Weeks go by in one long, endless torture session. My aching arousal waxes and wanes but is always there, accompanying me the same way my breath and my pulse do.
I learn to embrace any pain because it occasionally distracts me from the ache. I learn that the ache comes mostly from inside, from an unreasonable expectation, and that just like the Vow says, I don’t have any real control over it. Only my teacher does, and he uses discomfort as reins and leashes.
I learn about the wedding process according to the Vow. Colton has me fitted for a dress — a timeless and simple white number with embroidery on the shoulders, which I suspect was Dylan’s mother’s dress — by an old tailor with very soft, wrinkly hands. The tailor clearly thinks that I am Colton’s bride-to-be, especially since Colton offers the man the service of my mouth for his troubles. He declines but pats and gropes my butt and bust more than strictly necessary.
I read and hear about married life from Colton and Dylan both, about my duties and privileges at the different stages. The honeymoon phase. The construction phase. The various fertile phases, pregnant phases, motherhood phases — because Dylan expects me to give him children at some point. “We will talk about this when the time comes,” he assures me.
Meanwhile, his father tells me that his son has a lactation fetish I will satisfy.
I learn and re-learn housework. It is more complicated in the harness, which I wear for long hours every day. My wrists are bound to various straps and rings on my torso or thighs, all designed to limit my range of movement and keep my fingers away from my cunt or tits or both. Only during my workout sessions with Dylan — we go for jogs in the morning before breakfast, do short but high intensity rounds in the fitness studio, and occasionally play tennis or badminton on the estate’s own courts — do they come off for any length of time.
Importantly, I am also instructed in computer work because I am expected to help the Keenes run the ecclesia. I learn the structure and business of the massive religious organization Dylan is likely to inherit from his father in the future. In order to be perfect for foreign visitors, I learn to greet and bid farewell in ten foreign languages. I learn dozens of different sets of manners.
On one particular day, I learn how to mind them during a telephone call to my mother.
I’m on a chaiselongue in the downstairs salon, leaning back into the cushions, my knees up in the air and spread wide.
“You will learn to keep it short, Elizabeth,” Colton tells me as he hands me the phone. While it’s ringing, he affixes a clamp to my clit. Loosely at first, then tighter and tighter as the minutes go by and my mother keeps talking. Eventually, he tugs on it.
I bite my lips and shudder hard enough to almost lose hold of the phone on my ear. “Mom. Mom. I am doing really great, so stop worrying. Dylan and I are both just super busy. I will see you next week, on our wedding day. We will send you and dad a driver to pick you up in the morning. Ah!-I, uh, I gotta go. Bye!” I hammer the red button on the screen and let the phone fall. “Please, Sir!” I gasp, and then yell out when Colton tugs the clamp hard enough for it to slip off. My body flinches from the bright pain of it.
I have begun to call both men ‘Sir’. It happened naturally.
Colton taps my sore, puffed-out clit and makes me gasp. “Anything important should always be said face-to-face, therefore, chatting on the phone is nothing but an exchange of vacuous words. Telephone calls are a waste of your time. You will spend plenty of time with your parents, don’t worry.”
“Yuh-Yes, Sir,” I agree and wish he would stop fiddling my clit. “Ow.”
“I imagine your parents will, however, notice your endless fidgeting, so you should probably come up with a good excuse and explanation, or muster up more self-discipline.” He doesn’t stop tweaking my clit, and he smirks at my moue. It makes him look like Dylan’s older clone. A hot spike of arousal and attraction zaps through me. “Your husband-to-be will not make it easy for you to stay away from him. He’ll probably put some Icy Hot on your whore nub and watch you prance.”
I gulp. “Yes, Sir.”
“Or he might pump your clit. Make it look like a small pecker. Make sure that it sticks out between your pubes and rubs against your skirt all the time. Would you like that, Elizabeth?”
“That’s… That’s not relevant, Sir,” I quickly reply. “Behavior is relevant. My future husband’s order and his satisfaction is relevant. If my, uhm, my clit being pumped would be conducive to his order, then it, uh, it, uh should be, uh… pumped.”
Colton’s smirk widens. “That is correct.” He pulls his hand back and leaves me throbbing hotly, as always. “You are ready for the last part of your training, I believe.”
My heart sinks in fear and — just a little — disappointment. I don’t like change. I don’t feel ready for anything to end.
Probably because I haven’t had any relief yet. Ever. My sexual arousal is like a Shepard tone, it never resolves, so there is no… closure. No feeling of accomplishment and resolution.
I wonder, with some trepidation, if my life will always be like this now.
And I wonder if I could bring myself to be normal, and to dislike it at all, like a normal person would.
That same night, the lecture takes place in Colton’s office again. After a couple of minutes of reciting passages from the Penitent’s Vow, he orders me to bend over his desk. My bare tits are mushed against the cool, smooth surface. My hands are fixed to the corners, my ankles to the legs, and even my hair bun is tied to something below so that I cannot straighten myself up or really see what’s happening behind me.
In silence, Mr. Keene inserts a slick Dildo into my vagina.
I gasp and moan and beg him to, I don’t know, stop? Keep going? Something. The shaft is long but too slim even for my unused, swollen tight channel to enjoy properly. I sob with disappointment.
He twists and turns it a couple of times, stirs up my always-gushing pussy, then pulls out. Next, he puts a cold lotion on my labia and clit.
The numbing warmth sets in after a couple of minutes. My crotch starts feeling… remote. My arousal is not gone at all, just less sharp. It’s like the tip of the iceberg has vanished, but all that is under the water is still there. When I drip, I can only feel it on the inside of my thigh now.
For a moment, I’m almost scared that he means to give me a piercing. Dylan has talked about clit shields. I don’t hate the idea, but I think I might need more time.
Fortunately — or unfortunately — for me, Mr. Keene is interested in another part of my anatomy today. The one he has spent weeks tenderizing, until it looked ‘like a plump little doll’s mouth, like a pair of bee-stung kissable lips, with bubblegum lipstick on’.
He nudges a lubed finger against my asshole and commands me to try and “keep it out”. With a huff of effort, I pucker as hard as I can, knowing that I can’t win.
“Dylan is not entirely happy with my decision to teach you this lesson,” he informs me calmly as he breaches me with the tip of his finger despite my resistance, then quickly pulls it out again, over and over. The motion makes a wet sucking noise, like walking through mud. It makes me shiver. “He was looking forward to breaking you in, as is his right as a husband.”