I had just purchased my first personal service pet, and she arrived shy and skittish.
I had paid extra for her virginity, of course, so the problem wasn't unexpected. Many people might not find it a problem at all--might enjoy the opportunity to watch their new conquest blush and shrink away from them, or even to see her struggle. But that wasn't what I wanted.
I wanted her hungry for me, eager for my cock. So some training was in order.
As I already said, the problem was not unexpected. I'd been warned about it, in fact, by some fellow forum-goers on my preferred pet training forum; a variety of solutions had been proposed, but the one that appealed to me most required little more than some patience on my end and a few purchases from the local sex shop. Not cheap on their own, but compared to the cost of the girl herself, the accessories were very affordable.
I introduced her to them on her arrival, along with her bedroom, which had previously been my walk-in closet. I had provided plenty of cushions and blankets to make it comfortable, but otherwise it was empty, except for the two accessories she would be wearing while sleeping: a ridged dildo, flared at the base, so that it could be safely stored up her ass--with an adjustable harness to keep it snuggly in place--and a pair of bondage mittens to keep her hands out of trouble.
A chastity belt may have been even more effective, but I would have needed to order it custom-sized to her measurements, and even my patience has limits. And besides, it would have obstructed my view of her.
She was a lovely creature, twenty-one years of age, with long, dark hair and matching curls at her nethers. Her eyes were dark as well, and they were large and frightened as she eyed her nest of a bed and the toys lying in the center, listening to my explanation of how she would be wearing them to sleep every night.
She was quiet, too. That was another product of her anxiety, and as irksome to me as the rest of it. Not that I had expected a conversationalist--she couldn't speak, of course; that was a mandatory part of the training, something I wasn't rich enough to buy out of. It was part of the legal requirements for pet status. She would only speak under very specific circumstances, primarily only to the authorities in the case that she were to witness a crime. But she could make sounds, of that I was sure, and I had no interest in fucking a church-mouse.
"Your name," I informed her, "is Marguerite." She nodded silently to that, too, her wide, dark eyes staring somewhere at my hip.
So our routine began. That first evening, she was cooperative but clearly inexperienced, fumbling her way through my instructions: first preparing herself, then slicking the dildo, and then sliding it--slowly, and with a great deal of embarrassment, refusing to meet my gaze as she did--into her ass. Then she wiped her hands clean of lube with the hand-towel I provided and strapped the harness into place before putting the mittens on. I had to strap up the last one for her, and I gave her a little pat on the ass when it was done, which got an almost-noise out of her, a little flustered, breathless squeak.
I smiled and sent her to bed, closing the door behind her.
The next day, she did very little except follow me around, silent as a ghost. Except a ghost wouldn't be so bashful; she drifted towards furniture and doorways, anything she could stand near to conceal part of herself, because of course I had given her practically nothing to wear in the way of clothing, just a bit of gauzy drape to accentuate her body. She even held her hands in front of her privates, although she clearly knew she wasn't meant to be doing that, because she'd pull them away again if I looked at her too hard; but they'd wander back again sooner or later, as if she could retain her modesty by concealing a few inches of her body from my gaze.
Marguerite was intelligent, though. I knew that because I'd requested it, first of all, but I also knew it from her behavior, even silent and timid as she was at the beginning: she took everything in as I showed her around the house, her eyes jumping from one place to the next, lingering on certain things that made her think.
The piano in the foyer was one of the things which caught her eye. "Do you play?" I asked, and she jumped, twisting her hands nervously in front of her, as if surprised to be observed. Finally, after several seconds, she nodded, then held up one of her hands, fingers pinched together. A bit, I understood her to mean. "Lovely," I said, and considered whether it would be worth it to pay for an instructor to improve her skills. I'd never been much of a fan of music, but I liked the idea of it, her sitting at the piano and playing for me.
Her cheeks flushed with color, either at the compliment or with embarrassment at having such a conversation in her half-dressed state.
After the tour of the house, I took her with me into my home office and put in a few hours of work. She kneeled beside me, quiet and unobtrusive, only seeking my attention to politely use hand signals to ask for permission to use the restroom and then to ask if she should prepare some lunch, both of which I agreed to. She prepared some passable turkey sandwiches--barbecue sauce on mine, but not on hers, which was a very practical consideration, given that she ate kneeling on the floor. This, at least, she seemed confident in, and I assumed she must have plenty of practice in domestic service.
I threw her her second curveball, if the sleeping arrangements could be considered the first, in the afternoon. I finished working for the day and closed out of the company's server-based workstation, then opened up a browser and navigated to one of my favorite porn sites.
She didn't make a sound, but I did hear how her breath caught for a moment. I'd very pointedly sat her in a position where she could see my screens easily. When I unzipped my pants and pulled out my cock, I think she stopped breathing altogether.
I navigated to some of my favorite videos, the same ones I'd been watching in anticipation of her arrival: amateur videos by other pet-owners, or possibly ordinary women pretending to be pets, moaning and squealing wordlessly as they sucked, rode, came on their masters' cocks.
I stroked myself slowly, indulging in the novelty of playing with myself while knowing her eyes were on me. It served a few purposes, not the least of which was to show her how I preferred to pleasure myself--I expected she had very little experience in pleasing a cock, and wanted to give her a good shot at it whenever she got up the courage to touch me.
When I did chance a look down at her, I think she barely noticed; her gaze was fixed on my hand moving across my shaft, her cheeks pinked with embarrassment, eyes wide with nerves and confusion. I was sure she'd expected to be fucked by now, and wondered how much she'd anticipated it as well as fearing it.
