Trained

(A standalone short.)

*

It took months, partly because the preparations and negotiations were so thorough. It was her idea and at first its profundity had shocked him but she had been wanting to push her boundaries for some time and he had to admit that alongside the shock was more than a little excitement. So they worked together to develop and refine the scenario. Before long he took the lead.

On the night Before they were scheduled to begin, he took her head in his hands and gazed deeply into her eyes and asked her if she were sure, really sure, that she wanted this. Something about his serious face and earnest tone gave her a real chill. They had been so caught up in the joy of creative development that she hadn’t had time to stop and think about the consequences. So now she did, she really stopped and considered what they were going to do. And it gave her a thud of fear, yes. But at the same time she found herself deeply aroused by the possibilities.

Shewas fearful. But she was curious. And the curiosity throbbed inside her belly, it tingled upon her lips like a day of lazy sun-kissed, beach relaxation that called for attention as the evening growing cool and the night brought promise.

She told him she was sure.

So it began. It began with one night of attention to her every need, every muscle massaged and relaxed, every inch of skin caresed and kissed, every orgasm fulfilled; whilst at the same time his whispering in her ear, telling her to remember this, savour it, that this would be the last release of this kind for a long, long time making her shudder even more deeply.

She fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, tinged with dreadful anticipation of what was to come.

*

The first weeks were exciting denial. Not only was she not allowed to touch herself to pleasure herself, she could barely touch herself at all. She could brush her teeth, she could combine her hair but she couldn’t soap herself in the shower;Not by her own hand, nor with a flannel, lest she arouse her skin too much. Instead he would do it for her. Of course when he did, he would use slow, firm, teasing movements and remind her who it was who controlled this pleasurable touch. She was even required to ask him to scratch itches on her nose.

In the evenings he would tease her with the lightest touches. At first with his tongue, then after a week, a delicate paintbrush. In the final days, just puffs of air from a pneumatic bulb designed to clean camera lenses. The first few days he took her nice and close to the edge, flooded her with pleasure but of course offered no release. Yet as the days went on even the edge was not a destination but simply part of the landscape, a beautiful view which his touches drew her attention towards. The further from it she was, the more she longed for it.

She wasn’t even allowed to close her legs during this teasing but simply lay there, wide open, willing him to touch a little longr, brush a little deeper, in the end puff air just a little harder for any more sensing she could experience.

All this was accompanied by a series of records to which she would drift off into sleep, gently tied down, legs apart lest she rub her thighs together in her sleep. The dreamy, lullaby voice in the recordings would remind her of her yearning, and her wetness. Only partially rested each night, with a little sleep deprivation setting in, she began to dream vividly of touch, of burning need at her centre. Her underslept nights began to blend with her days, filled as they were with tasks, with touches, with the notes about her state of mind she was expected to keep. Her existence became a twilight world of sleepy, obedient hunger, just as they had designed it.

The results were as expected – as she had felt before – but this time it was an overwhelming, intotoxicating onslaught. Very quickly she found herself fixed on her core, on the burning longer there, on the gusts of desire blowing through her body. It was like some mindfulness meditation except instead of resting upon her mind, her thoughts kept slipping back between her legs. She would sometimes find herself gazing into the middle distance, absent of mind, absorbed by the pleasureable, painful ache between her legs. She would become aware that he was talking to her, asking her to do things – fetch a book, pour water, make coffee – and she would come to with surprise, half way through some task before she realized she had even heard him.

She shivered, at these moments, suddenly aware of how much of her mind had been displaced by the yearning and also aware of how thoughtlessly she was doing his bidding. She had always done that, of course, leaping so quickly to obey an order given in a certain tone of voice that it was as if she were watching Her body obey. But this was different. She found herself becoming aware of her actions as they had already begun, the throb within her was so great. Perhaps it was the sleeplessness combined with the denial.

Also, as expected, but more strongly than ever before, her thoughts began to fill with wicked, dark images of sadistic things, to replace the absence of the stimulation she craved. Her dreams, her absentminded daydreaming, became tinged with images she might have earlier rejected or feared. Now she contemplated them with half-closed, lucky eyelids.

*

Eventually, when she was all but a gooey mess, constantly slick between her legs, driven to gasps and dry humps with the lightest puff of air upon her clip, eyelids getting heavy with lust and sleeplessness, the next stage began.

It followed the usual morning ritual they had established. Around a half an hour of postures, as he told her to knee, to stand, to knee again, raise her buttocks and present herself, lie down legs apart, knee again. Her mind would fade during this time, just following the instructions, aching with the delightful sensing of her skin pressing against the floor, her moist lips opening to the kiss of the air when they could. Each day, she was happier to be absent the need to make decisions and to simply follow directions.

This time, he told her to hold a particular position, standing, legs apart.

It was time to apply the device.

It was her concept. They had developed it together, designed it together, tested it together, but in her current state it took a great deal of effort to recall what it was intended to do. Then a cool flush of memory came over her and she shivered. Almost as she did – and perhaps he was sly enough to wait for understanding to hit her – he began to attach it.

The butt plug part felt fierce, going in, even with the lube, even though it had been designed and cast for her body; a stretching, swelling intrusion at first but nevertheless a welcome sensing. Even the pain was rewarding her craving. She shook and her hips flexed as it stretched her, then slid home to its more tapered end.

Once in it feel comfortable enough.

The other half, the vaginal plug, was a different story. Such slippery, slick pleasure she gasped and let out a prominent moan. It filled her. It pressed into her belly from within, ticckled that sensitive spot, promised deep pleasure. Then the slim belt that held the two connected plugs in place, the one that fastened around her hips.

He reminded her that she was not to release. She moaned.

Then the rope.

Oh god the rope. After so long without physical touch every pore tingled as it slide across her skin. The tie itself was nothing – a simple, quite clinically laid karada, crossing her chest, breasts, midriff, belly, hips, buttons and tighs – but it felt like all the rope she had done before in her life, all at Once. He reminded her about no release, told her to hold still as he finished the knots. It took all her concentration.

When it was done, he took her hair and lifted her head to cause herto look at herself in the long mirror before them both. He was dressed in dark slacks and a light white shirt. She was naked, of course, but for the belt that held the two plugs in place, and the battery pack, and the rope dressing her body. Tiny silvered filaments threaded through the rope glistened in the sunlight as he turned her here and there, admiring her body and his handiwork.

Electro-rope.

He kissed her lips very gently, asked again if she was sure. She was very, very frightened. But she nodded.

He took the tiny wires at the end of the rope and clipped them into the battery pack. Then stepped back from her.

“Now you’re in trouble,” he said. And she shivered at the thought.

It may have been just the idea of ​​activating it, or her movement against the teasing little crotch knot he had added, or simply the influx of sensing of the two plugs and the embrace of the rope, but she found herself beginning to get closer. Her body undulated and flexed against the rope, which only made things worse. She mewled as the pleasure rose.

“I’m going to…” she moaned.

“Are you?” he asked. There was a fascinated, clinical expression on his face.

She felt the surge of the orgasm rising within her…

Then the shock arced across her skin like tiny teeth biting her whole upper body, fasting on and shaking her flesh. An electric knife stabbed at her core, burning like ice.

It had nothing to do with him. Manometers in the two plugs were measuring her PC muscle. When it became too tight, basically when it detected an oncoming orgasm, the device discharged current across the rope. Not enough to harm but quite enough to hurt. A brief but outstanding, all-encompassing garment of age.

She found herself curled upon the floor, skin tingling with the receiving pain, whimpering. He was there beside her, gently struggling her hair, whispering in her ear, praying her bravery, calming her.

*

The next week was intense.

He began to play with her in reverse. From the light puffs of air, he moved back to the brush. That night, the first touch of the brush tipped her so close, so quickly, she had no time even to gather her wits before the age of the current danced across her body. She understood on the bed, muscles spasming, wailing, until the pain received as did the threat of her orgasm.

“Let’s try that again, shall we?” he murmured.

“Wait-” she said.

But the brush was already lapping at her sensitive, hungry clip, the pleasure already throbbing within her, the desire rising, the orgasm fighting to be felt after so long in denial. And soon, the crackle of the current came again.

She had nothing to do with it in the end. It was her body that began to learn. The fear itself, the fear of the agonising pain, kept her quite Still, frozen, simply watching in dreadful anticipation as the pleasure mounted. But it was her body that worked out how to twitch in the right way, to sketchfully clnch or relax at the right moments, jerk to one side or another, to sidestep the mounting orgasm.

It could never avoid the pleasure, of course. The pleasure was always there. And it could not suppress the throbbing burn at her core. It simply learned how to move and snap her hips, thrust or draw back from the stimulation, even undulate her PC muscles or the inner walls of her vagina to interrupt and avoid that Final release. All that happened was that the pleasure became greater, the stimulation stronger, more forceful, the age of the denial heightened. The relief never came. Couldn’t come. Would always, always evade her.

After enough time had passed, he trusted her autonomic system to be able to stroke her firmly with fingers and tongue, to pinch and bite at her nipples, just as they had done on that first night, long long ago. He reminded her of that night, of the wave upon wave of pleasure that she had allowed to cascade over herself. He did everything he couldto drive her over. Even if she had wanted to, she could not. Her body believed her will. It simply drove her excitedly, deliciously wild. Her desire was so fierce she found herself in a fugue state, eternally half-asleep, half-aroused, aching within, eager for any direction he gave her, any instruction, to take her mind away from the burn and instead allow it to focus on obeying. Now she poured water, made coffee, knelt and presented herself, stroked and pleasured him in her mouth, with total absorption, almost without thought.

Then it was time for the real test.

*

One day, he gently removed the rope, unclipped the belt, slide the plugs free. After so many days, she felt strange and empty without them. Empty but wanting to be filled.

He stroked her and criticized her. She was quite Befuddled, a sleepy, docile smile upon her face. He lay her back on the bed and began, very gently, to fuck her.

She moaned and compromised, feeling him inside her after so long, such sweet strokes, deep, even strokes, filling her, delighting her.

Completely unsatisfying her.

She thrust and shook – rather, her body did this for her – evading the onset of orgasm automatically, even as the movements stimulated her all the more, stimulated him to drive deeper into her, brushing her most exhaust places. She wailed, clawed at his buttocks with her fingers, drew him deeper, begging for a little More to drive her over. Of course, her body was no longer her friend. It had learned every trick, every twitch, to avoid that final moment. He felt her PC muscles spasming in just the right way to evade her release, the lining of her vagina undulate. For her, frustratingly, for him it felt delightful and urgent.

Such a well trained girl, she was. Her hips flicked and thrust, utterly pleasing him, drawing him closer and closer to a powerful, guttural shout of release. But those very rolling, semiconductor movements, those shifts and shakes like a belly dancer’s, would keep her quite frustrated, quite without completion herself.

From the research they had done, this change might wear off, given time.

He began to thrust and buck, her movements too much. He felt himself tipping.

There was, however, a slim possibility that they had done something permanent to her. Perhaps her body would undermine her forever. Perhaps this sleepy, needy state would never leave.

He gasped and cried out in release, she in supreme frustration.

Perhaps they had trained her too well.

Time would tell.