by EdenBradley
“Yes, please,” she says, and I have to take a moment to remember what the question was. Change of subject. Right. I ask her to tell me about coming to the Training House.
“It’s been a few weeks,” she says. “A month? No, less than that. I seem to have lost track. My last Master—Master Graham—sent me there because I needed more, which I feel terrible about. I feel as if I couldn’t make him happy, because I was always craving something he couldn’t quite give me. I have to ask myself…am I a bad slave? Did I fail him? Did I fail the dynamic of Master and slave? But I couldn’t help it. And coming here…well, there, to the Training House… I had no idea what I was missing. I had no idea how much more thoroughly my needs could be met, how much more I could lose myself. How badly I needed what they have to offer me there.” She stops and I can almost hear her thinking, then she says very quietly, “No one has ever hurt me like that. Or degraded me to that extent. I feel as if I’ve truly discovered myself for the first time. And now I’m being sent away. I can’t stand it.”
“But you will. That’s the beauty in all this. You will be hurt and humiliated where they’re taking us. And if I play this right, it could be me who gets to do some of that, lovely little Aimée.”
“Oh!”
I stretch my leg out, caress her foot with mine, then her delicate ankle, bare skin against bare skin, which makes me hard as hell, the blood leaving my brain in a mad rush.
“Does that turn you on?” I ask. “The idea of me hurting you? Using you? Because there will be such an opportunity. And I plan to make the most of it. Do you like that idea?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
“Excellent. Oh, you have no idea how good that’ll be. I can hear that you have more questions for me, but you should rest now. Can you do that? Lay your head down and think about what lies ahead.”
“I don’t know what to think,” she admits. “Not really. Except that I’m still in shock, and it’s all so abstract to me.”
“That’s the idea, little Aimée. But lay your head down. I’ll be right here.”
There’s the muffled sound of movement, of her shifting, and it brings her scent to my nostrils. I inhale deeply. Female skin. Excitement. Fear. If someone could make a perfume of it, they’d make a fucking fortune. But right now it’s all for me. Fucking beautiful. I settle into my own hard spot on the van floor and close my eyes, thinking of her, my foot against hers. Warm flesh to warm flesh. And my cock aches for her. But so does some part of my dark, cold heart.
Chapter Two
For once the trip has gone by too fast, and soon the van is crunching over the long gravel drive to the ranch that’s secreted away between the hills a few miles inland from the small coastal town of Carmel. I can’t help the rush of excitement that makes my muscles tighten in anticipation, made all the more acute by the quiet presence of Aimée in the van with me. I haven’t slept at all—I’m too painfully hard, too aware of her luscious body so close to mine. I’ve spent the last few hours imagining if they’d left me loose in the van, with her chained and hooded. How I would have used the weight of my body to hold her down while I fucked her senseless. How I would have lifted the edge of the hood and forced her to suck my ever-hard dick until she choked on it, tears pouring down her cheeks, the salt of them mixing with my come all over her lovely face.
Jesus. And now, again, I have the hard-on of a lifetime. Even my lifetime, which is saying a lot.
The Masters and Mistresses and handlers at the Ranch will fucking love me arriving with a raging erection. It’s probably a good thing my hands are cuffed behind my back or I would have jacked off a half dozen times by now, if I hadn’t been able to get my hands on her. But they know what they’re doing. I get it. Because there are times when I am one of them.
Sometimes I think that’s why the Master is so fascinated by me. Could it be called love? Who the hell knows? But it doesn’t matter. Or, it does but I don’t like to let it matter. Especially not now, when I hear the first creak of the doors being opened, then feel the rush of cool morning air hitting my skin as I blink in the relative darkness of the black hood over my head. Still, I can tell the sun is coming up. I can hear it in the rustling of leaves in the big oak trees as the birds and the squirrels start their morning routine. I can smell the morning, sunshine on dew. Yeah, I notice this stuff. I notice everything. I hear Aimée’s small gasp, the rattling of her chains, which is hot as fuck to me—to imagine what she looks like in chains. I’m a poet and a perv this morning, which makes me grin. But then, when am I not? The Master tells me I am “a spectacular dichotomy”. I kinda like that title.
Rough hands pull me from the van, but I’m too tuned in to her, to her quickening breath, to fight it much, and I know damn well she’s as turned on by the manhandling as I am. I bet her juices are running down her sleek little thighs, making me want to lick them clean.
Fuck.
When I finally do get to have her, I’m gonna come in three seconds flat, like some eight-year-old with his dick in his hand for the first time. Or maybe that was just me?
“We heard you were being sent back to us, Christopher.”
I recognize the voice—it’s Jonathon, one of the handlers here, and not one I like. But liking them is not the point. No one gives a shit if I like the handlers. Not even me.
Another hand wraps around the back of my neck, and I’m forced to my knees. I know right away from the way he’s handling me that it’s Victor. Oh, I like Victor. Huge guy. Huge dick. And he knows what to do with it, knows how to fuck like a demon, knows how to handle the slaves. Knows how to put me in my place, which I will tell you is no easy thing.
There is something really beautiful in being a slave, and being handed over to someone who knows exactly what to do with you. It’s fucking exhilarating, and in my case, it also pisses me off a little. I mean, I can’t get away with too much shit with Victor. Even less than I can with the Master, because while Master Damon loves me, Victor is maybe no more than amused—and it’s all at my expense. He is a true sadist. Jolly as hell about it, no regrets, never gets attached, and so his treatment of the slaves is completely remorseless. Which makes him a very dangerous animal—and I do mean animal. This is the Primal Ranch, and all the handlers identify as primals, the same as I do. They all have that animalistic attitude, the desire to bite, to scratch, to wrestle you to the ground, and Victor is the one man who can take me down every time.
I fucking love it.
There’s a hard slap on my dick, and shit, it hurts! Victor’s hand, no doubt. He does it again, laughing at me.
“Are you blushing under there, Christopher?” he asks. Demands.
I growl in reply.
“Playing hard to get, are we? The only problem—for you, anyway—is that I can get you any time I want.” He gives my aching cock another hard slap, and I feel the reverberation of pain all the way into my balls. In my belly. “Don’t you forget it. I don’t plan to let you, you know.”
He shoves me to the ground and presses on the back of my neck with one booted foot, yanking the hood from my head, leaving me blinking hard in the misty morning light. He angles the foot to press my face against the hard ground, into the gravel, which bites into my cheek. And I love it and hate it—and him—at the same time. My life is full of these contradictions. But my cock is never confused.
Victor leans down and murmurs, “What if I jack you off right here? Make you come into the dirt? That’s where your come belongs—in the dirt, Christopher. Because you are one dirty, dirty boy. And you will be my boy if I want you to be, won’t you?”
I only growl again, a small rage burning in my throat, clawing to get out.
He grinds his booted foot against my cheek. I clench my jaw and refuse to howl.
“Won’t. You?” he repeats.
“Yeah, sure. Whatever you want, Victor, as long as you’ll fuck me good and hard after.”
His hand dives into my short Mohawk and he drags me to my feet so fast I lose my footin
g, and between my hair and my wrists chained behind my back, he’s yanking me around, laughing, and I catch a small glimpse of his dark, polished skin, his beautifully sharp white teeth. I fucking love it—I love it all. This little show of his superiority. The humiliation, which isn’t really humiliation, since I enjoy the hell out of it. I’m sure I’ll pay for it later. I hope I will.
“Little bastard,” he says. “I’ll fuck you with a broom handle if I want.”
“Promises, promises,” I mutter.
He slaps me hard across the face, leaving his big handprint burning on my cheek. I grin.
“Do it again for me, baby?” I taunt him.
Maybe I’m showing off a bit for Aimée, but I can’t resist. And being punished doesn’t bother me. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I signed up to be a slave, and the longer I live this life, the more I understand on some deep, almost cellular level how much I crave this shit. I want someone to make me…do something. Anything. Everything. I don’t fucking care. Except that I do. I need it. I need it more than air sometimes. And I don’t give a shit what I have to do to get that need met. So I fuck with Victor, and he fucks with me, then he fucks me until I’m so damn sore I can barely walk, and we all leave happy. Well, as happy as I ever get.
There’s a small gasp, which I realize is Aimée, and I make the mistake of turning toward her.
“Really, Christopher? Falling for the Master’s property? You know better.”
“I don’t fucking fall for anyone,” I protest, but the lie sits like acid on my tongue.
“We’ll see about that.”
Victor shoves me down on the ground again, standing on my chains so I’ll stay down while he pulls Aimée’s hood off.
“A real beauty, this Girl. I can see why you’re into her. You know what they say about redheads. Full of fire, a little crazy. Right, Jonathon?”
Fucking Jonathon answers, “Yeah. I’d sure like to get a piece of her myself. I could fuck this bitch into tomorrow.”
I lunge at Jonathon so fast, it takes Victor by surprise, and his weight shifts off my chains. Managing to grab the weasel Jonathon by the leg, I flip him onto the ground. Then I’m on him, roaring like the beast I am, ready to tear him apart. But Victor pulls me off him, shoving me face down in the gravel again, his booted foot in the middle of my back.
“That’s enough. Christopher. Enough!”
Aimée lets out a sob, and I glance at her from the corner of my eye and see she’s really crying. God damn it.
“You’re spending the day cleaning the stables in chains, and tonight in solitary,” Victor says calmly. “Alone. Which, as we all know, is your favorite thing.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
My stupidity reigns supreme. Again. Of course, I could try to escape—hell, I could escape, if I wanted to. But I don’t want to leave her behind. I don’t know why the fuck not. All I know is, that is not happening. I’ll wait out my damn punishment. Without an audience, which, as Victor damn well knows, I hate with a passion that exceeds even my hate for fucking Jonathon right now.
But Victor is talking again.
“Jonathon, chain her to the back of the van, then help me get this self-fancied libertine into the stables.” Pulling me to my feet once more, he leans in until I feel the heat of his breath on my face, as he speaks quietly to me. “Think you can fuck with me, Christopher? I won’t put up with your bullshit, even if it was amusing to see you tackle Jonathon. You’re on work duty until the Foreman decides what else to do with you—or I do. It could be an hour. It could be a month.”
That’s part of Victor’s allure. No matter what I do, even when he’s punishing me, he’s never ruffled. Never really pissed. I don’t even have to wonder why I love his aloofness. He’s my absentee father all over again, but with a handsome face and a big dick. All right—I don’t know what the fuck my English father looks like, but whatever. And yeah, I know that’s some sick shit. Freud would have loved me. Freud would have loved kinky folk, period. We’re his every wet dream come to life, working out our issues through twisted sex. Don’t think it doesn’t actually work for us, because it does.
But I have to pay attention to what’s happening.
Aimée is on her knees on the graveled ground, head bent, wrists still cuffed behind her back. And it’s not that I don’t find her incredibly hot, but I also feel…protective. She shouldn’t have had to see this. Of course, if she’s anything like me—and I suspect she is, or she wouldn’t be here—then some part of her is also probably getting off on my little performance, and even the price she’s having to pay for it.
My mind spins with the thousand possibilities, as ever.
Victor drags me to my feet and begins pulling me along. When I try to turn to look at this beautiful girl I’ve come to think of as mine, for reasons that would undoubtedly have me punished at the least and barred from this elite fetish circle at most, he grabs my face in a crushing grip.
“Eyes ahead, Christopher, or I’ll have to blindfold you.”
“God damn it, Victor,” I spit out. He knows how much I hate that loss of control. As if I have any here.
“If you can’t be quiet and behave for five minutes, it’ll be the blindfold and the gag for you, my beautiful boy. All I need is the smallest reason.”
I grind my jaw all the way to the stables—the one where actual animals are kept, and not where the slaves are quartered.
“This place smells like shit,” I mutter.
Victor sighs before grabbing me by the back of my neck and propelling me into the big barn, down the center walkway, between the rows of horses, then shoving me hard into the last stall, where I land on hands and knees on the dirt floor. And he’s on me so fast I barely have time to think about it as he straddles me from behind and forces my lips and teeth apart, shoving a wooden gag in the shape of a small phallus into my mouth. I choke on it for a few moments, trying desperately to reject it, my body seething with anger and humiliation as he buckles the leather strap at the back of my head. I fucking hate this. I fucking love it.
Victor kicks my knees out from under me, and I sprawl in the dirt, small rocks biting into the front of my thighs, my chest, my ever-hard cock. My hips immediately press into the ground, but I only manage a few thrusts before Victor turns me onto my back. With one heavy boot on my chest, holding me down, he quickly ropes my ankles even as I kick at him, struggling on the damn ground, screams of rage muffled by the gag down my throat. And no matter how fucking pissed I am, I want to suck that phallic piece of wood, want to choke on it until tears run down my face. I want him to hurt me. To fuck me. To make me nothing.
He swings the end of the rope tied to one ankle over a hook on one wall, pulling the end tight, forcing my leg wide, then does the same with the other side. I am left spread-eagle on the floor of the stall, gagged and furious and hard as stone, the head of my cock already leaking pre-come.
Victor leans down and runs his thumb over that sensitive tip, and I close my eyes and moan as his thumb slides all over the head of my rigid dick.
“Makes me want to lick it off you,” he tells me. “Except I think you require something more…” he pauses, chuckling, “…stimulating.”
I watch as he straightens, a tower of bulging muscle and fucking gorgeous chocolate flesh. He gives my chest a good kick before stepping back.
“Don’t go anywhere, Christopher,” he says, taunting me.
I tell myself I’d spit on the ground if I didn’t have the damn gag in my mouth. That I’d fight him off, take him down to the ground and plow his fine ass. But it’s all bullshit, and even I know it. Not with Victor.
He returns a moment later with a buggy whip in one hand and a long leather strap in the other and my cock jumps. He smacks the front of my thighs with the heavy strap, first one, then the other, back and forth. It doesn’t even hurt much at first, until it does. Then I can feel the welts coming up on my skin, the burn as he hits the welts. I’m fighting it at first, my torso twisting, a g
rowl coming from deep in my throat. Then he starts with the whip.
Being hit with a buggy whip is like being stung by a hornet. He lands it on my chest, making a crisscross pattern with it while my system fills up with pleasure and rage. When he snaps the whip on my nipple, my body arcs, rising up off the ground, but in a breath it shifts, until it’s just my hips pumping the air.
“Ah, your pretty dick knows what it likes. It knows better than you do what it needs.”
There’s not a second to tense up before he snaps the head of my dick with the fucking whip, and pain like a thousand stinging, biting insects shatters me, inside and out. And somehow I do howl around the goddamn gag as pain trembles through me, then pleasure in a fiery wave, and come spurts from my poor, beautifully tortured dick. Except it hurts too much for me to really come, and I’m left panting and wanting and choking so hard I can barely see. God fucking damn him!
Then he’s on his knees, his enormous cock in his hand, and he shoves it into my ass so hard I almost pass out. This is always how it happens with Victor. How is it he knows exactly what I need—maybe even more than the Master? As he fucks me, one deep, punishing stroke after another, all I can think of is Aimée’s pouting pink mouth, her gorgeously hard nipples. I want to bite her until I draw blood. I want to fuck her as hard as Victor is fucking me. Thinking of her makes me start to come again, but Victor pulls me out of it with a ringing slap to the face.
He’s laughing at me, at my predicament, as he always does. I love him and hate him. Pleasure itself is something I have to fight against, because I know if I really come I’ll be locked in solitary for a month. They don’t make idle threats here.
