Training Allie

Notes:

This story uses

italics

in various places for emphasis, to denote book titles, and to denote non-English words. Titles for sections of the story are marked in

bold

.

Consider

The Story of O

and

9-1/2 Weeks

. This story is an exploration of the question: why would any woman consent to persist in a relationship that, by any standard, would be considered abusive? There are many possible answers, each of which could be the basis for other stories. I hope that "Allie" well presents one answer.

Introduction to Chapters 1-11:

This fantasy has been living in my head for a year, and it was time to let it out so maybe it would stop bothering me. It concerns the lengthy seduction of a stepdaughter by her stepfather.

The phenomenon of 'false memory' is real, and there is a real article in

Scientific American

on the subject (

Scientific American

September, 1997, volume 277, number 3, pages 70-75). A Google search for "scientific american false memory" should pick it up. In any case, I commend it to the attention of other authors, particularly in the MC genre, because I haven't exploited it to the full.

If you're looking for a stroke story, this probably isn't it. All places, events, and persons (including the author) are fictitious.

Acknowledgments: The single best example of intentionally bad writing I know of, from Penelope Ashe. The idea of the notebooks comes directly from "Second Best," by Thinking Horndog. A line from

Guns of Navarone

, by Alistair MacLean. The yoga lesson, from a yoga book by Jean Couch. Long after I wrote this, I realized that much of the "training" theme was inspired by "Owning Mother and Daughter" by Pedro Vila.

Other influences will be obvious to those who spend too much time reading this sort of thing. Thanks to all.

Chapter 1: The Perils of Prevarication

Jane Adams was my first wife, and I was her second husband. She had been widowed several years earlier by a drunk driver, leaving her with an 8-year old daughter to raise on her own. She stood up to the challenge, and did her best after her own lights, which is as much as anyone can ask of a parent. We met in the line of work, found that we hit it off, and in due course we decided to marry. After the wedding ceremony, which was not memorable to any one not directly involved, I moved in with them. Work it out: she had a house that had already accommodated a married couple with child, and, while I was very well off from my work in technical training, I had up to then chosen to stick with a bachelor pad. The three of us worked into a comfortable household. Jane had traditional views, and changed her last name, and her daughter's, to mine (Kennedy, if it matters).

Of my relationship with Jane and her daughter at the time, the only element that is germane to this story is that Jane had firm and non-negotiable ideas about how her daughter should be raised: Catholic/parochial girls' schools, and no dating until college. That wasn't right to my way of thinking, but Allison wasn't my daughter, and I didn't get to vote on it. I'll spare you any stories about sexual activities between her daughter Allison (

never

"Allie") and myself as Allison grew up, simply because they didn't happen. I did what I could to help with Allison's school courses, tried to provide when asked whatever passes for wise advice to an adolescent of any gender, be a provider, and be a model of the male role. In Jane's mind, the male role included the exercise of discipline, on the extremely rare occasions that Allison's usually-exemplary behavior warranted it. In time, Allison accepted me as Father, Version 2.0, and called me "daddy," and no, it didn't give me any special charge. When it became clear that the now-teenage Allison was beginning to chafe under the "no dating" rule, it was made clear that that was Jane's rule, and that was that.

Not that my prick didn't scent Allison from time to time. Allison had bloomed into a beautiful specimen of the feminine gender. But Jane was a good wife--she'd had years of practice in a previous successful relationship, after all. Some say that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, or his balls. Jane kept both of those avenues well serviced. Some say that the way to keep a man faithful is to keep him happy, and tired. She ensured that I was both.

Then, near the end of Allison's junior year at Saint Virginia High School, the universe of drunk drivers visited again, and took Jane from us. In a paradoxical way, Allison took it better than I did, perhaps because it had happened to her before, and she had learned how to cope, a little. We were both damaged--there's no other word for it. No, it didn't "drive us together," and I didn't see her step in to be "the woman of the house." After a month or so we began to return to something like normalcy in our reduced household, and we redistributed the chores between the two of us.

When the mourning period had passed, I became aware that Allison was restless. I had been around her for more than several years now, after all, and I'd have to be denser than a brick not to pick up on her moods, at least a little bit. And I could guess the cause: she was approaching the end of her junior year of high school, and she wanted to date. Her hormones were undeniably active, witness her enchanting growth, and I suspected that she felt that after her senior year, she'd be an "old maid." I also suspected that she felt that she had a window of opportunity to appeal the "no dating" rule that her mother had enforced. In any case, I knew enough about parenting not to offer advice until it was demanded.

Consequently, it was no great surprise when, one Friday evening, in fact, the day she finished her junior year, Allison came up to the doorway of the study/office of the master bedroom suite and made it clear that she wanted an audience. She was still in her school uniform from the day. She was technically a high school senior as of today, and she felt that at 18 years of age she was in a position to have some influence over her own future. I was sitting at my desk, and she stood across from me.

"Um, daddy, I'd like to talk to you about switching schools next year."

"Oh? Where to, and why?"

She had clearly rehearsed this speech in her mind. "I'd like to switch to Central High." (the local public high school) "I think I'd get a better science education there, in prep for going to college. The Sisters at SV" (local speak for "Saint Virginia") "don't have the science labs to give what it takes to prepare us for the best schools." She stopped. End of prepared speech. In her mind, the next thing that happens is that daddy agrees.

I regarded her. The silence dragged on, her gaze wavered, and she began to shift from one foot to the other. I began to show anger.

"Young lady, the last time I visited them, the science labs at Saint Virginia appeared entirely up to snuff, and I know something about the subject. I don't know why you want to switch schools, but it has nothing to do with science labs. You're lying to me, Allison, and I don't take kindly to being lied to." She went pale.

I made a show of restraining my mounting anger. "I'll offer you a choice. I can punish you for your lying, after which we can start this discussion over again, without prejudice, but with no promises on my decision one way or the other. Or, you can avoid the punishment, but go to Saint Virginia again next year, no appeals. What is your decision?"

This was clearly not the way she expected or wanted the discussion to go. "W-what punishment do--"

I practically frothed, spittle flying. "Stop! This is not a negotiation! Which is it--punishment, without knowing what it will be, but with a chance to present your case again, or Saint Virginia next year?"

Four or five deep breaths on her part, with delightful effects upon the front of her white oxford-cloth Catholic school blouse. A final shuddering inhalation: "Punish...punishment."

I made it look as though I was trying to get a grip on myself. "Very well. You will receive a bare-bottom spanking, as is just for such an infantile stunt."

"But, I'm too old to--"

I slammed the flat of my hand down on the desktop. "Silence!" She flinched. "Once again, which is it?"

Another delightful deep breath. "I'm sorry. P-punish me for lying to you, daddy. I want to try again to talk about the schools."

I let time pass while I watched her discomfort. I found the situation too delicious to rush it. I had spanked Allison in the past, but it had been years. Back then, she'd been a preteen with the genderless bottom of that age. Now, she was a blossoming woman. Oh, goody! Oh, woody!

"Very well, young lady. Over my lap." I'm left-handed, so I had her approach around the desk from my left. As I wear my wrist watch on my left wrist, I took it off; I remembered the bruises it could cause--to me, not to her. She knelt down and draped herself over my lap, left to right. The sensation of her young breasts on the outside of my right thigh was electric. I told her to give me her left wrist, which I twisted up between her shoulder blades with my right hand to control her struggles, and used my left to sweep her plaid school skirt up, tuck it into her waistband, and sweep her panties down. She was already whimpering.

No time like the present, so I laid into her with all I had. When I spank, it hurts everyone involved. Somewhere in the back of my mind I was reminded of the old line "This hurts me more than it does you." While my hand began to smart and swell from the blows I was inflicting, I doubt that the old line held in this case: she was rapidly reduced to blubbering mush. I don't know how many times I struck, but her rump glowed by the time I was unable to continue. Frankly, I stopped because the squirming she was doing over my lap would have made me come in my pants with one more strike, which would not have helped the image I was working on. I heard wailing coming from the vicinity of my right ankle. My hand would be swollen for several hours. Her ass would be red/purple for several days. I thought that was fair.

"All right, young lady. Up." I released her wrist, and she sobbed to her feet, panties still around her knees, skirt still tucked up. "Leave your clothing as it is. Go put your nose right in that corner," I pointed, "and stay there until I call you." Her face was flushed red, from her head having been lower than her body when she was bent over my lap, but also from her crying, and from the humiliation of the situation. With the tears still streaming, she wiped her nose on her wrist, looked at me for a moment through swimming eyes, then shuffled as best she could to the indicated corner of the room and pressed her nose firmly into the plaster. I swear that I could have turned off the lights and read a newspaper by the light given off by that glowing ass.

I left the room, and spent half an hour in the kitchen with my left hand in ice, drinking a Scotch-rocks with my right, and thinking about how I wanted the conversation to go, before I refreshed my drink and returned to the study off the master suite. I switched the icy Scotch tumbler to my left hand to continue my treatment. She was exactly where I had left her, and her sobbing had subsided to the occasional sniffle. I went back to my desk. It was a power dynamic, right? The person sitting at a desk has rank on the person standing in front of it--think about the last time you were in your boss's office. She heard me come in, but didn't move. I sat, and waited, watching her bottom.

"Very well, Allison, turn around and put your clothes back together." She turned around, unaware that she was giving me a breathtaking show, and made a delightful shimmy to get the panties back in place. It wouldn't have surprised me that she'd rather have avoided the contact of even the wispy nylon with her burning rump. She pulled the hem of her skirt out of the waistband. "Blow your nose." She did, and wound up standing in front of my desk again. "You have taken your punishment, and I'll say no more about it. You wanted to make a case for switching to Central High. We both know that the issue at hand has nothing to do with science labs. What does Central have that Saint Virginia doesn't?"

She gave me another look, then it all rushed out. "Boys! I want to date! Please, daddy...?" and she ran out of steam. Well, duh.

I decided that it was time to alter the dynamic of the situation. The master suite had a small wet bar. "Allison, pour yourself a glass of sherry and join me on the couch." Jane and I had let Allison drink a glass of wine with us at dinner from time to time. I watched as she poured herself a rather full glass, probably thinking sherry was like wine, right? I didn't say anything. She came over to the couch, put her glass down on the end table, and sat down, v.e.r.y carefully. I sipped my Scotch and waited until she nibbled her sherry.

"You want to date." It wasn't a question, but she nodded, staring at the surface of her sherry as though it held answers. Perhaps it did. "So if I had agreed to let you go to Central next year, and later you'd asked to date and I said 'no,' you'd have accomplished nothing." Another nod, and a shuddering sigh.

"Let me draw you a picture, figuratively speaking. If you went to Central, you would walk into a social situation as a senior where the other boys and girls would have been dating for two or three years, and some of them fucking for one or two years." Her head whipped around as though I'd slapped her. Profanity wasn't often heard under this roof. "Look, that's what they'll be talking about at Central, and what they'll be calling it. Get over it. The girls will have been honing their skills in the dating game for several years, and the boys will have expectations about what a girl will do on the first date, and the second, and so on." She took a bite of her sherry. The level in her glass was dropping nicely. I was in full-lecture mode.

"How would you survive, let alone compete? For example, to have that hunky guy in your senior physics class ask you out, he has to notice you, and think maybe you'll be worth his time, more than the girls he's been dating for several years. What have the good Sisters taught you about attracting male attention?" That got a little rueful smile from her. "Then suppose you somehow got a first date. Maybe you sink to asking him out. High school boys want one thing--sex. It may be your prerogative to meter out the rate and kind that you give, but that's what they're after. Maybe a kiss at the end of the first date, a grope on the second, and so on. If they don't think they're going to get what they're looking for, you'll wind up sitting at home on Friday nights, and again, you'd have accomplished nothing by switching schools. Suppose it's the end of the first date, and he tries to French kiss you--if you flinch and giggle, the word will be all over school in 30 seconds: 'Allison Kennedy is a baby, don't waste your time.'" Her glass was nearly empty.

"At the other end of the problem, let's assume that you develop the skills need to get a boy interested in you, and yes, I mean sexually interested. He's going to be doing things that will get you 'interested' too. What practice do you have in controlling yourself when your hormones get flowing? Because without those skills, without that practice, your body will take over on autopilot, and you could wind up fucking in the back seat of some guy's car, just because he kissed your earlobe or something." Unconsciously, her hand stole up to her ear. Her glass was empty. Time for the close.

"I'll summarize. First, you don't know how to get noticed." I ticked the points off on my fingers.

"Second, you don't have the skills to keep a guy aroused and interested and wanting more. Why do you care? Because in order for him to get 'more,' he's got to ask you out again, and that's what

you're

after, right? Not just a first date, but something ongoing, a relationship? For which, you've got to be better at those skills than the next girl."

Her body language said that she felt like she was being pounded into the ground like a tent peg, each of my points like the blow of a mallet on the top of her head. Exactly the reaction I wanted.

"Third, you don't know what that 'more' would be, how to offer and control the progression of increasingly arousing activities, activities that the girls at Central have been practicing for several years now."

Pound.

"Fourth, once you've got him aroused, you don't have the skills to satisfy him or yourself without intercourse, because you don't know what the alternatives are to fucking. And without those alternatives, you either fuck, or you wind up frustrated, both him and yourself, which is not the path to happiness."

Pound.

"And finally, you don't have the skills or training to keep control of yourself when he arouses you. All of this thanks to the good Sisters at Saint Virginia."

Pound.

"Have I missed anything?"

Another long silence. She had not raised her eyes from her empty glass. A single tear ran down the side of her nose. "No, daddy, that's about it. I'll forget about Central." She made as though to get up.

"Allison," I said kindly, "just a moment. Let's ignore Central for a second. What happens the year after, when you go to The College Of Your Choice? Do you think the situation will be any better? On the contrary, everyone else will have had yet another year of practice. Sending you off to college in your current state brings to mind the phrase 'a lamb to the slaughter.'" Her eyes were open but vacant, seeing I suppose some vision of Hell.

"Look, you're going at this all wrong. This is about skills and training and practice, and I know a thing or two about training. You finished your junior year today, and have a summer ahead of you with no major demands on your time, right? I'll give you a chance, if you're willing to work for it." She looked up, for the first time in several minutes. "I'll work with you to teach the skills you'll need. It will take a lot of time, a lot of energy, and a lot of focus on your part and mine, and it will involve a fair amount of discomfort from time to time, both physical discomfort and embarrassment, because you'll be learning to do new things you've never done before, and before you can make progress you'll need to get over some of the nonsense that the good Sisters have been pouring into your head." She bristled at this. As much as she wanted out of Saint Virginia, they and their kind had built her entire belief system for her whole life. Well, we had a summer to work on that. A man such as myself could accomplish much in three months. "But if, by the end of the summer, you demonstrate to me that you've learned all the essential skills, I'll switch your registration to Central High and you'll have permission to date, if you still want to. Otherwise, Saint Virginia next year. It's up to you."

She mulled it over for a long time, maybe three seconds. It meant giving up her free time for the summer. And there was this worrisome note about "discomfort." But it was the only path to what she'd asked for. "OK, daddy. I appreciate it. And I'll work hard, honest. Sign me up."

"Very well, Allison. I'll spend some time putting together a lesson plan. Come up to the study here after lunch tomorrow and we'll get started." She carefully got up and walked unsteadily toward the door, having to correct her course in mid-flight, as it were. The sherry had hit her pretty hard.

Chapter 2: Cats and Dogs

The next day was Saturday. We each had our own errands to run in the morning, and finally crossed paths when we wound up in the kitchen, each of us foraging for sandwich makings. We sat at the kitchen table, munching. She, of course, sat carefully. We adjourned to the study.