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Whitney's Training Session
by MarArch (mararch@ix.netcom.com)

***

There is such a thing as a submissive woman. Some women 
really do get off by submitting their will AND body to 
other people's will. This story was written for Whitney 
as a tool in her submissive training. (MF/F, d/s, bd, 
cons)

***

It was a long and difficult day for you, wasn't it, my 
dove. Signing on to collect any morning mail, and 
discovering those instructions... and how elaborate they 
were... the toys, the clamps, the ropes and that 
agonizing moment when you considered whether or not to 
simply skip them and get started with the day that was 
already beginning to run late. 

In the end you sighed and complied, didn't you... 
binding and clamping your body beneath your tasteful 
outer garments, setting yourself up to endure a day of 
torment that would have you wet and reeking by the time 
you arrived home.

And then, upon returning, signing on once more and 
discovering the other letter... this one informing you 
that you would have guests this evening, and should be 
prepared for anything... absolutely anything. That sent 
a shudder through you, didn't it, little pet. Because 
you well knew that when I used that word "anything", you 
would very shortly find your limits stretched a bit 
further than ever before. 

Were you really up to such activities tonight? And did 
that really matter? You are a sub, to the very core of 
your soul... and when your Master tells you to dance, 
you do not complain of sore feet or fatigue... you 
merely blend your body to his and swirl into the soft 
music of the night.

So, you quickly undressed, preparing yourself, as 
instructed... and when the doorbell rang, you took a 
deep breath, feeling very naked and vulnerable covered 
only in the skimpy thong panties, stepped over to turn 
the lock on the door before returning to the center of 
the room, where you knelt in the position you know would 
please me... knees spread wide, fingers laced behind 
your neck, back straight, eyes cast downwards.

"Come in, Sir," you call, and the door opens before you.

You felt a deep flush of shock rush into your cheeks as 
you realized that I was being followed into your 
sanctuary by two others... a couple, you imagined.... 
him, tall, slender, with dark hair and eyes... she 
almost as stately in height but with hair the color of 
glowing embers and eyes of burning jade.

We were laughing lightly as we entered, the tail end of 
some small humor trailing in behind us as we stepped 
past the portal and I cast a casual glance at your 
kneeling form, my eyes registering pride and approval 
before moving fully into the room and admitting them.

He, however, paused to gaze down at you for a long 
moment, his eyes sweeping slowly over you, as if 
appraising your worth, before the smile spread out onto 
his lips.

"Very nice," he said quietly, and then moved past you, 
as if having seen a work of art, appreciated it and 
complimented the owner, was now concerned with other 
matters.

She, on the other hand, drilled you with her gaze, and 
even from that distance, you could feel her hunger 
suddenly begin to swell. A low, appreciative moan slid 
past her lips and she gazed down at you for a long 
moment before turning to close the door and slip the 
lock with ominous slowness. Then she turned back to you 
and moved, her body almost slinking with each step, 
until she was no more than a foot from you.

Your eyes were fixed on her stomach, just where the top 
of the slit in her long skirt revealed the very top of 
her stocking. And you watched as her long-nailed hand 
slid over her hip, her palm drifting lightly across the 
fabric as she gently stroked her lower abdomen, no more 
than a foot from your face.

And then, you caught her lusty scent rising up before 
you, and watched as her hand slid back, the fingers 
slipping into the top of the slit in the skirt and 
slowly disappeared as her hand now brushed over her hip 
and toward her own hidden sex.

And you saw as her other hand slowly began to rise up 
toward you, the palm opening, as if to gently place 
itself upon your cheek. But then, before it made 
contact, you heard from somewhere behind you, that 
cautioning tone I sometimes use.

"Uh, uh... no touching."

She never took her eyes off you as her voice growled up, 
hungrily, somewhere above you.

"I want it."

"Later," you hear me say, and she whimpers, 
disappointed, her hidden hand slowly withdrawing from 
beneath the skirt and raised, casually, slowly to her 
mouth. Because of your downcast eyes you cannot see but 
only hear the faint sound as she dips the finger into 
her mouth and tastes her own growing lust. Then, with a 
sigh, she turns and moves away, leaving you kneeling, 
waiting, in the center of the room.

That was how long ago? Fifteen minutes? Half an hour? 
Only long enough for a quick tour of the place as I 
guide them around, explaining how we have used each 
location, what was done to you in what place and what 
innovations you endured during our play.

And then they returned for a little more idle chatter, 
before you heard my voice, somewhere behind you, "Well, 
shall we get started?"

And the sound of them sinking into the two chairs which 
faced the open area of the room, the tinkling of ice in 
glasses as they got comfortable and then the sound of my 
voice, "Whitney? Please come here, dear."

And so, it has begun...

"Kneel, please."

Without unclasping your hands from behind your neck, you 
kneel, in the center of the room, facing the two chairs 
into which our guests have settled to observe your 
training. Even though you carefully keep your eyes 
averted and fixed on the floor just between the chairs, 
you cannot help but notice the woman shifting in her 
chair slightly, nor her hand as it slides down into her 
lap, the fingers beginning to curl and uncurl at the 
fold in her long skirt just over the mound of her sex. 
The man sits, legs crossed, observing dispassionately, 
his drink held casually before him.

I am standing beside you, my voice casually drifting 
through the room.

"As you can see, she has taken well to her training so 
far. But I thought that, for tonight, we would go just a 
bit further and see how much she can endure. She, of 
course, knows her safe word and understands that she 
won't be harmed in any way. But tonight, I did want her 
to feel what it would be like to be... shall we call it 
'tested', while others looked on."

"Whitney," you hear me say from above you, "what is the 
most distracting sense?"

"Sight, Sir" you reply, having come to understand this 
through long sessions of experiment and training.

"Yes. Sight," you hear me say, and from the corner of 
your eye you see me step to a table beside the seat in 
which the strange man is settled and place my drink upon 
it, before turning and moving off behind you, out of 
your vision.

A few moments later, you feel the first touch of the 
heavy blindfold on your hair and you close your eyes to 
allow it to settle into place, its thick fleece lining 
brushing gently down over your face while its thick, 
tight elastic strap grips the back of your head.

Your vision thus cut off, you reach out with your ears, 
straining to fix on any clue as to what might occur 
next. The answer is not long in coming.

A faint rattle behind you and you instantly recognize 
the familiar clanking of the restraints on the ends of 
the spreader bar. This is followed by the touch of my 
fingers on your left ankle, as the restraint is slipped 
around it and buckled into place, securing it tightly. I 
gently press against your other ankle, forcing it 
outwards and causing you to shift your weight, spreading 
your knees wider, until you can feel the tension in the 
joints of your hips, before the other restraint is 
fitted around your right ankle and pulled snug.

The position hangs just on the verge of being 
uncomfortable, and you can already feel the muscles of 
your upper thighs beginning to tense, straining to hold 
you upright. A small groan escapes your lips, and from 
before you, you hear an answering sigh from the strange 
woman, as if she has absorbed your discomfort and 
converted it to some secret, inner lust.

A few moments later, you are startled to feel something 
hard pressed against the small of your back, almost 
knocking you forward. But before you pitch over, you 
feel the press of my palm against your shoulder, pulling 
you back, and you realize that it is, in fact, that low, 
small stool that normally sits against the wall near the 
front door. You feel me bend down and my fingers grip 
your thigh, just above your knee, urging it even further 
open. 

You strain to press it outward and then feel the 
forelegs of the stool slip down between your calves, 
just below the knees, holding you now spread to the 
limit. You shift slightly, and realize that the stool is 
now placed so that it sits almost gripped by your lower 
legs, it's four firmly planted posts touching the 
insides of your ankles and your upper calves, just below 
the knees.

"Hands behind your head, please, Whitney," you hear me 
say, and unclasp your fingers from behind your neck, 
moving your arms around until they encounter the sides 
of the stool. It is a bit of a strain to turn them so 
that they come to rest at the small of your back, but 
the instant you feel the long, silk scarf beginning to 
wind around the wrists, you relax them, and the tension 
ebbs from your now oddly positioned elbows and 
shoulders.

You feel the wrapped fabric of the scarf pulled tightly 
into place and knotted securely, trapping your hands in 
that familiar arrangement, but before you can relax and 
begin to absorb that delicious sense of helplessness, 
you feel the end of a second scarf looped over the first 
a single time and tied off.

Before you can figure out just what this new sensation 
portends, the answer is driven home to you, as you feel 
this silken leash gently pulled back, drawing your bound 
wrists outwards behind you, sliding them over the seat 
of the stool, causing your body to bend backwards. Just 
when it reaches a point that puts the maximum tension on 
your spine and shoulders, you feel your wrists slip down 
the opposite side of the stool and plunge straight down 
behind it, causing your upper body to arc back until it 
is virtually lying across the seat.

A torrent rushes through your mind, as you realize that 
you have never felt this exposed, this vulnerable, your 
body bowed back and all your most sensitive flesh 
exposed. You feel the other end of the silken leash 
pulling tight and assume it has been tied off to the 
center of the spreader bar. In fact, it is almost 
possible to relax your body and lay flat long the seat 
of the stool to which you are now securely bound, but 
the tension of the moment prevents this.

You hear me rise from behind you and move around your 
side, kneeling once more on the soft carpeting. Your 
breathing is now becoming shallow and rapid, both with 
apprehension and excitement, wondering what next will 
occur to you. You do not have long to wait for the 
answer.

The very faintest tickling at the joint of your hip 
tells you that my fingertips have grasped the small bow 
that holds together that side of the tiny thong that 
covers your nakedness, and you feel the bow being slowly 
pulled, until, with an almost audible jerk, it opens, 
allowing the thin triangle of cloth over your naked, 
smooth mons to peel down, exposing your sex.

You groan at this and deep inside you feel the clenching 
of your sex which causes your body to tingle and begin 
to moisten.

From before you, you hear the gasp of the woman, quickly 
followed by a low, appreciative moan as she catches the 
first sight of your naked sex. And perhaps even the 
rustling of cloth, as if her skirt is being moved aside, 
allowing her to fully appreciate her admiration of you 
through gentle caresses to her own body.

You feel the other strap similarly tensed as the knot 
loop is gently pulled and then it too slips free and the 
thong falls away from your hips, exposing you 
completely.

In a few moments you sense rather than feel something 
close to your face, and then you catch the scent of your 
own lust, and quickly realize that the bundled thong is 
now being waved before your nostrils.

"Give it to me," you hear the woman hiss, urgently, and 
the scent fades as the thong is moved away.

"Whitney," you hear me say, calmly, "What is the second 
most distracting sense?"

"Hearing, Sir," you manage to gasp, and a shudder rolls 
through you, knowing what is to follow.

In a few moments, you feel the thick padding of the 
headphones being slid down over your ears, gripping them 
snuggly, and then the faint hiss as the cassette tape is 
switched on, followed by the quiet strains of the music 
pumping directly into your mind. And, in the background, 
almost so faint as to be barely noticed, the steady 
moaning and whimpering of the woman, undergoing some 
delicious torment... and you realize that that woman is 
yourself, having been recorded on a number of previous 
occasions and mixed with the music to create this tape.

The next few minutes you merely hang there, bent back 
and exposed over the stool, your mind gently assaulted 
by the sounds of your own past lust. You try to reach 
out past the darkness and distracting melody, wondering 
what might be going on mere inches from your pinioned 
body.

A sudden sharp chill explodes on the point of your right 
nipple and your whole body shudders in response, as the 
wave of sensation ripples through you. Something 
intensely cold has been brushed against the already 
tight bud of flesh and then, as the dull throbbing 
begins, you feel it slowly begin to change... alter... 
and the nerves beginning to tingle.... 

The medicated cream which had been sitting in the 
freezer since our arrival produces a torrent of 
sensations that roll through your chest and sink down 
into your stomach, which flutters in response. And you 
feel the chill of the ointment beginning to mix with the 
rapidly growing chemical "heat", the two contradictory 
sensations blending in an explosive assault on the 
sensitive, tight, throbbing skin.

Between your legs, you can feel the first droplets of 
your lust oozing to the edge of your lips and beginning 
to bead there, waving gently back and forth, this tiny 
movement adding the faintest tickle to the assault upon 
your nipple.

The other nipple erupts with a stab of cold, and the 
entire process is repeated, doubled, as both of your 
nipples now are throbbing and aching under the icy, 
heated attack by the lotion.

And even before your mind and flesh can fully adjust to 
the ripples of sensations that now roll through your 
entire chest and settle deep into your sex, a third 
sensation... a sudden, shocking stab of something which 
explodes as a pinpoint of heat against the outer ring of 
one nipple, is added.

Your entire body shudders deeply as the melted wax 
strikes the outer edge of the areola and slowly trickles 
down an inch or two before cooling enough to begin 
hardening.

You are whimpering now, your upturned chest under the 
first stages of a slow, methodical assault by the 
varying sensations of heat and cold... and your mind 
begins to draw down, tightly, rushing to focus on each 
pinpoint along your skin where every fresh droplet of 
melted wax strikes and awakens the nerves with an 
intense stab of something that almost brushes the 
underside of something a little like pain, but which 
quickly becomes mere intense sensation.

For how long this continues, you have no way of knowing. 
Your mind begins to drift off, stretched between the 
shattering burst of each new pinpoint of torment on your 
flesh and the deliciously wicked images called up by the 
sounds of your own past lust faintly drifting into your 
ears.

But this combination of trickling, burning, chilling 
stabs of sensations against your vulnerable skin and the 
racing conjurations of your mind carries you up to a 
constant throbbing deep in your sex, and your reddened, 
swollen clit begins to ache for release.

Again, the sensations begin to ebb, your body adjusting 
to them, absorbing them, and your mind turns to reach 
out once more, wondering what might be occurring outside 
the confines of your trapped flesh...

Then you feel the it... first the light touch, then the 
grip, and finally the pinch of the clamp as it slides 
down and captures your nipple, holding it tightly, and 
this fresh attention sends the nerves soaring once more, 
fresh waves of throbbing rolling deep into your flesh.

You cry out in alarm, your voice a gentle, innocent "oh" 
that dissipates into the blackness surrounding you, as 
the second clamp slips around and takes your other 
nipple prisoner.

You feel the chain which connects the clamps playing out 
along your skin, and when it's center finally touches 
the upper reaches of your stomach and is slowly 
released, you realize from the light tugging on your now 
captured nipples that a slight weight has been affixed 
to it, applying a slight pressure to its assault.

Now your head is rolling slowly back and forth, as if 
seeing to stretch out and allow some form of escape or 
release, your throat producing a low, steady moan with 
every breath, a mantra from your over-stimulated flesh 
sung out to the void that surrounds you.

Then you feel the first of the caresses... the light, 
almost tickling fingertips, begin to sweep over you, 
like the breath of an angel on the downy hairs of your 
body. They sweep slowly, deliberately over you, lightly 
touching every part of you, your neck, your chest, your 
arms, your legs... even slipping up your inner thighs 
and toward your now aching and throbbing clit. But, 
maddeningly, drifting away before providing that single 
touch that might ignite the explosion your body now 
craves.

And every place the fingers touch, fresh waves of need 
burst through you, sinking deep and settling inside your 
now trembling, flooded sex. You feel your back arching, 
urgent, hungry and desperate, but to no avail.

When it first brushes the tight pucker of your nether 
opening, the tip of the small, slender vibrator causes 
you to suck in a gasp of breath and expel a loud whimper 
of shock. But as the slickly coated invader is pressed 
against you, parting your opening and sliding up into 
you, stretching you and contacting those as yet 
untouched nerves, your cry is one of abject surrender, 
as the heat of this new torrent of sensations boils up, 
stabbing deep into your sex from beyond the thin 
membrane of flesh.

Your body is twitching now, short rapid shudders sending 
automatic quivers through every part of you, as if each 
nerve were charged with some electric spark and every 
muscle was tensing against its own will.

You feel the invader sink slowly to its hilt, impaling 
you fully, like a stake through the soul.

When the larger vibrator is pressed against the naked 
lips of your sex and begins to part them, your cry is 
that of an animal, and the fleeting image in your mind 
is of a butterfly, as the pin stabs through it, pinning 
it to the soft bed of cotton below.

The second vibrator penetrates deep into you, it's angle 
bringing its slow inward stroke firmly against the front 
of your inner sex and releasing even more explosions of 
assaulted nerves into you, which roll outwards and lap 
against every part of your skin. Then it too is fully 
seated, deep within you, and you feel as if you are 
split and filled and trapped on a pair of soft pikes 
that will hold you in place until the end of the world.

When they are both switched on, and begin to tremble 
inside you, you scream, your mind shattered by the 
assault, it's thousand pieces flung into the void and 
only the overwhelming waves of your own lust, your own 
heat, your own need remaining.

And when the tip of the finger lightly slips between the 
parted, throbbing, aching and desperate lips of your 
sex, and gently brushes over the base of your clit, 
stroking up along its length, a deep sob escapes you and 
the explosion ignites.

Your body goes rigidly tense against the searing heat of 
the cumming that flares through every nerve, every pore, 
every atom of your flesh, washing away the last of your 
identity in an explosion of fire and ice that devastates 
the very core of you. And even before it begins to ebb, 
the fingertip slowly starts to move, it's gentle strokes 
tracing over the outer edges of your clit, beginning a 
rhythm... and the second blast of cumming leaps up to 
burn the ashes left by the first...

Your eyes slowly open, and you realize you are lying on 
the couch, a soft blanket pressing gently down on your 
naked flesh. Across the room, I am standing by the open 
door, just shaking hands with the strange man who turns 
to smile at you with deep appreciation before stepping 
through. The woman leans in to plant a grateful kiss 
against my cheek and, even as she holds my arm, slowly 
turns her head to fix her gaze upon you, the blaze deep 
inside her eyes now dulled to a contented ember. 

You watch as she slowly raises a hand, extending her 
middle finger toward her slightly parted lips, her 
tongue slipping out just enough for her to lay the 
fingertip against it and lick it, savoring something 
sweet and special, before she turns and moves through 
the door, which is quietly closed behind her...

END

E-mail with comments: MarArch@ix.netcom.com

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. 4-million people around the world 
contract HIV every year. You only have one body per 
lifetime, so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 67