The Trainer

by Laura Antoniou

  “I don’t know!” Michael insisted. He gasped, and then almost reeled backward when Chris tightened the clamps.

  “Then let me guess,” Chris said, twisting the chain and holding Michael in place by his tits. “You came here because no one’s good enough to master you, the favored son of Hollywood. Mr. Golden Butt himself, too pretty, too smart for the West Coast. And if there ever was going to be someone who could bring you to your knees, your dick hard and your entire body aching for a kiss or a kick, it had to be the master of masters.”

  “No,” Michael cried, “No! I didn’t want to!”

  “Don’t lie to me, boy. You’ve been looking for Daddy to come and make you a man, and all you’ve found are models as soft and false as you are. So you run away from the easy life to find the big, bad Trainer of Trainers, knowing that she’ll fall in love with your sweet ass and want nothing more than to make you her one, true slave.”

  “No, that’s not true!”

  “Isn’t it? Well, your dick is hard now, and you’re still not screaming for help. I think you like this.”

  Michael gritted his teeth and growled out the pain he felt in his nipples. “Just—sex—” he gasped. “Come on, fuck me, man!”

  “Oh.” Chris nodded and dropped the chain on the clamps. “Oh, thank you. Not that I wouldn’t have fucked you anyway—but I am happy you’ve chosen to fight a little more.”

  Without even thinking, Michael’s eyes dropped to Chris’s crotch. There, framed by the chaps and straining against the silver buttons of the 501s, was the outline of a cock that put to rest any notion about height as relevant to dick size. Chris laughed as he followed Michael’s eyes, and then stood up. Michael wasn’t sure what was happening when Chris’s hand came to a stop in front of his mouth. He was surprised when he felt the folded handkerchief being pressed between his teeth. He grunted as Chris pulled him up onto his feet and then shoved him face down across the edge of the bed. Right in his line of sight was the brown strap that Chris had infrequently used on the slaves in training.

  Michael tried to control the shaking that swept his body. He heard a rustling sound, and saw the shirt Chris had been wearing fall onto the bed. One arm, the slender flames dancing, extended to pick up the strap.

  “This is for not addressing me properly,” Chris said. Michael felt something heavy against his lower back, and then the slamming, stinging thud of the strap, laid hard across both asscheeks. He bit into the handkerchief and it did help muffle the cry. “It’s ten for each offense,” Chris reminded him. “After address, there’s still not answering questions directly, lying, and acting defiantly.”

  Michael counted every stroke, every explosion of pain. They landed in precise formation, covering him from the top of his ass to the backs of his thighs. He squirmed, he jumped, and he shifted against the bed, every movement reminding him of the tight clamps on his nipples. But every second he had to concentrate on them was disrupted by a new kind of suffering.

  It was relentless, inhuman, and it was so terrible that he couldn’t hold back the tears. How could the other slaves have taken this without screaming, without fighting? He counted desperately, through the twenties, and then the thirties, and when forty strokes had been given, he spat the handkerchief from his mouth and gulped in air, sobbing between breaths.

  “You’re a wimp,” Chris said. “Tara could have taken that better than you.”

  Michael bit the bedspread, and felt the wave of heat that seemed to be radiating from his ass. Oh God, it hurt, it hurt!

  “Now, let’s get back to dreams and thoughts, shall we?”

  Michael hit the floor hard, and slumped forward. The sudden upward tug on the nipple clamps made him gasp, and their removal was like needles being driven through his nipples. He reeled, and Chris caught him by the hair. Michael looked up and almost fell back in shock.

  Chris had one hell of a well developed chest for such a little guy. His pecs were firm, and you could see the start of some nice cutting down his body. Or you could—if you could get past the glorious tattoo that covered him from just below his nipples down into his waistband.

  It was a bird—like an eagle, Michael thought deliriously. But at the same time, he knew it wasn’t an eagle that rose out of the flames, red, licking flames that surrounded the outline of the wings, claws extended into the crotch area, and a glittering pile of ashes mingling with the top-line of pubic hair.

  A phoenix, that’s what it was. In golds and reds and scintillating blues, the eyes malevolently, proudly centered on that muscular chest, claws stretching down a line to that big fat dick below. Michael gasped at the beauty of it, and then whimpered as Chris shook him by the hair.

  “Tell me about your fantasies, Michael.”

  “Yes, yes,” Michael choked out, tearing his eyes away from the swirling colors of the tattoo. “You’re right—whatever you say!”

  “But I want you to say it, Michael. And I want to believe what you say.”

  “Will you—will you let me go?”

  “No deals, boy. Talk, or we can go on to act two.” Chris dropped one hand to his crotch and fingered the erection under his jeans. “I can always beat you again after I fuck you.”

  “Oh, God—I swear I didn’t know,” Michael said, looking away. “I’ve always—always been a top. No one ever made me bottom—I tried, but it didn’t work. Never—the right person. I don’t know! And then—Geoff was so soft—and I thought—I don’t know, I thought he’d punish me! After the Karen thing, I thought maybe he’d take me aside—but he was just the same. It was all the same—always the same fucking thing,” Michael stammered and caught himself. He wasn’t even sure what he was saying. But Chris was nodding, so he continued. “I started thinking about trying it your way—doing what the slaves were doing. And every time I did something, it started to feel right, and I didn’t know why! I mean—I thought I was just learning how to do it so you would get off my case—and then I saw you at the bar—and Anderson didn’t care—but you—you—” He gasped for breath again, and struggled to keep the tears from flowing.

  “Okay, I can fill in those blanks. I’m believing you, Mike. So now the big question—how long have you wanted this?”

  “I don’t—” Michael gasped as Chris pulled his head back by the hair, stretching his throat. “Since the first time Ethan knelt by my bed!” he choked out.

  And amazingly, it was true. Michael felt more tears welling up, and when Chris let him go, he fell forward, against Chris’s leg, the warm, rich scent of the leather suddenly soothing instead of frightening.

  God, all these years of being the topman, getting the service, getting the attention and the obedience, and it all came back to that moment when Ethan fell into what was obviously a practiced position and eagerly leaned forward to deliver a morning blowjob. Michael had taken it, gratefully, but when he closed his eyes, he saw himself, leaning over the edge of a bed, his cock hard and his eyes full of devotion.

  “Why didn’t you go for what you wanted then?’ Chris asked.

  “My uncle—how could I tell him I wanted to be a slave? He expected me to be this natural master—and by the time I met Geoff—I was—used to it.” Michael sniffed, and drew in a ragged breath. “It was always so easy to be the master—I would tell them what to do, and they’d do it! And—and everyone told me I was so good, that I could be a trainer—and it was so nice, sometimes, so easy!”

  “It’s not so easy,” Chris said. “As you’ve found out.”

  “No!” Michael agreed, dropping his chin.

  “So, your little plan goes astray—you can’t seduce the Trainer, because she’s got her own boy already here.”

  Michael shook his head. “I didn’t plan it.”

  “All right. I’ll allow that it was unconscious. And then what?”

  “I—I hated you,” Michael burst out. Astonishingly, Chris laughed.

  “That’s nothing new,” he said. “When did you figure out what you wanted from me?”

 
; “Two weeks ago,” Michael whispered.

  “Poor baby,” Chris crooned. “To wait so long for what he so desperately needs. I don’t think I’m going to wait another minute.” He stood, and unfastened the buckle on the chaps and the top buttons of his jeans. “Now, I get to indulge a fantasy I’ve had for a while. To ream you out, good and proper.”

  “Oh, God!” Michael swallowed and twisted backward. “I never—”

  “A virgin?” Chris stopped, and grinned. He walked away from the bed and picked up something from his nightstand. A bottle of lubricant. He looked down at Michael and picked up the wet and wadded handkerchief he had spat out before. “I think you’ll need this.”

  It was a question. Michael moaned, and closed his eyes.

  And nodded.

  Face down, pressed into the edge of the bed, his asscheeks spread wide as the cool lubricant slid inside of him—one finger at a time, and always Chris talking, telling him how long he’d waited to pull apart those sweet cheeks, to open up that never-fucked hole. Michael moaned deeply as one finger became two, slick, sliding back and forth, pressing into him, pressing against that area no one had ever touched before, making his nuts tighten with pleasure.

  Three fingers were accompanied by regular, open hand slaps against his ass, waking up the heat already laid down. Michael panted through his nose and his muffled cry echoed in his ear as he felt the head of Chris’s impossibly hard cock press against his asshole.

  “This will last until I get off,” Chris said. “I advise you not to shoot your load before I do. Not only will I beat you for coming without permission—but it will be excruciatingly painful for you if your ass tightens up after you splatter my bed.”

  And then, he thrust in.

  Michael bit down, hard, and saw stars. All he could think of was, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts! It felt like he was being split in two. In that first second of pain, his mind went blank. Around the third or fourth, he felt sympathy for every asshole he had thoughtlessly invaded with his cock, thinking that it only hurt for a second, and then they got used to it. But how on earth could anyone get used to feeling like they were burning from the inside out?

  Chris slowly filled him, until he could feel flesh, mingled with the open straps of the chaps, the folded-back fly of the jeans. Everything that touched him set off ripples of reaction, and he panted and bit the gag until the intense pain of the intrusion started to settle down to a dull kind of stretched feeling.

  And that was when he started to get really fucked.

  He wasn’t being made love to—he wasn’t being screwed or even being laid. He was being fucked, his body pressed down and opened, a cock shoving down into him over and over, each time threatening to pull out, or to slam back in with full fury.

  The pain never really left—but it began to mingle with a terrible kind of pleasure. It was humiliating, but the very motion that made him feel so used was also awakening sensations and emotions that made his cock hard, and made him moan between gasps.

  “Yes, that’s it,” Chris panted. “That’s my boy. Come on up, and push your sweet ass back for me.” He pulled against Michael’s bound wrists, making him shift back. Michael felt the floor firm beneath his feet, and pushed up as he was directed. Immediately, he felt the reward of Chris’s hand on his dick. He moaned.

  “Don’t come,” Chris warned again. “Your shot belongs to me, boy. You hear me? When I’m ready to make you come, I will.”

  Michael whimpered and nodded, and braced his forehead against the bed. It hurt—he felt like his entire body was stretched out around his asshole. But he could hear Chris sigh with pleasure every time he pushed back, taking in more cock, and every sigh drove Michael to work harder.

  “Good boy,” Chris said. “Good boy. Taking it all—such a good boy. Take my load, boy. Here it comes.” His hand tightened on Michael’s cock, and Michael groaned heavily into his gag. Every thrust as Chris neared orgasm was a full, hard slam that drove Michael down against the bed. He couldn’t stand any more, and his knees buckled, but Chris followed him down and ground his dick in between Michael’s cheeks and growled like an animal.

  Michael moaned as Chris finished and slowly, slowly pulled out. He lay there, breathing heavily and feeling the twitches of his oh-so-empty ass, the ache in his nuts, the stiffness of his cock, the tingling pain in his nipples. He kept cataloging his aches—from his shoulders and wrists to his asscheeks, which still felt hot and tender. He didn’t know how long he lay there, but it did seem to be a long time. Like a year.

  He felt something cold touch his ass, and jerked.

  “Just cleaning you up a bit,” Chris said matter-of-factly. Michael closed his eyes as he was tended to, and tried not to feel ashamed. But he was anyway.

  He stumbled as Chris pulled him back off the bed, and fell hard onto his knees again. The handkerchief dropped out of his mouth. The rope around his wrists was removed, and he felt the shirt being pulled off his back. He shivered, and in the next instant was covered by a blanket, and shoved down onto the floor.

  “You,” Chris said, “will sleep there.” He was wearing pajama bottoms—Michael blinked, wondering when he had changed. Chris was still talking. “Do not get up without permission. Do not leave. I’ll speak to you in the morning. Do you understand?”

  Michael found the strength to nod. Chris stepped over to the head of the bed and came back with a pillow, which he tossed onto the floor. Michael wrapped one arm around it, and tried to control his shaking.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. How had his voice gotten so hoarse?

  “Go to sleep,” Chris said. “And that’s ‘thank you, sir.’”

  “Thank you, sir,” Michael repeated. “Oh God, thank you.”

  Chris bent down and stroked him, gently on the head, and then along his body. “Good boy,” he whispered. Michael trembled for another five minutes, and fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, with Chris’s hand still on his body.

  He woke up before dawn, earlier than the usual time to get up for a run. For a moment, he was confused—his first thought was that he had been in an accident. He was aching and in an unfamiliar and uncomfortable place. But he remembered the previous night in a sudden flood, and shivered, huddled under his blanket on the floor.

  Like a dog in a bed, he thought, and shivered again.

  He assessed the damage to his body. He was stiff as hell, and his shoulder was sore, probably from sleeping on it. His butt cheeks weren’t hurting, but he felt a strange looseness from the inside. Or not so strange, considering the size of Chris’s endowment and its preternatural erection. So, he thought, cuddling back down for a moment. This is what it’s really like. To be well fucked and left at the foot of the bed.

  What a rush.

  What had taken him so long to get here? Why hadn’t it worked before?

  He knew the answer. He had been too close to home. It was true what he told Chris the previous night—there was no way he could have told Niall that he wanted to be a slave, not own one. And everyone just assumed that owning a slave was the way to go—never had anyone even asked him if he ever considered being one. It was so much easier to just go along with things.

  I should see a shrink, he thought ruefully. I was in one hell of a denial.

  He rolled over, muffling a few low groans, listening to Chris’s steady breathing. Oh, it would be nice to be able to cuddle right now, to pull into that hot little body, all compact and full of muscles. Damn, and I thought I couldn’t get into men, he thought. He had to push his face into the pillow to drown out the snort of amusement that followed. Chris had sure gotten into him!

  There was just one problem—he had to take a wicked piss. He eased himself up slowly, and wrapped the blanket around himself. Chris’s room had a bathroom adjoining it that was shared by the next bedroom on the floor. Michael tiptoed into it, and eased the door almost completely shut. He didn’t want the light to disturb Chris, nor the sound of the door shutting. Carefully, he searched for the light switch
in the dark, and flipped it on. And screamed.

  He leapt back, hitting a towel bar, and yelped. Staring at the awful thing in the sink, he tore at the door until it was open, and threw himself back into Chris’s room.

  Chris was sitting up in bed, scratching his chest. He yawned, and said, “That’s ten for disobeying me and another ten for waking me up.”

  Michael felt a chill on his legs and realized that he had wet himself. He dragged the blanket around his body and pointed at the bathroom.

  “Oh, damn,” Chris said, stretching. “I guess leaving that vital part of my anatomy in the sink didn’t start your day off right, did it? Well, it’s your own damn fault. If you’d obeyed me, we wouldn’t have this problem. Now, I have to punish you and explain things—and all before breakfast.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Michael made a retching sound, and covered his mouth. Chris immediately looked serious, slipping his glasses on and pointing one finger at him. “If you pull a ‘Crying Game’ scene on me, boy, I’ll rip your dick off and you can see if it feels any better than mine.”

  “You’re a woman?” was what finally squeaked out when Michael got some order set in his mind and managed to make sound come out of his mouth.

  “Oh, don’t work so hard at being dense, Michael. Do I look like a woman to you?” Chris got out of bed, and Michael shook his head, no. Except for his height, and perhaps a slightly more rounded butt than guys usually had, Chris’s body looked one hundred percent male.

  Down to that part lying in the bathroom sink. Chris walked past Michael and into the bathroom, carrying a pair of jeans. When he came out, he was wearing them, and the cock was presumably back where it belonged.

  “I never met... anyone like you,” Michael said weakly. He slumped down into the floor, sitting cross-legged under his blanket.