The Art of Conditioning

[al****]

Continuing from the previous chapter :The Art of the Deal:

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Thursdays from five to nine were her carved-out hours. She had a sitter booked, but she lived an hour out, it left us with a narrow two-hour window. Tight, almost surgical. It was just right for me, not so much for her, she liked to talk.

First Thursday after we sealed the deal, she steps into the hotel room, drops everything but this little black slip, and folds herself into the armchair, and spills about her day, her dreams, her father issues, all of it poured out in one breathless flood like this is her therapy hour. By the time she stops, it’s pushing seven-thirty. The clock on the wall ticking louder with each second we’re not doing anything that counts.

I cut in, “We’ve got thirty minutes to fuck, or you’ll be late getting home.”

She lets out a nervous laugh, and it’s clear last week is still on her mind. “Not sure I can handle as much as before,” she says, half-joking, half-hoping.

I shrug. “Once I’m done with your ass, don’t think there’ll be room for much else.”

It’s like a little flicker of frustration in her face. Not about what I want. No, it’s about what she’s not getting. She sighs, shifts, then says, “Just…give it to me first. Then you can finish…however you want.” She gives me those big, pleading eyes, every part of her playing along.

I keep my voice even, but strict. “The rule was, my needs come first. I’m bending it this once. Don’t expect it again. Got it?”

Her eyes flash, and she grins like a kid in trouble, the pouty lips working around it. “Yes, daddy.”

“Then get your ass on the bed,” I tell her, leaving no room for anything else.

She’s positioned, legs dangling, feet touching the floor, waiting. I slide between her knees, already hard, and press forward, meeting resistance as I push inside. It’s a start-stop, inch-by-inch kind of entry. A quarter way in, then pull out. Halfway on the next go, then back out again, resting against her lips, her body almost swallowing the weight of me. One more push, halfway again, and I press forward, pushing past that tight edge until finally, skin against skin, we’re all the way there. Deep.

I’m moving now, slow building into fast, the pace unrelenting, all drive and control. Hand on her chest, holding her steady. Each thrust, a rhythm, a ***, pushing her down, wave after wave. No words. Just us, bodies tangled and moving. This isn’t like last time; it’s not careful, no drawn-out tenderness. This is stripped down, primal.

The girl is a screamer, no doubt about that, and part of me wants to see if I can break her again. But with fif*** minutes left, I pull out and make the switch, her wetness the only ease. She takes it, no hesitation.

The dial on my tempo is turned down now, each stroke slow, long, deliberate, letting her feel every inch, pulling almost all the way out before pressing in again, steady and heavy, making sure every part of her feels it. Her hand finds its rhythm on her clit, matching the push and pull of each stroke, her fingers circling, working like a DJ at the tables, syncing up with me, until we’re one pulsing beat, perfectly aligned.

If I stop now, she’ll make it home as planned. But I’m not ready, not yet. Each thrust drives the same message, hammering it in: Respect my time. Respect my time. The room echoes with her screams, flesh on flesh, the sound building as our bodies meet, pushing that one thought deeper.

She’s already ten minutes late when I feel myself reaching the limit, and I lock eyes with her, holding her gaze. “I’m going to finish, but next time, I won’t be so generous. Do you understand?”

She nods, her face softening as the realization settles in. And that’s all I need. I let go, flooding her, feeling her final surrender as she works her hand to her own climax, shuddering with me once more before the night fades.

I spent the next few days replaying that first encounter in my head, the way her mouth felt wrapped around me, the way we hadn’t finished. This compulsion gnawed at me. Next session, I knew she’d take it to completion. It was necessary, her tasting me, knowing me like that, watching her swallow.

Thursday comes without a hitch. Six on the dot, she walks in wearing that floral dress, slipping off her underwear in one practiced motion. By six fif***, she’s on her knees, mouth open, taking me in. My hips find their rhythm, driving deeper, every movement toward release, building with that tight pull just before the edge. Her mouth, warm and inviting, her eyes lifting to mine as I press forward, hands in her hair, guiding her down until I’m all but there

And just as I start to cum, her body stiffens. She hesitates, pulling back. I push forward, insistent, my hand holding her in place as I let go, the heat surging out of me. She tries to pull away, but it’s too late; thick, hot pulses hit her mouth, her face, some firing up her nose as she ***s. Her reaction is instant, visceral. She gags, coughs, jerking back, her hand swiping up the mess across her cheeks, a string of it still hanging from her lip.

The entire moment shatters, clarity slipping away, the intended finale broken. I look down at her, her face a mess, and ask bluntly, “What the fuck was that?”

She dabs at her face with a hotel rag, catching her breath. “Sorry. The texture makes me gag,” she stammers, eyes downcast. “Only one guy’s ever finished in my mouth before.”

There’s a sharpness in the air now, the sense of something lost, like a perfect moment cut off just before it could close. No, I think. This won’t do.

I stand, voice firm, not leaving room for argument. "I'm going for a smoke. When I get back, we'll do it again, and you'll get it right."

She lets out a small whine, still wiping her face. “But it’s my turn.”

I stand, deliberate, each word clipped and heavy. “I told you to swallow. Didn’t get it right, so we keep going. Till you do.”

Outside, a cigarette hangs from my fingers, smoke filling my lungs as the scene replays in my mind. Flick. The last embers fade, a quiet orange glow ground out beneath my heel. I head back inside, and we try again. Same start, same finish, same hollow end. It’s like pressing repeat on a broken song.

A second cigarette. A cold beer. I motion her over, guiding her with hands firm around her head, steady. The moment I feel the pull, I wrench myself free, grip her wrist, flip her over, and watch her sink into the mattress. Her skin glows faintly in the dim light, her breath catching as I lift her skirt and drive in, hard. A gasp escapes her, that quiet “Thank God” barely audible, and I feel it, that shiver running through her, building, the way she leans into each stroke.

She is close. I see it in her eyes, that distant stare, the tension flooding through her. Her fingers grip the sheets, and her body tightens, ready to fall.

And I stop.

I pull out, circling the bed to meet her eyes, and press myself against her mouth. “Now, swallow.” The release surges through me, but her hesitation hits, splintering that satisfaction, that final beat slipping just beyond reach.

It’s there, close but elusive. A loop that keeps playing, the moment stretched tight, still just beyond us, waiting for her to fall into place.

The clock’s nearly run out, no breaks for smokes or drinks. A countdown ticks in my head, each second cutting through whatever satisfaction I’ve managed to build. Even on the fourth round, when I should be depleted, I find the strength, maybe desperation. My body takes over, my exhausted cock finding her mouth again, pressing deep and slow, inch by inch, until it stirs back to life.

I step to the edge of the bed and shove myself inside her, quick and rough, watching her body coil beneath me, pushing her to the brink, just shy of that final release. But there’s control, a grip I keep firm, pulling her back each time she teeters close. Before she can fall, I pull out, grab her by the shoulders, and *** her to her knees.

“You won’t cum until you swallow me,” I say. She tries to answer, to argue, but I silence her, pushing myself into her mouth, hard and relentless, holding her down, feeling the resistance fade into surrender.

I can feel the heat between her legs cooling, the frustration building. I push her back onto the bed, flip her skirt, and I’m in again, rough, ruthless, pressing her back to that point, close enough she’s gasping, writhing, right there. But not yet. I pull out again.

I grab a fistful of her hair, drag her to the floor. She’s panting, her face flushed, her body pleading for mercy. Her eyes are wide, lips parted, already knowing what’s next. I guide her, forcing myself back in her mouth, each motion deliberate. But we’re past the point for patience, for that lingering smolder. The night’s winding down, and I need one last release to shake this gnawing feeling clawing at me from the inside.

When I feel it building, my body tight, I throw her over the mattress one last time, my voice low but firm as I slap her ass, “Don’t you dare cum with me.” But her cries swallow the words, her voice raw and defiant. Whether she missed it or ignored it, I don’t know, but as I spill inside her, she shudders, her body breaking, climaxing against mine.

When the silence returns, I promise her this: she won’t feel me inside her again until she swallows.

The next Thursday, she shows up with a gift: the brunette with tits so perfect they might have been sketched by some desperate art school dropout. Her workaround is clever, I’ll give her that. The brunette takes most of my load, left her with the rest to swallow, and, just like that, she’s met my demand. Using her friend as training wheels, she’s managed to fulfill my request. No way I’m denying her tonight; she’s earned this.

And the whole night clicks. It’s damn near flawless. When the next Thursday arrives, she’s in line for her reward, one that feels like the first night, with every minute filled with a kind of magic. We spend two solid hours together, no breaks, just pushing her to that peak again and again, each wave carefully measured. By the end of that fourth night together, I outline my terms, the pact, the schedule she’ll follow for as long as we keep this going.

Clear and structured: one night for anal, one where she’d bring a friend for swallowing practice. And if she earned it? A reward night. Just the two of us, her obedience on full display, before we’d start all over again.

The next threesome, she swaps out the brunette for a new friend, this one calling herself Spring. It fits, the season winding down, an ending and a fresh face. The brunette had been all curves, but Spring is just the opposite, small, barely a handful, almost like she was picked to make my blonde look like the star.

Three weeks later, it’s Summer, both the season and her latest offering. Summer, freshly nine***, auburn hair, medium-sized, perky breasts, a waist so small my hands could span it, and an ass that would make a man lose his mind. These two, my blonde and Summer, work like they’re in sync, their mouths moving in tandem, bodies locking together like puzzle pieces. Switching between them becomes instinct, like breathing.

I spent two solid months wrapped up in this pair. Summer was the firestarter, the blonde the closer. Then, just as we’d hit our stride, the brunette made her way back into the mix, a welcome return that turned three into four. It worked. It worked well. But like anything running hot, it wasn’t made to last. Summer dropped out first. No drama, just a quiet fade from the rotation, and suddenly it’s just the three of us again, the blonde, the brunette, and me. Then the brunette gives her goodbyes too, and I’m thinking, maybe it’s back to just us two.

She flashes a breezy smile. “I’ve got someone lined up,” as if she’d been auditioning people when I wasn’t looking.

This new one was twenty, from Poland, hair the color of burgundy wine, with this thing where the second I’d slip inside her, she’d seize up and climax in seconds. She was fast. We called her Autumn, even though the nights were still heavy with heat. Autumn came early, we joked.

In the end, she was practically perfect, nudging forward each week, almost hungry for the lessons I'd laid out. Each Thursday was a test, a recalibration of control, a quiet seduction of obedience. She met every demand without a word, her eyes on me, like she was learning to read the rules as they wrote themselves into her bones. And with each act, she looked for the smallest hint, a nod or a glance, anything to say she'd done well. That trace of approval was what she came back for, week after week, wearing it like an invisible leash, binding her tighter than any words could.

[Ph****]

📝🥵

[Mr--Sir]

Where is the conditioning? This is just intercourse with extra steps.

[al****]

I felt each session builds a framework that she starts adapting to over time. Here’s where I believe the conditioning takes place:

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Rules and Boundaries: Each encounter rein***s strict rules. My needs come first, specific behaviors are non-negotiable, and she understands that any deviation will have consequences. This rein***s my control and shapes her responses over time.

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Repetition and Rein***ment: When she doesn’t meet my expectations, I bring her back to the task, repeating actions until she complies. This repetition conditions her to expect a consistent response, subtly training her to adjust her reactions.

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Reward and Withholding: I withhold rewards, like allowing her own release, until she follows through on my expectations. This delayed gratification acts as both a control tactic and a conditioning tool, aligning her behavior with my pleasure.

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Attachment and Validation: Conditioning isn’t only about control. It also builds her attachment to my approval. She starts to return weekly, seeking cues of my satisfaction, and this need for approval becomes its own kind of “leash,” binding her to the structure and routines we’ve created.

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In this way, The Art of Conditioning goes beyond the physical. It’s about establishing patterns, shaping responses, and fostering an attachment to my approval that becomes integral to her experience. As she becomes more conditioned to meet my demands, she aligns more with my desires, making each session a layered progression of control and compliance.

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Of course, I write these stories not only to better understand myself but also to help those I share my time with better understand me. I also value the opinions and feedback of other community members. So, I’m curious, did anyone else feel like I missed the mark here, or do the bullet points above hit it?

[Su****]

So well written.

I wish I was lucky enough to experience this. 🥵