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Peg & Cher meet Carrie's daughter.

What training?"

She grinned. He was about to find out.

She had been given homework, books to study, techniques to hone. She was about to use them.

She gave him a gentle tug on his leash and softly commanded, "Heel."

His head went light; he realized at once what kind of training he was about to suffer.

She held his leash tight, and he felt in his cock, the metal cage jerking him forward. He had no choice but to follow her, but he had trouble finding her pace right away. He was either too quick or too slow. Either way caused discomfort as the leash tightened and jerked his cock cage.

She stopped at the end of the room, pulled his leash tight, forcing him to crawl around her. She counted silently to ten, let him relax a bit, then tugged his leash again. "Heel."

She walked him back toward the kitchen, feeling him trying to match her pace, drifting behind, getting ahead. She kept the leash just tight enough so that it grew tight when he failed to stay with her. She was doing well, though she felt a little silly, until her mind wandered, mused upon the fact that there was no veil covering this. Her intentions were well known now: she was conditioning him, pure and simple.

When she had first introduced him to the Divine Tantra theory, she hadn't told him he was being conditioned. Perhaps he'd figured it out. He was certainly no dummy. He could spot a woman's manipulations a mile away. Most men could. If he had known, he hadn't said anything. Though she hadn't said it directly, she had been offering him a choice: When you're in control, you don't want me. I'm an appendage, a possession, a toy that you've played with and lost interest in and it makes us both unhappy. Let me be in control now, and let's see what happens.

It took four times going to the end of the room and back before he succeeded. The first time he matched her pace, feeling the leash loose the entire way, he hurried around her and waited by her side, performing the perfect "heel". He chuckled at his own success, unable to help himself, daring to whisper, "That was a good one."

She had given him an order to be silent, and she knew she should enforce it, but she couldn't help herself. She patted his head, let her hand dangle beside his cheek, enjoying how he moaned and brushed against it. When she rewarded him with a "good boy", he practically fell over, trying to lean against her and get control of his shuddering. She giggled as he righted himself.

There was a reason he enjoyed her attention: it had been nearly six months since she'd allowed him an orgasm.

But conditioning meant repetition. "Let's see if you can do it again."

He did.

Lots of repetition. Suddenly his success was fleeting; his goal had changed. He had managed to pace her with just the occasional "off" step, but now he wanted to keep the leash from growing even the slightest bit taut. He judged it by whether or not he let it touch his shoulder. If it grew taut between his legs, made contact with his belly, he knew he'd failed. He wanted it to dangle freely, and every time he took too large a step and felt the leather graze his skin, he silently cursed himself.

The conditioning was working. He lost track of how many times they walked back and forth across her room, but he was no longer thinking about the leash, about her, about her pace; his body was doing all the work. He hurried around her and waited patiently for the next tug of his leash, then jumped forward, utterly conscious of the whisking sound of her black silky stockings, the creaking of her leather skirt, the quiet rustle of her blouse, overwhelmed by her beckoning perfume.

She began to refine and tweak his performance, and every time she did so, he had a moment of lightheaded euphoria.

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