The Trainer (44 page)

It was relentless, inhuman, and it was so
terrible that he couldn’t hold back the tears. How could the other
slaves have taken this without screaming, without fighting? He
counted desperately, through the twenties, and then the thirties,
and when forty strokes had been given, he spat the handkerchief
from his mouth and gulped in air, sobbing between breaths.

“You’re a wimp,” Chris said. “Tara could
have taken that better than you.”

Michael bit the bedspread, and felt the wave
of heat that seemed to be radiating from his ass. Oh God, it hurt,
it hurt!

“Now, let’s get back to dreams and thoughts,
shall we?”

Michael hit the floor hard, and slumped
forward. The sudden upward tug on the nipple clamps made him gasp,
and their removal was like needles being driven through his
nipples. He reeled, and Chris caught him by the hair. Michael
looked up and almost fell back in shock.

Chris had one hell of a well developed chest
for such a little guy. His pecs were firm, and you could see the
start of some nice cutting down his body. Or you could—if you could
get past the glorious tattoo that covered him from just below his
nipples down into his waistband.

It was a bird—like an eagle, Michael thought
deliriously. But at the same time, he knew it wasn’t an eagle that
rose out of the flames, red, licking flames that surrounded the
outline of the wings, claws extended into the crotch area, and a
glittering pile of ashes mingling with the top-line of pubic
hair.

A phoenix, that’s what it was. In golds and
reds and scintillating blues, the eyes malevolently, proudly
centered on that muscular chest, claws stretching down a line to
that big fat dick below. Michael gasped at the beauty of it, and
then whimpered as Chris shook him by the hair.

“Tell me about your fantasies, Michael.”

“Yes, yes,” Michael choked out, tearing his
eyes away from the swirling colors of the tattoo. “You’re
right—whatever you say!”

“But I want you to say it, Michael. And I
want to believe what you say.”

“Will you—will you let me go?”

“No deals, boy. Talk, or we can go on to act
two.” Chris dropped one hand to his crotch and fingered the
erection under his jeans. “I can always beat you again after I fuck
you.”

“Oh, God—I swear I didn’t know,” Michael
said, looking away. “I’ve always—always been a top. No one ever
made me bottom—I tried, but it didn’t work. Never—the right person.
I don’t know! And then—Geoff was so soft—and I thought—I don’t
know, I thought he’d punish me! After the Karen thing, I thought
maybe he’d take me aside—but he was just the same. It was all the
same—always the same fucking thing,” Michael stammered and caught
himself. He wasn’t even sure what he was saying. But Chris was
nodding, so he continued. “I started thinking about trying it your
way—doing what the slaves were doing. And every time I did
something, it started to feel right, and I didn’t know why! I
mean—I thought I was just learning how to do it so you would get
off my case—and then I saw you at the bar—and Anderson didn’t
care—but you—you—” He gasped for breath again, and struggled to
keep the tears from flowing.

“Okay, I can fill in those blanks. I’m
believing you, Mike. So now the big question—how long have you
wanted this?”

“I don’t—” Michael gasped as Chris pulled
his head back by the hair, stretching his throat. “Since the first
time Ethan knelt by my bed!” he choked out.

And amazingly, it was true. Michael felt
more tears welling up, and when Chris let him go, he fell forward,
against Chris’s leg, the warm, rich scent of the leather suddenly
soothing instead of frightening.

God, all these years of being the topman,
getting the service, getting the attention and the obedience, and
it all came back to that moment when Ethan fell into what was
obviously a practiced position and eagerly leaned forward to
deliver a morning blowjob. Michael had taken it, gratefully, but
when he closed his eyes, he saw himself, leaning over the edge of a
bed, his cock hard and his eyes full of devotion.

“Why didn’t you go for what you wanted
then?’ Chris asked.

“My uncle—how could I tell him I wanted to
be a slave? He expected me to be this natural master—and by the
time I met Geoff—I was—used to it.” Michael sniffed, and drew in a
ragged breath. “It was always so easy to be the master—I would tell
them what to do, and they’d do it! And—and everyone told me I was
so good, that I could be a trainer—and it was so nice, sometimes,
so easy!”

“It’s not so easy,” Chris said. “As you’ve
found out.”

“No!” Michael agreed, dropping his chin.

“So, your little plan goes astray—you can’t
seduce the Trainer, because she’s got her own boy already
here.”

Michael shook his head. “I didn’t plan
it.”

“All right. I’ll allow that it was
unconscious. And then what?”

“I—I hated you,” Michael burst out.
Astonishingly, Chris laughed.

“That’s nothing new,” he said. “When did you
figure out what you wanted from me?”

“Two weeks ago,” Michael whispered.

“Poor baby,” Chris crooned. “To wait so long
for what he so desperately needs. I don’t think I’m going to wait
another minute.” He stood, and unfastened the buckle on the chaps
and the top buttons of his jeans. “Now, I get to indulge a fantasy
I’ve had for a while. To ream you out, good and proper.”

“Oh, God!” Michael swallowed and twisted
backward. “I never—”

“A virgin?” Chris stopped, and grinned. He
walked away from the bed and picked up something from his
nightstand. A bottle of lubricant. He looked down at Michael and
picked up the wet and wadded handkerchief he had spat out before.
“I think you’ll need this.”

It was a question. Michael moaned, and
closed his eyes.

And nodded.

Face down, pressed into the edge of the bed,
his asscheeks spread wide as the cool lubricant slid inside of
him—one finger at a time, and always Chris talking, telling him how
long he’d waited to pull apart those sweet cheeks, to open up that
never-fucked hole. Michael moaned deeply as one finger became two,
slick, sliding back and forth, pressing into him, pressing against
that area no one had ever touched before, making his nuts tighten
with pleasure.

Three fingers were accompanied by regular,
open hand slaps against his ass, waking up the heat already laid
down. Michael panted through his nose and his muffled cry echoed in
his ear as he felt the head of Chris’s impossibly hard cock press
against his asshole.

“This will last until I get off,” Chris
said. “I advise you not to shoot your load before I do. Not only
will I beat you for coming without permission—but it will be
excruciatingly painful for you if your ass tightens up after you
splatter my bed.”

And then, he thrust in.

Michael bit down, hard, and saw stars. All
he could think of was, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts! It felt like
he was being split in two. In that first second of pain, his mind
went blank. Around the third or fourth, he felt sympathy for every
asshole he had thoughtlessly invaded with his cock, thinking that
it only hurt for a second, and then they got used to it. But how on
earth could anyone get used to feeling like they were burning from
the inside out?

Chris slowly filled him, until he could feel
flesh, mingled with the open straps of the chaps, the folded-back
fly of the jeans. Everything that touched him set off ripples of
reaction, and he panted and bit the gag until the intense pain of
the intrusion started to settle down to a dull kind of stretched
feeling.

And that was when he started to get really
fucked.

He wasn’t being made love to—he wasn’t being
screwed or even being laid. He was being fucked, his body pressed
down and opened, a cock shoving down into him over and over, each
time threatening to pull out, or to slam back in with full
fury.

The pain never really left—but it began to
mingle with a terrible kind of pleasure. It was humiliating, but
the very motion that made him feel so used was also awakening
sensations and emotions that made his cock hard, and made him moan
between gasps.

“Yes, that’s it,” Chris panted. “That’s my
boy. Come on up, and push your sweet ass back for me.” He pulled
against Michael’s bound wrists, making him shift back. Michael felt
the floor firm beneath his feet, and pushed up as he was directed.
Immediately, he felt the reward of Chris’s hand on his dick. He
moaned.

“Don’t come,” Chris warned again. “Your shot
belongs to me, boy. You hear me? When I’m ready to make you come, I
will.”

Michael whimpered and nodded, and braced his
forehead against the bed. It hurt—he felt like his entire body was
stretched out around his asshole. But he could hear Chris sigh with
pleasure every time he pushed back, taking in more cock, and every
sigh drove Michael to work harder.

“Good boy,” Chris said. “Good boy. Taking it
all—such a good boy. Take my load, boy. Here it comes.” His hand
tightened on Michael’s cock, and Michael groaned heavily into his
gag. Every thrust as Chris neared orgasm was a full, hard slam that
drove Michael down against the bed. He couldn’t stand any more, and
his knees buckled, but Chris followed him down and ground his dick
in between Michael’s cheeks and growled like an animal.

Michael moaned as Chris finished and slowly,
slowly pulled out. He lay there, breathing heavily and feeling the
twitches of his oh-so-empty ass, the ache in his nuts, the
stiffness of his cock, the tingling pain in his nipples. He kept
cataloging his aches—from his shoulders and wrists to his
asscheeks, which still felt hot and tender. He didn’t know how long
he lay there, but it did seem to be a long time. Like a year.

He felt something cold touch his ass, and
jerked.

“Just cleaning you up a bit,” Chris said
matter-of-factly. Michael closed his eyes as he was tended to, and
tried not to feel ashamed. But he was anyway.

He stumbled as Chris pulled him back off the
bed, and fell hard onto his knees again. The handkerchief dropped
out of his mouth. The rope around his wrists was removed, and he
felt the shirt being pulled off his back. He shivered, and in the
next instant was covered by a blanket, and shoved down onto the
floor.

“You,” Chris said, “will sleep there.” He
was wearing pajama bottoms—Michael blinked, wondering when he had
changed. Chris was still talking. “Do not get up without
permission. Do not leave. I’ll speak to you in the morning. Do you
understand?”

Michael found the strength to nod. Chris
stepped over to the head of the bed and came back with a pillow,
which he tossed onto the floor. Michael wrapped one arm around it,
and tried to control his shaking.

“Thank you,” he whispered. How had his voice
gotten so hoarse?

“Go to sleep,” Chris said. “And that’s
‘thank you, sir.’”

“Thank you, sir,” Michael repeated. “Oh God,
thank you.”

Chris bent down and stroked him, gently on
the head, and then along his body. “Good boy,” he whispered.
Michael trembled for another five minutes, and fell asleep from
sheer exhaustion, with Chris’s hand still on his body.

He woke up before dawn, earlier than the
usual time to get up for a run. For a moment, he was confused—his
first thought was that he had been in an accident. He was aching
and in an unfamiliar and uncomfortable place. But he remembered the
previous night in a sudden flood, and shivered, huddled under his
blanket on the floor.

Like a dog in a bed, he thought, and
shivered again.

He assessed the damage to his body. He was
stiff as hell, and his shoulder was sore, probably from sleeping on
it. His butt cheeks weren’t hurting, but he felt a strange
looseness from the inside. Or not so strange, considering the size
of Chris’s endowment and its preternatural erection. So, he
thought, cuddling back down for a moment. This is what it’s really
like. To be well fucked and left at the foot of the bed.

What a rush.

What had taken him so long to get here? Why
hadn’t it worked before?

He knew the answer. He had been too close to
home. It was true what he told Chris the previous night—there was
no way he could have told Niall that he wanted to be a slave, not
own one. And everyone just assumed that owning a slave was the way
to go—never had anyone even asked him if he ever considered being
one. It was so much easier to just go along with things.

I should see a shrink, he thought ruefully.
I was in one hell of a denial.

He rolled over, muffling a few low groans,
listening to Chris’s steady breathing. Oh, it would be nice to be
able to cuddle right now, to pull into that hot little body, all
compact and full of muscles. Damn, and I thought I couldn’t get
into men, he thought. He had to push his face into the pillow to
drown out the snort of amusement that followed. Chris had sure
gotten into him!

There was just one problem—he had to take a
wicked piss. He eased himself up slowly, and wrapped the blanket
around himself. Chris’s room had a bathroom adjoining it that was
shared by the next bedroom on the floor. Michael tiptoed into it,
and eased the door almost completely shut. He didn’t want the light
to disturb Chris, nor the sound of the door shutting. Carefully, he
searched for the light switch in the dark, and flipped it on. And
screamed.

He leapt back, hitting a towel bar, and
yelped. Staring at the awful thing in the sink, he tore at the door
until it was open, and threw himself back into Chris’s room.

Chris was sitting up in bed, scratching his
chest. He yawned, and said, “That’s ten for disobeying me and
another ten for waking me up.”

Michael felt a chill on his legs and
realized that he had wet himself. He dragged the blanket around his
body and pointed at the bathroom.