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The Training

The Submissive Trilogy

Tara Sue Me - Author

Paperback | $15.00 | add to cart | view cart
ISBN 9780451466242 | 336 pages | 01 Oct 2013 | NAL | 8.26 x 5.23in | 18 - AND UP
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Now, in the enticing conclusion to New York Times bestselling author Tara Sue Me’s Submissive Trilogy, the submissive and her dominant explore just how long they can make the pleasure last…

It started with a hidden desire.

Millionaire CEO Nathaniel West has always played by his own strict set of rules, ones he expects everyone to follow—especially the women he’s dominated in his bedroom. But his newest lover is breaking down all his boundaries and rewriting his rule book.

Abby King never imagined that she would capture the heart of Nathaniel West, one of New York City’s most eligible bachelors—and its most desirable dominant. What began as a weekend arrangement of pleasure has become a passionate romance with a man who knows every inch of her body and her soul – yet remains an enigmatic lover. Though he is tender and caring, his painful past remains a wall between them.

Abby knows the only way to truly earn his trust is to submit to him fully and let go of all of her lingering inhibitions. Because to lead Nathaniel on a path to greater intimacy, she must first let him deeper into her world than anyone has ever gone before…


Chapter One

—Abby—

The drive back to Nathaniel’s house took longer than it should have. Or maybe it just felt like it took longer. Maybe it was nerves.

I tipped my head in thought.

Maybe not nerves exactly. Maybe anticipation.

Anticipation that after weeks of talking, weeks of waiting, and weeks of planning, we were finally here. Finally back. I lifted my hand and touched the collar—Nathaniel’s collar.

My fingertips danced over the familiar lines and traced along the diamonds. I moved my head from side to side, reacquainting myself with the collar’s feel.

There were no words to describe how I felt wearing Nathan­iel’s collar again. The closest I could come was to compare it to a puzzle. A puzzle with the last piece finally in place. Yes, for the last few weeks, Nathaniel and I had been living as lovers, but we both felt incomplete. His recollaring of me—his reclaiming of me—had been what was missing. It sounded odd even to me, but I finally felt like I was his again.

The hired car eventually reached Nathaniel’s house and pulled into his long drive. Lights flickered from the windows. He had set the timer, anticipating my arrival in the dark. Such a small gesture, but a touching one. One that showed, like much he did, how he kept me firmly at the forefront of his mind.

I jingled my keys as I walked up the drive to his front door. My keys. To his house. He’d given me a set of keys a week ago. I didn’t live with him, but I spent a fair amount of time at his house. He said it only made sense for me to be able to let myself in or to lock up when I left.

Apollo, Nathaniel’s golden retriever, rushed me when I opened the door. I rubbed his head and let him outside for a few minutes. I didn’t keep him out for too long—I wasn’t sure if Na­thaniel would arrive home early, but if he did, I wanted to be in place. I wanted this weekend to be perfect.

“Stay,” I told Apollo after stopping in the kitchen to refill his water bowl. Apollo obeyed all of Nathaniel’s orders, but thank­fully, he listened to me this time. Normally, he would follow me up the stairs, and tonight that would be odd.

I quickly left the kitchen and made my way upstairs to my old room. The room that would be mine on weekends.

I undressed, placing my clothes in a neat pile on the edge of the twin bed. On this, Nathaniel and I had been in agreement. I would share his bed Sunday through Thursday nights, anytime I stayed over, but on Friday and Saturday nights, I would sleep in the room he reserved for his submissives.

Now that we had a more traditional relationship during the week, we both wanted to make sure we remained in the proper mind-set on weekends. That mind-set would be easier to main­tain for both of us if we slept separately. For both of us, yes, but perhaps more so for Nathaniel. He rarely shared a bed with his submissives, and having a romantic relationship with one was completely new to him.

I stepped naked into the playroom. Nathaniel had led me around the room last weekend—explaining, discussing, and showing me things I’d never seen and several items I’d never heard of.

At its core, it was an unassuming room—hardwood floors, deep, dark brown paint, handsome cherry armoires, even a long table carved of rich wood. However, the chains and shackles, the padded leather bench and table, and the wooden whipping bench gave away the room’s purpose.

A lone pillow waited for me below the hanging chains. I dropped to my knees on it, situating myself into the position Na­thaniel explained I was to be in whenever I waited for him in the playroom—butt resting on my heels, back straight, right hand on top of my left in my lap, fingers not intertwined, and head down.

I got into position and waited.

Time inched forward.

I finally heard him enter through the front door.

“Apollo,” he called, and while I knew he spoke Apollo’s name so he could take him outside again, another reason was to alert me who it was that entered the house. To give me time to pre­pare myself. Perhaps for him to listen for footsteps from over­head. Footsteps that would tell him I wasn’t prepared for his arrival. I felt proud he would hear nothing.

I closed my eyes. It wouldn’t be long now. I imagined what Nathaniel was doing—taking Apollo outside, feeding him maybe. Would he undress downstairs? In his bedroom? Or would he enter the playroom wearing his suit and tie?

Doesn’t matter, I told myself. Whatever Nathaniel has planned will be perfect.

I strained my ears—he was walking up the stairs now. Alone. No dog followed.

Somehow, the atmosphere of the room changed when he walked in. The air became charged, and the space between us nearly hummed. In that moment, I understood—I was his, yes. I had been correct with that assumption. But even more so, even more important, perhaps, he was mine.

My heart raced.

“Very nice, Abigail,” he said, and walked to stand in front of me. His feet were bare. I noted he had changed out of his suit and into a pair of black jeans.

I closed my eyes again. Cleared my mind. Focused inwardly. Forced myself to remain still under his scrutiny.

He walked to the table, and I heard a drawer open. For a minute, I tried to remember everything in the drawers, but I stopped myself and once again forced my mind to quiet itself.

He came back to stand at my side. Something firm and leather trailed down my spine.

Riding crop.

“Perfect posture,” he said as the crop ran up my spine. “I ex­pect you to be in this position whenever I tell you to enter this room.”

I felt relieved he was satisfied with my posture. I wanted so much to please him tonight. To show him I was ready for this. That we were ready. He had been so worried.

Of course, not a bit of worry or doubt could be discerned now. Not in his voice. Not in his stance. His demeanor in the playroom was utter and complete control and confidence.

He dragged the riding crop down my stomach and then back up. Teasing.

Damn. I loved the riding crop.

I kept my head down even though I wanted to see his face. To meet his eyes. But I knew the best gift I could give him was my absolute trust and obedience, so I kept my head down with my eyes focused on the floor.

“Stand up.”

I rose slowly to my feet, knowing I stood directly under the chains. Normally, he kept them up for storage, but they were lowered tonight.

“Friday night through Sunday afternoon, your body is mine,” he said. “As we agreed, the kitchen table and library are still yours. There, and only there, are you to speak your mind. Re­spectfully, of course.”

Both of his hands traced across my shoulders, down my arms. One hand slipped between my breasts and dropped to where I was wet and aching.

“This,” he said, rubbing my outer lips, “is your responsibility. I want you waxed bare as often as possible. If I decide you have neglected this responsibility, you will be punished.”

And again, we had agreed to this.

“In addition, it is your responsibility to ensure your waxer does an acceptable job. I will allow no excuses. Is that under­stood?”

I didn’t say anything.

“You may answer,” he said. I heard the smile in his voice.

“Yes, Master.”

He slipped a finger between my folds and I felt his breath in my ear. “I like you bare.” His finger swirled around my clit. “Slick and smooth. Nothing between your pussy and whatever I decide to do to it.”

Fuck.

Then he moved behind me and cupped my ass. “Have you been using your plug?”

I waited.

“You may answer.”

“Yes, Master.”

His finger made its way back to the front of me, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from moaning.

“I won’t ask you that again,” he said. “From now on, it is your responsibility to prepare your body to accept my cock in any manner I decide to give it to you.” He ran a finger around the rim of my ear. “If I want to fuck your ear, I expect your ear to be ready.” He hooked his finger in my ear and pulled. I kept my head down. “Do you understand? Answer me.”

“Yes, Master.”

He lifted my arms above my head, buckling first one wrist and then the other to the chains at my side. “Do you remember this?” he asked, his warm breath tickling my hair. “From our first weekend?”

Again, I said nothing.

“Very nice, Abigail,” he said. “Just so there’s no misunderstand­ing, for the rest of the evening, or until I tell you differently, you may not speak or vocalize in any way. There are two exceptions— the first being the use of your safe words. You are to use them at any point you feel the need. No repercussions or consequences will ever follow the use of your safe words. Second, when I ask if you are okay, I expect an immediate and honest answer.”

He didn’t wait for a response, of course. I wasn’t to give one. Without warning, his hands slipped back down to where I ached for him. Since my head was lowered, I watched one of his fingers slide inside me, and I bit the inside of my cheek again to keep from moaning.

Shit, his hands felt good.

“How wet you are already.” He pushed deeper and twisted his wrist. Fuck. “Usually, I would taste you myself, but tonight, I feel like sharing.”

He removed himself, and the emptiness was immediate. Before I could think much about it, I felt his slippery finger at my mouth. “Open, Abigail, and taste how ready you are for me.” He trailed his finger around my open lips before easing it inside my mouth.

I’d tasted myself before, out of curiosity, but never so much at one time and never off of Nathaniel’s finger. It felt so de­praved, so feral.

Damn, it turned me on.

“Taste how sweet you are,” he said as I licked myself off his finger.

I treated his finger as if it were his cock—running my tongue along it, sucking gently at first. I wanted him. Wanted him in­side me. I sucked harder, imagining his cock in my mouth.

You will not release until I give you permission, and I will be very stingy with my permission. His words from the office floated through my mind, and I choked back a moan before it left my mouth. It would be a long night.

“I changed my mind,” he said when I finished cleaning his fin­ger. “I want a taste after all.” He crushed his lips to mine and forced my mouth open. His lips were brutal—powerful and de­manding in their quest to taste me.

Damn, I’d have a stroke if he kept that up.

He pulled back and lifted my chin. “Look at me.”

For the first time since he entered the room, I met his eyes— they were steady and green. His tongue ran over his lips, and he smiled. “Every time sweeter than the last.”

I forced my eyes to remain on his even though I wanted to see his chest, to enjoy the sight of his perfect body. But his body was not mine to enjoy, so I kept my eyes locked with his.

He broke our connection first by turning and walking to the table. He put something in his pocket, and I dropped my head as he turned around.

He walked five steps to me; then darkness cloaked my vision. “Totally at my mercy,” he said in a voice as smooth as the silk scarf covering my eyes. He stroked my breasts. Long fingers took my nipples and rolled them, pulling and twisting.

Fuck.

“I thought about bringing out the clamps tonight,” he said, flicking the tip of a nipple.

Double fuck.

We had talked about the clamps, though I’d never felt or used them. A small bubble of anticipation swelled in my belly. Na­thaniel promised I would like the clamps, that the brief pain would be worth the pleasure they brought.

“Thought about it,” he continued, “but decided on something else.”

Cold metal made its way across my chest. It felt like a prickly pizza cutter. He ran it slowly around one breast and then the other. The sensation felt incredible. He didn’t go near either nipple. Instead he rolled the wheel closer and closer before mov­ing away. Then there were two, each one mirroring the other in its movements. Teasing and taunting, but never hitting exactly where I needed. Closer and closer they went, then retreated once again. They went even closer on the next pass, and I knew I’d combust if he didn’t touch me soon.

And then he did—the wheels ran over my nipples right where I needed relief. It felt so good, I forgot where I was, what we were doing, and I moaned out in pleasure.

“Ahhh.”

He immediately pulled back. “Damn it, Abigail,” he said, taking the scarf from around my eyes. “That’s twice in less than two hours. Now and earlier in my office.” He pulled my hair back so hard I had no choice but to meet his eyes. “You’re mak­ing me believe you don’t really want this.”

Tears prickled my eyes. I’d wanted so badly to do everything perfectly this weekend. Instead, I’d already messed up twice— once in his office and once again in his playroom. But the worst, the absolute worst, was knowing I’d disappointed Nathaniel.

I wanted to apologize. To tell him I was sorry and I’d do bet­ter. But he’d told me not to speak, and the best thing I could do was obey that command.

“Let’s see,” he said, still looking me in the eyes. “What was the penalty for disobedience during a scene?”

He knew the penalty as well as I did. Probably better. He dragged it out only to make me sweat.

“Ah, yes,” he said, as if remembering. “Number of strokes for disobedience during a scene is at dom’s discretion.”

Dom’s discretion.

Fuck.

What would he decide?

“I could give you twenty.” He ran his hands over my backside. “But that would end all play for tonight, and I don’t think either of us want that.”

Hell, no.

He wouldn’t do twenty, would he?

I dropped my eyes and tried hard not to give in to the temp­tation to look at the whipping bench.

“I gave you three earlier in my office, though,” he mused, “and they obviously did no good.”

My heart beat through the skin of my chest. I felt certain he saw it as well.

“Eight,” he finally said. “I’ll redo the prior three and add five.” He leaned over and whispered, “Next time, I’ll add five more for a total of thirteen. After that it goes to eighteen.” He gave my hair a hard tug. “Trust me. You don’t want eighteen.”

Hell, no, I didn’t want eighteen. I didn’t want the eight I had coming.

He unbuckled my wrists. The tin of salve on the table, ig­nored. There would be no soothing rubdown for now. “To the bench, Abigail.”

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I could do this, I told myself as I walked to the bench. We could do this. This was nothing like the last time. He’d ex­plained his negligence in the lack of aftercare last time. And there would be only eight strokes tonight.

I’d make damn sure there weren’t any more.

But as bad as last time had been, it wasn’t the thought of pain that made my steps slow. It was disappointment in myself. Dis­appointment in my disobedience, but even more so, guilt that my actions forced him to punish me on our first weekend of play. The very first hour of our first weekend.

I settled my body into the smooth groove of the bench, want­ing it to be over so we could continue on to more enjoyable pur­suits.

He didn’t make me wait. Almost immediately after I dropped into position, he started spanking me with his hand.

Warm-up.

He swiftly smacked my backside with slaps that were harder than his erotic spankings.

“How very disappointed I am to be doing this so soon,” he said.

Yes. That was what hurt the most.

“I had you count in my office.” He picked something up from beside the bench. “But since I told you not to speak or vocalize, I’ll have to count this time.”

The sting of the leather strap came down across my backside. “One,” he said, voice strong and firm. Again it came. “Two.”

Ow.

By five, silent tears ran down my face. I sucked my bottom lip into my mouth to keep from saying anything.

“Three more,” he said, rubbing where he struck.

“Six,” he said after the next one. I could tell he wasn’t putting as much strength behind the strokes.

Two more. Only two more and we could move on.

“Seven.”

And finally, “Eight.”

I heard him breathing hard behind me, and I blinked furi­ously to get the tears out of my eyes. He set the strap down, and I listened to his footsteps as he walked away.

Moments later, his hands came back, rubbing something cool and wet over me. “Are you okay?” he whispered.

I let out my breath in a shuddering sigh of relief. “Yes, Master.”

His hands continued caressing as he talked. “We discussed this. I hate having to punish you, but I can’t let broken com­mands slide. You know that.”

Yes, I did. I’d try harder next time.

He moved to the side of the bench and leaned down so his face was level with mine. Ever so gently, he kissed first one cheek and then the other. My heart pounded frantically as his lips drew closer to mine. And then, finally, he kissed my mouth—slow and soft and long.

I sighed.

He pulled back, and his eyes danced with a wicked gleam. “Come, my lovely.” He held his hand out. “I want to taste that sweet pussy.”




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