Boy (The Training House #2) (10 page)

“One minute, Christopher,” he reminds me in his ever-patient tone.

But all I can do is stare up at him.

His eyes narrow, then he slips a hand around the back of my neck, and I close my eyes as he caresses my skin.

“What is it? What’s going on with you?”

“Fuck. Really don’t fucking know if I can do this anymore, Victor.” I open my eyes, meet his gaze. “Pony gear—fine. Fuck it. Whatever. But the rest of it? Staying here, serving them? Serving
him
? No. I can’t fucking do it. And…I don’t think this is going to be one of my runaway episodes.”

“Okay. I get you. I do. And I’m going to tell you something, something I don’t think you know about, but I think you need to now. I was pretty much the same as you, before I came to work here. I started out as a bottom boy. Oh, yeah. I did. Worked my way up, was adored by my Masters and Mistresses, because I was so strong. I could take it all, whatever they dished out. Then one Master wanted me to Top him, and I loved it a little too much. I started doing it on the side, and one day I realized bottom boy was over for me. But I gave myself some time to make sure. My advice? Don’t burn any bridges you don’t have to, Christopher.”

I nod. “I’ll give that a try.” A smirk creeps over my face—can’t help it. “But you know me. Burning bridges is a specialty of mine.”

He laughs, claps me hard on the back. “You do your thing, then. Play nice for the crowd today, turn the charm on. Let them all fall in love with you again before you fuck them up.”

I nod. “I intend to. But Victor, I may need some help.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “Understood.”

The slave Boys have returned, their arms loaded down with gear. Victor gives a nod of his finely sculpted and dimpled chin, and the Boys step toward me and begin to lube up my skin, which means I’ll be in latex. I look damn good in latex.

When they step away to unzip the bodysuit they’ve hung on a hook on the wall, Victor leans in and whispers, “Glad to have had one last good fuck, Christopher. I’ll miss that.”

Without turning my head, I murmur, “Maybe you won’t have to. We’ll see.”

He chuckles as he steps back and lets the Boys go to work on me. It’s a hell of a process, getting into latex. They keep adding more lube, their soft, slippery hands making me hard again, and it’s a good half hour before they have me dressed. By the time they’re done, it feels like I’ve spent the entire time edging, my cock thrumming with the reverberation of their touch. The body suit is like a second skin, in darkly shining black. They’ve added to that a black patent-leather harness that crosses my chest, with large silver studs set into it. I always feel a little like a Roman gladiator in a chest harness. Decorated. My damn stupid pride again, but I can’t help it. I also can’t help that the rest of it makes me feel elegant and beautiful, horny and fucking powerless all at the same time.

They’ve harnessed my head, too—one of the pinnacles in humiliation for me, but of course my dick is hard as ever. Instead of the full horse-head mask some ponies wear, this one has a square nose box that covers me from just below my nostrils to below my chin, with a mouth plug, blinders, and the ears, of course. It has three straps—two across my cheeks and one across my forehead—as well as one that runs vertically from the nose box up over the top of my head, and they all buckle in the back. I’m already standing up straighter. Pony gear always does that to me, but when they put the tall patent-leather posture collar on me, I really start to sink into pony space. I shake my head a little just to hear the jingle of the harnessing and buckles, a small thrill running hot in my veins at the sound, at the earthy scent of patent-leather and the chemical smell of latex.

Hooved leather mitts and boots are buckled into place next, and a wide belt is secured around my waist. The Boy’s hands feel delicate to me now, through all the latex and leather, as if this thick skin I’m wearing makes me
stronger
. Invulnerable. Invincible. I glance at one of the Boys as he adjusts my head harness, and he pauses for a second, staring into my eyes, his long lashes coming down seductively over his baby blues, and my cock pulses. And Jesus fuck, I could almost come from his flirtatious glance.

Then Victor moves in, pushing the Boy aside to finish the adjustments himself. His hands are far rougher on me, which he knows I fucking love. I pause to breathe in the moment, because I’m pretty damn sure this is my last day in pony gear. Aren’t I? It’s a hell of a lot harder to be as certain with the pure pleasure of being a pony roaring through my system, like that moment of lightning-hot desire at that final point of hovering pause before you thrust your cock into a waiting hole—like that times a hundred, maybe.

I must have spaced out, because Victor grabs my harness and does some capture and control with me, yanking me off my feet, his big hands holding on tight to the chest harness and the straps at my head, his knuckles digging in painfully. Deliciously. And it does the trick—I am back in my body, in the moment. Which is either really good or kinda bad as he unzips the back of the bodysuit, and without so much as a drop of lube or fingerful of spit, he inserts the plug end of a long tail—black, I’m sure, to match my latex. Nothing is done here without a sense of style.

Why do I feel so fucking powerful like this? Powerful, powerless—it’s suddenly all the same thing to me, in this garb, in this position that is the most abject humiliation for other people, and in some ways for me, too. But I glory in it, even in the confusion, when I can’t tell where the bad part stops and the good begins. I flex my muscles, feel the pull of the latex like a hard caress on my flesh, and the hard knob of the plug buried in my ass just deep enough to press teasingly against my prostate, and it all feels so goddamn good. My cock is stiff as a board and ready to fuck.

I will go out there and perform my ass off for the masses who are into this shit. I will give them a show they’ll never forget. And then, like Houdini, I will disappear in a flash of smoke, leaving them talking about me for years to come.

I manage to smile to myself, even with the big rubber plug gagging my mouth, then have to swallow hard so I don’t drool. Can’t ruin the pretty effigy of servitude I currently am. Not now. Now I plan to give them everything they want from me, before I fuck up so badly I can never come back.

Never come back.

Can I really do that? Maybe, if I have Aimée, I won’t need anything else. For the first time since I discovered kink, I think this may actually be possible. But I can’t really think it through right now. Now my body is burning with the sensation of latex entombing my flesh, with the jingle of the harness, the promise of my ever-inflated pride being fulfilled by my admirers. Oh yes, even Master Damon. Or maybe especially him.

Victor has the Boys lead me out by a long pair of reins while he keeps my pace going with sharp smacks of a short whip. It doesn’t hurt, not through the latex—it’s all symbolic at this point. But my brain cannot resist going to that pony place, and I’m sinking, sinking, into that irresistible space where the rest of the world fades away and I am allowed, at last, to lose myself. All I know at this moment is the tight embrace of the latex, the high collar holding my neck as erect as my suffering dick, and the
clip clop
of my hooved boots on the path. As we approach the arena and Victor whips me through the gate, the crowd roars, and Christopher ceases to exist.

All I see at first is a blur of dust being kicked up in the arena, and the vague colors of the people in the stands. My focus is too much turned inward, every one of my senses on high alert, dulling my mind, making sensation blend and muddle together. I swear I can smell the dirt beneath my feet and my own sweat. Even the excitement of the crowd has its own scent—like leather and perfume, fine whiskey and sex.

Then Victor moves in close and I smell his skin, too—he always smells like coffee and sandalwood—and he whispers to me as he reaches between the straps on my head to give my cheek a cruel pinch, “This is it, my bad and beautiful steed. Do your best. Do me proud. You know you want to. You know you
have
to.”

Ah, he always knows how to get inside my head. But I need it, need him to center me. He hustles me along, moving me in such a precise manner that I know instantly he is harnessing me to a cart of some sort. As soon as he backs me into place I recognize the light weight of a racing buggy. I like to race. I like to win, and I know I can. Performance is, after all, my
thing
. Nothing feeds my ego like winning in front of a crowd. I stand even straighter. I would fucking preen, if I were able to move enough. But I can prance a bit in place, and I do, my tail waving in the breeze behind me, and it feels like I’m being fucked the tiniest bit by the plug, pleasure a shiver up my spine. Oh, yeah. I do it again, stomping my hooves on the hard ground, sending shockwaves rippling through my body.

When the crowd cheers once more, I know it’s not because of my shenanigans. I hear another pony and buggy lining up beside me. I inhale.
Male
. And I recognize him, although I can’t turn my head to see him because of the posture collar and the blinders. But I know it’s the gorgeous, hulking ginger from the arena. I would think of it as a sort of divine punishment, except I know there’s nothing “divine” about it. This has to be Master Damon’s idea. His punishment. Bastard. Except when I beat this big slave Boy, I’ll love the Master even more.

I wait to see if I can sense who the other competitors are, but a minute goes by, then another, and it’s still just the two of us, until I hear the light footsteps as two female drivers arrive. Another round of applause, then I hear Dahlia, the evil little handler who announced the Primal Takedowns.

“Sirs and Madams, Masters and Mistresses, we have a special treat for you all today—a race with some of our strongest, most spectacular ponies! Take a look at the muscles on these two, the broad chests, the girth of their biceps and thighs. I can promise you the girth of their fine cocks matches every flexing muscle. A more promising pair you won’t see at any facility on the planet. Today we pit them against each other in a three lap race, and the winner takes the other. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this particular pony race will end up in a takedown for your viewing pleasure.”

What the fuck is this? I don’t know if I’m pissed or excited. Both, probably, since that’s my usual response to almost everything. I paw the ground with my hooved feet, the pony surging through me. The goddamn stallion.

But Dahlia goes on. “Handlers, please prepare our steeds while the drivers mount the buggies.”

Victor is in front of me, and he casts a grin at me before he begins to strike my crotch with his whip. My dick rises, pressing against the latex, nearly screaming to get out, to feel his whip on the swollen, aching head. I would go down on my knees for it about now, if I thought it would actually do any good. But I remind myself that I can have the redhead’s ass if I can hold my shit together.

Victor stops the whipping and reaches down, undoing a zipper and pulling my engorged cock free. A groan escapes from behind my mouth plug as he gives it a hard squeeze.

Fuck.

I am going to die. I am going to come. Then he pinches hard at the underside of the head, squeezing the base painfully at the same time, making my body swallow some of the jizz that’s demanding to burst out of me. I’m swearing silently inside my head, my mind spinning.

Victor leans in and murmurs, “Focus, Christopher.
Now
.”

I look up at him, my gaze meeting his. His dark eyes narrow, and I understand.

Yes. Focus. Win. Fucking triumph
.

“Masters and Mistresses,” Dahlia continues, “today our drivers will be two slaves trained and skilled to drive this particular type of racing buggy. First we have a beautiful slave, lent to us by Mistress Clara, from London—please welcome DeLayne!”

I hear the applause, and the sound of the buggy next to me being mounted.

“And now we have a slave many of you may know—she has been training to drive the buggies, and has become one of the best in recent months. Let’s welcome our own Ishtar!”

Ishtar? What. The. Fuck.

This is a Girl I myself have played many times as a Master. And God damn it, Master Damon knows exactly what the fuck he’s doing, doesn’t he? I’m so pissed off, if it weren’t for Victor still standing in front of me, glaring me down, I’d… I don’t know what the hell I’d do. Bolt? I can’t do it—not now. But Jesus God, I’m motherfucking spitting mad!

Victor leans in, hitting me with his little whip to cover his quiet muttering. “Calm down, Christopher. It’s not her fault. Use your anger to fuel you. You know how.”

He’s right—I do know. And I will do it. But later, someone is going to pay.

The buggy shifts as Ishtar—a petite blonde with large, gorgeous breasts—gets in. And as mad as I am, I’m also turned on as fuck knowing it’s
her
that’s about to drive me. My cock gives a hard twitch.

Then the horn sounds and I’m running—running until my legs ache, and the bottoms of my feet hurt from the impact of hard, hooved boots on the ground. With the damn blinders on, I can’t see my competition, but the fact he’s not up in front of me is a good sign. Then suddenly, he is, and I really pour it on, while Ishtar snaps a buggy whip at my back, catching me on the shoulders over and over. Whatever. I’ll run like a fucking fiend anyway.

As I start to pass the big ginger stud, he shoulders me, nearly rocking me off my feet, and pissed, I ram into his side. It gives me a momentary lead, but in seconds he’s pulling ahead again.

Just do it. Have to win.

I think of Master Damon, of what he’s doing to punish me. How I need to show him up. To return the punishment a little. I’m a bastard, after all, and it wouldn’t do for me to ruin my reputation.

I pull in a deep breath, taking in the scents of damp air and eucalyptus trees. It helps my lungs to open up, and I pour on the speed. I catch sight of Dahlia waving a flag as I finish the second lap. My lungs are beginning to burn, but nothing could make me give up now. The redhead slams into my right shoulder again, and again I return the hit, being careful not to overturn the buggy, which is an art in itself. Somehow, my hooves are easier to run in than they are to walk in, and I’m pounding the dirt. I’ll pound
him
soon enough.