Her Troika (44 page)

As her eyes disappeared behind the black silk, she shuddered, her breath coming in little gasps.

“Please, Sir.”

“You’ll be fine, Breanna.” Derek kissed the corner of her mouth, then her eyes under the blindfold. “Every eye will be on you. But I’ll be there every step of the way. You’re beautiful. Remember that, and walk proud for me.”

“Last thing, Mr. Derek.” Lino dropped the rubber coated bit into Derek’s palm. “She is novice, so training bit only.”

Derek bade Breanna open her mouth and he placed it across her tongue, her white teeth champing down on it immediately. She made a sound of protest, shaking her head.

Lino chuckled. “Rubber taste. She’ll get used to it.”

The silver bit gleamed between Elaina’s red lips as Lino seated it well, the corners of her mouth pulled back. “Ms. Elaina knows bit well, eh
muy bella
?”

She groaned, her nostrils flaring as her teeth clicked against the metal.

Lino affixed a leash to Elaina’s collar and turned to Derek with a wide grin.

“Now we see fillies run.”

Chapter Thirty One

A
s soon as the blindfold was removed she longed for it again.

The women were the worst. Thankfully, there weren’t many — a handful, really. But those that were there … the humiliation of standing there on display, as a dumb animal, while the cool eyes of those cultured, rich, spoiled women perused her nakedness, was the hardest to take.

“Stand still, Breanna,” Derek said, his hand pulling her leash up tight.

She breathed in, panic lurking just under the surface as the patrons and spectators of the upcoming race gathered along the fence, their eyes taking in the displayed bodies of the racers.

Ponies.

Elaina and Lino stood to her right, while to her left was another woman, one she hadn’t seen before. The sounds she made behind her cruel leather gag were somehow familiar though. Though the man attending this strange raven-haired woman was comparatively short — not even reaching Breanna’s height — his powerful body rippled with muscle, the starched white of his dress shirt straining against the width of his shoulders, the cuffs rolled up to expose massive, veined forearms. His blond hair was cut close, his blue eyes cool, assessing. He curled the leash he held in his fist one loop tighter, whispering something to the woman.

Two men, one dressed in a gray suit, the other in a dark polo that showed off his arms to advantage stood forth, ducking under the railing and moving out onto the track to stand before the three bound women. The man in the polo produced a black tablet computer, turning toward the crowd.

“Welcome to the Trust Circuit, Western Division preliminary heats,” the older man said, straightening one of the cuffs of his gray suit. “Since this is the inaugural race at this facility, there will be no points for the season standings. Full betting is open, of course.” The man nodded to his partner with the tablet, who paced in front of the gathered throng.

“There are four competitors for this race.” He glanced at the women, his eyes alighting on Breanna. He nodded at Derek. “Bring her forward, please.”

The pull at her collar almost unbalanced her, a low tittering rippling through the crowd as she stumbled in the dust.

“Slave Breanna, Owners: Kurt Erickson and Derek York.”

Her face flamed at the announcement, but at the same time she felt a burst of excited pride at hearing Derek’s name too. She scanned the faces in the crowd, looking, hoping.

Then she saw him.

Kurt.

His dark eyes glittered as he gave her a slow incline of his head, his lips a thin line, giving nothing away.

The crowd gathered closer, murmured conversation rising and falling, all eyes on her naked, helpless form. One stunning blonde woman of perhaps forty, her diamond necklace a sparkling bridge across the deeply tanned cleavage, whispered something to the tall black haired man next to her, her finger tracing her lower lip as her gaze lowered, appraisingly. Her eyes traveled back up, meeting Breanna’s. Then the woman’s lip curved in a subtle sneer, her eyes narrowing.

Feeling her blush heating anew, Breanna bit down on the rubber bit, raising her chin, and drawing a deep breath.

You’re no better than me. I’ve got two degrees, a law practice. And I could kick your ass in a fight, bitch.

“Mr. York, if you would.” The man with the tablet waved an arm toward the crowd. “The odds need to be made. Please proceed.”

“Here goes nothing,” Derek whispered, his hand stroking her nape above the collar. “Walk, Breanna.”

The eyes upon her registered as a physical weight, holding her down, constricting her, reducing her. Only so many body parts, evaluated for nothing but her speed, her femininity, and her docility.

“Turn her around,” someone yelled from the crowd, other voices sounding agreement. “The legs are good, but I want to see the filly’s hindquarters.”

Derek’s hand tightened upon her arm, spinning her until her ass faced the throng. Derek smiled at her, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek as she dropped her eyes.

“Closer.”

Derek’s grin widened, and he eased her a step toward the fence, the lustful menace of the crowd surrounding her.

Heat exploded across her ass as a hard slap landed, laughter washing through the onlookers. Derek pulled her clear, with a low growl, pulling her leash taut.

“Strong.” It was the same faceless male voice from the crowd. “She’ll do well — but I’m not sure anyone can challenge Simona.”

“You got that right, man,” Johan said, the last word clipped short in his distinctive South African accent.

Johan!

Breanna took in the muscled thighs, defined calves, and strong torso of the little woman next to him — the woman who could only be the harshly used Simona. As the little curvy dynamo chewed on her silver bit, her gaze fierce and confident, Breanna thought Simona looked anything but a victim now.

Tom’s hand extended toward Breanna. “House odds are 24:1.”

Before she could wonder if those odds were a compliment or an insult, Derek spun her around again to face the crowd once more, hooking the ring at the front of her collar with his finger. Breanna suddenly remembered the two men who visited her in her stall, Tom, and Kort. Their kind, but assessing gazes, their casual handling of her body that should’ve bothered her, but didn’t. Tom was the name of the man in the suit, his green-eyed gaze passing over her displayed breasts before nodding to his partner, Kort.

Kort’s fingers stilled on his tablet, and he gave Breanna a quick smile, his brown eyes warm.

“Thank you, Mr. York.” Tom raised a finger toward Lino. “Bring her.”

Derek pulled her back onto the track, and they watched silently as Lino displayed the tall, elegant Elaina as if she were so much cattle. The bettors requesting she be turned this way and that, several of them exclaiming excitedly at the brand on her buttocks. Lino brought her closer, exchanging words with several of the onlookers that Breanna couldn’t quite make out.

“She’s raced before,” George Trask called out, pride plain in his voice as he made his way up onto one of the stands, to take a seat next to Kurt.

An excited frisson went through the crowd at the confirmation.

“She’s competed?” One of the men turned, leaning an arm on the top rail. “With tits that big?”

Trask lifted a shoulder, a faint smile at his lips. “Some things get better with age.”

Laughter washed through the crowd, punctuated by a ribald whistle.

“Considering the filly’s unusual age, House odds open at 40:1” Tom said, a gust of wind lifting a lock of his graying hair.

A flurry of bets were called out, Tom pointing at Kort, whose fingers whirled over the tablet again.

Elaina looked to be perhaps in her forties, perhaps a well-preserved upper forties, but apparently that was enough to make her a tempting bet for the throng. Though she was older than the rest of them, Breanna had seen the strength in the woman’s legs, and suspected more than a few of the gamblers betting against her might find themselves too clever by half.

Simona was next, Johan standing close to her, his corded, tanned arms crossed over his chest as he barked out orders to the lush, bound woman subject to him. One of the bettors, a younger, rather severe looking man with dark, slicked-back hair, asked for Simona to be brought over to him, where he fondled her, making her whine behind her gag as he pinched her nipples, quizzing Johan on her measurements, her weight, as if she were nothing but a mindless animal. More than one bettor requested a better look at her, and Johan grinning, readily obliged, ordering her into a breast bouncing quick trot from one end of the crowd to the other, the whistles and cat calls coming hard and fast as she did, her face blushing scarlet. Tom called her odds out at even money, to several hisses and boos.

Breanna tensed, waiting for whatever came next, anticipation and dread flowing through her in equal measure. Tom looked past her, and scowled, waved a hand beckoning someone Breanna would have turned to look, but the vise-grip of Derek’s hand ensured she was staying put.

The crowd milled, a few pointing, while others argued good-naturedly over wagers.

Kort peered over his tablet, his head tilted. “Genna Cordray—”

“She’s to be entered as ‘M’. Strict instructions, Sir,” the rangy, square-jawed man holding the woman’s leash said, striding into Breanna’s field of view. His pinched expression bespoke someone doing his duty, but nothing more. “Quinton Trask sends his … regards.”

“And you are?” Tom held up a hand, one brow raised.

“Brayden Tanner, Sir. I run the Trask stables for Quinton and George Trask.”

Tom glanced at Kort, who lowered his tablet, scratching his chin. “It wasn’t on this morning’s entrant’s list, but she’s on the roster now, Tom.”

“I’m sorry, Brayden—”

“He’ll race her, Tom.” George Trask stood in the stands, hands on his hips. He gave Brayden a baleful stare.

Brayden shrugged, defeated, but raised his chin, looking back at George. “I had no choice, Sir.”

“I know you didn’t,” Trask said with a disgusted shake of his head. “Quinton knows better though. Why did he send you?”

“Quinton has business in Seattle and won’t be here in time for the race, so he instructed me to race her in his place.”

George’s chuckle was utterly devoid of mirth. “Do you know how to race a filly?”

Brayden’s jaw clenched. “I take care of the fillies, not race them.”

“Well, it seems your job description just expanded, didn’t it?”

“Yes, Sir.” The big man sighed, but squared his shoulders, looking down at his charge.

“Take her around then, Brayden,” Tom said, nodding. “Give them a look at her, then take your place next to Mr. York.”

Brayden guided Genna over to stand in front of the leering crowd. The flash of jealousy Breanna felt was embarrassingly strong. The new woman — a quite young woman at that — was the curviest yet. She was petite, but had a stunning figure that would be the envy of any woman — including, apparently, Breanna.

Hardly the time for vanity, idiot.

A tight leather harness brutally squeezed the woman’s midsection, thick cuffs clasping her upper thighs and just below each shoulder, her lower legs encased in the same heavy black leather racing boots that Breanna herself wore. Brayden secured the woman’s hands behind her back, wrapping them in several leather thongs that he tied off at the back of her harness. Then with unexpected gentleness, the man’s big hands turned the woman, her buttocks coming into view — and all thoughts of jealousy faded away.

A few gasps sounded as the crowd got a view of Genna’s already well-whipped backside, the marks only partially faded, a dark fall of horsehair swinging between her thighs, anchored by a punishingly large butt plug. Breanna stepped back at this, Derek murmuring wordlessly to soothe her. She’d known about them in theory, but seeing it used on the young woman brought home the objectification of her body, of the reduction of her being into something less than human. It was at that moment that she really knew what she must look like to the throng, and both mortification and a hot, twisted exhilaration flooded through her. While one part wanted to hide behind Derek, to beg Kurt — if only with her eyes — to take her from this place, another part of her itched to begin, to race, to run free, careless, all choice taken from her, obedience her only duty, her only concern.

“How can you race her in that condition?” one of the onlookers asked. “She’s already been whipped. A disadvantage.”

Several voices rose at once, the cross-talk too difficult for Breanna to follow.

“That’s enough!” George’s deep voice boomed, silencing the crowd. George gave Tom and Kort a quick jerk of his head. “Get on with it. She’ll race, just like the others.”

Tom called out decidedly long odds, and the poor Genna took up her spot to Breanna’s right. She watched Brayden whispering in the girl’s ear, his hand stroking her hip soothingly.

Derek’s hands turned Breanna then, and she got her first look at the row of low-slung sulkies, just like the one they’d trained her in. Her mouth went dry as she took in the gleaming metal frames, the black as night crops upright in their stands, and the loops of heavy leather reins.