Boy (The Training House #2) (3 page)

“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 growl 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.

I bite the inside of my lip, tasting blood, but it keeps me centered as I focus on Victor’s grinning face above me. On him pinching the welts covering my thighs, then the skin just beneath the head of my cock, his nails digging into my flesh. He slaps my face again, just for good measure, maybe.

“I’m going to come in your ass, Christopher,” he tells me, his tone low and threatening as he grabs my jaw in a hard, hurting grip.

I want it—want his come. But I also know it means an enema after.

God damn it.

But it’s inevitable. It all is—every single thing that happens here. Which is why I’m here.

I don’t even have to understand it. As long as they do.

I wake up sore all over. Stretching, I test my muscles to see where the ache is, and mostly it’s good—it’s fucking awesome, really—all except for the small sensation left over after the enema, and the burning shame of it.

I know. Even after all this time serving as a slave, this one thing still fucking gets to me, which is ridiculous. You can shove pretty much anything up my ass, and I’ll love you for it. Anything but the enema nozzle. There’s something too degrading about being forced to shit in front of someone. Too degrading to me, anyway. I’d love to make Aimée do it. My morning wood tenses at the thought.

But I’m chained, ankles and wrists, in the empty horse stall where Victor left me after fucking me, then the enema, then fucking me again and another damn enema. I feel emptied out—my bowels, anyway. I’m always full of come. I could come all day long.

Aimée.

Those gorgeous green eyes, the flawless curve of her breasts. The pain in her voice yesterday. All of it is unbelievably alluring to me. She’s so damn
real
. I don’t even know what I mean by that. Real and fucking beautiful in way no one has ever been to me before.

I
will
conquer her in the pens here. I will beat every other slave they have in this place, will fuck my way from one to the other, but I won’t come until it’s
her
I plow my way into, hanging onto all that red hair so damn tight, one hand wrapped around her fragile throat. Because I
have
to. Oh yeah, have to find my way into that sweet little body, into the Girl who makes me harder than I’ve ever been in my life.

Aimée.

My sore cock twitches, making my balls pull up tight, but I know I’ll get no relief today, and maybe not for a long while. It’s all up to Victor, unless one of the Masters or Mistresses calls for me.

Small pang in my chest when I think of the Master and why he sent me away this time. Is he finally tired of me? Or is it nothing more than part of his ritual of punishment for me? But I focus on my aching dick, and the pang goes away. Sex and kink help me to dissociate—not that there’s any difference between the two for me—and there’s no one around right now to force me back into my body, into my fucking
feelings
, is there?

While I’m lying on the hard ground contemplating my place in the kinky universe, a slave arrives with the slop bucket. He’s gagged and harnessed in brown leather, nipples clamped, the flesh dark red and succulent under the evil press of the metal teeth, making me want to touch him. He’s not even my type, except that right now anyone would be my type, I’m so damn hard. Glancing down at the darkening head of my cock, I silently tell it to fuck off.

I feel no better.

The slave Boy kneels prettily and ladles out a portion of slop—it’s really some sort of flavorless beef stew—into one half of a small trough, pours water into the other section from a bottle tucked into a sleeve in his harness, and he leaves it on the ground close to my head. My stomach growling, I forget all about him, whoever the fuck he is, as I turn to my sorry breakfast. If I twist just right, there’s enough give in my chains for me to get on my knees and bend down to eat and drink, my arms pulled back, the chain crossed between my shoulder blades. When I’m done, I need to piss like crazy, but I know better than to soil my own stall. If I’m here for a month, or even a week, I’ll live to regret it. And if I don’t, the handlers will make sure I do. So, I wait.

An hour goes by before anyone comes back for me, and this time it’s Jonathon and two large, male slaves.

As they unhook the ends of my chains from the walls of the stall and lead me outside, I say to Jonathon, “Afraid to deal with me on your own? Is that because you know I can take you down? Or because you’d love it too much if I plowed your lily-white ass?”

He doesn’t say a word, just smacks me hard across the chest with a leather strap, then again in the face when I smirk, which makes me like him the tiniest bit more.

Finally, I get to piss, and it seems to go on forever. Then they take me to the exercise pen—again, the one for the horses, not the ones they usually work the slaves in—and the slave Boys get me into harness, wide strips of brown leather that cross my chest in an ‘X’, and clip a lunge line onto it.