Boy (The Training House #2) (4 page)

They’re about to lead me into the center of the ring when Jonathon tells them, “Blindfold him.”

“Fuck if they will,” I spit out.

“They’ll do whatever I tell them to do. And so will you.”

One of them stands on my lead rope, and together they wrestle the hated blindfold over my eyes while I grunt and cuss and my dick gets hard again, at which point there’s no more point in fighting it. It’s done and Jonathon knows damn well I like it as much as I hate it—almost as much as I hate him.

“Run him,” he commands.

They start whipping me and I start running, my lungs filling up with the clean valley air, and I try to focus on keeping my bare feet high so I won’t trip and fall, on the fact that I need to work out in order to keep strong. Because someday, I’m going to whip that weasel Jonathon’s ass.

I run and run, starting to focus inward, to forget the weasel Jonathon and the whip, which isn’t really hitting me hard enough to do much. Instead I tune in to the smell of the trees, the birds chirping in the branches, the breeze whispering over my naked skin. I go so deep into my head, I lose track of time, and by the time they stop me and pull the blindfold off, I’ve lost all sense of how long I’ve been running. It could have been an hour. It could have been all day. I feel damn good.

Until they take me back to the stable and Jonathon stands over me while I shovel out the horse stalls. I’m fucking furious the whole time, but really only because it’s him there, instead of Victor. For Victor, I’d do anything.

Finally it’s done, and the slave Boys chain me up in my stall again, where I spend another night alone. The next day I’m exercised and fed, made to clean the stables again, then left alone with too much damn time to contemplate the universe. To think about Aimée. Where are they keeping her? Are they working her? Fucking her? I don’t want to think about these things. I don’t want to think about her, except that I
do
. I don’t want to want her, God damn it. I’d rather they beat me. I’d rather go back to my life before I saw her in the Master’s classroom, all pale skin, pink nipples and that mass of silky red hair.

I go to sleep every night with her on my mind, making my dick throb with a burning need that’s never relieved. It’s worse than any orgasm deprivation I’ve ever been through, and I’ve been through a hell of a lot.

Over and over again, night after night, I whisper to the dark stables, to the night sky littered with stars behind the fog, “They don’t even fucking know. They don’t even know this torture they’re putting me through.”

Finally it’s Victor who comes for me one morning and I know this shit is getting serious now. He’ll beat me and fuck me and then he’ll either leave me here, or he’ll take me out of solitary. I don’t know which I hope for more.

He doesn’t disappoint. Without taking time to unchain me, he yanks on one ankle and I sprawl face down on the floor of the stall, and he’s on me, kicking my legs apart with his heavy boots. He wraps a big hand around the back of my neck, squeezing, pulling my head up and back while he spreads my ass cheeks with the other hand. Then he’s in me, hard and deep while I stretch and probably tear a little inside. But damn, it feels good, my dick pulsing and throbbing like some wild drumbeat. I don’t care that he’s tearing my ass apart as he pumps into me. All I know is pleasure through the pain, the grunting deep in his throat, and how much I love the merciless way he handles me, his hands snaking around to grab my jaw in a tight, bruising grip.

His nails dig into my flesh as his climax approaches—my neck, my hip—breaking the skin, and I nearly come as he does, just from his raw yell, from the way he jams his fat cock into my ass. But as soon as I’m on the edge, he pulls out.

“I do like to fuck you, Christopher,” he says. “Ah, you’re bleeding a little. Better give you a bath.” He pulls me up on my knees, releases my ankles, then my wrists. “You’re a mess. Need to pretty you up for the pens. Competition day.”

“I’m wrestling today?”

He slaps my face, which pisses me off. But my still-hard cock is loving the abuse.

“No back talk, Christopher.”

“God damn it, Victor, I need to—”

But before I can finish, he grabs me and shoves me down into the dirt, pressing my cheek against the ground with one booted foot. It’s a show of dominance, but we both know I love this shit.

“You don’t need anything, Christopher,” he says calmly, almost gleefully, “except to obey and make your Masters happy. And today, what will make them happy is for you to wrestle in the arena. Now I’m going to let you up and walk you to the baths, and you will keep your smart mouth shut or you’ll stay in solitary for another week. No beatings, no fucking, nothing but you alone in your own busy head. Don’t think I am unclear on how to punish you.”

Fuck. But I keep my mouth shut for once, and follow him as he leads me not to the horse baths, this time, but across the paddock to the other barn, the one where the slaves are kept.

Inside, it smells like good, clean soap and fresh hay, and as bad-ass as I like to think I am, I’m eager to feel hot water on my skin for the first time since they brought me here.

Victor pulls me into the baths, which are like a big shower with clean, concrete floors and maybe half a dozen shower heads, with shelves built into the walls holding soap, shampoos, oils and washcloths. Immediately two female slaves appear, both wearing the dark iron collars of the Primal Ranch, meaning they are permanent property of the owners here. They’re a pretty pair, one of them dark—Middle Eastern or Mediterranean, maybe—with a lush, curved body, and the other a waif of a girl with waist-length blonde hair. They start the water, and the broken spots on my skin sting as they gently push me under the spray, but God, the water feels good. They massage the soap into my skin, and one of them washes my hair while the other shaves my face. Most of the male slaves are shaved pretty much from the eyebrows down, but the Japanese and Cherokee blood in my veins means I’m mostly hairless, anyway, so it’s a quick task, with the blonde Girl kneeling to pull my ball sac up before taking a few swipes with the razor.

I almost wish she’d cut me. I’m feeling too damn much today, and it would help me. But Victor has done his usual excellent job of priming me for competition, not letting me come, getting my anger built up, and I know there will be no release today unless I do well in the pens.

I always do well in the pens.

But they don’t let us come even in there until they’re good and ready. My orgasms are never up to me, which, like pretty much everything else, I both love and hate.

The Girls dry me off with thick white towels, then oil me up, and the one with the dark hair and pretty brown skin gets down on her knees, blowing lightly on my cock, which has been hard for days. But I go even harder, then harder still as she flicks her hot little tongue at the swollen head.

Jesus, I can barely take it, except that I can, and I will, because that part of me which is a slave at heart is fucking proud as hell of my raging stiffness. At how pleased the Masters and Mistresses will be at my painfully acute state of arousal. Fuck them.
I’m
pleased.

Victor has been watching from just outside the showers, tapping his leg with the long leather slapper he often keeps stuffed down the side of his boot. He seems pleased with me, with my stiff and ready cock. I can tell from the way he’s looking at me that he wants it—wants to suck me, as he sometimes does. But he’s ultimately under the Masters’ rule, and it’s his job to bring the slave Boys into the ring as jacked up as possible, needing to come. Horny and angry. But no matter how many times he may have fucked my ass this morning, and who knows how many Boys before me, he’s every bit as jacked up as we are. His endless sexual appetite is part of what makes him so good at his job.

He steps in when the Girls are finished with me and slips a rude bit of rope around my neck, a toothy jute that bites into my skin just enough to irritate it, to irritate me. As he moves in to tie a half-hitch, I give him a wink and he slaps me. It feels damn good.

“Come on, Victor,” I whisper to him, “do it again. Do it harder. You know you want to.”

He stands back, gives the rope a sharp yank, lets out a sharp laugh. “Ha!”

But he’s grinning as he leads me down the wide dirt road toward the arena.

I can see it as we approach, a large wood corral with a row of small pens like the ones in a rodeo ring at each end, Girls on one side, Boys on the other. I can see their nervous, trembling flesh as we move closer, the Girls all smooth, pretty skin, their hair put up in braids, some with ribbons in the ends. Twelve of them, a lovely, even dozen pairs of plump nipples and gorgeously shaved pussies, even their bare little toes looking succulent to me in my current condition. And then I spot her.

Aimée

They’ve braided pale green ribbons into her red hair, making her look even more the classic little fuckable milkmaid. I almost want to snort and paw the ground. But I make sure to catch her eye as we pass, and I see her gasp, her mouth a small, lovely “o”. She lifts a hand, but one of the handlers smacks it with a short whip, and she yanks her hand back, her chin dropped but her gaze still following me.

I’m taken to the Boy’s pen at the other end of the ring and shoved unceremoniously into one of the tight holding pens. Victor reaches through the wooden slats to slide the rope from my neck.

“Make me proud, Christopher,” he says, a wicked grin quirking one corner of his lush mouth.

I grin back at him, give a sharp nod of my chin. We both know how things will go down out there.

The Masters and Mistresses—maybe thirty or forty of them—are taking their seats under the tented stands, but these are no regular rodeo stands. No, instead of long rows of wood or metal benches are seats padded in red leather, more like small couches, with tables in between to hold beverages and their various implements of punishment. Their personal slaves kneel at their feet, some in pony garb—everything from a simple posture collar and bit to full latex pony regalia, complete with horse-head mask and hooves. Some are in classic black latex, a few in pink or purple, some in brown leather, and even one in appaloosa print, spotted in brown and white. These ponies are always beautiful to me, their heads held high. There’s a certain dirty elegance to them, a regal weirdness. They make me want to stand taller. And for some stupid reason, they challenge my need to impress. But sometimes my ego knows no bounds.

There’s the cracking of a whip and a scuffling sound next to me, and I turn to inspect the competition. On my right is a Boy with short, dark hair, beautiful, as we all are, but otherwise unremarkable. To my left is a Boy with the same dark, creamy skin as Victor, but not nearly as tall or heavily built. I know in an instant I can take them both. But what catches my attention is a big redhead two pens down. I duck to peer between the slats and see he’s beautifully made—strong thighs, a perfect, muscled ass, and his abs are a flawless washboard. He has a well-developed chest—a wall of fair skin dusted with golden freckles. His nipples are pierced with heavy steel bars, making my cock twitch as I remember the exquisite pain of my own piercing, even better because I did it to myself. I love a good piercing, the idea of the searing moment of pain as the needle goes through the skin, and his nipples are two plump buds of dark-pink flesh, eager for the chase. Eager for my mouth, if I can take him down. And as my gaze finds his face, my mouth waters. He is fucking fantastic, his features almost too damn pretty for his linebacker body. I want to take him—not only to win, but simply because I
want
him. The animal in me wants—
needs
—to conquer him, the only real competition there is here. The small questions nagging at the back of my mind—can I take him, will he take me down?—only make me want him more. And I will need to take him down to get to Aimée, because I can see him watching her, and only her.

Motherfucker
.
She’s mine, you gorgeous bastard.

A low growl escapes my lips just as a bell rings and a handler—a tiny but wickedly powerful woman I know as Dahlia—enters the ring and goes to stand in the center, and my heart and dick give a small leap, the beast rising within me.

“Sirs and Madams, Masters and Mistresses, the Primal Takedowns are about to begin. I’m certain most of you know what defines a primal—that they identify with the animal inside them, that it is this animal which drives their lust, inspires them, and in which their power is based. Some identify as a particular animal—dog, cat, horse, wolf, even bear. But for others, it is simply that primal, bestial energy. Not that we care, do we? As long as they have that drive.

“But let me explain how this event works. The Boys and Girls will be released from the pens simultaneously, their skin slick with oil. Some of the Girls, as you can see, have earned the privilege of wearing a stunt cock, so that they may conquer a Boy or another Girl, if they can manage it, and some of them—oh yes, ladies and gentleman—some of them will, which makes for an excellent show. Quite simply, they will go after each other. Some will put on a long chase. Some will tackle the first object of their desire. The point is to take down an opponent, and once down, they may do whatever they like to them. The opponent will often fight back for our entertainment, and no doubt their own. There will be biting. There will be scratching. Kicking.” She pauses, smiles. “Fucking.”

A small ripple of laughter goes up from the crowd in the stands.

“It will be vicious. It will be primal. A blood sport to rival any other, a kinky spectacular unlike anything you’ve seen, unless, of course, you’ve been here at the Primal Ranch before. Enjoy.”

Dahlia walks from the ring, and my heart is hammering, blood rushing through my veins and pounding in my aching, ridiculously hard cock, which I plan to plow into
someone
in the next few minutes. I brace my hands on the gate, waiting to feel the vibration that will signal the opening of it.

I have several long moments to glance at the hot redhead two pens to my left, then across the ring to my little beauty Aimée, who looks scared as hell. She should be. Then I look up into the stands to see if I can spot the Master, but he’s not there. I’m fucking pissed at the knot that forms in my chest.