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Train Me!
by C. K. Ralston

Category: Erotica/BDSM Erotica
Description: She may have resisted, but she knew she needed it!
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions,
eBookwise Release Date: April 2011


Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [285 KB]
Words: 64608
Reading time: 184-258 min.


Sharon Sanford paced around her small living room, on edge and growing more nervous by the minute. She listened to the phone conversation her husband was having in the nearby kitchen. He was leaning back on a tall stool, talking to his old high school buddy, Johnny Trask, laughing and sipping a beer. They had been on the phone for better than twenty minutes and Sharon really didn't like the way the conversation was going.

"Sure, our place is pretty small, Johnny boy, but there's always room for my oldest pal," Chet, her husband, was telling his old friend at that moment. Sharon winced as she heard him say it.

She watched as he listened to Johnny's reply, and his handsome face clouded over with doubt for a second, but then he nodded agreement, emptied his beer, and grinned again. "Well, hey, like you say, it's only for a couple of nights. We'll make do."

Sharon's husband got to his feet, tossed the empty beer bottle into the trash can beside the sink counter, went to the refrigerator. His neck cocked to one side, cradling the phone to his ear while he opened the door and took out another brew. He twisted off the cap, tossed it into the trash, then returned to his stool.

"Okay, that sounds terrific," he said, smiling into the phone. "We'll be looking for you tomorrow evening, then. I'll buy another couple cases of beer and get 'em iced down."

Johnny Trask said something more and Chet laughed and nodded. "Great. Lookin' forward to it, partner."

After Chet had hung up the phone, Sharon went into the kitchen and stood in front of him, her eyes quizzical. His face assumed that hangdog, I-don't-want-to-talk-about-it expression that she had come to know so well over the last two years of their marriage. It was the same look he'd given her after she'd questioned his decision to buy the Harley Davidson chopper just after they were married. He'd eventually had to sell the bike at a loss six months later, just to get out from under the payments before they bankrupted them.

"That sounded like we're about to have a houseguest," she said, her tone testy.

"Uh ... well ... yeah, babe," he admitted, his eyes avoiding hers. "Johnny said he's moving back to town, and I told him he could stay here, just until he found himself a place to live."

Sharon rolled her brown eyes and pushed her right hand through her mass of curly, shoulder-length jet-black hair. "This place is tiny, Chet, in case you haven't noticed. Remember when my folks were here for Thanksgiving last year, and you insisted they stay with us? Remember the two of us sleeping in the front room on the air mattress and them taking our bedroom ... and what an incredible pain in the butt that turned out to be for everyone involved?"

Chet shrugged. "He's one of my oldest, best friends, Sharon. What was I supposed to do, tell him no?"

Sharon sighed. Chet was basically a good man. He was prone to agreeing to things too quickly, committing to deals he would later regret--like the ill-advised motorcycle purchase--but he had a good heart.

"Where's he going to sleep?" she demanded, growing more exasperated with her husband by the moment.

"Uh ... well ... it seems he's got this girl traveling with him too," Chet muttered, letting the other shoe drop. "I guess they'll sleep on the air mattress in the living room while they're looking for a place of their own."

"Honestly, Chet, you take the cake!" she sighed. "Not just him, whom I've never met, but some girl neither one of us has never met as well?"

* * * *

The next day was Friday, and Sharon took the afternoon off from her job as a teller at a local bank to tidy up the house and get out the air mattress and the electric pump and stow them in the hall closet where they'd be handy for their guests. Next, she cleaned the whole house from top to bottom, especially the one bathroom all of them would be sharing.

The only room she didn't bother with was their miniscule second bedroom, which might have served as a guest room, had it not been stuffed from top to bottom with cardboard boxes. Some of the cartons contained seldom used items and clothing they had packed up a year ago, when they'd bought this house and moved here from the much larger rented house they'd shared in Phoenix during their first year of marriage.

There hadn't proved to be enough room in their new home to store all their stuff once it was unpacked, so some of it had remained jammed into the small bedroom. The displays, sales racks, banners and other printed items Chet needed to service his accounts at various food stores throughout the southwest he called on for the snack company he represented took up the rest of the limited space. There was barely enough room left in the ten-by-ten second bedroom to turn around in, let alone to put up two overnight guests.

When she was done with the cleaning, Sharon took a shower, fixed her hair and put on some fresh clothes. She looked around at the small house and sighed, wishing for the hundredth time that it were larger. It was two bedrooms, one small bathroom, a kitchen and a tiny dining room, a modest living room and a one-car garage. All the other homes in the ten-year-old tract of houses surrounding it featured basically the same floor plan, except for the ones that had been modified by their ambitious/desperate-for-more-space owners who had slapped on additional rooms or had converted their garages into dens or third bedrooms.

She glanced at the clock and saw it was just after six in the evening. Hearing the electric garage door opener begin to grind into action moments later, she knew Chet was home with the big bucket of fried chicken, prepackaged salad, and mashed potatoes and gravy meal she'd sent him to the store to get an hour ago.

Now, if their unwanted guests just managed to show up on time, everything would be fine. The meal would still be hot when she served it.

Sharon frowned. She knew she shouldn't really call Chet's old high school friend, Johnny Trask, and his mystery girlfriend "unwanted guests", even in her thoughts. It's just the way Chet always goes on and on about this Johnny character when he talks about him that puts me off, she told herself.

"That was Johnny. He's in Alaska," Chet had breathlessly informed her once after a long phone call. "He signed on up there for the summer on a fishing boat crew."

The next time they had heard from Johnny, the man had been calling from Kuwait, where one of his buddies from the fishing boat had landed a job as an oilfield worker and had managed to wrangle a high-paying job as an oil patch roustabout for his pal, Johnny, as well.

The year after that, it was a Christmas card from Miami, where Johnny had taken up residence, driving fast boats for a living. Chet hadn't exactly come right out and said that what his old friend was doing was illegal, just that it was dangerous and paid a lot of money.

And now, from out of the blue, Johnny was moving back to Brimley, where he and Chet had gone to high school together. The pair had met for the first time when they were junior varsity football players then had become inseparable buddies during their last two years of local football stardom.

After graduation, it had been the army for Johnny--jump school, rangers, and finally the Green Berets. Chet had moved to Arizona and enrolled in college. By the time Sharon had met her husband for the first time in Phoenix, Chet had already amassed a whole briefcase full of letters from his globetrotting, slightly larger-than-life pal, Johnny.

The ex-soldier called sporadically, wrote once in a while, and sent cards at Christmas, but Sharon had yet to meet this elusive, legendary friend of Chet's. She'd just heard stories ... and the stories she'd heard had always made her secretly glad Johnny Trask had stayed on the other side of the world most of the time.

To her, Johnny sounded like trouble. In the few pictures she'd seen of him, in Chet's yearbooks and in the few newspaper articles that had appeared in the Brimley Gazette over the years, that Chet had clipped, stored in with the trove of letters--local boy gets jump wings, local man wins Bronze Star in Iraq, local Green Beret honored with Silver Star for gallantry in combat in Afghanistan--Johnny Trask looked like trouble. In high school, he had been a rangy boy with a face handsome enough for the movie screen and a pair of piercing dark eyes. As a man and a soldier, he had grown into a tall, muscular god of war, with the same gripping eyes, now staring outward from a chiseled body, strengthened at first by elite military training, then by recent years of taking hard jobs, working among hard men, in dangerous places around the world.

I don't want to be one of those wives who dislikes her husband's old friends without even meeting them, Sharon admonished herself. But something about Johnny Trask and the stories I've heard, the pictures I've seen...

At that moment, there was a loud rumbling sound in the driveway. Chet was just stepping into the kitchen, carrying two big shopping bags full of dinner and groceries. He heard the growling motorcycle exhaust at the same time Sharon did, dumped the bags on the kitchen table and ran back out the door into the garage.

The noise stopped and she heard Chet yell excitedly, "Johnny boy! How the hell are you, man? Get over here and help me unload this beer, you old dog, you!"

Heart beating faster, Sharon followed her husband out the open door, into the small garage. Johnny Trask stood in the driveway next to a huge Harley Davidson with saddlebags loaded for traveling and two bedrolls tied onto a chrome bar jutting up into the air behind the passenger seat. Beside him, in leather riding pants, boots, and a partially unzipped leather jacket, helmet in hand, was a very pretty teenage girl with long brown hair, a decorative silver piercing just above her left eyebrow, and a pair of very unusual eyes, a hazel shade so light they were almost golden in color.

Sharon's gaze swung back to Johnny Trask as he unzipped his own black leather jacket and pulled it off, along with his black, visored helmet. He was tall and rangy, and the black tee shirt he wore was tight across his wide shoulders, stretched to its very limit around his huge bicep. He reached over and set the helmet on top of the leather coat on the driver's seat.

"Hey, buddy, long time no see, huh?" he said, turning his head toward Chet and her.

The man's dark eyes fixed on Sharon briefly and the breath froze in her lungs. He was the single most gorgeous, sexy, dangerous-looking man she had ever seen in her life. He had black, wavy hair, cut fairly short, and a big, full, "gunfighter's" mustache that grew all the way down to the edge of his square jaw on both sides of a pair of sensual, slightly cruel-looking lips. The man seemed to radiate testosterone!

"You must be Sharon," he said in his confident, slightly-gravely baritone voice that sent an involuntary shiver up Sharon's spine as he spoke her name for the first time.

"Uh, yes!" she managed to mumble, feeling herself turning red for no reason. "I'm pleased to finally meet you, after hearing about you from Chet all these years."

"Well, I'm Johnny and this is April," he said, flashing her a devastating smile as he introduced himself and his girlfriend, sending another shiver rippling down Sharon's body.

Chet was right in front of his old friend now. Johnny grabbed him and crushed him into a bear-like embrace, clapping him on his back.

Sharon studied the two men. Even knowing they were roughly the same age and they had played football together, she was amused at how vastly different they seemed. Chet was almost Johnny's height but, next to his old teammate, he looked lean, almost skinny. Her husband's brownish-blond hair--as always--seemed a bit too long and shaggy, as if he'd missed his last appointment with the barber. He was handsome, in a boyish, eager-to-please, puppy dog way. He had been a sleek, deft running back on the football team. Johnny had been the fullback, plunging in ahead of Chet, blasting other players off their feet, creating holes for him to run through.

"We've got a great fried chicken dinner inside, just waiting for two hungry travelers," Chet said, beaming, as he disengaged from his old friend's embrace. "Help me lug a case of this beer in and we'll get after it and that chicken, okay?"

"You got it," Johnny grinned, reaching into a saddlebag and coming out with a huge bottle of Canadian whisky. "I brought this along to warm our innards and gladden our hearts."

He handed the bottle to April, who had just pulled off her jacket and placed it atop the bike's wide tank along with his. She carried the whisky inside while Johnny picked up a case of cold beer from the backseat of Sharon's Honda sedan and Chet hefted another one.

So much booze, Sharon thought worriedly! She and Chet had always enjoyed the occasional drink, but they usually bought beer by the six-pack and whisky by the fifth.

* * * *

"Yeah, Afghanistan is a downright unfriendly goddamned environment," Johnny chuckled, knocking back another shot of whisky, followed by a slug of beer. "Makes you wonder, sometimes, why people have been fightin' over it since Alexander the Great's time. It's really not a fit place to live for anyone save goats and Afghanis!"

Chet laughed and sipped at his own beer. Sharon was thankful her husband had given up trying to keep pace with Johnny an hour ago. Slightly inebriated herself, she was nursing her third whisky and Seven Up of the evening. Chet could hold is liquor, but not like Johnny--the handsome soldier of fortune just kept banging down the whisky and beer, none of it effecting him noticeably as he leaned back in the dining room chair, telling stories about his adventurous life and answering their questions about where he'd been, what he'd done, what fighting the wars had been like.

"I thought you might re-enlist or go into Delta Force, there for a while," Chet said after Johnny had finished telling them about Afghanistan. "You mentioned you were considering it a few times in your letters."

"Yeah, I got a lot of pals in Delta," he nodded thoughtfully. "Ex-green beanies and Rangers, like me. But I've had enough of the military--too many people telling you what to do and when to do it."

Johnny seemed to ponder what he just said for a moment, his handsome face growing wistful. He sat forward in the chair, poured himself another whiskey from the nearly empty bottle and said brightly, "Hey, when we rode into town tonight, we came in from the north, past Calhoun's. I was kind of surprised that dive was still in business, but there it was, right by the railroad tracks and down by the stock loading pens. They had a sign up, saying they had music on Friday and Saturday nights."

He downed his shot and chugged what was left of his eighth or ninth beer of the evening and looked intently at Chet. "What say we stow my saddlebags and bedrolls in the garage and head over there for a little while? Sharon here looks like a dancer to me, with that outrageously hot body of hers, and I know you always liked to shake your booty around the floor, partner, back in the day."

Looking over at April, who was glassy eyed from the several shots and beers she'd had before dinner and afterward, he grinned and continued, "And April just loves to get out on the floor and tease the boys, shimmying those big jugs of hers!"

The teenager giggled then admitted, "I do love to boogie, definitely!"

Sharon didn't know what to say. Calhoun's was a rowdy, lower class bar on the outskirts of town that catered to cowboys, bikers, and other assorted groups of what Sharon's archconservative father had always referred to when she was growing up as "white trash". On the rare occasions since moving to Brimley that she and her husband had gone out for an evening of dining and dancing, they'd always favored the staid old Paxton Hotel, downtown, with its intimate little cocktail lounge, a three piece combo and a tiny dance floor big enough for ten couples or so. They had never set foot in Calhoun's and didn't socialize with anyone who had.

On the other hand, Sharon's clitoris had throbbed when Johnny had commented on her body being "outrageously hot"! She knew it shouldn't--but she had downed just enough booze so far this evening--that the idea of showing off her dancing moves and her tight, lean body for Chet's gorgeous friend now struck her as fun and exciting.

"Here, just let me leave this here," April said enigmatically, bringing her purse up from the floor where it had sat next to her chair throughout dinner, "So I won't get confused and show 'em the wrong one if they ask for it."

The girl pawed through the small bag until she found her wallet. She took out her driver's license and put it on the dining room table, next to her plate full of chicken bones, and Sharon could see that it showed the girl had just turned nineteen two weeks ago. The license below it, which looked just as real as the first one, was identical except that it listed the girl's age at twenty-one by two weeks.

"I'm ready now!" the teen crowed happily, putting the fake back in her purse. "Just let me use the bathroom real quick and I'll be all set."

By the time Sharon had removed the dishes, scraped the bones into the trash and loaded the dishwasher, April was back from the bathroom. Sharon eyed the girl disapprovingly. April had removed her bra, and now her big, bouncy teenaged breasts were rolling around very noticeably beneath the faded black tee shirt she wore along with her tight black leather motorcycle pants.

"Are we ready to go?" April asked.

Sharon felt her ire rising as she saw how both men were eying the girl's unfettered boobs under the thin shirt. Normally a very conservative dresser herself, Sharon abruptly decided she was much too well dressed for a dump like Calhoun's--sexy little April with her tight leather jeans and her big tits jiggling under her shirt was much more appropriately attired!

"I just need to change my clothes real fast," Sharon found herself blurting.

She stepped past April and stormed off down the hall, shutting the door to the master bedroom behind her. Rummaging in her closet, she found a black knit top with a scooped neckline that was just a tad tight on her. She pulled off the conservative blouse and slacks she had worn throughout dinner and tossed them on the bed.

Her stern father's words all through her grade school and high school years rang disapprovingly through her head as she shimmied into a pair of tight blue jeans she'd owned forever. Now they fit her like the proverbial glove. "Dress like a whore, people take you for a whore, Sharon!" Father had always said when she'd put on something that wasn't conservative enough to suit him.

Eying her tight, still very attractive bottom in the mirror, and liking the way the snug pants showcased it, Sharon thought, Screw you, Daddy! I'm a grown woman now and I'll wear what I like ... and I am not letting that little slut completely outshine me tonight!

She undid her bra, tossed it on the bed and reached for the tight top. Her breasts weren't as big as April's--Sharon guessed the girl's impressive, youthful rack at a thirty-six or thirty-eight "C" or even a "D" cup. Her own thirty-four "B's" were large enough to verge on being "C's" and they were, at twenty-six years of age, still round and firm and fairly spectacular in their own right on her trim body.

Sharon pulled on the tight top and glanced in the mirror to admire the sexy mounds, with their pert little spiky nipples just at their centers. She put on some fresh lipstick and smiled at her image. Hot ... for a normally conservative young married girl like me ... pretty darned hot-looking!"

Giving out with a naughty giggle, she tucked the top into the tight jeans and sashayed off down the hall, feeling very sexy for a change and knowing, in the back of her mind, that she really shouldn't have had quite so much to drink tonight.

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