Boy (The Training House #2) (7 page)

She opens her eyes and stares right into mine. And again, she says, “Yes, please.”

I can see that she means it. Down to her bones, in every cell of her body.

“Goddamn fucking Christ, Aimée.”

I slip an arm behind her and drag her down, until I have her under me, her wrists pinned at the small of her back, and I don’t care that it’s got to be uncomfortable for her. As I raise her free leg, the other rattles the chain attached to her shackled ankle, and I feel a grin spread over my face. Fucking beautiful, with her red hair all over the place, shining against the gold of the straw, her green eyes glossy as she slips right into subspace. Slave space. Even better knowing there is a person of real depth, one who analyzes and tears herself apart trying to get to the bottom of her kink. Of herself. Oh, yeah. Because it’s
that
person turning herself over to me.

Leaning right in, I take one luscious, pink nipple into my mouth, and it hardens under my tongue. I bite into her tender flesh, and she gasps, then sighs, gasps again when I bite harder, chewing on her nipple. And in moments she’s panting, her hips rising against me, pressing against my rigid cock, and I shift and slide right into her.

“Ah, fuck, you’re so wet.”

Her sweet little cunt is contracting around me almost instantly, and I sink my teeth into her nipple, tasting blood as she begins to come, a raw mewling issuing from her throat. I can smell her come in the air—come and desire, hers and my own. I keep at it, fucking her, fucking her, and I can’t get enough, driving hard and deep. Pleasure is like a hammer, threatening to pound me apart, to shatter me. But this girl always shatters me. And too soon, I’m about to come.

Pulling out, I quiet her protesting moan with a hand over her mouth. Her eyes go wide as I use my thumb and forefinger to squeeze her nostrils shut, and her body goes limp with yielding. I feel her throat tighten and release her nostrils, letting her take some air in, and I let go of her wrists so I can press a finger into her ass.

Ah, God, so damn tight and velvet and fuck, I need to be in her ass, too. And she can take my dick, I know she can. But I’m too fascinated with watching her face as I slide my hand to her throat and put just enough pressure on the carotids, making her swoon. But even as she begins to lose consciousness, just my finger in her ass is making her come again—she’s coming even as she passes out, and it’s almost more than my rabidly throbbing dick can take. And still, I need to see her, to watch her lovely face.

Too much. Too much to feel. But I can’t run from it, for once. Can’t run from her.

As her eyelids flutter, consciousness returning, I flip her over and pull her onto her knees, holding her with one arm around her narrow hips, and with the other I part the cheeks of her perfect, heart-shaped ass. Spitting onto my hand, I push one finger, then another, into her asshole, fucking her with my hand, harder and harder. It feels like she’s about to come again, and I stop.

Leaning over her, I bury my fist in her hair and yank hard enough to pull her head up and back. “Tell me,” I growl into her ear. Then, when she doesn’t answer right away, I take the shell of her ear between my teeth and pull.

“Ah! Christopher… Tell you what? I’ll tell you anything.”

“Good girl, Aimée. That’s exactly where I want you. Tell me you want me to fuck your asshole. Tell me you want my fat cock buried in your fine ass. Tell me you want to come that way.”

“Please,” she sobs. “Please, Christopher. Oh God, can I call you that, even now?”

“Yes. Do it. Call me by my name.”

“Christopher,” she says, making a shiver run through my system. “Make me come with your cock in my ass. I want it. I want
you
. I need you.”

Slipping my fingers out, I spread her cheeks, her firm flesh in my hand. I pause to give it a hard pinch, then another, but I can’t wait any longer. I cannot fucking wait. Pressing the tip of my cock at that tight little hole, I tell her, “You will open for me. You’ll take all of me, take me deep. It’s going to fucking hurt. I’m going to tear you apart—I won’t be able to help myself. I
have
to hurt you.”

“Yes. Tear me open. Make me bleed for you,” she begs. “For
you
, Christopher.”

She spreads her knees wider, granting me further access, and I spread her ass cheeks wide with my hand, until I can see the pink, puckered flesh of her asshole. So damn delicious-looking, I have to lean down, bite the lovely curve of her ass, then bite again and again, leaving teeth marks all over her ass, her lower back, her spine, her shoulders. And the whole time she’s yelping, squirming in a way that makes her back twist and dance like a snake of gorgeously tempting flesh that I have to kiss, to draw my tongue over in between taking that same delicate flesh between my teeth. And soon I break the skin, the metallic scent of blood like magic to me. I have to fuck her ass now—as if I didn’t before—but the smell of blood really makes my head swim, makes my body hum with a ravenous desire.

Pressing the head of my cock against that sweet little puckered hole, I thrust, sliding in with a single motion. She gasps, cries out, making me smile. I begin a hard pumping, hard and deep and fast, hammering into her. In moments I hear her really start to cry, but it only makes my smile spread into an evil grin. It only makes me fuck her harder, my lust fed by her beautiful tears, flesh for the hungry beast. And I grab her by the hair, pulling her head up, her body, until we’re both on our knees. Taking her jaw in my hand, I squeeze, turn her face so I can see her crying. Her cheeks are wet. She’s sobbing quietly. And still, I’m bucking into her fiercely. Savagely. And pleasure is like a tightly bound coil in my belly and my balls, in the pumping head of my iron-hard dick. I hold it back, but soon I can’t fucking take it anymore, and I come, filling her ass with my jizz.

“Fuck, yeah.”

Wrapping an arm around her waist, I pull her down onto the straw with me, spooning her, my softening cock still deep in her ass.

Her breath is a hard panting— I can feel it under my hand on her stomach. Her hips are undulating the slightest bit. She’s a good girl, after all. A good slave. But she’s as taken away by desire as I am. Reaching around, I press onto her tight clit, the flesh swollen with need. I shift my hand until I can use the knuckle of my finger to tease her clitoris, and with the side of my thumb I press just into her sweet, slick cunt.

“Oh…Oh!”

She comes in a torrent, her cunt gushing with her juices, my beautiful, squirting girl. Nice to know she can do that. Fucking hell, more than nice.

Slipping from her ass, I quickly use a handful of the straw to wipe down my cock before tossing it aside, then roughly turning her onto her back, I force her knees up with my hands, spreading her pussy wide. Then, still holding one leg up, I push my fingers into her soaking cunt and begin to work her g-spot, rubbing at it until I feel it swell. Then, using a quick, rough, up-and-down motion, I pump her cunt until she starts to yell. Until her pussy gushes and she squirts all over the straw and her own thighs and mine as I kneel between her legs.

“Again.” I command.

She whimpers—maybe that’s all she’s capable of at this point—and acquiesces, her body relaxing, knowing what to do in order to let herself gush for me. This time I watch her face as it builds, as she screams, as she squirts like mad, soaking us both once more.

When it’s over she’s panting hard, shaking all over, small spasms still wracking her body. And her very helplessness does something to me. I pull her upright, into my arms, into my lap, and hold her tight.

This girl…she
touches
me. And even though the catalyst is sex and kink, it doesn’t matter. It’s only a catalyst. The important thing here is that she’s gotten to me, gotten inside me. Inside my heart and my fucking soulless soul. But she’s too damn beautiful at this moment for me to be afraid of anything. I am filled with wanting—wanting to some raging degree. It feels like madness. It feels like everything I never knew I wanted. It makes me feel in some way like a different person.

Her head is on my shoulder as she catches her breath, her arms limp at her sides, which is the correct manner for servitude. I take her arms and loop then around my neck, both because I know it will comfort her, and because I need to feel her holding on to me.

Finally, I feel her relax in my arms, and I lay her down in the hay. That’s when I realize there’s blood on my hands—her blood.

“Hey. Stay right here for me. Okay? I’m going to get the first aid kit and clean you up.”

She nods, curling into a ball as I let her go and get to my feet. My head is still spinning, but I find the handlers’ room, which would have been the tack room in the horse stable, and open a cabinet, pulling out the first aid kit, blankets, and a few bottles of water. After cleaning myself thoroughly, I take it all back to our stall.

When I return she blinks up at me, her green eyes glazed and sleepy and full of slavespace, a small smile on her pretty pink mouth.

“Drink this.” I hand her a bottle of water and watch as she drinks it all down. “Good girl. Do you need the bucket?”

She’s too dazed to answer, so I take her by the hand and lead her to the metal bucket in one corner, steady her as she squats over it and pees.

There’s a certain eroticism in having your lover or your slave urinate in front of you, even if it’s not necessarily done for erotic play. It’s the vulnerability of it. She doesn’t even flinch—she simply does it, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. And it feels natural. But even so, it’s fucking hot, making my blood boil. Any other time, it would make my dick hard, but currently it’s too spent to do more than twitch lazily.

She’s quiet as I clean the blood from her ass first, then using a handful of wipes, I clean her stomach, her thighs, the plump, pink flesh of her pussy. Then I use the wipes, followed by the antibiotic ointment, to treat the bite wounds, which are on her breasts, her shoulders, her ass, the back of her neck. My heart is hammering the entire time—with excitement, a deep pleasure, and stark emotion I don’t know what the hell to do with, other than to lie down next to her when I’m done and pull her into my arms, spooning her once more. Her lithe little body is warm, then gets warmer as I pull a blanket over us.

“How are you?” I ask her.

“Sooo good,” she says, drawing out the syllables, still totally gone from sex and pain and the D/s dynamic. “Wonderful. That was…wonderful.” She ends on a sigh.

“You’re in dreamland, prettiness.”

“Mmm…yes. I never want to wake up,” she murmurs. “I always want to be here with you, in this stable, with you commanding my body. This is perfect.”

I chuckle to hide the tightness in my chest. “You may change your mind about that once you’ve recovered, once you’re thinking clearly again.”

“No. This is the clearest I’ve ever been in my life.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing. Instead, I bury my face in the back of her hair and inhale, rub my face in the satiny strands. Kiss the back of her neck over and over.

“Christopher?” she says finally. “May I… Is it okay if I turn over to face you?”

Rather than answer I turn her with my own hands, keeping my grip rough so she’ll get that I’m still in command, that the dynamic never stops with the sex. That it never will.

When she’s facing me, she snuggles right in, and I don’t know if it’s because she’s lost that sense of the power dynamic, if my being nice to her has diluted my dominance, or if it’s only because she feels that at ease with me, regardless. But it doesn’t matter too much at the moment. It feels too damn good. It calms even the rage of the beast that lives within me, which is no easy fucking task, and I sort of melt into her soft, sweet skin, the tender flesh of her body, finding comfort myself, which is entirely new to me. But what the fuck? Why can’t I be comforted? Does it have to mean I’ve been rendered weak? And fuck it. I don’t give a shit if I have been. I’ll be weak for a few minutes with her. I’ll be weak for the first time. And for the first time, it doesn’t fucking matter.

That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.

We sleep. When I wake up, the hazy amber light streaming in through the top half of the stall door, which has been left open, tells me the sun is setting. It occurs to me that there are probably other slaves in the stalls close to ours, that they heard us fucking, heard Aimée coming, sobbing, screaming. I know what it is to be in such a position, how it makes your body thrum with jealousy, with the need to come that can be so intense it feels like your skin is burning, as if you need to tear it from your body simply to get some relief. Or maybe that’s just me. I’ve done those things to myself. There were times when I needed it.

Aimée stretches, yawns, and I hand her the water bottle. She drinks obediently. She does everything obediently. Almost. There’s just enough fire in her to let me know she is no mindless sheep of a slave, which is something one often finds in this crazy, kinky world of ours. Some slaves have been in it too long, have lost themselves so completely there’s nothing left of
them
. Some Masters love this, but I hate it. The sheep are boring to me, devoid of interest, devoid of the spark that makes them a challenge. Yes, I love to see them hand themselves over, and I understand we have a need to lose ourselves. But you still have to be a person under all that—an individual—or what’s the fucking point? If you have nothing left of yourself, you have nothing left to give, or so it seems to me. But what do I know? I’m the one who doesn’t fit in, as Dominant or slave.

I run my hand down her sleek side, and she surges into my touch. Nice. I’m hard again, instantly, but that’s a condition of my life, and I can handle it, my nearly-eternal erection.

“How are you doing?” I ask her between the throbbing pulse-beats of my hardening cock.

“I’m good. A little sore, but fine. How are you doing?”

“What?”

“You sound surprised that I would ask.”