Boy (The Training House #2) (12 page)

After having the driver stop at one of those all-night gas stations, where I buy my girl a pair of shorts and flip-flops, we continue on to the Monterey Hotel, an old Victorian inn just up the street from Cannery Row. Not that I plan to stay long enough to play tourist here, but we need a comfortable spot for the night. I’ve learned that a few hours of transition time is important.

The place is lit up, and I can tell Aimée is in shock. To be honest, so am I, but I have to take care of her, so I keep her close to my side while I get us checked in to a room. Then I half carry her up the old stairs, carpeted in a dark red floral print, to the third floor.

Our room is pretty—a suite with a fireplace and a wide, arching window with heavy white-painted shutters that remind me of New Orleans. The whole room reminds me of that old city, with its fine, carved antique furniture, the enormous bed with the intricate wood headboard, the little writing desk against one wall.

“Sit down while I take care of a few things, pretty,” I tell her.

She follows my direction, setting herself on the edge of a damask-covered chair, still in slave mode, with her perfect posture, her gaze on the floor. Or maybe it’s just the shock of our absurd situation. But I have to turn away from her long enough to build a fire, to call downstairs and ask them to send up extra blankets and a meal, and quietly offer them money to send someone out to get two small pieces of luggage and clothes for her. I also give them a contact number to have one of my credit cards, some of my own clothes and more cash sent to me here by courier from my home in San Francisco—I have an assistant who will know what to do. And these fine hotels, they know better than to ask any questions.

I push a glass of sparkling water into Aimée’s hands, and she takes a few sips. But she looks so damn lost sitting there, I pick her up in my arms, drag the soft cashmere blanket from the foot of the bed, and sit down in front of the fire with her half in my lap.

“How are you doing?” I ask, running a hand through her hair.

“I’m good.”

“Are you?”

“No. But I will be.”

“Yeah, you will. Aimée, you have to know that you are my responsibility now, that I don’t take this lightly. I will take damn good care of you.”

She wraps her delicate fingers around my wrist, making my heart beat faster. “I know you will. I wouldn’t have left with you otherwise.” She pauses, then, “There’s a certain safety in that world, isn’t there? We sign ourselves over, and it’s everything I’ve ever hoped for, imagined, fantasized about, masturbated to. But it’s also safe. Safe in that I can lose myself. Safe in that every single thing is attended to for us. But…meeting you has made me realize that in being
that
safe, I’m losing out on something. And it’s not what an outsider would think, that what I’m losing is my individuality. That’s a given, although that never really goes away, or we’d do it and be done a month later. What I’m losing out on is taking risks. Being willing to walk through life and
feel
it all. I didn’t know it before. I was simply doing what I thought I needed.”

“And you don’t need it anymore?”

“No, I do. I absolutely do, or I wouldn’t have walked away with you—I would have just walked away. But I think with you I can have the safety and the fantasy, and still have those risks I’ve been avoiding all these years.”

“I’ve never been able to leave the risks behind completely, to lose myself to that degree. I’ve always felt like it’s some failure in me, some defect.”

“No. I think you’re more a realist than the rest of the slaves.”

Grabbing her face, I look into her eyes. “Don’t put me on a pedestal, Aimée. I’m sure to disappoint you,” I tell her more harshly than I mean to.

She shrugs. “Then disappoint me. At least I’ll know it’s real. Because I don’t think I can do this anymore—what I’ve been doing. I really was convinced it was what I wanted, craved, and maybe I did crave it, but that doesn’t mean it’s what I needed.”

“What do you think you need now?”

“It’s a little vague. I’m sure I’ll feel more like I have my feet under me in the days to come. I want you. I
need
you—need to be yours—but I still need to be myself sometimes. Some kind of balance. I have no idea how to do that. Can we figure the rest out as we go? Will you help me?”

I lean down and press my lips to the tender spot at the base of her throat. Her pulse beats madly against my lips. “As long as you know you’re mine.”

“Yes,” she whispers. “Absolutely yours. Yes, please, Christopher.”

I kiss her lips, and they’re so damn soft under mine, it’s making me a little crazy. I push my tongue inside, her mouth unbelievably sweet. It makes me need to hurt her, to be inside her. I slip my hand under her shirt and take her warm, full breast in my palm, squeeze hard, making her sigh, then she gasps as I pinch her nipple tightly. My dick twitches, pressing against my jeans, making me flash back to the sensation of being encased in the latex.

Need to play her wearing tight leather pants…to open the fly and fuck her until she screams, my balls squeezed tight by the seam in the leather.

When I bite into her lip, she moans, and I’m fucking rigid as steel, my cock weeping pre-come already. Then there’s a knock at the door, and I have to let her luscious tit go to get up and answer the door with a hard-on—not that it’s anything new, and I don’t fucking care if the room service guy they’ve sent up here sees it. In fact, when he glances down and tries to suppress his reaction to my fat cock pressing against my jeans, it amuses me.

Taking the plates from the cart, I set them on the floor, sit down and spoon-feed my girl. There will be plenty of time for her to serve me once we get settled somewhere and the shock of the day has worn off. I give her little tastes of everything: tender bits of crab meat dipped in melted butter, fresh strawberries, torn pieces of the fragrant local sourdough bread. She takes each bite carefully, like a baby bird, and her delicacy makes me want to do terrible things to her. But tonight we need to rest.

After we eat, I pick her up and set her on the bed. I pull the thermal shirt over her head, cover her carefully, and after stripping out of my clothes, I curl up beside her. I really don’t intend to do more than sleep, but fuck it all, it’s
me
, and in about thirty seconds I’ve pulled her on top of me, and my arms are wrapped around her sleek little body, tight enough to hurt, while I pinch her soft flesh—her sides, her ass, her thighs, the backs of her arms. And she’s moaning and sighing against my neck. I’m hard as fuck, and her wet pussy is rubbing my dick, so I press her hips tighter against me, digging my nails in, and shove her slender frame up and down, jacking off with her whole body on my stiff cock. Her nipples are two hard points against my chest. They feel fucking great, raking over the piercing on my left side, her lush flesh so damn soft. Goddamn delicious girl.

When she starts to shake, I tell her, “Come for me,” and she does, good girl that she is. And Jesus fuck, in moments I’m coming against her belly, then we’re slipping and sliding in my sticky jizz.

I go hard again, and this time I roll her over, bring her knees up to her shoulders and plow into her, watching her beautiful face. So beautiful, I have to hurt her. Have to. I start to slap her, and with each slap her eyes become more glazed, her body going loose beneath me as she yields to my command, to the pain. Her cheeks are burning, bright pink with my hand prints. Leaning down, I take one of her gorgeous, succulent tits into my mouth, sinking my teeth in, finding the marks I left on her before and scraping, sucking, marking her.
Mine
.

“Fuck, yeah,” I mutter, bending to kiss her hard, sucking on her lips, biting down until she whimpers, then cries out. Finding the pressure points on the back of one sleek thigh, I press, dig, until she’s coming and yelling, and I have to slap a hand over her mouth. Then she’s choking, still coming. I spill into her, pleasure wracking my body, spiraling into my gut, shooting up my spine and into my brain—mainlining pleasure like a fucking rocket in my veins.

Even when we’re both done coming, I’m still pinching her, twisting her nipples, biting her shoulders. I love the way she gives herself over to me, to whatever pain I want to bring her. To the pleasure. It’s like an exploration for me, new territory, feeling like this. Treating a woman’s body this way. Not the fucking or the pain, but the way I feel when I’m doing it. Like I have to
devour
her—her skin, her scent, her desire. I need to fill myself up with her, and I can’t get enough. I can’t stop until the way she smells is deeply embedded in my nostrils, until the flavor of her flesh is burned into my tongue. And even then, it’s barely enough to hold me for the night.

I mean to leave the next morning, to make us less traceable, but we stay in that hotel room for another three days. The sex is fucking off the charts. Kinkier, maybe, because it’s not nearly as hardcore as what we’re both used to, which makes us laugh when we talk about it. I spank her—with my hands, with a hairbrush. I bend her over the little secretary and fuck her ass. I bite her until she bleeds, until I have to clap my hand across her mouth to stifle her screams. I make her squirt so much I have to call housekeeping to change the sheets three or four times a day. I order her to get down on her knees and give me head, fucking her face until she’s choking and tears run down her cheeks. I make her suck my pierced nipple until I come all over her beautiful tits. But this all seems a little vanilla to us both. Still, it’s unbelievable, how good it is. And in between the kink and the sex and the kinky sex, we talk about fucking
everything
.

Eventually I decide it has to be our last night, that it’s time to move on. I’ve ordered dinner, and we’re sitting on the floor in front of the fire having one of our picnics again, the scents of beef bourguignon and acrid, earthy wood smoke mixing with the scent of desire that’s always a part of us. I’m feeding her again—at some point I decided this is the only way I will allow her to eat. We’re both wearing the thick, soft hotel robes we’ve mostly lived in when we’re not naked—which isn’t often—and her lovely, bruised breasts show from between the folds of the open neckline.

“Prettiness, have I told you how much I love that you wear my marks?”

She smiles, batting her long lashes, tipped in gold in the amber light of the fire. “Every day.”

“I plan to tell you every day forever.”

Her smile broadens. “And to mark me every day?”

Reaching across our picnic to pull out her tit and pinch her gorgeous pink nipple, I tell her, “You’re a very kinky girl.”

“Oh! Yes, I am. I remember having these little fantasies about the priests in church…”

I laugh. “Oh, really? Maybe I’ll have to get a long black robe and smack your fine ass with a ruler.”

She bats those long, golden lashes again. “Yes, please.”

I play with her nipple for a while, brushing and teasing it, pinching it, then brushing it again, enjoying how damn hard it is. Knowing her little cunt is slick with her juices every time I touch her. Every time I hurt her. I fucking love how responsive she is, how eternally wet. I love talking with her just as much, and over the last few days, I’ve learned not to question feeling that way. I want to know everything—the inside of her brain, as much as the inside of her lush body.

Letting her nipple go, I sit back and tuck a tender piece of beef into my mouth before asking, “When did you go to church? I can’t imagine your father being a church man.”

“No. He cares nothing about God.”

“Do you?”

“Believe it or not, I do. But I don’t think kink is sinful—I don’t know that I really buy into the concept of sin, as long as it’s consensual.” She gives a small laugh. “I suppose that makes me a terrible Catholic.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m a godless bastard who grew up on the streets.”

She frowns, a pretty little pout. “Don’t sell yourself short, Christopher.”

I shrug. “Maybe I do—or maybe I’m a realist. Tell me more about church.”

Her pale brows draw together. “You want to hear about church?”

Stroking her cheek, I twine a strand of her dark-red hair between my fingers, giving it a tug. “I want to hear about you.”

“Well…Maman used to take me to church sometimes on Sunday. I remember the French nuns in Paris. Even as a little girl I was fascinated by them. They were so gentle, so beautiful to me, and I couldn’t wait until I was big enough to go to Sunday school. Maman taught me to say the word ‘catechism’. I was so little, and yet I learned to pronounce it in French and in English.”

“Belle dans les deux langues.”

“Christopher— tu parle français?”

“A little. There’s a Master and Mistress, a couple from Bordeaux, that I serve sometimes—or, I did. They insisted I learn their language,” I tell her. “But my French isn’t so good.”

“Au contraire—I’m impressed. But then, everything you do, you do well, so I’m not surprised.”

“Believe me, my ego doesn’t need any fluffing up, my pretty girl. Tell me more about your Maman.”

She bites her lip, making me want to bite it again, but I’ve been doing it so much, they’re swollen and bruised in places, and I manage to resist. Maybe I am learning some self-control? The Master would laugh at that.

Small churning in my gut thinking of him. He’s a subject we’ve avoided these last few days, but I’m certain he’s on her mind as much as he is on mine.

“Go on, talk to me about her,” I urge.

“It’s difficult. I feel as if I’ve never recovered from her death. It altered my life so completely, at such a young age, and I’ve felt orphaned ever since. I know I keep saying that, but it’s something I can’t seem to get past. But you lost your mother, too. Don’t you feel it?”

“I never had a mother—not really. Mostly I feel…anger. Shit, not just about her. That’s how I feel about most things.”

She pauses, glancing away, then back at me, and says quietly, “I feel it, too—angry with her for leaving me, even though that’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fucking fair.”