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This was inspired by the world of HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DAUGHTER, particularly Chapter 14. (Thank you to the author!) However, this stands alone and goes in a different direction, as will be immediately apparent. While there are some references to non-consensual sex, the events in the story are all consensual.
The first time Emily tried to have sex again, after packing her life into a suitcase, fleeing to Canada, and turning her back on family, religion, and country, it was a fiasco. Like all good American girls since rules around the sexual training of young women were adopted, Emily had been deflowered on stage in the ritualized public Festival. This began the period during which she was eligible to be trained by any man with daughters old enough to have been through their own training periods, and all other sexual activity was forbidden. Some of those encounters with trainers were awful, while others had been the source of more pleasure than she’d thought possible, but what they all had in common was he would tell you what he expected, and your role was to obey. Emily had struggled significantly at first, but with hard work, she had gotten better. She was, after all, a very good girl.
But this was not how sex worked for young women in Canada – or anywhere else in the world. Of course, Emily knew that intellectually. Men didn’t try to hide that fact from girls in the United States, although they did shake their heads when they talked about it, as if to say, what a shame that was. But it wasn’t until several weeks into her stay in Canada that she fully realized the implications of this difference.
Emily had thought about leaving for days, but when she finally fled America, it was not with her trademark thoughtfulness and caution. It was the fourth of July, and her father had made plans to watch the fireworks with one of the other professors in his department and then spend the night training the man’s newly-eligible daughter. Emily had been planning on attending but at the last moment she feigned illness. As soon as her father had left, she packed a suitcase, got in her car, and drove north.
She didn’t know what would happen, but she knew that they didn’t train girls in Canada and that was enough to fuel her escape. She hoped that she wouldn’t get caught on the way there, since girls in training needed special permission to leave the country, and she prayed that they would let her in.
At the border, Emily described why she was there and managed to get out the phrase ‘applying for asylum’, and they admitted her until a hearing could be held. (Strangely, Emily noticed that upon crossing the border, the apps on her phone stopped working, including the one she had installed that let trainers reserve sessions with her, but also any that would have let her call or message anyone back home.) A pamphlet the border agent gave her informed her that forced sexual training was considered a recognized human rights abuse that made her eligible for asylum.
For a few days, she was placed in a shelter with various other newly-arrived women from different countries. There, Emily kept her head down and didn’t talk much. A Catholic refugee agency connected her with a studio apartment in a nearby town and wrote a letter on her behalf to her father informing him that she was well. They helped her get set up in her new home — enrolling her at the local university, which was a complicated affair involving placement tests and conversations with department administrators, since she couldn’t exactly contact her old college and tell them she’d illegally fled the country. She sold her car and bought a bike, something she hadn’t ridden since she was a kid, but which a lot of people used to get around here. She got a new phone, although she was not sure if it would work to call back home, and she was not sure if she wanted to find out. Emily had six weeks to go before classes would start, at which point she would also move into a dormitory.
Once settled in her new space, Emily experimented with small freedoms not previously permitted. She acquired and then wore clothing that covered far more than was strictly necessary, denying men the pleasure of enjoying her body, which she had been taught they deserved to have. She kept her own hours, staying up late reading Jane Austen novels and sleeping in, not having to worry that she might be woken up by a strange man with the right to disrupt her sleep and use her most intimate parts for his own pleasure. She didn’t even attempt to find a church to attend, not missing the Sunday morning services where the girl’s bodies were part of the worship rituals. And Emily went for evening lifting sessions at the university gym without having to budget extra time for her body to be appraised and enjoyed, should an eligible man desire to do so. But it was not so long before that same body made a request, first quietly but each day more insistently: Emily craved sex.
This had never been a problem back bahis şirketleri home. There was an understanding there – she corrected herself, a belief – that the bodies of girls required penises and regular insemination. They needed it in order to stay healthy, physically and emotionally, and that it was only right and appropriate that older men who had successfully raised girls themselves to Festival age ought to be the ones to provide this, because young men lacked the skill to properly train and appreciate these perfect young specimens like herself.
Like all girls, Emily had rarely gone more than a few days between training sessions since her deflowering over a year ago. But now, with no men knocking on her door or stopping her on the way to class to inquire about her eligibility and instruct her on their needs, she had to figure out what her own needs were and how to meet them herself.
She decided initially that she should start with a man who felt comfortable, familiar. There was an older gentleman she frequently saw in the supermarket near her apartment building on her weekly trips. He reminded her of one of her trainers, with his suspenders and belly and well-polished shoes. (Something she had noticed, comparing her old country and this adopted one: in general, the men and women here were less put together, less formal, less groomed. Less like they might be called to an impromptu dinner party at any moment.) He had a nice smile and she occasionally would see him chatting with another customer. Unlike many of the other shoppers, he didn’t wear headphones, so she felt like it would be easier to strike up a conversation. Emily prepared to offer herself to him by wearing her favorite red sundress and a set of pearls that made her feel feminine and grown-up. And, of course, she shaved her vulva. She’d gotten somewhat lax about that since coming here, but on this occasion, she wanted to be absolutely correct.
She approached him with a bright smile as he was picking out a cantaloupe, illuminated from above by the fluorescent lighting. Summoning up all of the self-possession that she had learned as a trainee and proud (if now lapsed) American girl, she tapped him on the shoulder, said ‘excuse me’, and when he turned with a quizzical but not displeased look to see her, followed with “My name is Emily, and I try to be a very good girl. Would you like to have me?”
If he’d been cruel about it, she thought to herself later, alone in bed, that might have been better. But it was the look of pity he gave her that she couldn’t get out of her head. “You’re American, aren’t you?”, he asked, and when she nodded, he put a hand on her shoulder. “Sweetheart, you can’t ask men that here. I’m married. Actually married – not how they are down there. Find a boy your own age. And don’t start out like you did with me. Go on a date or something,” he paused. “This means he should buy you dinner or at least a coffee. And no sex until he’s your boyfriend.” He added a tiny smile and spoke quietly. “I’m flattered, but you’re worth more than this.”
He’d then walked away – sans cantaloupe. As she tried to gather herself, blood rushing to her face, she prayed that no one had seen her rejection. (That was something, it occurred to her, that you didn’t really have to worry about as a trainee — rejection. They chose to train you or they didn’t, but if they didn’t, it was hardly personal.) As she walked quickly back home, after deciding she could go another day without groceries, she thought about what he had said and how confusing it had been.
She wasn’t sure she wanted a boy her own age, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to go on a date, much less wait to have sex until he was her boyfriend. Her body was crying out for something, and what was so wrong with wanting it to be satisfied? She understood that there wasn’t the same web of obligations around that here – that was why she had left everything behind, after all, to get away from having to undress and present her most secret places for every father over 40. And yet, wasn’t she still a girl with needs? And not a bad-looking one, she reminded herself. She’d kept up at the gym, and she smiled as she remembered how her trainers back home would frequently admire the curves of her quads and glutes. The tone in her back and arms. The way her petiteness made her look younger than her age, and how her long brown hair grazed her shoulders. Thinking about her large, firm breasts and persistently wet girl parts, unable to disguise their need, Emily reasoned that she was certainly not unfuckable.
Feeling dispirited but determined to master this new challenge, she went to the university library and found the section on recent history and sociology. While this was a more academic introduction to the subject than most young women would have pursued, Emily was at home.
The book she found discussed the various changes across the world that had taken place in response to the global drop in fertility and rise of illiberalism bahis firmaları of the twenty-first century, and it placed the adoption of the Festival and attendant practices in that context, which Emily had never thought of before. It described American culture as an “Evangelical, neo-traditionalist fertility cult,” which Emily thought was a little unfair, although she could see where they were coming from.
Beyond this, though, the book was short on details. Upon the adoption of these rules in the United States, several religious communities had resettled here, and bits and pieces were known mostly from the occasional refugee — which Emily was surprised to read, included some young men as well as young women. But otherwise, there had been something of a blackout on information, and the United States and its practices were thought of very negatively in nearly all parts of Canada. She doubled her resolve to keep the secret of her origin from men she might be interested in, lest they reject her.
Emily was glad that she’d fled, glad to be in a place without sexual training. But without that regime, what was a girl to do when her body was calling out to be penetrated? Apparently, as she had learned, you could not just go up to a man in the grocery store and ask. But maybe she could try a more subtle approach with someone her own age?
That Friday evening, she gave herself a pep talk in the slightly cracked mirror of her bathroom as she determined that, training or not, she was going to find what she needed. There was a cafe nearby that she’d walked past before and there, she would meet someone.
“You’re gorgeous, Emily. You’re desirable. You’ve been trained to give a man so much pleasure, and you’ve learned to take your own pleasure from that as well. You’re smart and lovely and any man would want you.” She put on some lip gloss and mascara. She added a little extra something, a shimmer of white on her eyelids that she would know was there, even if it was mostly hidden behind her big glasses. She put on her red sundress again, pairing it with strappy blue heels, but left the pearls at home this time. She tried to channel that feeling of being a goddess, of being sculpted to give and receive pleasure –the feeling every good training session had left in her.
The young men of Canada, she told herself, were not going to know what hit them.
She wasn’t counting on the rain which started several blocks in, and by the time she got to the cafe that was her destination, her appearance was soggier than had been her intent. The curls she had painstakingly created – a change from her usual ponytail – were no longer bouncy, and the dress clung to her in a way that she knew would not have been a problem in her birthplace, but she wasn’t sure how it would be taken here. At least it wasn’t white, she reflected.
Emily entered, and it was like a mirror universe of a cafe back home. The same espresso machines, the same couches, but there were no intergenerational pairings of either parent with offspring or trainer with trainee (and you could never tell which one it was unless the clothes came off — and even then, you could never be sure it wasn’t both). Everyone looked comfortable in jeans or leggings or sweatpants, and she was the only young woman in heels, or looking like she was trying to impress. She also noticed that, unlike back home, nearly everyone seemed to be staring into their phones.
She looked around the cafe, determined that this would go better than her first attempt at seduction, where it hadn’t even occurred to her that she might have to seduce anyone. Now, to pick someone out.
She immediately realized this was a problem. As a trainee, she’d never had to think much about what she found attractive. It didn’t really matter much what your personal tastes were, you had a set of obligations, and you would learn to take pleasure from any eligible man who wanted you. Or you wouldn’t, but you were only hurting yourself in that case. Emily had initially struggled a great deal with making her body available, but she’d come to a place where she really did almost always open up and respond the way she was supposed to — with orgasms that took her someplace wild and uncivilized and extremely wonderful. Regardless of what the man in question looked like.
That said, looking around the cafe at her various potential options, she had some thoughts on this topic. The man on the white couch, perhaps in his early 40s, short and solidly built, with a tweed jacket and jeans and sipping from a small cup, was the first to catch her eye. He was reading a paperback, the title of which she couldn’t see, and he seemed caught up in it, although she thought she saw him glancing at her for a moment. She liked the breadth of his shoulders and thought of running her fingers through his straight, dark brown, just slightly too-long hair. With his abundant facial hair and serious expression, he reminded of an actor from a science fiction movie she had liked to kaçak bahis siteleri watch with her father while cuddling on their couch.
Something about him made Emily think he’d be the kind of trainer who would take things slow and maybe even give her a chance to make a small request of her own as to their activities. She had to remind herself that this wasn’t how that worked here. She tried to heed the words of the older gentleman at the supermarket. “Someone my age”, she said under her breath.
Emily went to the counter to order from a young woman with a shaved head and nose ring and observed that this was a look she had never seen back home. After claiming her drink, Emily noticed a young black man with a laptop. He was tall and large, and she found herself liking that, and feeling pleasure in the fact of experiencing a preference. His spandex shorts showed off a round ass and the kind of large, muscular quads and calves that made her wonder whether they had a weightlifting hobby in common. She found herself thinking about how the color of his skin would look against hers. And she wondered how she had never noticed before that, although there were girls at home of all backgrounds, none of the fathers who had been eligible to train her had looked like that.
She took her biscotti and coffee (lots of 2% milk, no sugar) and stood a few feet away from him at the table. She tried to subtly check out what he was doing and saw that it looked like he was writing code. Not walking to stick the landing on her second approach, she paused for too long and he noticed her.
“Yes?” he asked, turning to face her, an eyebrow raised. “I just, um…” She tried to come up with a reason why she could be spying on him that was not her actual reason. “Is that for class?”
He paused and didn’t smile, but he didn’t tell her to go away, either. She felt like he was trying to gauge the situation, which was fair. “It’s my own project. Not for class.” He turned back to his computer.
She was determined to make a go of this, even if he was not going to make it easy on her. “What are you making? I code for classes. Math and stats.” He looked at her again. “Okay.” He kept looking, expectedly.
Emily was unsure where to go from here. Although she didn’t know what to say, her body was telling her that this was good. Even though she had some major doubts about the ideology she’d grown up with – enough to leave so much behind – she still believed with every pound of her strong little body in her own desirability and in the goodness of using it to give and receive pleasure. And she’d never initiated more than a chaste hug with a boy her own age, but she had to think it couldn’t be so different than with the fathers who had deflowered her and everything after that. She certainly knew her way around a penis, she reasoned, and if she could just get to the point where that skill was relevant, she could show him, and they would both walk away satisfied.
She decided she was going to have to give him a hint, at least, about what she wanted. “I think you’re really cute.” She heard the words coming out of her mouth and she thought she sounded even younger than her 19 years. But it worked. The young man finally smiled, thanking her and complimenting her dress. She put a hand out and he shook it briefly. “I’m Emily. I’m starting at the university for the fall as a transfer student.” “David. I live in town, and I’ll be a freshman.” A pause. “You can…stay and talk if you want,” he told her.
In a moment of boldness, she took his hand again and held it longer this time. He didn’t pull back. She asked if it was alright, and he nodded. This was so different from a training session, she thought. By this time, she would ordinarily be presenting her body to the man who had chosen her, her breasts pushed forward for his perusal, her legs spread to allow him access to the area between them, that source of so much shame and even more pleasure. But here, she had to lay a series of breadcrumbs and hope he would follow them. And all the while, she was still buzzing with need, her mind feeding her a vision of her naked body on the table while David pounded her, taking what he deserved — but no, she reminded herself. Not what he deserved, but what she would choose to give him.
Once she’d taken his hand, he seemed to loosen up a bit – to grasp the loose plotline for the night, even if he wasn’t sure exactly of the whats, whys, or hows – and they got to talking about their respective interests, what he was working on, and the classes they’d soon be starting. She elided the fact of her immigration, implying she’d moved from another province, not wanting to be the source of pity the way she had been to the man in the grocery store.
Emily liked his animation when describing his interests, and even his willingness to argue with her. Her experience with trainers was that they had two modes, telling you what to do and telling you that you were adorable, and she got a lot of pleasure from the latter (and sometimes the former) but being disagreed with felt like a kind of being taken seriously, and this turned out to interest her more than she would have guessed. “Another preference”, she thought with glee.
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