The Training

The Seduction-1

The Seduction

Louise

I had to move fast, or else I’d lose sight of my little prey. Her step was quick, like she had to be somewhere, but then she would stop and linger over a rack of mediocre clothes or a table of gaudy Chotski’s from some street vendors, then hustle away when the vendors started to hustle her. I couldn’t be obvious, couldn’t appear like I was running her down (which I was). At last I caught up with her at a hole in the wall pizza shop.

She stood at the counter, patiently (a good sign for what awaited her), then got just the biggest, greasiest slice of pizza ever made (and I would make sure that would stop. I liked her figure, but she wouldn’t keep it for long eating junk like that). Her tiny, luscious mouth assaulted the doughy triangle, masticating almost more than she could handle. She walked straight toward me, then quickly sidestepped, not even giving me a second glance. She already made a beeline for out the door and I steeled myself to hold back, lest I follow too soon. But I couldn’t lose her! It had been decided she was the one, and if a random choice was to mean anything, then I had to find out something about her, some piece of information so that –

“Hey, Heather!” a boy coming in called out.

She replied, “Tyson!” He almost ran right into her at the door. (I turned my head, held up my hand to hide my face. Nearly blew the whole thing right there. The boy was handsome in a naïve way – tousled, dark hair, nice build. I had a brief thought of someday getting him at the end of my chain, but quickly squelched that thought.)

They exchanged hugs, getting caught up with each other. I strained to catch what was said, but then it was my turn at the counter. Distracted, I ordered something with cheese on it and was rewarded with a piece on a thin paper plate not unlike the one Heather was struggling to finish. I wrapped a scarf over my head and donned big sunglasses as I “wandered” over to a stand up counter opposite the cash register, right behind Heather.

“...a bunch of us are going. Wanna come?” the boy said.

“I don’t know,” Heather said. “I got, like, things, y’know?”

Like, things, y’know. And she’s going to become a high class pleasure slave? I could see already I had my work cut out for me.

They talked some more, Tyson eventually wearing Heather down until she made a half-promise to show up at some dance club that night. Then she was gone. But I got the name of the club.

***

I took a big risk, letting her go like that. If she didn’t show up that night I would have to case the neighborhood, waiting for another glance of her. Of course, I could go to Marcus and report my failure, and another potential slave-to-be would get chosen. But Heather was really, really cute and that carrot top head, pale skin and innocent air caused me to already form fantasies and plans for her. So I went to the Howling Wolf, claimed a space at the bar, danced with a boy and then a girl, and then the bondage gods smiled down on me.

Heather came in with a gaggle of friends, boys and girls, but Tyson wasn’t among them. They all hung together, drinking and laughing but, as they made their way on to the dance floor, they all seemed to pair off, except for Heather. She acted cool with it, being the extra wheel, and didn’t let anything stop her from grabbing her own space on the dance floor.

Heather gyrated in between a couple of boys, both of whom tried their best to get her attention, but she was off in her own world, just be-bopping to the heavy techno beat. Her dress hadn’t changed much since that afternoon; still the same tight blue jeans and white halter top, but now she danced in a pair of medium sized high heel slip-ons, and that enticing body just bumped and grinded showing how loose she was. Oh, yes, I could do a lot with that.

Time to move.

I worked my way around the dance floor and climbed a few steps up to the DJ’s booth. “Hey. Hey!” I yelled over the musical chaos.

The DJ pulled out an ear bud, obviously annoyed. “What you want, b***h?”

I grabbed him by the collar of his loose shirt and my other hand flew up and squeezed his crotch. In spite of his baggy pants I scored a direct hit. I pulled him close and snarled back. “I am not your b***h, motherfucker. You call me ma’am or I’ll rip off your balls and hang them from my rear view mirror.”

“Yes,” he squeaked.

Still by the balls, I brought him closer. “I like you. I like your mixes. Here.” I let go of his shirt and stuffed a hundred down his pants, wrapped it around his hardening c**k. “Easiest c you’ll ever make. And slow everything down just a bit. If you don’t I’ll be back.” I tightened my grip on both his d**k and balls. His face started to turn color.

“Yes,” he squeaked again, higher this time.

“Good boy,” I crooned, and kissed him full on the lips. I left him bent over like that, and it was more than just a few minutes before he was able to stand back up straight. To get what you want, you have to speak the language. I didn’t like this kind of street talk, but it was sometimes necessary, especially when training a new slave prior to vocal lessons. But grabbing a slave by the privates was a language that never changed, one that the young DJ understood very well.

The mix altered, no longer a driving beat, but one more languorous of the old disco song “Love to love you baby”. Nearly everyone was confused by the sudden change and most drifted away back to their drinks and barstools, but not Heather. She just kind of put it into a lower gear and flooowwwed.

I slid onto the sparse dance floor. A few of the young studs tried to engage me and I did a couple of moves with them, but I kept working my way over to Heather. She was by herself now, into the slow beat. I got behind her, moved my hips in concert with hers. I guess she sensed someone behind her because her head turned back just a little and spied me out of the corner of her eye. But that didn’t stop her dancing.

I got a little closer, inside her personal space, lightly put my hands around her hips. She started, just a little, at the touch.

“Relax, honey,” I whispered into her ear. “Just go with it.”

She did and we just kind of swung back and forth. Slowly I turned her around to face me and I ran my fingernails down those wicked, bare arms, around that curvy, swan neck. She seemed a little tense at first, but as I stroked those muscles, tripped those little sensitive points, she relaxed. It worked with nervous, first time slaves and it worked with her too. Then I turned her back around, pressed my breasts up against her back, wrapped one arm around that tiny waist and, with our hips now one, just grooved.

We became a bit of an item because people made space for us. A few of the other girls started to join in while the boys just stood back and lapped it all up. Oh, you bet a few lesbian fantasies were born that night, but mine wasn’t going to remain a fantasy. Hands on her waist now, I turned Heather back around and, with both my arms now pressed against the small of her back I brought our shoulders into play, one side back, the other side in, one side back, the other side in, alternating like that for the rest of the mix. Then the beat returned to pop, flash and dazzle and I backed up, blew her a kiss and drifted away back to the DJ’s booth.

He saw me coming and kind of backed up.

“That was terrific,” I said.

“Ah, thank you, ma’am.”

I smiled. “Good. You learned your lesson. Show women some respect and you’ll have more p***y than you know what to do with.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I stuffed another hundred down his pants, along with my business card. “If you want more lessons, call me. But for bad students who don’t do their homework I punish.”

I left him, his mouth open.

I worked my way back to my drink. Guess who was waiting for me.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” Heather said.

Well, I had heard better opening lines, but at least she was sincere. “I heard about this place this afternoon,” I said, not lying, but not telling her how.

“What’s this get up?” she said, motioning to my ensemble.

“It’s leather. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of it before.”

That knocked her back a bit, my talking down to her. I needed to establish dominance, even if it meant belittling her a bit. But even though I noticed some annoyance she still kept on, pointing to my tight leather pants. “Aren’t you hot in those?”

“Yes, I am, and thank you for the compliment,” I said, toying with her. At her confused look I decided a little mercy was in order. “Leather is just like skin,” I said. “Go ahead. Touch it.”

Heather didn’t move so I gently took her hand and brought it to my thigh, then guided it up inside my bolero jacket, to rest on my leather bustier and half-exposed breast. Her lips parted a little and her hand trembled, but she didn’t withdraw it even as my guiding hand left hers and traveled up her arm to her flushing cheek.

“There, see?” I said. “Nothing to it. Just as natural as breathing.” I touched her slightly damp hair, picked off a sweat globule from behind an ear and, on a fingertip, dabbed at it with my tongue. “Hmm. Salty, but sweet. Tell me your name.”

She did, even though I already knew it, of course. I smiled, told her mine was Louise, but she could call me Mistress. Her eyes widened a bit at that but still she didn’t run away.

I had a live one.

I lightly ran my fingertip over her parted lips. Small, short hot breaths flowed around my hand. “C’mon,” I said, and led her back to the dance floor. All the while she never took her eyes off me; eyes of uncertainty, a little fear, but mostly curiosity, and hunger. A hunger that grew as I let down my long, ash blonde hair, and only increased each time I commanded a new, bolder dance move from her as the night wore on. Then, when the time was right and we stood at the bar, catching our collective breaths, I wrapped my hand around the back of that beautiful neck that was just made for a collar and whispered, “Come with me.”

Letting go and without looking back I made my way past everyone, past all those looks that told me Heather followed right behind. Outside I took in a lungful of cool, fresh nighttime air, cleared my thoughts, thought of little Heather now beside me, then directed her to climb into the passenger side of my valet delivered Porsche. I had left the top down and we sped off on deserted streets, my blonde hair flying in the wind.

Heather didn’t say anything, but those eyes hardly ever left me. I smiled, patted her thigh in reassurance. But I had to strike while the iron was hot, so I shifted gears like Danica Patrick and used every ounce of horsepower to get back to my downtown loft as fast as possible. Once there I tossed the car keys to the all night concierge and directed Heather to the refurbished freight elevator. I pressed the key code for my floor and we lifted away.

In the stark, overhead light shadows cast themselves from Heather’s eyebrows down her cheeks, past her cute button nose to her chin. It seemed she already wore a mask or blindfold with her mouth set in a straight line, neither frightened or elated; a blank canvas, waiting for the right color and brushstroke.

The elevator stopped at my floor. A series of presses on my combination electronic key and the metal door audibly unlocked. I stepped inside, then found out I was alone.

Heather lingered, half on, half off the elevator. This was a crucial moment. Once in a while, when I brought a slave back to my place, they bugged out at this point. But I was always honest with the ones I captured, they knew my lifestyle, knew what they were getting into. I didn’t spring any surprises on them with a sudden cuffing of the hands from behind. Usually, if they got this far, then all it took was a gentle nudge to bring them the rest of the way.