“Come, Arthur, I’ll show you to your seat.”
In a daze, he followed the man, trying to see everything all at once. The high roof soared above the ring and boxes had been built in two concentric rows, just as a small theatre. She might have meant him to sit and enjoy the scene, but he paused at the rail, unable to look away.
Cole ran—no, trotted—about the ring completely naked. The recent mauling Arthur had given him was evident in an angry-looking bruised bite mark on his shoulder. The man wore a simple leather headpiece…er, bridle. And a tail. That part made Arthur swallow hard, though he couldn’t look away. It looked authentic. The way Cole carried himself…
Head high, neck arched, he picked his feet up quickly and smoothly with a little sashay that sent that tail swishing back and forth across his thighs.
Arthur could almost feel the prickle of long hairs down his legs, and he wondered… God help him, he wondered exactly what it would feel like for his arse to be filled up while he trotted, moving about the ring, with that hair tickling his flesh.
At least now he knew why Cole had been oiled that night. He must have come straight from the ring to Arthur’s room.
He swallowed hard again, his throat aching, and he clenched his hands on the rail. The longer he watched, the more he felt like he was sinking. Drowning. Losing himself into the steady slapping of the pony’s hooves on the ground, the gentle flicker of the whip, and the cool, still mistress at the helm.
Blowing hard, he backed away from the ring. From her. The vision of the pony—Cole! His name is Cole!—sucking him under, rolling him down to deadly depths. A place of darkness. I’m losing myself.
“Steady now, boy.” Dain slapped him lightly on the shoulder, a sting of comfort that shook some of the suffocating fear away. “This is a place of safety. No one’s ever hurt or terrified here.”
You don’t understand, he tried to cry out, but his throat was locked shut. He was afraid if he tried to speak at all, only a desperate whinny would escape. It wasn’t pain he feared. Pain would drive him to the killing rage that would ground him back in reality. He feared losing himself, all sense of humanity, all decency, all pride, forever. God help me!
“Watch her, boy. Look at the way Cole responds to her. They’re one, woman and horse. He’s so fully under her spell that he’d try to stop breathing if she willed it.”
Exactly. Arthur tried to squeeze his eyes shut against the sight but since the man, the master, had ordered him to look, he found himself unable to disobey. It was a burning compulsion. A need to respond and comply, a bone-deep urge to sink further into their seductive world.
She raised the whip straight overhead and every muscle in Arthur’s body went rigid. Now she’d hurt him. They’d all see what happened to fools who dared play such a depraved game. He trembled, waiting for the crack, the whinnied scream of terror, but it never came.
Cole swung around to face her, waiting for her signal. The tip of the whip touched the ground and he moved toward her. He dropped his head, bending down to press his forehead to hers. Her hands slid up either side of his face into his hair. Mane. Whatever. He made a low sound of affection rather like a nicker and she laughed softly.
A sound that curled around Arthur like warm silk.
Still casually gripping a handful of his hair, she walked Cole over to the side table. She lifted a dipper of water for him and he drank deeply. Then she began brushing his hair and gliding her hands over his body. Grooming him, that’s what it’s called.
There wasn’t anything sexual in it. She didn’t force him to pleasure her. She didn’t try to arouse him. In fact, the more she rubbed him, the more Cole drooped in more ways than one.
“This time is important,” Dain said softly. “It’s comforting to them both. It brings Cole down out of the place she took him so he’s no longer a pony but back in his skin, solid and real as a man. It’s a time of affection and safety. She’s grounding him back in reality before she removes his bridle.”
“When—” he cleared the sandpaper rasp out of his throat, “—when does she fuck him?”
“She doesn’t.” Dain’s voice chilled, his manner less gentle and harder as though he was disappointed in the question. “Not unless he wants it. Lady Blackmyre would never take a man against his will. That’s not her way, nor mine.”
Arthur didn’t care if he’d earned the man’s disdain. He was too focused on the couple in the ring. He strained to hear their conversation, but their words were too low, too soft. She stroked Cole and he nuzzled her cheek affectionately, still horse-like despite their words.
She gripped the tail and Arthur tensed along with Cole, as though his entire body rejected the idea of slipping back into his humanity. Reluctantly, the plug slipped from his body and Cole transformed. The way he held his shoulders changed, the angle of his head shifted, and he was a man. Less, somehow, and more at the same time because of the transformation.
Arthur couldn’t put his finger on exactly what changed but it was monumental. Fundamental. In a way he couldn’t quite grasp even while every cell in his body burned to experience that same fiery shift of reality.
His fingers ached. Only then did he remember to release the death grip on the rail. Fighting to stay and watch? Or trying to keep himself from leaping over the rail and demanding the bit for himself? He burned, his skin damp and hot as though fever raged through his body, his shirt plastered to his body.
Worse, his cock thudded, furious at being trapped in his trousers, a hungry, desperate thing that demanded attention.
He didn’t want Cole. Not this time.
He wanted her. And that scared him more than anything.
“Blackmyre!” Dain called out a warning but she was already turning to face Arthur as he flew over the railing and charged toward her. She’d been aware of him hovering in her peripheral vision like a storm cloud, so dangerous that she daren’t turn her back on him fully.
From her viewpoint in the highest box, Dottie screamed.
Violet said nothing nor did she move other than shifting to face him fully. Cole cursed beneath his breath and scrambled forward as though to put his body between hers and the approaching threat. “Cole, out.”
He froze immediately but hesitated to obey her command fully. “Mistress…”
“Get out, pet.” She softened her voice and used her most rare term of endearment for him so he’d know she wasn’t upset with him. He’d only get hurt and then she’d be obliged to send Arthur away before he hurt someone again. “I don’t need any protection from him.”
Arthur slid to a halt just a pace away, breathing hard and loudly like a defiant herd stallion. His eyes glittered with malice, his nostrils wide, his lips pulled back in a vicious snarl. But it only took a quick glance to confirm that he was aroused. He’d liked what he’d seen. Perhaps too much.
Cole sidled closer, trying to insinuate himself between them. “Are you sure?”
“You’re competition,” she chided gently, sparing a touch to his bare shoulder without looking away from the threat. Arthur let a low growl rumble from his chest and he lowered his head even more, teeth bared and shoulders straining. “See? He’s jealous. You’ve had your time. Now let him come to me of his own will.”
She’d hoped her jibe at jealousy would draw Arthur to speak to her if only to deny his supposed interest, but his will in this regard refused to be swayed. Relinquishing his protective stance, Cole strode toward the side exit while Arthur glared and huffed at him every step of the way. It was amusing in a way, to see the new horse in the herd, so to speak, so possessive when he despised her so vehemently, but she kept that amusement hidden. She waited until Cole was gone and Arthur’s attention swung back to her.
“Did you like what you saw?” She kept her voice and manner unthreatening, with just enough teasing to hopefully entice him into playing along. “I asked Dain to be available for you as well. I won’t be offended if you’d prefer a master in the ring with you. In fact, that might be
for the best.”
Dain gave his whip an experimental crack above his head at the edge of the ring, just to see what Arthur thought of it. He quivered, his eyes widening, but he didn’t turn away from her.
“I guess he’s yours to break, Blackmyre.” Dain laughed, keeping his manner light to match hers. “Good luck, Your Grace. If you need help saddling him up, send Cole along to fetch me. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon at your soiree.”
She waited until Dain and Cole left and the unmistakable sound of the lock snicking back into place echoed through the ring. Dottie was still watching, but Arthur didn’t spare a glance in her direction. Hopefully he wouldn’t even realize he had an audience.
“Go ahead,” she urged him, tipping her head toward the table. “Take a look at my equipment and see what you think of it.”
She hadn’t known what might interest him, so she’d brought a wide assortment of tack. Halters, bridles, even chest harnesses and martingales that Cole refused to wear.
Arthur tried to keep a wary eye on her, but as soon as he scented the leather, his eyes started to haze over with the same look that Cole got when he thought about his tail.
“It smells good, doesn’t it,” she whispered encouragingly. “I keep all the leather soft and supple. It won’t rough up your skin. Do you want to try a bridle? Or would a simple halter be better?”
Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply and trembled at her approach, but he refused to answer. She’d always desired to comply with her pony’s natural inclinations as much as possible but if he refused to communicate, she’d simply have to experiment. A metal bit in his mouth might be too strange for him after everything he’d been through. She’d certainly seen vicious spiked rings on some ponies that looked quite painful.
She examined his mouth, looking for fine lines or scars that might indicate damage, but his full, sensual lips appeared unmarred. He breathed deeply, drawing her scent in with the leather, and when his mouth relaxed enough to crack open slightly, she made her decision. She picked up the bridle with the largest headspace and held it out toward him.
Lowering his head, he sniffed the leather, making a low sound very close to a nicker. The man was a natural pony, despite whatever horrors he’d seen. It was such a shame that someone had hurt him so badly.
She lifted the bridle toward his chest, intending to touch him with the leather and get him used to her hand, but he shied away, flinging his head up with alarm.
“I’m going to have to touch you, Arthur. If you put the bridle on yourself, it loses some of the pleasure, yes? It won’t be the same. I give you my most solemn word that I won’t touch you sexually in any way without your explicit verbal consent. I wouldn’t force myself on a real horse. I certainly won’t force myself on you.”
Warily, he watched as she came nearer, even though she kept her approach slow and steady. She didn’t ask his permission, but instead, commanded his compliance in this small thing with every ounce of her will that she could muster. Holding the bridle in her hand, she pressed her fist against his chest and just held the leather against him. This time he held still, but his heart pounded hard against the backs of her fingers.
“Since you refuse to speak to me, you can’t give me a safe word when you’ve had enough. What kind of signal should we devise for when you’re ready to end our play, hmmm? You saw how I ended the scene with Cole. You won’t want to simply walk out and skip the grooming, would you? He’s always loved that part.”
When she made no other offensive move, muscle by muscle he relaxed. Only then she did begin to rub the bridle across his chest and shoulders, breaking him in slowly to her touch through the leather.
“Once we get the bridle on that magnificent head of yours, I think you’ll like it very much. So if you ever reach up and remove the bridle, that will be my signal that you’re ready to stop for the day. All right? Just slip it off your head and our game is done. Simple as that. I never bind the hands of my pony or impede his normal movements other than whatever tack he prefers.” She lowered her voice to a playful husky timbre. “I prefer au natural, as you saw with Cole. But if you wish to retain all of your clothing, I don’t mind. Whatever makes you comfortable, Arthur.”
He blew out a long, heavy sigh and lowered his head, inviting the bridle. For a moment, she didn’t trust her voice. His trust—after the horrible things another mistress had done to him—moved her heart so deeply she wanted to weep for him. But that would destroy the fragile bond she’d forged so far, and tear down his proud, confident defiance with her pity. He deserves so much more than my teary regrets about things I cannot change no matter how much I wish otherwise.
Using her other hand, she cupped the bit and lifted it to his mouth. He might change his mind and try to bite her, so she kept her fingers as close together as possible. Cole had been known to playfully nip her on occasion just to keep her on her toes. With her other hand, she slid the headstall into place.
His teeth clacked on the metal but he didn’t throw his head up or try to jerk away. He mouthed the bit, rolling it in his teeth as she adjusted the buckles to bring the bridle into the correct position on his head. A normal horse’s elongated head and ears made it easy to keep such a piece on his head; it was trickier to get the same look and feel on a human.
He suffered her touch on his head, her fingers gliding over his forehead and cheeks and around behind his head, checking to make sure the bridle would stay in place without pinching or rubbing his skin. However, she didn’t push him into accepting more than what was absolutely necessary to assess his wellbeing. She stepped back and let him adjust to the feel of her bridle.
For a moment, he simply stared into space, that distant haze still in his eyes, his mouth working the bit. Sweat had dampened his shirt, even though she hadn’t asked anything of him physically yet. She had a feeling he’d be wishing he’d stripped out of at least his coat soon enough.
His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides, even inching toward the small of his back. Perhaps his previous mistress had bound his hands behind him in order to make him less formidable. His fingers closed into fists and a grim hardness flowed over his handsome face that made a shock of recognition flood over her.
That look of intelligence and determination in his dark, thickly fringed eyes, the same elegantly masculine nose, square jaw and full lips. He’s considerably older than Garrett and has definitely seen the harsher side of the kind of domination I enjoy, but if he’s not a Wellington, I’ll give Dottie my favorite hat.
When he clamped his teeth firmly on the bit and focused on her, she smiled. “There’s my fine, strapping stallion.”
Chapter Six
On one level, Arthur remembered exactly who and what he was enough to be humiliated at the idea of wearing a ridiculous bridle meant for a beast of burden. Emotionally, he was both jubilant that someone saw that need in him and was more than capable of satisfying it better than anyone he’d ever had the privilege of meeting before, and also horrifically ashamed that a beautiful woman of Lady Blackmyre’s station had witnessed his utter humiliation. Surely he’d see pity in her eyes. A glimmer of horror and revulsion that had grown daily in Kitty each time she forced herself to subdue him in some way.
Instead, the Duchess of Blackmyre beamed at him like he’d just leaped the Thames for her in a single bound.
The rush of her approval was like a drug.
Physically, he felt like his blood was being pumped through his body by one of Her Majesty’s marvelous machines her scientists had created. He threw his head up and shook himself, enjoying the way the leather felt and smelled. Chains tinkled merrily at his cheeks and he shook again, relishing the sound.
“Ah, you like the jingle of chains and decoration. I’ll remember that for next time.”
Next time echoed in his skull with the pounding of his heart. Would he allow this again?
Could he even think of denying himself this extreme pleasure?
For it was a pleasure. The sce
nt of leather filled his nose in a heady plume more mouth-wateringly arousing than the finest Francian perfume ever sold at market. Combined with the jingle of the bridle and the cold metallic bar between his teeth, he was so hard he seriously regretted the constraint of clothing. The neck cloth strangled him. The heavy woolens trapped the rising heat of his body in a tropical heat wave worthy of the Colonies instead of civilized Britannia.
He didn’t want the reminder of his humanity. He wanted to be the stallion she called him.
I want a complete transformation like what she managed to give to Cole.
She lifted her chin, expectation forming in her body before her order came, and he found himself tensing, alert and ready. If he’d had horse ears, they’d have been perked toward her, awaiting her command.
“Very good, Arthur.”
In the space of a few minutes, she’d already praised him more than any mistress he’d ever worked with. However, he wasn’t fooled into thinking she was soft. The warmth in her voice was there, but underneath, the icy core waited.
“All I’m going to do today is put you through your paces.” She paused a moment and gave him a smile that was nothing of warm encouragement and everything to do with the cold determination to bend him to her will no matter what it took. “I won’t be so easy on you again.”
Her right arm flicked out and the tail of the whip slithered across the ground. Nowhere close to striking him but he flung up his head and raced in the opposite direction anyway. Too much energy blazed in his body to settle into a staid trotting about the ring like Cole had done. God, he felt so strong, so invincible. Like he could gallop for days, leap any obstacle, race like the wind.
The whip cut him off and sent him charging in the opposite direction. He didn’t mind. The slide of his boots in the loose dirt of the ring felt too good to complain. In the center of the ring, she trotted along with him, her face as hard as porcelain with supreme concentration. He tried to turn back but she caught him with the tip of the whip right in his flank. It stung enough to make him growl.
Her Grace's Stable: A Jane Austen Space Opera, Book 2 Page 5
