Whoa! Nelly! Wait! Stop!
“You aren’t a pony boy?”
“No, Sir,” he imparts with a decidedly serious tone. “I have not yet been trained for such skills. After my tenure in the service of clientele, I will present for such. Until then, I am simply a host of sorts.”
“What kind of services?” I ask, flicking a brow up as he peers at my face in the rearview.
“Oh, anything you might need, Sir Lucas,” he accommodates with pep. “From ironing your shirts to fetching food, acquiring pleasurable items for your stay, or even licking the sweat from your balls.”
I blink.
It is a feat so rare to actually stun me these days, but this young lad has. More about that ball licking, later—but first… “What kind of pleasurable items?”
“Oh, I can furnish you with condoms, lubricants, paddles, whips, floggers, cuffs, blindfolds…”
Getting it, I interrupt, “I see.”
He nods in quiet acceptance as if he is waiting for my first request. Perhaps the clientele are pushy types. Maybe I should be, too.
“Ok, G-Man, here is what I want.”
“Yes, Sir?” he chirps, staring at me with those gorgeous hazel eyes as we careen up the driveway at a painstaking pace. I gaze out the window and see one—a pony girl and cart—like a fucking rare white unicorn. The pony girl is mystically beautiful with long tresses in complete formal garb, swathed in gold and red. The strength in her legs astounds as she wheels the cart around with her upper body.
Holy fuck me that is hot.
“Sir?” G-Man brings me back down from an altered reality. “Sir Lucas, your requests?”
“I want a bottle of your finest whiskey. Some loose tobacco and rolling papers. And the sturdiest, meanest riding crop in the joint.”
His eyebrows shoot high up onto his forehead as his eyes animate and enliven with the possibility. Ya, I know…possibility. I am certain old G-Man is packing a semi by now, and I am okay with that.
We pull through the archway to the back parking lot where I see the stables. No less than four mammoth sized structures inhabit the yard. If I were to take a gander, probably thirty stalls each if not more. That is for a full-size stallion, not a human. Lost in the scenery, I am stunned as Karissa knocks on the window.
“Sally!” she squeals giddy and jumps into my arms as I exit the car. I notice the lovely Manon Dupre, standing about fifteen feet back under a covered walkway. She is smiling at her next meal—me—before taking a step down and approaching with a wave of her arms.
“Salvatore, how wonderful that you have come to finally see me!” Manon exclaims as she kisses both my cheeks despite Kari still being latched onto my hip like a tick.
“I am so thrilled you have invited me, Ma’am,” I say with a seductive smirk, turning on the charm. I’ll play this weekend close to high protocol without going too far.
We walk through the vast mansion to a room overlooking the pasture on the fourth floor. It is a small, confined space with all the essentials and none of the fluff. The bed, nightstand, chest of drawers, and desk with small upper bookcase fill the room up.
A small door connects to the bedroom and offers up another equally sized room. Half the room is a traditional water closet and the other half is a bathroom with a magnificent view from the old clawfoot tub, the two sections are divided by a wall.
“It’s been remodeled,” I mumble, observing.
“Yes, about twenty years ago. They had far too many rooms and not enough toilets, so they combined two rooms to make the one,” Manon offers, refusing to let go of my arm.
“How many students?”
“We have about two hundred continuously,” Manon informs with an overly whitened smile. She is pretty, but not my type. She looks like she should be selling cars or toothpaste one. “Of course, this doesn’t include ponies and trainers that join us for the weekend gatherings. How about I let Giles draw you up a bath so you can join us for cocktails in the lounge this evening?”
“Sure,” I say, holding back the ever-rising smirk in the corner of my mouth. Giles eyes twinkle and I can only imagine where this may lead.
Manon and Kari depart with more cuddles and kisses as G-Man shuts the door. His irreproachable eyes bask in mine as he waits for my call. “Would you like your items now or after the bath?”
“During,” I say, scanning the pasture. “And when you get back, I would like to discuss that ball licking, G.”
“Oh, yes…Sir Lucas, of course,” he says, scampering off to the bathroom and starting the water. I move from the window and take in the room. I am here on unofficial official business I remind myself. His voice startles me from behind as he says, “Would you like some assistance in undressing, Sir?”
“Name is Salvatore. And you can call me, Sal. Stop with the Sir shit in the room.”
“Yes, S—al,” he says, catching his words before he crosses me. He shuffles between his feet, a nervous fidget commonly exhibited by fresh subs. They may be donned up in gear, but they’re still subs including G-Man in his oversized suit.
“Where are you from?”
“Oh, I am from Devon, Sal. It is on the southern tip…”
“I know where Devon is.” Useless intel floats in my brain, a sludge pool of tinkering toys running into one another. I mumble, “Iris’ family.”
“Sir?”
I scowl and point as I lead the way to the bathroom. “Do you know any Kettles in Devon?”
“There are over one million people, but you could say I know a few,” Giles replies as he removes my jacket and unbuttons my shirt. After he tosses my shirt, I notice his hands shaking at my belt as his eyes dart to my ink.
“What’s your last name, G-Man?”
“Giles Ulysses Kettles, Sal.”
His eyes flare up to mine as he pulls the belt from my jeans. “You are serious?”
“Yes, I can present records if need be,” he says with a tremulous voice as he assesses I have no underwear on.
“You happen to know a Lydia, who has a daughter Iris Amarie Nakamura Kettles?” I ask, letting my jeans drop. My boots are still on and this will not work. I point down and he immediately drops to his knees, untying my boots and tossing them aside.
“I cannot say as though I do, but I can phone mum and ask her,” he informs, glancing up and finding distraction in my midsection.
“Keep it low, G.”
“Of course, Sal,” G-Man replies, “That is the only way.”
SAL
Well, G-Man proves to well-equipped for doting and servitude as he returns fast, carrying my items and offering up the information from his mum. Though the lead started hot it quickly burns out like trying to light these cheap ass damn matches in the bathtub.
“I took the moment to call my mum, she doesn’t know of a Lydia Kettles, but she will ask around,” G-Man says, sitting on a small stool beside the tub.
Giles is a happy hob-knobby type, the kind to gather round a pint after a long magical day of blissfully watching the ponies run.
I shudder at the absolute horror.
“How old are you, G?”
“I am nineteen, Sal,” he replies polite and succinct. “How old are you?”
“Almost twenty-five,” I respond still fighting with these blasphemous book matches embellished with the H2 logo. It’s a sweet touch, reminding me of a time gone by in America. I grew up with Nonna’s jars full of matchbooks.
Quickly, G-Man produces a light at the tip of my cigarette. I inhale and say, “Thanks.”
“Of course, Sir.”
Without moving my head, I toss him a scolding stare that he acknowledges with a grin. “So, G-Man, what are your plans?”
“Plans…you mean after I am here?” he asks as I nod. “I will hopefully find placement in a suitable, established home.”
“If you ever consider taking your training to the next level, please don’t hesitate to call me,” I offer as he holds the ashtray in his palm. “I am certain I ca
n get that pretty face in somewhere in the states.”
“You know, Sir…” he says, blushing before correcting himself, “Sal, I know who you are…”
I furrow my brow questioningly as my bubble-covered hand grips the edge of the tub. “Who am I?”
With a poignant expression that I can only call fan-boyish, he states matter-of-factly, “You are Cesario Raniero’s son…”
“How the fuck do you know this, G?” I boldly claim, realizing how easy it actually would be to find out. I am not hidden from public record, but I still find it odd that this young man knows la mia famiglia.
“I am a bit of a mafia history buff,” he suggests with goo-goo eyes. “Fanatic, if you will.”
Here I thought he is drooling over my status at Juliet.
Fuck me.
“Your sisters are getting heavily involved in the underworld now,” he boasts like this is worthy of an award. “And I am just so honored to have you here.”
“Wait…what?” I ask, completely derailed. “Which ones?”
“Stella and Gabriella, they have been making the rounds.”
“Gaby?” I question, thinking she would be the one with a head on her shoulders. I guess not. This frustrates me as she seemed to make genuine efforts of having an actual relationship with me in Boston.
“Oh yes, she came over here last weekend,” he elaborates as my grip tightens on the edge of the tub and I pull closer to him. “I did her service as well.”
“What?” I whisper, barely audible as my mind sizzles with what transpired here.
“Yes,” he says, mimicking my hushed tone. “She came over here last weekend requesting service with Pony Nina.”
The fire inside threatens to rupture my veins as anger coerces through them. “Kasai?”
“Yes,” he answers, “Although I don’t actually know her, she is a bit out of my league.”
“Did they have a scene?”
“No, Sal.”
The lattice work forms hastily—bones and bars—like points on a map. My job is to connect them or find reasons they potentially can and stop them before they do. If I close my eyes and nurture the framework a bit, the pulp starts to thicken and it all becomes so very real. The former skeleton walks and talks and tells a story. “Do you have security cams?”
“Yes.”
I lean forward and plant a solid on his lips. No tongue, I cannot get distracted. I hop up quick, dripping wet as his eyes expand to twice their size at the sight of my beast. I make no apologies for what it is or isn’t.
“Sal?” He wraps a towel around my waist and hands me another. “Did all that hurt?”
“Bee sting, baby,” I bait with a smirk, remembering Jack’s words. “Bee sting.”
I move through the room and toss my bag on the bed. I dry off and pull on a fresh pair of jeans on under his vigilant dedication before grabbing my Chucks.
Dousing cologne all over my chest, I pass by as he quips, “Do you never wear underwear?”
“Old habits from being a sub…” I pass the notions off and pitch the towel to his hands. “Do me a favor, get word to Karissa that I need to speak to her asap!”
“And where will you be?”
Latching my rosary on my neck, I grab a tank top out of the bag and pull it on. “In the lounge, schmoozing with the fine trainers here and locating the little cunt that had my cousin shot.”
“Oh, okay,” Giles says, both startled and excited by it all. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Keep your lips shut,” I say with a sexy smirk, throwing on a dress shirt which he proceeds to button for me.
“There we are, Sal,” he says proudly.
“Belt?”
“Oh! Yes! Apologies!” he says as I cackle under my breath as he scampers off to the bathroom. I lift my shirt as he kneels, looping it through the hoops and fastening it. “There we go.”
I smack his ass as I make my way out the door. “And there will be a reward at the end of the night for you.”
Following hot on my tail, Giles hits the elevator button and replies, “But won’t the reward be yours, Sal?”
The doors to the elevators start to close as I say, “That depends on how well you swallow, G.”
SAL
I wish I could say that I don’t enjoy the evening, but regretfully, I do. The trainers are all incredibly nice folks. They are no different from the Masters at Juliet. I find their conversation enlivening and the lack of submissive disturbing.
As the night continues on though, a group of us make our way out to one of the stables. The doors open up and it is a veritable feast of senses—every size, color, gender, age imaginable—waits in pony gear. Lesser than the official dressage gear, but still obviously pony gear though some pieces might lend themselves to the leather crowd.
“How does this work?” I ask Manon, who hasn’t left my right side. My left side is permanently kept by G-Man.
“This is the training stable, think of it like your students,” Manon instructs, allowing my mind to creep amongst their secret world. “They are unowned and available for practice.”
Scratching my scruff, I think logically about all of it. “And all I have to do is walk through?”
“You got it. Find one you like and shut the door, or you can take them out to the yard. It is lit up all night,” she offers with a wave of her hand.
“Any of them?”
“Any of them and as many as you would like,” Manon says with a smile. “All we ask with our training ponies is that you only pull one from a stall at a time. They can be a bit timid.”
“What if I want to buy?”
I hear G-Man cough once loudly.
“To take to the states permanently?”
“Yes,” I counter.
“There is a process for permanent purchase. If the pony agrees, we send it home with you for two weeks,” she specifies, outlining the details of their contracts. “After a month long cooling off period, if both parties still agree, then remediations are made.”
“How much is G-Man?”
Another cough comes barreling over my left shoulder. “Giles is not for sale. He is not trained to H2 standard yet.”
“Give me a range on the pony girls,” I request, crossing my arms.
Manon turns on her best infomercial smile. She is a salesperson as much as Headmistress. “For a year-long contract, you are looking at 300k per year.”
I nod and while it might seem I have lost my mind, I haven’t. I am actually considering buying a pony girl. She would be so pretty at my farmhouse.
“Obviously, prices will vary depending on age, skills, and education,” she continues on as we begin pacing the rows of stalls.
“Who is the most expensive?”
With a brush of her hair over her shoulder, she whispers in my ear, “Ainsley currently has an asking price of 2.1 million.”
“Will she lick my balls?” I smart off at her nose-to-nose, just loud enough for G-Man to hear, and toss a wink in his direction.
“Honestly, Ainsley will lick your whole body if you want,” she says softly. “She is young—twenty-two. Very well educated. Proper finishing school. She had stints with others, so she is kind of a rare treat for us. She wants to go to Juliet.”
“Why hasn’t she?” I ask, rather perturbed.
“Her application was declined,” Manon replies with a hushed tone.
Leaning into her, I ask, “Do you know why?”
Manon shakes her head.
With an open expression, I make the request to see the two-point-one pony girl, “May I see her?”
“Of course, none of these fellows can afford her tonight.”
Cracking my neck and knuckles, I mentally try and prepare for this. “Can they practice with her?”
“I insist on being rather strict with who sees Ainsley,” she says, unlocking her stable door. “She is special.”
“What if she doesn’t sell?”
“She will, the most expensive one went over t
hree.” Manon places a warm towel in one hand and a few treats in the other. “Go slow.”
Stepping inside of her double-sized stall, I am swept away at how perfectly it matches Prince and Princess’ own stalls back at the farm. She is small-boned, but muscular.
“Hey, girl…” I whisper, lowering down and petting her gorgeous fucking auburn mane. “How you doing?”
Lifting her head, I am stunned by her eyes. They are so blue, they are almost clear. She whinnys and shakes as she stays low on all fours.
“How are we doing?” Manon whispers.
“This is more than I am accustomed to,” I admit, slightly fearing failure.
“No,” she reassures, grabbing her ropes. “You just don’t understand it yet, you have to fully take on the role of Handler. Up!”
She clucks her tongue and we are instantly transported into this human-equine world where Ainsley behaves more like a pony and less like a human, a beautiful, enchanting space.
“You have to understand the pony girls and boys look at the world different from your standard submissive,” Manon teaches, removing any signs of saleswoman. Despite her booming bright smile, the woman knows her shit. “They need the dehumanization, forced acts of play and practice, bondage as well as long-term care.”
“But where does consent come into it?”
“Don’t hang up your BDSM words in my pony stable,” Manon warns teasingly with a smile. “Consent is given the moment she walks into my office. Her training begins and H2 holds to that permanently. You don’t need consent to do whatever you would like.”
“So, I can tell her to bend over and take it?”
“Pretty much, and she will react as a pony girl should,” she eases, walking Ainsley around the stall. “She might whinny, head bob, bite, nudge, hell she can even stomp her hoofs.”
I cannot get past the boundaries of her not speaking, which is so unlike me. In this regard, I am an ignorant ass. “She doesn’t stay like this all the time, does she?”
“She can,” Manon says, “I am sure she would prefer that.”
“So, she is completely malleable and trainable as a pony to me?”
“You got it!” Manon cheers. “Now, you are thinking less like a Master and more like a Handler.”
Salt Kissed Love (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 1) Page 34
