A Very Personal Trainer (7 page)

"Yes, Sir." I almost couldn't answer—it seemed a humiliating admission to make, somehow. I felt as if I should be fighting him or resisting him in some way—but I just didn't
want
to. I was trembling and my clitoris pulsed between my legs like a flashing alarm. I had never been so turned on in my life.

"I'm glad to hear it."

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A Very Personal Trainer

by Justine Elyot

He stepped closer and I almost jumped back, but somehow I maintained my stance, chin up, shoulders back, breasts thrust out. It was my breasts to which his attention turned then; he put out both hands and used his thumbs to ease the lacy bra cups down over my stiff nipples.

"You could hardly have said, 'no'—these give you away."

He pinched each light brown bud, not hard, but enough to make me squeak, then seemed to apologise to them by brushing them, his thumbs circling the bases. It seemed to be an experiment in how hard he could get them, for he was relentless in the stimulation and I had no alternative but to endure the sensation, longing for it both to end and to continue, wanting the answering throb it provoked in my pussy to be attended to.

Moans and catches of breath were all I could use to communicate my desires, because he didn't speak or invite my opinions, and I was determined to obey, my heart set on meeting the challenge he'd issued me. I tried instead to use my body as a tool for him to translate, so I pushed out my hips and swivelled them, trying to make contact with his pelvis. I half-shut my eyes and licked my lips. I squeezed my thighs together and tried a rocking motion, anything to get the tiniest bit of friction against my clit. He noticed and laughed softly, reaching around to unhook my bra so that I was filled with hope before he returned to his nipple-torment, such a refinement of torture, such cruel pleasure. The bra settled itself around my belted wrists, unable to fall any further, and I felt it dangling there, sometimes brushing 63

A Very Personal Trainer

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against my bottom as I jerked and jolted and tried everything in my power to move Dexter lower.

"Mmmm."

His lips vibrated against a nipple and he took it into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue, bathing it in warmth and darkness, sucking and nipping until I felt sparks in my panties. Between the heat and the wetness I wondered if I was in for an electric shock.

And, oh glory, his hands moved down, tracing the lines of my waist and hips, then one rested at the waistband of my knickers while the other stroked the soft swell of my belly.

Was he going to do it? Was he going to take the fruit I offered, squeeze it and mash it, smear its juices all over us? I was tempted to beg but I dared not. I didn't want this spell to break.

He released my nipple, stood up straight, both hands now poised at the elastic, ready for action, and whispered, "How wet are you?"

"Very wet," I groaned. "Very. Very wet."

"Bad girl," he said, suddenly sharp, and one hand smacked down on my stretch-satin bottom cheeks, causing me to jump and almost lose balance. But he had me pressed up against him so I found my feet and concentrated on the sting, enjoying it, wanting more.

"You missed out the magic word," he reminded me, his voice a caress once more.

"Sir," I added, smiling in embarrassment, unable to meet his eye.

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"That's better. Oh, look at me, Lara. You must look at me when you speak, you know."

Tearing my eyes from the ground was the hardest thing I'd had to do so far, and I tilted my head so that my brows protected me from some of the impact—a sidelong glance, I suppose you would call it.

"Now," he said, placing the very tips of his fingers inside the waistband, letting them tickle my skin. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you to take them down, Sir," I gibbered. I found it so hard to say that, forgetful of the new rule, I screwed my eyes shut. Another loud spank shocked them open.

"You need intensive training," he noted.

I stared up at him, aiming for the heartstring-tug appeal of a tragic puppy.

Intensive training.
I squirmed beneath his touch, imagining a series of different scenarios that opened up into each other like drawing rooms in a stately home. I wanted to be trained, I wanted his boot on my neck, I wanted his whip on my backside, I wanted to crawl on my belly at his feet. And he knew it.

"So then. Take them down. That's what you want?"

I concentrated on keeping my eyelids still. "Yes, Sir.

Please, Sir."

He took a deep breath and yanked them to my knees, letting the stained fabric drop the rest of the way.

"They'll need a good wash," he said, as if in reproof, but there was poorly masked glee in his voice too, and his hand 65

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flashed between my thighs, prising apart my lower lips and luxuriating in the plentiful evidence of my base desires.

I felt heavier and heavier, standing there on his busy fingers, trying to keep upright, having to bend my knees to prevent myself from falling. One hand held me across the buttocks while the other probed and glided, circled and rubbed, skating across my surface, then plunging inside, finding me easy to breach.

"You're soaked," he said triumphantly. "Would you like to be fucked now, Lara?"

"Yes, please, Sir." I was dancing on my tiptoes, my naked nipples grazing up against his rough cotton shirt, my face lunging for his neck, needing the support. I managed to bite onto his collar seconds before the orgasm ripped through me, almost unannounced, and writhed against him like fury, spilling all over his fingers.

"Ohhhh, sweet girl," he crooned, free hand in my hair, mussing it, kissing my forehead, his fingers still lodged inside me while the pad of his thumb owned my clit. "You didn't wait long, did you? You must have needed that quite badly."

"Yes, Sir, yes," I muffled into his shirt, my eyes shut, watching glorious starbursts on the inner lids.

"Next time, love, you will remember to ask permission before you come. Do you understand?"

I shook my head and hinged it upward, struggling to focus on his face. "Seriously? Still?"

"If you're serious."

"That could be difficult!"

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"I know." His fingers withdrew from me with a luscious slick sound. "I didn't say I was easily pleased, did I?"

How true that was. He was a hard taskmaster, and I'd always known it. I liked that phrase, and I let it roll through my head again, precipitating a pleasurable shudder.
Hard
taskmaster
.

"Go and bend over the bed," he directed, taking me by the shoulders and setting me off in the right direction, while he headed for a cupboard somewhere out of my eyesight. The carpet was made of that rough seagrass matting that is so ubiquitous in modern blocks of flats and I winced a little when it made contact with my bare knees. I rested my stomach on the low bed, listening to the steady clatter of Dexter's rummagings, wondering what it was he was looking for. Did I dare to peek over my shoulder?

I risked it, and then my sharp intake of breath drew his attention to me, giving the game away. He looked up slowly and, seeing that I needed a sign to dispel my sudden fear that I was in way over my head, he smiled—an almost bashful smile. He coughed self-consciously before following my eyes down to the weapon in his hand.

"It looks worse than it is," he assured me.

"It looks bad."

"The tip doesn't hurt so much. And besides, you have the power to stop me at any time. You can walk away whenever you like."

The tension dissipated and I smiled back at him.

"Do you ride then?"

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He chuckled. "Not as such. They know me quite well at the tack shop, though."

"Haha. I'm sure."

Dexter decided that it was time to quit the jocular small talk and ramp the pressure back up. He did this by slapping the leather flap at the tip of the riding crop down into his palm with cracking effect. My shoulders jumped and I pressed my face quickly back into the mattress, letting it muffle the pounding of my heart.

"I think you have to agree, Lara, that your behaviour today has left something to be desired."

His footsteps, soft but unmistakable, approached me and then a cold presence alighted between my shoulder blades, moving up to the nape of my neck, then back down again, following every bump of my spine as the words spun around my head.

"Against my expressed wishes, you stalk me to my home and spy on me. You spark a panic amongst my neighbours, who have the police called out. And you yelled at me! I'd say all of that merits some fairly rigourous chastisement, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, Sir," I mumbled, glad that he couldn't see the hot flush of embarrassment warming the bedclothes beneath my face.

"I should think so."

The crop had found my buttocks now and was circling them with menacing intent, then flapping about between each cheek, tickling the sensitive skin there. I squirmed and clenched my fists, waiting, waiting for that first stroke...

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When it came, it seemed harder than it really was, its effects exaggerated by anticipation, so I howled dramatically, causing Dexter to tut and tap my thighs in reproof.

"I think you may be overstating your case there," he warned. "That was a very light opening stroke. Did you really find it that painful?"

"No, not really, Sir," I confessed. "Just caught me off guard, that's all. I thought it was going to be harder."

Suddenly I leapt halfway off the bed, stunned by a swift, hard slice to my rear end that really
did
catch me off guard.

"Owwwww," I sang, reaching bound fingers down to try to clutch at the line of fire on my bottom.

"Like that, d'you mean?" Dexter's question was nonchalant. He tapped my hands with the crop and used the tip to push me back down into position.

"That really hurt," I sniffed. "Yes. Something like that, Sir."

"I see. Well, we'll aim for something in between then, shall we? Ten strokes, I think. And I want you to count them for me, just so I know you're still conscious down there."

Ten. Ten wasn't so bad. Ten was bearable. I could grit my teeth and do this, and afterwards, I would bear his mark and I would be his. The thought caused me to press my thighs together, feeling that familiar musky warmth there, and I pushed my bottom out farther, wanting his approval for my obedience.

He rewarded me with a slash of hot pain. I gasped and counted it. "One, Sir."

I held onto my resolve, kept my nerve and regulated my breathing. I could take it. I could get through it. I rocked on 69

A Very Personal Trainer

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my knees, through the first five strokes, taking them with the minimum of fuss, but it got harder as the whip fell on already tender portions of flesh and my count wavered, my back arched, my lip was chewed down.

I wanted him as my master, I reminded myself. This was a test. I must see it as a test. This made it easier; I had always been good at exams. I was taking a paper in Submission one-oh-one. I had to pass this if I wanted to move on to the higher levels and achieve my goals.

This isn't difficult
, I told myself. "Eight, Sir."

No pain, no gain
. "Nine, Sir."

You have marked me as your own.
A jubilant moan and a,

"Ten, Sir."

"Oh, well done," he crooned, bending his mouth to my ear, placing the crop on the bed in front of me. "I am pleased with you. I'm going to reward you now. Take the crop between your teeth first."

I could hear him undressing behind me, soft swishes of fabric, then the snappy rubbery noise of a condom, while I tried to snatch the rod up between my teeth, unable to use my hands to help. I tried to imagine how I must look to him, bent over with a burning red bottom on display, chewing at the duvet in my efforts to obey him, hands belted securely in the small of my back, and I felt the warm gush between my legs get stronger and wetter by the second. He must have been seeing that too. I felt utterly naked, physically and emotionally, in front of him. I had no secrets anymore.

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"Remember the rule, Lara," he whispered, crouching over me with the tip of his cock dipped between my sex lips. "You come when you have my permission, and not before."

I groaned. "It's too difficult. I've never been able to do it!"

"Yes, it is a skill. It involves self-discipline, so I don't expect you'll be able to do it, yet." He chuckled diabolically.

"You'll get there, though."

And then he got there—all the way there—in one deep, full stroke.

He felt so good inside me, so firm and hard and devoid of doubt. A man who really knew what he was doing. I contracted my muscles around him, trying to convey how very welcome he was, and pushed my hot backside against his pelvis. His hands lay heavy on my hips and he used his thumbs to spread those punished cheeks a little wider. I flooded with embarrassment, suddenly aware of what he was looking at.

"Ever taken anything up here?" he asked softly, dragging his cock very slowly back down my channel.

"Noooo," I whimpered, wildly aroused and afraid at the same time.

"I'll add it to the agenda, then," he said, plunging back in.

"To the spreadsheet?" I snorted, imagining a big S and M

version of the dreaded Organisational Tool, though it came out as 'Go uh shredshht,' due to the inconveniently placed whip in my teeth.

"Are you cheeking me, young lady?" he warned, running a finger of reminder along one of the welts left by the riding crop.

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Ouch. "No, Sir. Wouldn't dare, Sir."

"Good."

Then the ride began in earnest, a fast-paced rocking in and out, hard thighs leaning on my softer flesh, slapping and pushing at it, fingertips bruising my hips, the whip quivering at either side of me while my head dipped lower and lower until it met the mattress. He wedged a hand down between my thigh and his hardworking cock, his fingers managing to gain a purchase on my clit, bringing me to the brink, too far, too fast...