Training Train

He is quite wealthy, but that is not why I love my husband. He is elegant, but that is not it either. He is beautiful, but that does not matter. What matters? His love and care for me. His interest in every detail of my life. His intelligence. His firmness. His kindness. His arrogance. His control.

He is the owner and CEO of a private rail car company, catering to the old money. We do, therefore, travel by train. He has told me that he wishes me to accompany him on all of his trips - both business and pleasure. When we are on the train, however, I belong to him. Totally. He will train me to be the wife we have both always wanted me to be. I will obey his commands and failure to do so will result in swift and immediate consequences.

His private car is decorated beautifully, in a lovely 1950's style but with all modern conveniences carefully concealed. He has decorated everything. He has chosen the furniture, the art, the linens, even my clothing. In keeping with the style, I will dress in a vintage manner when entertaining his clients. Demure, sweet and always modest. I will wear evening gowns, corsets, and heels for nightly entertainment and 1950's style dresses with bullet bras, waist cincher and silk slips during the day.

However, in our private car, I will not dress at all unless specifically instructed to do so. He wishes to see my body and have it available to him at all times, even in the presence of our servants or any guests he chooses to invite. Sometimes he will wish me to wear heels, sometimes a corset, sometimes only pearls. Mostly, though, he prefers me to be nude. He will use my body as he will. I will speak when spoke to only. I will be his humble and loving servant and he my loving and dominant master. I have agreed to all of this, but now I must prove to him that I truly want this.

This trip will be a short one - only three days. This will be a trial run, if you will, to see if this arrangement truly suits us both. I walk into the car and marvel at its beauty. I turn and smile at him. He crosses his arms and gives me a pointed look. A hot blush creeps up my face. My first act was to have been the immediate removal of my clothing, but already I have made a mistake. I have sighed and run my hand over the furnishings first. I drop my eyes and rush into the bedroom section, removing my dress, bra, stockings and shoes. I neatly fold them and put them away just as he instructed me. They are to be out of the way - out of sight. I come back into the parlour and stand before him.

Now, he smiles at me, lifts my chin and kisses me, running his hands up and down my sides, my back, my arms. He deepens the kiss and grasps my nipples. Then he squeezes. I give a little yelp and start to pull away but stop myself. I hear him chuckle a bit and know he has not missed this tiny lapse. I also know he is please I corrected myself. He squeezes harder and I whimper at the pain, but feel my will bend to his, dripping out of my body and forming the honey which coats my pussy and thighs. I begin to tremble and he slowly pulls his mouth away.

Keeping hold of my tender nipples, he leads me to the table and tells me to place my hands flat. He adjusts my position to his liking and then tells me to prepare myself for my first correction. I take a deep breath and steady myself. Still, I can't stop myself from crying out with the first sharp strike of the leather slapper. Four slaps - two on each cheek - and I'm already crying. Nonetheless, I am grateful, a feeling which shocks me. Without thinking, turn, drop to the floor and hug his legs, thanking him for his correction. I feel loved, safe, wanted.

The rest of the journey flies by. We are alone, except for the servants. I am humiliated beyond belief each time the footman serves us dinner. The man is a friend to my husband and is well aware of my plight. My husband has told him, in front of me, that he should feel free to look as he pleases, to touch as he chooses. Each time he serves me food or refills my glass, he does this, tweaking a nipple, rubbing my shoulders. My face flames with embarrassment. The first time he did this, I voiced an objection and my husband's eyes became hard and dark. He told me to stand behind my chair then bent me over it, instructing me to hold onto the seat, thus forcing my bottom into the air. Then, he told me that Brad, the valet, would administer the punishment since it was him I had disrespected. I began to cry and shake my head, but Milord, my husband, grasped my chin and forced me to look into his eyes. I saw him nod to Brad who began to spank me.

Milord said Brad would continue this for five full minutes. Brad, thankfully, used only his hand, but he was merciless. About halfway through my punishment, I closed my eyes, tears falling freely down my face, but Milord would not allow this. My time restarted. Five additional minutes. My eyes flew open and I managed to keep eye contact with Milord, despite my tears and crying. Once the five minutes had passed, Milord kissed me deeply while Brad fingered my wet pussy. Just as I was about to cum, both men stepped away from me. My husband told to be seated and to finish my dinner. Brad refilled my wine and the rest of the evening went on as if nothing had happened.

That night, Milord made love to me. He did not fuck me, he made slow, sweet, careful love to me, whispering how happy I've made him. I've never felt so cherished.

Three days later, he holds out his hand and helps me down the steps of our car. He must help me, not only because he is a gentleman, but because I can barely walk on my own. My bottom is red and welted. My thigh muscles strained and shaky, my pussy swollen and tender, my anus still filled with a rather large plug. I wobble a bit on my black pumps and he steadies me. I look up at his soft eyes and smile. I can't wait for the next trip.