by Trent Evans
“Those heels are fucking hot on you, Breanna. I’m surprised Kurt doesn’t have you in these things twenty four seven.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
How he loved to hear that word, uttered in those quiet, soft tones of surrender.
His Breanna.
She’s not yours, idiot. Stop torturing yourself.
For tonight anyway, he’d pretend it was true.
Unable to resist himself, he plunged two fingers deep, deep into her wet sex. “You must like pain, Breanna. That clit of yours is standing up strong and hard. Jesus.”
She began to breathe in pants as he worked a third into her, the long, thick fingers stretching her.
“Let’s see if I can get you to come again. Squirt all over my hands.” She yelped as he thrust into her even more roughly. “Yes, come on girl. I want to see you gushing.”
Her hips waved away at that, and he smacked her ass, hard. “No. Stay still.”
“Please,” she moaned. “No…”
“Yes, Breanna.” He leaned over her, laying an arm casually across the small of her back, the thrust of his fingers making wet sounds within her pussy. “Do you want me to fuck you?”
“Oh God, YES.”
“Then you’re going to be a good girl for me.” He wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her still, and pressed a quick kiss to her hip. “As soon as you squirt over my fingers, then I might decide to fuck you. Not before.”
“No!”
“Yes, Breanna,” he said, grinning to himself, curling his fingers within the dripping sex, working his knuckles against the swollen spot within. “Come on, girl. I know you want to. Just let go now.”
For a few moments, there was nothing but the sounds of his fingers working her relentlessly, her strained moans and gasped pleas. Then he felt her go stiff once more, her cries becoming desperate, and he worked that spot all the harder, not letting up one bit.
“Fuck! Oh God, ahh God!!”
“Thaaat’s it. Good!”, he cooed as she burst over his fingers, moisture spraying up his wrist as she screamed.
“I can’t! I can’t! No — please!”
“Yes, you can. Another.” He turned his knuckles against that spot again, her desperate, hoarse cry in response making him work her even harder. “Almost there. I want another, Breanna. Give it to me.”
She pleaded repeatedly as he worked her up again, relentless, ignoring the burning ache in his wrist and fingers. Her hips waved wildly, her pussy clamping his fingers over and over, then with a lost, urgent groan, she went over again, hard shudders rolling through her body, her sex soaking him once more. “Ohh, such a good girl, Breanna!” He leaned over her, kissing her between the shoulder blades, yanking up her head by the hair and wrenching it to the side so he could kiss and nibble her lips, taste the salt of the tears on her cheeks.
His fingers pulled out with a wet sound, the rich scent of her sex filling the room. Working her clit with his soaking fingers, she begged him to stop, to leave it alone. Too sensitive, too much.
Feverishly he worked at his fly, freeing his aching cock, the heavy shaft slapping down onto her deep red bottom. With two fingers, he splayed her labia wide, sinking into her with one smooth stroke, his cock butting up against her womb, drawing a gasp from Breanna.
“That hurt?” he clasped her waist in his hands, settling his hips tight against her, his cock deep within her.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Want me to stop?” His hips rotated against her.
“No, Sir.”
“Good girl,” he said, with a grin. “Now, put your head down in those pillows.”
With that he took up a hard, punishing thrusting, savoring the way her soft bottom pressed to his belly at each deep plunge, the heat of her skin a stark contrast to the coolness of his taut belly. His fingers searched under her, finding the hard nodule of her desire, working it mercilessly, as relentless as his hard thrusts. With shocking swiftness, she cried out, the muscles of her body going rigid, her voice rough with desire, her hair flying about as her head waved wildly.
“Yes, yes, yes,” he growled between clenched teeth, each word accompanied by a punishing thrust, Breanna moaning at the last one.
Then his climax boiled upward from the base of his testicles, and he groaned with it as he came, spurting deep within her, repeatedly, his hips rocking against her each time, his hands cruelly tight about her waist.
He fell upon her then, turning her over onto her back, kissing her savagely, tasting her neck, her chest, her nipples, holding her hands against the mattress above her as his mouth roamed over all that was his, licking, sucking, and biting her nipples until she writhed beneath him again.
“Breanna, Breanna,” he whispered between tastes of her flesh, his tongue laving each impossibly hard nipple in turn, savoring her.
“Yours,” she breathed, moaning beneath him, laid bare for him, letting him have it all.
Mine. Ours.
Finally, the storm within him broke, and he sprawled across the mattress, breathing in great gusts of air, his chest working like a bellows, sweat pouring from him. He gathered her into his arms then, her soft buttocks pressed to his wet genitals. Kissing the softness of her golden hair, he squeezed her close, their bodies one, heartbeats slowing, post-orgasmic lassitude sapping the urgency from their muscles.
He laid with her all through the night, dozing off and on, waking at one point to the feel of her soft buttocks grinding against his rapidly hardening cock. He made her raise her leg, draping it over his, and he slipped within her once more, the slow, languid thrusts lasting a lifetime, the dark room quiet save her soft murmurs, the sounds of his shaft working within the liquid heat of her sex, the friction of her skin against his, until with a quiet shudder, he filled her once more.
Then sleep took them both.
He woke, much later, the scent of her sex still on the air, light from the morning sun slanting through the blinds just enough to rouse him. The beautiful woman lay next to him, still lost to slumber, her arms and legs entwined about him, her lustrous blonde hair everywhere.
Carefully extricating himself from her embrace, he placed a gentle kiss on soft red lips, and slipped out, stumbling down the hall to the kitchen.
Three huge cups of coffee sat on the table, the steam dancing in the morning sunlight.
“Derek, we’ve got a problem,” Kurt’s deep voice rumbled. He sat, legs crossed casually at the kitchen table, the stubble dark at his jaw, his gray eyes sober. His fingers drummed on the gouged wood of the tabletop.
Derek sat down, rubbing at his eyes, knowing this was coming. This talk had to come sooner or later. A sinking sadness gripped him at the realization that it had to end this way. But resigned to it, knowing it had to happen, he nodded. “Yeah. Past time we talked about this—”.
“Quinton Trask has reserved her for an overnight loan.”
“Who?”
“Our Breanna.” Kurt’s jaw clenched, his eyes flashing. “That little shit’s reserved her for a twenty four hour period at the farm … and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Chapter Twenty Seven
"Ah! Too much!"
"Breathe in, Elaina. More."
George cinched the corset one notch further, tying off the broad leather strap. He'd had a new harness fashioned, and wanted to see how it fit his wife. She hadn't been running for the better part of two years, and though he rigorously enforced her physical fitness, he knew that being away from the track that long might mean she'd need to be whipped back into racing shape. He savored the prospect.
"I think that works, no?" He stepped back, looking her up and down. The corset clutched her abdomen in a brutal embrace, exaggerating Elaina's already generous curves into something truly dramatic.
"I can hardly ... breathe," she panted, her breasts bursting out from the top of the corset, sitting upon the top edge of it like a shelf. Her nipples were hard, the wide coral areolas tightened fetchingly.
"You can ma
nage words, Elaina. I'd say you can breathe just fine." He tapped her hip. "Let's see if we can get it one more notch though."
"George, please!"
He smacked her bottom with his heavy leather riding gloves, delighting in the bounce of her soft, pale flesh. "That's enough out of you, Elaina. We can always add a saddle strap too, you know."
She stilled. "No ... no, Sir. I'll — I'll try."
"Good." He grinned. "Now, deep breath and hold."
Her body swayed as he hauled on the strap sharply, just forcing it through the hole. "Good! This what?" His finger counted the notches on the waist strap. "Twenty three inches. You used to handle twenty without a fuss, light of my life. This is mild."
"Yes ... Sir," she whispered, her breath coming in quick pants.
"Perhaps I have been going easy on you." His hand coursed over the curve of her hip, palming the smooth flesh. Her round bottom flared dramatically below the enhanced narrowness of the corseted waist, her buttocks heavy, quivering. How he loved his wife's bottom, never tiring of its lushness. He very much looked forward to seeing it shake and sway between the shafts of the cart once more. It had been too long — and he'd decided her absence from the track would come to an end. Perhaps in time, he'd even compete with her once more?
"George, loosen it, please. Just one notch. It's cutting me in half."
He laughed, patting her hip fondly. "You'll get used to it, my dear. Let's head out now." Taking up the long leather leash, her affixed it to the burnished silver ring at the front of her collar. Her eyes peered out at him from between the chocolate leather straps of the head harness, her hair secured into a single long plait with a leather tie. He nodded toward the heavy boots encasing her feet and most of her lower legs. "Do you remember how to walk in those?"
"I think so."
He followed her through the quiet paddock, the gray light from the overcast afternoon, spilling across the packed earth of the floor. She stumbled once, the impossibly high running heels forcing her up almost onto her toes, her calves bunched into clenched muscle.
He liked the new harness. Unlike some of the other running girths that seemed to be all the rage on the circuit, Elaina's corset/harness combination left the entirety of her ass and hips exposed, her bounding naked flesh free to be both admired and to feel the burning kiss of the whip. The newest fashion seemed to emphasize the utility of the harness, some of them embedded with steel attachment points for the traces of the carts. These often left only the under curves of the buttocks exposed. Often with the further impediment of the tail, this left — to his tastes, anyway — comparatively little flesh to whip. He felt that reins and commands, while effective with a well-trained girl, were no match for the sharp pain of the whip stroke. Nothing got through to them like lines of fire laid down upon their flesh, exhorting the bound woman to greater speed, greater effort. To George, nothing commanded obedience better than the lash.
Elaina's arms, firmly secured in the single sleeve he favored for practice extended down her back, the broad steel ring at the end where her hands bunched together linked to her collar by a long leather strap. This pulled her arms up enough such that it kept them from protecting her ass from the strokes of his whip. When it came time to race, a box tie would be safer, more secure. But now, for a little practice run on his private track, a single sleeve would do.
A whimper sounded from the shadowed recesses of the paddock, and George pulled on the leash, bringing Elaina to a stop.
"George?"
"Quiet." He tugged the leash with him as he moved toward the sound. "Come on, girl."
A deep voice made shushing sounds as they walked into the darkness, George's eyes adjusting to the lower light as they passed out of the brightness of the paddock and into the stable block itself. Rows of stalls stretched down either side of the long building, here and there, narrow beams of faint daylight shining in from gaps in the roof.
"Brayden, what've you got there?" George brought his wife shuffling over to one side of the block, tying off her leash on a well-worn steel cleat.
The groom stood up, a damp cloth in his hand, the rough cotton stained a faint pink in places. "Yes, Sir. Just tending the new girl, Genna. She's been ... worked hard."
The naked girl had been lain face down over a long table, the bright colors of a woolen horse blanket spread beneath her. Long jet black hair spread haphazardly across a pale back, her body hitching as she wept, her arms tucked beneath her head. She was very well-fleshed, her curves packed tight. She had the kind of figure he knew might tend to over-ripeness in later years, but now in the flush of youth bespoke voluptuous perfection. The broad, round bottom had been whipped severely, the skin flushed a congested scarlet, a tracery of whip marks overlaying all of it, some of the starker weals blooming in places with spots of blood.
"I see," George said, feeling his pulse quicken with anger. He kept his expression impassive though. "She's been a lot more than worked hard. Who took her out?"
He knew the answer of course, but had to hear it anyway.
"Quinton, Sir." Brayden's brows drew together, his sober gaze meeting George's. "Said she wasn't trained up yet. Needed to know what was expected of her."
The little shit.
"George, the poor thing. Shouldn't we ...?”
He turned back to his wife. Her face had bled most of its color, her eyes wide. "Brayden will take care of her, Elaina. She'll be fine."
"But her father? What will he say?" Elaina's mouth tensed into a thin line. "This isn't how it's supposed to be done, George."
"I know it — and it’s not her father we need to worry about. I'll take care of it." He took up the leash, guiding her back out toward the paddock. "You've got more immediate things to attend to, don't you?"
"I think we should—"
"Do we need to add the bit for your practice too?” George pulled her close, fixing her gaze with his. "Brayden knows what to do. She'll be alright once she heals. We can figure out what to do once we've talked to her."
"Yes, Sir." She looked past him toward Brayden and the softly weeping Genna. "I just ..."
"I know, Elaina. I know. We'll fix this." He led her out into the brightness of the paddock, her boots clomping in the dirt, his mind flying with possibilities, with eventualities, and with hard choices he'd hoped he'd never have to make.
The cold, gray morning matched his mood as he led his wife out toward the track, letting her lead him rather than yanking on her leash. His mind was elsewhere when it should have been on the pleasure of once more having Elaina between the shafts of his cart.
Genna was the young cousin of Grayson Cordray, a powerful real estate investor in Seattle. She’d been put up for auction as a servant, but George hadn’t yet been able to determine why. She certainly didn’t need the money — her immediate family owned huge tracts of land in Eastern Washington and western Idaho, notwithstanding the vast wealth of the Cordrays. Unfortunately for her though, with a body like hers, she’d drawn the attention of several regulars on the auction circuit — including his son.
Now, George had to figure out how to make this right. Once word got out how Quinton was treating the girl — and word always got out, eventually — there would be the inevitable summons to Seattle. A quorum called. Arguments, threats, and a hefty fine. This hadn’t been the first time Quinton had run afoul of Trust laws.
This was different though — Cordray was as ruthless a Prime as the Trust had ever seen, and even George with all his influence, would have difficulty stopping it if he petitioned to have Quinton brought up on charges with the Council. Something would have to be done.
“Sir.”
George turned back toward the voice. Brayden stood at the threshold of the paddock entrance, cloth in hand.
“What is it Brayden?”
The head groom’s drawn, oddly pale face glanced up at the gray sky, and his chest rose with a deep sigh. “There’s something else you need to know.”
Chapter Twenty Eight
&
nbsp; "We need to talk about what's going to happen next weekend." Kurt pushed one of the tall cups of coffee across the table, the wafting steam illuminated in the morning light.
"Nice call," Derek murmured, tipping the cup back, the hot liquid refreshing, even as it burned his tongue.
"She doesn't even know what she's got in store for her."
"She doesn't?"
Kurt cracked a rueful smile. "No clue. Which is why we need to talk about this — and what we're going to do about Quinton."
"I thought you said there wasn't anything you can do?" Derek had a few ideas on what could be done about that little douche bag. Oh yes, quite a few indeed.
Kurt sat back, his finger tapping the white plastic lid of his coffee. "Nothing I can do, technically. But I may try something anyway. We're not letting him get his hands on her. Just have to figure out how."
"You mean you’re not letting him getting his hands on her."
"What?" Kurt's eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Derek straightened in his chair, the t-shirt pulling uncomfortably tight across his chest. "It means this is over. I'm out. I have to be."
For a moment Kurt just watched him, his body utterly still, the faint hum of traffic from the street below the only sound. Then he set his coffee down on the nicked tabletop. "We've already been over this, Derek. Why do we keep coming back to this?"
"Because it's what needs to be done — and it's what needed to be done all along."
"What? You leaving?"
"Yes." Derek sipped the hot coffee again, fighting a losing battle against dry mouth.
"So you think this is … okay? Just ending things?"
"There are so many things not okay with this, that I don't know where to start, Kurt."
"Like fucking my wife — then leaving her? Is that it?" Kurt's jaw clenched, his long fingers squeezing the coffee tighter.
"That's not how it is at all—"
"So, you're going to tell me you didn't fuck her last night?"
"No, goddamn it, that's not what I meant!" Derek felt a flush of heat at his neck. "Yes, I did. I — I shouldn't have, though. And I know I can't do it again."
