on the Internet. The way her 
wastebasket was filling up, she was going through a lot of 
drafts of something. 

No, I didn't dig through her trash. I didn't think I needed 
to, because I knew what stories wound up in her "Oh, wow!" 
folder.

Chapter 8: Billet Doux

Dearest Jack, my only love,

You have given me so much pleasure this summer, without 
demanding anything in return. I'm sure it's getting old to 
hear it, but I never knew my body could give me such 
pleasure. The 'good Sisters' can go to Hell. I hope my body 
has given you a little pleasure, too? All this time you 
thought you were going to turn me over to a bunch of pimply 
high school boys to play with. 

You didn't touch me these last two weeks. I've been 
climbing the curtains with need, but it proved to me that 
you really thought of all that stuff we did as 'training,' 
not a chance to grope your stepdaughter. Thank you, and I'm 
ashamed that I ever doubted.

You asked me, what relationship would I pick? I've watched 
you work, and you taught me to think about 'requirements.' 
What a dusty-sounding word for something so juicy. 
Requirements: I want to please you, give you pleasure the 
way you have given me pleasure. All day, every day, any 
way, without limits. I want you to take without waiting for 
me to give. But what relationships are without limits? Even 
a mistress can say 'no,' and how can 'no' give pleasure? 
And what relationship would accommodate my desperate desire 
to please?

You told me to go through my folder of stories. I didn't 
really need to, because weeks ago I knew what fired my 
rocket. It was the stories of submission, of dominance, of 
helpless slave girls weeping and coming as they served the 
lusts of cruel and demanding masters in some jungle or on 
some faraway planet. The words I've written look so corny 
on the page. Dammit, they are corny. But I look at the 
words and say, that's what I want. Because those girls give 
pleasure, no, it is demanded of them, torn from them, 
without limit, and 'no' is gone from their vocabulary.

You will say that slavery is dead in modern America. But 
we're defining our own relationship, and we can use slavery 
as a metaphor, a starting place, can't we? There's no 
property ownership of people, any more, but in terms of 
permissions and assumptions, it's a relationship where 
everything is permitted to you, and I may assume nothing, 
call the relationship what you will. To borrow the phrase 
you used at the beginning of the summer, all my time, 
energy, and focus will go to serve your pleasure, and my 
discomfort means nothing. Any lapse from perfection would 
merit punishment, because any lapse from perfection would 
mean that I had failed to give you all the pleasure I could 
and should and must.

You ask, how can such a relationship last? What's in it for 
little Allison? I'll tell you a story. Suppose that early 
in their relationship, sometime before the Chateau, O did 
something for Renee. The task itself held no pleasure for 
O. It was the fact that Renee got pleasure from her efforts 
that gave O the pleasure she needed to make the doing 
worthwhile. Pleasure by reflection. Take it another turn. 
Renee knew that O didn't enjoy doing the task. Knowing that 
O imposed upon herself, or accepted being imposed upon, 
increased Renee's pleasure, even if he took no direct 
pleasure in the gift itself. That's what we mean when we 
say "It's the thought that counts." But either way, O got 
her pleasure from Renee's pleasure. The more O suffered for 
him, the more Renee was pleased, and /therefore/ the more 
pleasure O got from pleasing him. And /therefore/ the more 
pleasure O got from suffering. That's what's in it for me: 
I will get pleasure from your pleasure, the way the moon 
gets its light from the sun. And when I must, I will feel 
pleasure from your punishments, because I will know that 
they are correcting me, preparing me to please you better.

You want to know how we would live. And I say, any way that 
gives you pleasure. Chain me in a dungeon or let me run. 
Keep me naked or clothe me in silks. Beat me or stroke me 
with scented oils. Force me come for hours or deprive me 
for weeks. My last choice will be to do what you choose to 
do with me.

You have but to claim me. Have I seduced you, have I sold 
it to you? 

Yours without hope, the free woman now known as 

Allison Kennedy.





Chapter 9: September Song

No, I didn't "claim" Allison on the spot, much as my dick 
argued for it. You can imagine that the letter made for 
interesting dinner conversation, which I will spare you, 
except the following:

"Allison, you're proposing a significant change in our 
relationship." A nod, and a shrug from her, as if to say, 
'well, duh'? "Back to what you know about relationships. 
Generally, when there's a significant change in a 
significant relationship, there's a more-or-less public 
ceremony to mark the fact. Whether you're talking about 
signing a contract, or formalizing a marriage, there's a 
ceremony. That means that there are witnesses who can vouch 
for the fact of the relationship. It makes it harder for 
either party to back out of the new relationship, or claim 
that it's something that it isn't. And it makes a kind of 
punctuation mark in time, making it clear that 'before now' 
was the old relationship, and 'after now' is something new, 
with no going back."

"Well," she said with light sarcasm, "I'll pop over to the 
archdiocese and get a copy of their enslavement ceremony."

"Look, you write well. Write your own ceremony. I don't 
doubt that the Internet would yield endless examples with a 
search for 'enslavement ceremony,' but you can get your 
inspiration where you like. Couples write their own wedding 
ceremonies, why not write your own ceremony of claiming?"

"I guess I don't have any pressing engagements just now. If 
I'm going to be a slave girl, I don't need to worry about 
summer reading lists for either Central High OR Saint 
Virginia."  She didn't need to know that I had plans afoot 
on the subject of schooling.

"Good. A little advice: keep it short. You can take a lot 
of the text from your love letter. Make it clear what 
you're doing, why you're doing it, what you expect of the 
new relationship. You can use a bit of theater: you don't 
have to tell your audience something if you can make it 
clear by showing them." 

She disappeared into her room, and again the wastebasket 
began to overflow. Yet in a few days, she was satisfied. I 
was delighted with the result. Invitations went out to a 
select few of our more open-minded friends, and the 
remaining preparations were indistinguishable from any 
small garden wedding.

I didn't touch her, not even once. But I did send her to 
her OB/GYN to get on The Pill.

The great day came, and the well-stocked caterer's tent 
went up in the garden, near what they assumed to be some 
sort of arbor or trellis. Chairs were set out. The 
caterer's people were dismissed.

I found Allison in her bedroom, looking over the garden, 
dreamy-eyed.

"Are you sure about this, baby?"

She came into my arms, urgent, squirming. "God yes. I'm 
scared as hell. I've got butterflies the size of bombers in 
my stomach, And I'm running like a faucet 'down there.' I'm 
glad you made me keep the ceremony short."

I laughed, and kissed the top of her forehead. "Enjoy your 
last hour as a free woman. The guests are starting to 
arrive."

I did the meet-and-greet thing, and Allison came out to 
circulate with the guests. I was in my suit, and she was 
wearing a white, lacy, calf-length, loose summer dress that 
she had had made for the ceremony. Finally we had a quorum, 
the guests sat on the chairs gathered at one corner of the 
garden, and Allison and I took our places in front of the 
small group. She stood at my side, we faced the group, I 
put my arm around her shoulder, and she put her arms around 
my waist and snuggled in.

Allison had taken my advice, and copied liberally from her 
love letter, so much of what follows will be familiar 
language to the reader. I started in, from the script that 
she had written.

"Welcome, friends, to our home and to this ceremony. What 
you're about to be witnesses to will mark a change in the 
relationship between Allison and myself. I'm confident in 
saying that you are unlikely ever to see another ceremony 
like it. There will be elements of the ceremony that are 
likely to profoundly disturb some people. Each of you has 
been invited because of your long friendship with Allison 
or myself, and because we believe you to be sufficiently 
open-minded to accept what you're about to see. If you even 
suspect that we might have been wrong, we suggest that you 
excuse yourself at this time." I paused. Nobody moved, 
beyond the odd raised eyebrow.

Allison took over. "I wrote this ceremony. Myself. Every 
word of it. With two exceptions, which Jack will explain 
when we come to them, I completely scripted each event in 
the ceremony. Not to put too fine a point on it: if the 
question occurs to you, I want this to happen the way it is 
going to happen." Several guests traded glances. 

I went on. "I'm glad that's out of the way. Let's begin." 

I disengaged from Allison, and we turned to face each 
other. The audience was to one side of us, and could see 
both of our faces in profile. We began the ceremony, 
looking into each other's eyes.

"What is your name?"

"Allison Kennedy."

"Why are you here?"

"To give myself to you, voluntarily, freely, completely, 
and irrevocably."

Not too bad so far, rather vanilla stuff.

"What relationship do you seek?"

"A relationship where everything is permitted to you. I 
forbid nothing, I may forbid nothing. I demand nothing, 
expect nothing. I accept everything in advance, without 
knowing what you will demand. I want you to take without 
waiting for me to give." 

I stole a glance at the audience. The eyebrows were 
starting to go up again. Back to Allison.

"What do you call this relationship?"

"Call the relationship what you will: if slavery is dead 
today, let me use it as a metaphor. All my time, energy, 
and focus will go to serve your pleasure, my discomfort 
means nothing. I want to please you, give you pleasure the 
way you have given me pleasure, give without taking. All 
day, every day, any way, without limits."

"What if you fail to please to your utmost?"

"I would beg you to punish me for failing to fulfill my 
promise to you, and correct me so that I did not fail 
again."

"Why do you want this relationship?"

"I will get pleasure from pleasing you, the way the moon 
gets its light from the sun."

"What do you offer?" 

"Absolute and instant obedience. I won't negotiate, won't 
consider, won't accept, won't even wait to understand. Just 
do, instantly, like a reflex."

"How will you be called?"

"I will have no name, unless you wish to give me one."

"How will you be clothed?"

"My clothing has been for concealment. How can concealment 
give you pleasure? I will be clothed as you wish, even if 
not at all."

"How will you be fed?"

"By your hand, and by your wishes, even if not at all."

"What are your rights? What limits do you place upon the 
relationship?"

"I want no rights, because they imply choice, the option to 
refuse. I place no limits. How can refusal or limits 
increase your pleasure?"

"Very well." I put my hands on her shoulders. "I accept 
you." I pushed down gently, and she went to her knees. I 
thought absently that there would be grass stains on her 
dress. I twisted her hair into a rope, gripped it in my 
fist, and faced the audience. I raised my voice, a little, 
because this was the punctuation mark. "I claim this woman 
as my property, to do with as I see fit." 

A murmur through the audience. Rub their faces in it. I 
turned back to her and looked down. Time to show the 
"after." 

Still with my hand gripping her hair: "What are you?"

"If it pleases you, sir, let me be your slave."

"Why do you exist?"

"To give you pleasure."

"And if you cease to give pleasure?"

"If it pleases you, sir, I would cease to exist."

"Do you have the right to say 'no'?"

"I'm sorry sir, I don't know that word."

"What is your name?"

"You have not chosen to give me a name."

I turned again to the audience, and dropped my hand from 
her hair. "This is the first of two moments in the ceremony 
that Allison did not script. She does not know the name I 
will choose for her to wear in her new life." I walked 
around her, pretending to consider. 

I had a wicked thought. "You certainly are long and 
slender. Perhaps I will call you 'Sprout.'  She looked up 
at me with the look that said, "That has gone far enough."

"Yes, I will call you 'Sprout.'" She looked at me with 
horror. I could tell that she wanted to shake her head, but 
caught herself in time. Good girl.

"What is your name?"

A tear began to run down the side of her nose. "'Sprout,' 
sir, if it pleases you."

"It pleases me. Stand up, Sprout."

She stood, still facing me. Her eyes were wide, her head 
making the tiniest of 'no' motions, not of negation, but of 
disbelief that I would do this to her. I looked at her. "On 
the other hand, you're smarter than the average vegetable, 
a little. Maybe even as smart as the average alley cat." I 
snapped my fingers. "That's it! I will call you 'Allie.'"

She had hated that nickname, never permitted it, corrected 
everyone who used it. But it was a promotion from 'Sprout.'

"Thank you, sir."

"What is your name?"

"'Allie,' sir, if it pleases you."

"It pleases me."

A pause. I nodded to her. She wiped the tear from her 
cheek, and turned to the audience for a moment, and said 
"We are beginning the last part of the ceremony. I beg you 
again to remember that the free woman I used to be wrote 
this as you will see it, and that she wanted this to 
happen." She turned back to me, and nodded. She knew what 
was coming. After all, she'd written the script.

I said, "Are you a free woman?"

"I am a slave."

She might have said "no," but her new identity did not 
permit it.

"Is a slave allowed to dress as a free women?"

"Only with her owner's permission."

"Do you have that permission?"

"My owner has not given me that permission."

"What is the punishment for a slave who dresses as a free 
woman without permission?"

"Whatever her owner chooses."

"Very well. Remove the offending garment." Murmurs from the 
audience. I thought they were taking this all rather well.

She reached to the nape of her neck where there was a 
single drawstring, tied in a simple bow knot. She tugged on 
the knot, and a second later she was gloriously, proudly, 
royally, totally naked. A white Aida. The dress made a 
white puddle about her feet.

"You will be caned for forgetting your place, for 
attempting to disguise yourself as a free woman, and for 
concealing the body whose appearance gives me pleasure." I 
led her to the trellis/arbor construction a couple of steps 
away. It was built far more solidly than would be needed to 
hold up a rose bush. Soon her hands were cuffed, separated, 
and raised above her head. She was facing away from the 
audience.

I faced the guests again. "This element of the ceremony is 
to accomplish three things. First, to prove to Allie beyond 
doubt that I will punish her when I wish. Second, for her 
to prove to me that she will accept such treatment if I 
choose to deliver it, with or without justification. Third, 
to prove to you that she voluntarily accepts this behavior 
as part of our new relationship. Allison scripted this 
scene, excepting only the number of stripes Allie is to 
receive. To tell you the truth, I don't know how many it 
will be, myself."

I put in Allie's mouth a folded washcloth, not as a gag, 
but to protect her teeth and tongue when she bit down from 
the pain. I picked up a cane that had been hanging on the 
trellis. Her eyes were closed. I pulled back the cane and 
struck at her ass, very hard.

She stiffened, rose on her toes, and moaned into the 
washcloth.

At the next strike, on the back of her thighs, she raised 
one leg, as though she were trying to mount a bicycle. 

I was looking for something, and found it on the fifth 
strike. The last three had been across her back. She had 
finally started crying, and her head hung down between her 
stretched arms. The sound coming through the washcloth was 
a continuous keening, like very distant singing. I was 
surprised to find that I was crying, too. I dropped the 
cane.

I whispered in her ear, "That's all, Allie. It's over. You 
did fine. Rest for a minute and I'll be back."  

I left her hanging there and went back to the guests, 
wiping my eyes. "That concludes the ceremony of the 
claiming of Allie, the woman you knew as Allison Kennedy. I 
would like to emphasize a few points. First, when Allison 
became Allie, you heard her give up the right to say 'no', 
which includes the right to refuse access to her body. 
However, that right was transferred to her new owner. I 
will not be pleased if anyone attempts to use my property 
without my permission. I trust that I make myself clear?" I 
made eye contact with each guest. There weren't all that 
many of them. "Second, some day you may meet Allie on the 
street. It is likely that she will be disguised as a free 
woman. I would appreciate it if you were discreet. I don't 
expect Allie's new life to remain fully secret for long, 
but I expect that you will use judgment in whom you tell, 
and how, and how you speak to her when you meet.

"Finally, you have seen about all of Allie there is to see. 
But I would be a poor host if I continued to dangle such a 
morsel naked in front of you, so she will be clothed, after 
a fashion, during the reception. Refreshments will be 
available in the tent in twenty minutes or so. Please enjoy 
the gardens for a few moments and then join us." 

I bent down to pick up a small piece of white cloth that 
had been lying on the ground nearby. It was a little 
stained from lying there, not entirely clean any more. I 
went back to Allie. I took the washrag from her mouth, gave 
her a drink of water, kissed away her tears, disconnected 
her cuffs from the arbor, and we put our arms around each 
other. "You OK?" I felt her nod her head beneath my chin. 
"Did it come out the way you wanted?"

"Yes. Yes. But oh, GOD, that thing hurts. Please make sure 
I never deserve the cane?" She shuddered in my arms.

It was time for one last bit of establishing the new 
relationship, at least for the moment. Without speaking, I 
gave her the cloth I was holding. She swabbed her face and 
blew her nose on it. She looked around quickly, and wiped 
the soaked insides of her thighs, too. When she was done, 
she handed it to me. I shook it out into a little tunic-
like dress, handed it back, and told her to put it on and 
go serve my guests their refreshments. All she could say, 
with wide eyes and a certain air of wonder, was "Oh, you 
meanie." 

After the last guest had gone, I took the cuffs off of 
Allie's wrists and sent her in to bathe, then called the 
waiting caterer in through the gate to come get their 
equipment. When they'd finally gone, I went up to the 
master bedroom and found Allie kneeling at the side of the 
bed. The welts were beginning to turn purple. I didn't know 
how long she'd been waiting. It occurred to me that she had 
probably spent hours practicing that position, alone in her 
room. 

I ignored her while I changed out of my suit into a robe, 
and splashed my face. Then I came over and sat on the edge 
of the bed, took her face between my hands, and kissed her. 
"OK, slave, what's going on in your head? Just let it 
flow."

"I've been kneeling like this forever. My back and ass 
sting like fury. When you came into the room now I wanted 
to stand up, throw you on your back on the bed, and rape 
you. But somewhere deep down where I hadn't realized it 
before, I knew that 'I want,' is gone, gone, gone. They 
told me you were crying when you caned me. I'm making a wet 
spot on your carpet."

I smiled into her eyes. "Come to bed, Allie. It's time."  I 
guided her up onto her feet, re-cuffed her hands behind her 
back, and purely for theatrics, chained her ankle to the 
bedpost. It's not as though she was wanting to escape. But 
if she wanted the "slave girl" shtick, who was I to spoil 
it for her by denying her the trimmings that came with it? 
I ran her quickly through her repertoire, as best she could 
with her hands cuffed, skipping the anal. Then I got on my 
back and had her straddle and mount me. She took two or 
three shallow strokes up against her maidenhead, set her 
face, and plunged downward. "Eeeeeeuuugh" was all she could 
manage through gritted teeth, and she froze in position for 
a minute or two. I rested my thumb on her clit, and after a 
while she began a small, experimental movement of her hips. 
In a moment a tiny smile came to her face, and she began to 
"grip on the upstroke, loose on the downstroke." It was 
delightful, and neither one of us could hold out for long. 
When she came, she convulsed once, twice, and pitched 
forward in a dead faint. I narrowly avoided getting my nose 
broken by her descending forehead. Served me right.

I disconnected her cuffs, leaving the chain on her ankle. I 
spread her out on a little mat at the foot of the bed, 
covered her with a thin blanket, cleaned myself of the 
fluids of her inaugural fuck, and went to bed.

Chapter 10: The First Day of the Rest of Your Life

The next morning, a Sunday, I awoke before the alarm, and 
got to my feet. Allie was still zonked. Her thighs were 
encrusted and bloody. She was beautiful. I prodded her 
belly with my toe, not gently, and was rewarded with an 
"Oof." 

"Up, lazy wench. This is the first day of the rest of your 
life."

She groaned, and then, with surprising grace, flowed into a 
kneeling position. I say surprising, given how stiff and 
sore she must have been. "How may I serve you, master?"

I reached around and took the chain off of her ankle, and 
the cuffs from her wrists. "Go make my coffee, shower, put 
on your robe, and get back here. You have twenty-five 
minutes." I went to take my own shower.

She made it in time, just, put the coffee on my desk, and 
knelt at my feet. It was clear that she wasn't eager to 
sit, just yet.

"OK, it's time to establish the expectations under which 
you'll live in your new role. Here are two notebooks, and a 
pen. On the cover of the first, write 'Policies and 
Assignments.' I'm about to give you a list of policies, 
which are long-term rules you must obey any time a given 
policy applies. Assignments are one-time things I want you 
to do, like pick up a quart of milk on the way home, or 
whatever. Policies go in the front of that notebook, 
assignments in the back."

"On cover of the second, write 'Discipline.' I expect you 
to put an entry in that notebook any time you feel that you 
have done less than demanded, less than your best, less 
than perfection. Call my attention to it. I will put in the 
correction I consider appropriate, and will check it off 
when it has been executed, which may be some time later. At 
the top of the first page of each notebook, write, in large 
letters, 'ABSOLUTE OBEDIENCE.' You will keep a copy of your 
love letter attached to the inside front cover of the 
'policies' notebook. You are to keep both of these 
notebooks available to me. As a practical matter, that 
means that when we're in the house, just don't lose track 
of where they are. When we leave the house, you must have 
them in your hand, or in your bag."

"Now, policies. When you are in the master bedroom suite, 
you will not speak without permission. Anywhere else, I 
love the sound of your voice, and I want to hear you. You 
are smart, and witty, and I want you to talk to me, 
whenever you wish. But in this suite, no. How do you get 
permission? If I ask you a question that you can't answer 
by pointing, or nodding, or raising so-many fingers, you 
automatically have permission to speak. Otherwise, take a 
position where I can see you, and raise your hand, just 
like in grade school. If I give you permission, you may 
speak. Write that down. Not verbatim, but make notes of the 
important points." She wrote.

"I do not want to be called 'master,' or 'sir,' or any 
other honorific. Let your actions show your respect. If you 
find it necessary to use a noun of direct address, you may 
call me 'Mr. Kennedy.'" She wrote.

"Some owners want a slave that does exactly what she's 
told, when she's told, never anticipates an order, and no 
more. I own you in part because of your mind. Be inventive. 
Anticipate my desires. Look for ways to please me that I 
don't expect. Surprise and delight me. Astonish me! Of 
course, if you get it wrong, it will go badly for you."

"You will not normally be naked during the day. I want you 
to put together a wardrobe of clothing that you will wear 
around the house. I'm thinking in terms of the degree of 
coverage of a tennis dress, or a swimsuit coverup, or an 
ice skater's costume, or the kind of thing a desperately 
horny girl would wear clubbing. Use your imagination. It 
should be clothing you'd be mortified to be seen wearing in 
public. We may have guests here from time to time, some of 
whom will not know of our relationship, and I won't give 
you the opportunity to dress any differently for them from 
the way you do for me. Maintaining anything like decency 
should be a constant struggle, and a losing battle. I want 
you clothed, but only just, not because I expect to become 
bored with your enchanting naked figure, but because I want 
to have the ability to deny you clothing as punishment, or 
for my amusement. I don't want you to get used to being 
naked. There is nothing less interesting than a slut. This 
is implies an assignment." She flipped to the back of the 
notebook and looked up. "Go shopping for day clothes."

"Further on clothing." She flipped to the front of the 
notebook. "You will wear nothing that blocks my access to 
your cunt or ass at any time, in public or in private. No 
panties, no pants, no pantyhose. Now that I've broken you 
in, use a tampon during your period."

"Policy: you will be totally hairless below the neck. 
Assignment: shave, then acquire and use a home electrical 
depilatory kit."

"Your lips will be slack and your mouth open at all times."

"You will keep your asshole greased for my use at all 
times."

I waited while she caught up.

"I will demand that you take care of yourself, both 
physically and mentally. Assignment: enroll in a health 
club and sign up for any exercise regimen that keeps you 
limber and fit. I don't care if it's yoga or kickboxing or 
anything else. Work up a sweat five days a week."

"In terms of keeping yourself fit mentally, I've had some 
discussions with Chancellor Reed of the State University 
here in town. He's reviewed your record from Saint Virginia 
along with your SATs, and sees no reason why you shouldn't 
be able to enter State as a freshman immediately. You'll..."

"Jack! State! Omigawd, State!" 

"Allie. What have you just done? Look at the policies." 

Her mouth snapped shut, and she scanned down the policies. 
She had spoken out of turn, and addressed me incorrectly. 
Another scan through the policies. I had asked her a 
question she couldn't answer by pointing, so she 
automatically had permission to speak. "I spoke without 
permission in the master suite. I didn't call you 'Mr. 
Kennedy.' I'm sorry, Mr. Kennedy."

"You will be. Put it in your Discipline Book. I'm not going 
to beat you for this--too many beatings shows a lack of 
inventiveness on the part of the owner. Besides, it was 
your mouth that sinned, not your back or your ass. For 
'punishment,' put 'four hours with gag.'" She looked up at 
me, and swallowed. "Write it. And there's no time like the 
present." I reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a 
penis gag, one recently made to my own specifications, in 
that the depth of oral penetration could be easily 
adjusted. She still had some trouble with her gag reflex, 
and this was an opportunity. I guessed at the right depth, 
and strapped it home. "Awrk! Hngrrh!! Hngrrh!!!" Hmm, back 
off a quarter of an inch? Ah, that will do. She was far 
from comfortable, gagging every few seconds, her chin 
pointed upward, swallowing constantly to fight the reflex, 
but that was the idea. "Note the start time in your 
Discipline Book." She did, with difficulty. "And when you 
drool, clean it up. Come back to me when the time is up and 
I'll remove the gag."

"As I was saying about State. You'll need to take come 
catch-up courses to make up for the year you will miss at 
Saint Virginia, but the Advanced Placement courses you took 
will partially offset that. And put in an assignment: 
Complete application paperwork for State. That will be all 
for now. You're dismissed." 

She stood up, wiped the drool that was already forming on 
her lower lip, and came around my desk and kissed me. 
That's hard to do with your face is as full of machinery as 
hers was, but she managed somehow. Then she followed her 
nipples out of the room, trailing behind her the occasional 
sound of choking.

Chapter 11: Thanks for the Memories

It was six months later, that our little household changed 
again. Allie came into the study, and I saw that today was 
"latex maid day." It wasn't my fetish, but she always 
seemed extra juicy after a "latex day," so I didn't mind. 
The chain hobble between her ankles didn't slow her down 
all that much, except on the stairs. And the impressively-
sized ballgag hanging loosely around her neck was like a 
bright red pendant on a necklace. The woman dressed kinkier 
every day. Yesterday had been "Catholic schoolgirl day," 
though I doubt the good Sisters would have approved Allie's 
alterations to their uniform. 

She raised her hand. A handcuff was closed around her 
wrist, the other cuff dangling and open, ready.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Kennedy, your birthday is coming up in a couple of 
months, and I was hoping to do something special to 
surprise you. But...it will take money."

"How much?"

She named a figure, and I raised an eyebrow. "That's some 
surprise." I thought for a moment. Business had been good, 
recently, and I had a fair amount of money laid away. What 
the hell, it's only money. "Very well, go ahead." 

"Thank you, Mr. Kennedy. You won't be disappointed." She 
knew what would happen if I were.

I wrote out the check, blank as to payee (wouldn't be much 
of a surprise otherwise, would it?) and forgot about it. In 
the spirit of the thing, I was careful not to look for the 
cancelled check after it cleared.

A couple of months later, on the day before my birthday, 
and right at the end of Allie's freshman year, I received a 
thin envelope in the mail, with a return address of the 
Psych department at the University she was attending. Allie 
was downstairs, somewhere. Upon opening it, I found the 
following letter, on University letterhead:

  * * *

Dear Mr. Kennedy,

Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. ____, Professor of 
Psychology, in the Department of Psychology and Psychiatry 
at State University. I am writing you at the request of 
Miss Allie Kennedy.

My particular research interest is the human memory, and 
specifically how it is distorted. I have almost 
accidentally become an authority on the phenomenon of 
'false memory,' by which people are induced to 'remember,' 
quite vividly, things that simply never happened. There 
have been multiple court cases recently in which this has 
been an important element. People have fully and honestly 
confessed to crimes they couldn't possibly have committed, 
truly believing themselves guilty. Young women have, in the 
belief that they are telling the truth, accused their 
fathers of rape, of fathering children upon them, young 
women who passed lie detector tests to support the 
accusation--young women whom subsequent medical examination 
shows still to be virgins. There are other cases that I 
won't bore you with. 

Suffice it that the phenomenon of 'false memory' is now 
tolerably well understood, to the point of having made the 
pages of 'Scientific American.' 

Now to the present.

Miss Kennedy has spoken to me at length about your 
relationship with her. It is not my place to judge either 
of you. I will only note that you have a remarkable woman 
here, and I hope you deserve her. She came to me a couple 
of months ago with an extraordinary request: she wanted me 
to create in her a false memory. After considerable soul-
searching, and after cross-examining her at length to 
ensure that this is what she really wanted, I agreed to do 
so, and have done so.

(I worked it out and thought, yeah, and the size of my 
check didn't hurt, either.)

I have videotapes of all sessions between us under lock and 
key, to protect all the parties involved.

You will find in Attachment A a manuscript in Miss 
Kennedy's hand giving you her rationale for this action. 

Attachment B is a manuscript, also in Miss Kennedy's hand, 
of the 'memory' she asked me to create, which I have done. 
You should be aware that one of the characteristics of 
'false memory' is that, once the core images have been 
introduced, the subject often unconsciously elaborates 
them, fills them in, with details that will be every bit as 
vivid as the core images, and which they will believe to be 
true with absolute certainty.

At her request, Miss Kennedy currently has no memory of 
having visited me, nor is she aware of the 'memory' which 
lies latent in her mind. Attachment C contains the trigger 
phrase that will bring the latent 'memory' forth. 
Attachment C also contains a trigger phrase that will 
enable her to remember that 'memory' is false, and how it 
came to be in her mind. The second trigger phrase exists in 
case you decide that, to speak bluntly, the whole thing was 
a mistake. Please understand that each trigger phrase can 
be used only once. This is because the transition will be 
almost violent, at the psychological level, and I felt I 
needed to prevent the psychological damage that multiple 
transitions could cause to her mind, rather as repeated 
concussions do to the brain.

Finally, in the event of your death, she will recall 
visiting me, and will understand that the memory, if 
activated, is false. This is a precaution to avoid 
potential emotional, or even legal, problems that are 
unforeseeable at this time, but which would otherwise be 
very difficult to reverse if no one knew to notify me to 
intervene.

I hope that you and Miss Kennedy find pleasure in what she 
has asked me to do. Remember that it can be undone. 

Sincerely yours, 

Dr. ______

  * * *

I turned the page, and was confronted with a page of 
Allie's handwriting on lined legal paper. At the top was 
overtyped "Attachment A. Page 1 of 1." In the lower corner, 
I could make out what must be Dr. ____'s initials. Careful 
fellow.

  * * *

Dear Mr. Kennedy, my lord and my love,

These pages I write are the only physical existence of my 
gift to you. Please bear with me while I justify my 
actions.

You have made for me a comfortable and protecting home, for 
which I love you. You are a demanding owner, for which I am 
grateful.

You know I want only to please you. You know that I try to 
meet your demands before you know that you will make them.  
I work on my skills to be good for you.

I know of only one thing I have left to offer for your 
greater pleasure, but it's something you've never wanted, 
and that is my pain. I could do more, give more, but the 
things I could do and give would not bring you pleasure 
today, because you'd have to hurt me to get them, and you 
have been too decent an owner to demand that, though I'd 
give my pain freely and gladly for your pleasure.

Do you remember what I put in my love letter not so long 
ago? "The more that O suffered for him, the more Renee was 
pleased, and /therefore/ the more pleasure O got from 
pleasing him."

You could wring more pleasure from me, more pleasure for 
both of us, but only if hurting me would please you.

My gift, if you will have it, is to make it possible for me 
to 'remember' that I have gotten pleasure from being hurt, 
not only indirectly by pleasing you, but also somehow 
directly, in the pain itself. I will be able to 'remember' 
that you have gotten pleasure from my pain, AND SO HAVE I. 
I want to give you greater pleasure by making it easier for 
you to hurt me, to demand my pain, because you will know 
that I now believe myself capable of finding, and will 
expect to find, pleasure in the pain.

You hold the keys in your hands. Please understand that, at 
the time you read this letter, I will have no remembrance 
of having written it.

All my obedience, devotion, and love,

Allie

  * * *

My first reaction was, "Oh, really!", which is what I say 
when I've got nothing to say. The woman had, indeed, 
astonished me. I turned to the brief "Attachment B" and 
read carefully the things she'd asked to "remember," things 
that never happened. She wanted to believe that, when I 
spanked her that first time, she'd become very aroused, and 
tried to hump the wall while I was out of the room. To 
"remember" that, during one of her private masturbation 
sessions, she'd experimented with clothespins on her 
nipples and it got her off (her note said that she had 
tried clothespins, but they just hurt). To think that, 
while I was caning her at the ceremony, she had orgasmed 
from the pain in front of everyone. There was more, but 
that was the tone of all of it. The girl wanted to please 
me, and if it took her pain, she was ready to deliver it.

I sat at my desk for a long time after I finished reading. 
The sunlight outside began to fade into dusk. 

It took a long time for me to put my finger on what was 
bothering me. There was an assumption here: Allie was 
assuming that if, under the influence of her false memory, 
she 'remembered' having gotten pleasure from pain, her 
belief that it had happened to her before would mean that 
she would in fact feel real masochistic pleasure when 
experiencing real pain, something that, as far as I knew, 
she never had done. She was betting that the expectation 
would cause the reality. That was an assumption, and a risk 
she was apparently willing to take.

Did I want to take that risk with her? The problem was 
that, if I took her up on this offer, an offer that at this 
point she didn't even know she'd made, and I began hurting 
her, and it didn't work out, what then? Sure, I could back 
the worm out of her mind, it said here, but after doing so, 
she'd still remember that, at some time in the real world, 
I had actually been willing to hurt her for my pleasure, 
not for punishment. What would that do to our relationship? 
What would she think of me, then?

I flipped back to her letter, and re-read "...though I'd give 
my pain freely and gladly for your pleasure."  

While I was reading, Allie came silently into the room, 
carrying my evening drink. She was wearing only a Very 
Short red tunic. It was not sheer, but had the perfect 
quality of translucence such that, if you'd looked at it as 
you walked past her on the street, you'd be fifty feet 
beyond her before your brain said, "Did I see what I think 
I saw?"  She knelt gracefully in front of my desk, and 
reached up to put the drink on the desk's surface in front 
of me, meeting my eyes. She pulled the hem of the tunic 
down to cover her slit, and blushed.

Without further thought, I turned to Attachment C. A day 
early, perhaps, but it was time to unwrap my birthday 
present.
<1st attachment end>


----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
Notice: This post has been modified from its original
format.  The post was sent as an email attachment and
has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software.
----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <story-submit@asstr.org>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-admin@asstr.org> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+