THE TRAINING HOUSE: GIRL
Available September 15, 2015!
In those breathless moments between pleasure and pain lie the most poignant truths…
I have signed myself over to The Training House: my devotion, my obedience, my body. It is what I have always yearned for—to lose myself in powerlessness. To be made to. But this place is more than anyone could possibly prepare for, especially the Master of the House. He is too stunning, too commanding, bringing out a yearning for submission in ways I have never imagined, and I am lost in nearly unbearable desire. He uses my body until he brings me to tears, then tenderly wipes them away, enslaving me to him instantly, body and soul. I cannot imagine existing without him, without his wicked touch, his strict and sensual command…
Until I meet another slave, and he changes the game of kink for me forever. How can I decide what my heart wants most, without risking losing it all?
WARNING:: These books contains material that may be difficult to read about and/or cause triggers for some readers, including consensual non-consent and other scenes that could be disturbing. Do NOT try this at home!
The sun hasn’t been up for more than a couple of hours when the door to my room opens, and I have a brief, joyous glimpse of him. He’s dressed in dark slacks, a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled again to reveal his tattoo work. His dark hair is a little wavy, a little too long, like some hero in a Jane Austin novel. Too perfect.
I begin to sit up but he pushes me back with his rough boot on my chest, and the air goes out of me as my body floods with lust. Those boots! And him. I bite back a moan, trying to resist the urge to press my thighs together to ease the wet, aching want there. He gives a wave and one of the Girls—I still don’t know which one—and an elegant older man with close-cropped gray hair I know from my arrival to be Robert the valet, kneel on either side of me. While the Master holds me down with his booted foot, they slip a leather blindfold over my eyes and fear is like a siren shrieking in my mind—I hate to be blindfolded. My heart races, making me want to scream. But they seem to have thought of everything. Someone holds my cheeks firmly, then a ball gag is shoved into my mouth and strapped at the back of my head.
The boot is removed from my chest and I’m flipped over onto my stomach, my arms pulled behind my back. I can smell the leather of the cuffs before they’re buckled firmly around my wrists. And my head is emptying out in a way my silly little meditations could never accomplish, as I’m lifted then thrown over the Master’s shoulders. Oh yes, it is definitely him, and it’s pure heaven to feel the muscles working in his shoulder, my breasts resting against the solid wall of his broad back. My nipples are so hard they hurt. I’m so wet I worry about mussing his lovely shirt, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
Nothing you can do.
And so, when I begin to drool a little around the gag I give myself over to it. No tears as there usually are when I’m gagged or blindfolded. Because I can do absolutely nothing. And because it’s for him.
He carries me down a flight of stairs, his boot heels echoing on the wooden risers, then we turn to the right. It’s only a few moments before he makes another turn and I am dumped facedown onto a smooth wooden table, or a counter, maybe. I inhale the scents of coffee and food cooking. The kitchen?
Then his voice—his beautifully modulated voice, so devoid of any accent he must be from California. “Cook. Prepare this one for me.”
“Yes, Sir.” A deep female voice, and I imagine a tall, handsome women, with large hands. I also imagine her tenderizing my flesh with one of those mallets used for steak. The reality is not far off the mark.
I hear her moving about the room and what sounds like utensils being shuffled, and almost right away she smacks my ass with something that feels like a very large, flat wooden spoon. When I squirm she places a firm and surprisingly small, strong hand on the back of my neck and smacks me harder and harder, my tender ass stinging, burning as blood rises to the surface of my skin. She pauses for half a breath, allowing me to swallow a gulp of air before she starts in again with something much heavier this time. And oh God, it hurts as she lands one solid blow after another, hammering deep into the muscles so that sensation goes from sting to a deep bruising thud, yet it still stings somehow. She works the heavy, wooden implement—a rolling pin?—down over the backs of my thighs, silent until she utters a simple, stern order.
“Spread your thighs. Wider.”
I do as she asks—of course I do—and she pinches my pussy lips so hard a tear seeps from the corner of my eye and drool pools in my mouth behind the gag. She holds onto that delicate flesh with one hand while she spanks me with the other, her palm on my flesh almost sweet in comparison to the hard wooden tool she’d used before. Pain builds, and what begins as something I welcome quickly turns into more than I can process—there is such a rapid build with no warm-up at all. Harder and impossibly harder until I am crying out around the gag, the noise a raw contraction of the muscles in my throat, drool spilling onto my chin.
I am helpless.
Thinking the words soothes me as much as it frightens me. It has always been like this.
Suddenly the spanking stops, although her hard, hurting fingers are still twisting my poor tortured labia. My breath comes in short, gasping pants as I try not to choke on my own salty tears.
I sense her moving nearer, then her breath is hot against my cheek. She says in a low tone, “You’d better learn to take it more quietly, Girl. The Master won’t like all this fussing. Didn’t your previous owner teach you any better? Or are you too hard-headed to learn?”
My heart drops into my stomach. I try so hard to be good. To please. To aim for perfection. But this place is too new and I haven’t been told all the rules.
And suddenly it comes to me that maybe they want me to fail. I’m hoping it’s only to have more reason to punish me and not because they simply don’t want me. That he doesn’t want me. I need so much to belong…somewhere. And if not here, where?
© Eden Bradley 2015
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