Tara Me - The Training

I stopped at the steps at Webster Hall, near the library I’d studied at frequently while a student, and sat down. She took a tentative seat beside me and placed a nervous hand on my knee.

I placed my hand on top of hers. “I used to sit here and write letters home.” I kept talking, sharing parts of myself with her, remembering parts I’d forgotten. Eventually, she eased into a more comfortable sitting position.

At one point, she shifted her legs, moving as if she would cross them.

I leaned close and whispered, “Don’t make me punish you. We’re relatively inconspicuous now, but if I have to take you over my knee, we’ll definitely draw attention.”

“Sorry, Master.”

“I won’t remind you next time. Move your hand higher.”

Her fingers moved up my leg, and I stifled a groan at her touch. My plan to show her we could interact in public on a weekend was a good one, but it tested my control. Had we been at home, or even at Paul and Christine’s, I’d already have had her bent over something. I looked down at my watch—we still had a few hours before we needed to head to the airport.

I took a deep breath and we talked again. I spoke of inconsequential things—tiny details no one would care about. Yet they were the things I wanted to know about her, the things I enjoyed hearing about her college days and part of myself I wanted to share. So, for the next hour, I reminisced. She laughed at some of the stories I told and opened up, telling me more about her own college experiences. As our time in New Hampshire drew to a close, I knew she finally understood—she could talk to me on a weekend. Even about silly college stories.

For lunch, I took her to an upscale bistro. She bit her lip as she regarded the seating arrangements. I slid into a booth and she followed, sitting close to me and placing her hand on my knee.

“Excellent, Abigail,” I said. “When your food comes, you may use both hands to eat.”

This time, I wanted to say.

My body was aware of her every breath, every small movement. Every molecule of my body reacted to her. I laid an arm along the back of the booth, so my fingers brushed her shoulder. “Do you see?” I asked. “How it’s possible to interact with others while you wear my collar?”

“Yes, Master,” she said, glancing around and seeing the relatively empty dining area. “To be honest, the entire day has been”—her voice dropped—“well, it’s been a bit of a turn-on. Being with you like this. It’s like we’re keeping a secret from everyone else.”

I reached up and brushed the back of her neck. “Beyond your collar there’s a connection between us that is deeper than what others have.”

She turned her head. “I think so, too,” she said.

I kissed her softly. “Do you want to continue this afternoon in the same way we’ve spent the morning?” I asked, after our lunch was delivered.

“Yes, Master. I’m really enjoying it.”

“A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have been sure if you were being truthful. But after this weekend, I believe you.”

“Thank you.”

Later, on our way to the airport, I thought ahead to the coming week. With Jackson and Felicia’s wedding on Saturday, Abby would be spending every night at her apartment. Her father would be arriving on Thursday, and we’d planned for him to come to my house for dinner. Saturday night would be the soonest I’d have her in my bed again. It would be the longest we’d slept apart since getting back together.

And Saturday felt so far away.

When we were in the jet, buckled into our seats, and the flight attendant had left to sit with the pilot, I turned to her. “When I say now, you have thirty seconds to go into the bedroom, undress, and get into position two, page five. Understand?”

The hand on my knee tightened, the need in her eyes echoing mine. “Yes, Master.”

Once we were airborne and our ascent leveled, I spoke one word. “Now.”

She unbuckled and shot into the bedroom at the rear of the plane. I started counting. When I reached thirty, I slowly undid my seat belt and stood.

She waited in the bedroom for me, on her back, knees bent and spread. I moved into her line of sight. I untucked my shirt and drew it over my head. My shoes, socks, and pants soon joined the pile of clothes on the floor.

I walked to the bed and moved over her, captured her hands in my own, and placed them above her head. “Keep them here. I don’t feel comfortable tying you up in a plane.”

I took a deep breath, trying to control myself. If this would be the last time I had her for the next six days, I wanted to take my time.

“Come whenever you want,” I said. “As many times as you can. And I want to hear you.”

I slid against her, wanting to draw out every ounce of need from both of us. Wanting to heighten her anticipation as much as possible. I nibbled. Felt her. Slipped between her spread thighs and tasted her. Enjoyed the tang and sweetness of her desire.

“Touch me,” I said, moving back up her body, needing her hands on me.

I groaned as she explored me, running her hands down my chest and moving lower, teasing my cock.

I retaliated by sucking a nipple into my mouth and circling it with my tongue. I flicked the other nipple with my fingers. She arched her back, offering me more of herself. I took it—drawing her deeper into my mouth and sucking harder, biting gently.

I pushed my thigh between her legs and teased her with my knee, grinding slowly against her. Making sure I hit her clit. She rocked her hips against me and moaned as she came softly.

I moved above her. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

Her deep brown eyes met mine, and I positioned myself at her entrance. “Watch my eyes,” I said. “As I claim your body, I want you to understand how you’ve claimed my soul.”

I pushed into her. “You wonder if I ever looked at anyone else the way I look at you.” I went deeper. “I haven’t. Watch my eyes. See the truth of my words.”

Her eyes grew wide as I entered her completely, and though my own eyes damn near rolled to the back of my head, I kept my gaze locked with hers. We moved together slowly and purposefully. Each of us offering ourselves to the other; finding and taking from the other what we needed in return.

I slipped a hand between us, gently brushing her clit, and she came again, stronger. Her eyes fluttered closed as pleasure swept through her body. I increased my pace, thrusting into her and enjoying the feel of her constricting around me.

Too soon, it became too hard to hold back, and I came, spilling myself deep within her. Still, I held her to me, not wanting to leave the comfort of her arms. Not ready to have her leave mine. The week ahead would be busy and crazy. I wasn’t even certain we’d get a chance to have lunch together.

I turned us to our sides, her back to my chest, and unclasped her collar. “Thank you for serving me this weekend,” I said against the skin of her neck.

Her hand slipped up, stroked my cheek. “Thank you for the honor of serving you.”

—NATHANIEL—

Abby was scheduled to work only Monday and Tuesday. She took the rest of the week off to help Felicia. Before she left my house on Sunday, we made plans to eat lunch together on Tuesday.

She called on Tuesday morning. Two librarians had called in sick, three second-grade classes were coming for story time, and the library computer was printing out book return dates for June 2007. She felt horrible, but there was no way she could take an hour away from the library for lunch.

So at eleven thirty, I called her favorite Italian restaurant and delivered a picnic lunch at noon.

“Nathaniel,” she said, looking up from the front desk, Martha at her side. “You didn’t have to bring lunch.”

“And if I hadn’t, when and what would you have done for lunch?” I asked.

She stepped out from behind the desk. “I would have had a stale protein bar about two hours from now.” She hugged me. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” I said, delighting in her arms around me.

“Can you stay and eat with me?” she asked. “I can take thirty minutes, if you don’t mind eating in the break room.”

“I’d love to. Matter of fact, I’m counting on it. I have enough for two.” I reached into the bag. “I brought this for you, Martha. A little ‘thank-you.’” I handed the startled librarian a pale yellow rose.

“Why, thank you, Mr. West,” she said, taking the rose. “I can’t remember the last time a man bought me a flower.”

“That was very nice of you,” Abby said, as we walked out of the main room of the library, leaving Martha smelling her rose. “She’ll be all aflutter the rest of the day.”

“It was the least I could do. I told you, I never would have left you the rose in the first place if she hadn’t caught me with it. Speaking of which . . .” I reached back into the bag. “I think this one’s yours.” I took out the pale cream rose, just a hint of pink flush on the petal tips, and handed it to her.

Her mouth formed the most adorable O before settling into a mischievous grin. “Why, thank you, kind sir,” she said, taking the flower. “But I do believe you just gave my supervisor the same token of your affection.”

“I did no such thing,” I said with fake shock. “Hers was yellow. Yours carries considerably more meaning.” I patted my pocket, checking to ensure the box was still there. “Besides, I might have a little something else for you.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“After lunch,” I said.

She pushed open the door to the break room. “We’ll have to eat in here. There’s a grad student working on his thesis in Rare Books today.”