Her Troika (19 page)

"It's possible, but it's not going to be easy," Joel's gravelly voice said over the line.

"I don't care if it's hard or not. I'm paying you to do a job,” Quinton said, kicking at the gravel of the walkway. “So I'd better be getting something for it."

"We still have some calls to make — and it's probably going to take more money. Especially considering who it is."

"Money doesn't matter. Call Roberts after this and tell him. He'll release the funds you need." Quinton's eyes scanned the expansive track up ahead, fixating on the stocks set out on a sand-covered spot at the center of it. He couldn't wait to see them in use. To have what had been taken from him. "How soon can you make it happen?"

Joel paused, then sighed heavily. "I think we can do it in the next few weeks — assuming they don't get cold feet. That's why it's probably going to cost us. Money should stiffen their spines."

"Good." Quinton smiled, his cock stirring. Soon. Then he'd have what was rightfully his. He'd always wanted an older woman. The young ones, though having incredible bodies, and being suitably malleable, bored him quickly. Though he was still only a young man, he knew what he wanted. He wanted a woman who thought she was above him, who thought that her years meant he had no right to bend her will to his. A woman who would learn quite quickly how wrong she was. That difference in age, the more he thought about it, appealed to him. It was a new challenge, another twist on his obsession — and one he intended to explore fully.

All he needed was the object of his desires safely in his clutches. Ensconced in his stables, finally, fully, his prisoner, he could indulge himself. See how deep his obsessions went. He'd seen how some of the other farms outfitted their girls, seen the modifications. It had given him ideas, and his mind had turned them over, expanded on them, gone in darker directions.

Soon, he could begin.

* * *

G
eorge Trask reclined in the leather office chair. His wife called it the “Emperor's Chair”, probably for its high back and jet-black color. He chuckled at the thought. There probably were people — not least those he'd bested in business — who probably
did
think of him as some evil despot.

But as he looked out his window, those were the least of his thoughts. It was the young man he watched pacing the gravel walkway down to the stables. His son.

He watched Quinton gesticulating with his hands, his face reddening as he barked at whomever he was speaking with on his cell

"What happened, George?"

He turned to his wife, giving her a bittersweet smile. "All of my accomplishments, all of my power, and I can't make him do what's right. It's my fault, but I haven't decided what to do about it yet."

Elaina stood at attention in front of his desk, her body tense, her hands clasped behind her back. Despite her formal posture — something she knew he required when she attended him in his office — her eyes were warm, her gaze fond as she looked upon her husband.

As he'd instructed, she’d worn only heels, a long, charcoal pencil skirt and her white, starched apron. The curves of her generous breasts bulged to either side of the narrow apron, the bright fabric just covering her wide areolas. Her unruly curls were piled atop her head, the ornate black Japanese sticks he so loved pinning the heavy weight of her tresses together. He enjoyed seeing the wealth of her hair, and wished he'd forbidden her to cut it earlier.

"Maybe nothing really needs to be done?" Her gaze moved to her son outside. "Perhaps he just needs to grow up."

"He'll be twenty four in two months, Elaina. I'd say he's already as grown up as he's going to get."

She stiffened, locking gazes with him once more. "What will you do then?"

"I haven't decided yet." George spinned his chair away from her, resting his chin on steepled fingers, gazing out at his wayward son. "I can't put up with this forever though. I received a call from Calvin Fuller."

"Oh no ... "

"Yes, it's happened again." George sighed, turning back to his desk, and opening a drawer. He pulled out a leather bound ledger, opening it to a page of pale green checks. "At the last Term auction."

"But Kurt didn't mention anything, did he?"

"He wouldn't. Diplomatic to a fault. He'd want everyone to save face — which is why he’s perfect for the job." George found a fountain pen and swiftly endorsed two of the checks, then tore them out, holding them up for her. "See that these get to Two Rivers farms."

Elaina took the checks, her eyebrow raised. "Two Rivers?"

"You haven't been out to the tracks in a while have you?" George smiled at the color peaking in his lovely wife's cheeks. “Quinton bought another from Two Rivers. A plump little dark-haired one. Quite lovely, actually. But she was a pretty penny.”

George rarely took Elaina out on the tracks anymore, much preferring the domestic bliss found in keeping her close to his side. He found a warm, easy pleasure in keeping her in the house as much as possible. Occasionally, like today, he’d even dismiss the domestics for a day and supervise her cleaning the house all by herself. He’d usually make her do it nude, quite enjoying the sway of her heavy breasts as she toiled on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen tiles by hand. More often than not, she'd find herself with a cunt full of come, and a sore, red ass before she was done, George sometimes taking her right there on the floor, her tits pressed to the floor, her bottom raised obediently for him.

Elaina’s gaze darkened a moment as she glanced out the window at her son. “He doesn’t
need
another one. What on Earth has gotten into him … ”

George smiled, lacing his fingers behind his neck and leaning back in his chair. “He’s got the fever, that much is certain. I went through it too, when I was his age.”

He still remembered the first time he’d seen Elaina crouching in her stocks, the soft, generous breasts hanging below her like udders, her frightened eyes peering up at him as he signed the papers to take her on for her Term. It had been his first auction, and he was still a young man. Back in those days, the Trust was a shadow of what it had become, really just a gentleman’s organization that met several times a year either in Seattle, or occasionally Portland. The very concept of the Term of Service was really just a way for the members to share their wives (though occasionally said wife was little more than a slave) in a more civilized, organized fashion.

Elaina had been an exotic — a servant (a misnomer, really; most of the servants were actually slaves, though that term was rarely used back then) put up for a Term by the scion of one of the most powerful timber families in the northwest. She was really not one normally allowed in for a Term, being a servant, but with her curvaceous body, her luminous eyes, and a plump, round ass that had every male in the place buzzing with arousal, it had been impossible to ignore her.

“All I can hope is that this new girl is enough to keep him occupied. If it’s not then … ” George looked over his shoulder at his son, who’d set off down the path toward the track.

He’d watch him. Closely.

Son, or not, there was a lot more at stake here than the little shit seemed to care about, and George would only let his son push things so far.

He looked up at his wife. “Done with the hallway?”

She snapped to attention, but not without a quick smile. She enjoyed this dynamic as much as he did, though she’d always deny it. “Yes, Sir. Was about to start on the bedrooms next.”

“Forget about that,” George said, waving a dismissive hand. “Go take care of those checks, then I want you back here as quick as those heels of yours let you.”

He loved the way tall heels were almost a natural hobble, how she had to be careful the way she walked, how they emphasized the curves of her ass, the sway of her hips as she moved.

She bent and kissed his forehead, his hand caressing the curve of her breast as she did. “Back soon, Sir.”

George watched her go, drinking in the lines of her lush body, still as vital and arousing at forty-five as they’d been at twenty. Perhaps more so.

Then he propped an elbow on the arm of his chair, and rested his chin on his fist, looking out through the window at the gray overcast above Puget Sound, pondering what he might do about this.

Hoping he wouldn’t be forced to do it

Chapter Seventeen

H
e'd never be able to look at a Maypole — or tether ball — the same way again.

The pole had to be somewhere north of ten feet high, a stout length of wood driven into the hard, sun-baked earth. A heavy stainless steel eyebolt, glinting in the sunlight topped the pole. From this eyebolt, a chain sloped outward, affixed to a buckle in the front of the broad leather collar clasping Breanna's neck. Her body clasped in the cruel harness once more, .eyes darted between the watching men and the well-worn ground before her. She walked slowly in a circle around the pole, her arms strapped tightly behind her, her knees raised high on each step, her bare sex peeping now and then between her thighs, the rhythm of her walk almost a march … of sorts.

"Dude, what in the hell is she doing this for?"

Both Kurt and Derek stood outside the weathered wood circular fence that surrounded the pole — the fence forming a circle perhaps thirty yards in diameter.

"He swears by this, and I can't say I can argue with him. The scenery alone is worth it to me."

"Jesus," Derek muttered.

But Kurt did have a point. Lino walked along the inside of the fence line, slightly behind Breanna, a very long, thin carriage whip in his hand. At intervals, when she didn't lift her boots high enough, he'd give Breanna a flick, searing her with the several knots tied into the tip of the whip.

"Lino, tell me again why the hell you're doing this?" Derek didn't for the life of him have any idea why half of the shit that went on at this place happened, but he was damned sure there wasn't any explanation for this.

"First lesson girl must learn — she must step carefully, purposefully, and most important, gracefully."

His whip zapped her thighs again, and she lifted her heavy boots higher.

"Higher than that,
fulana
. High steps, every time."

"This is like a fucking goose step." In truth, Derek found it arousing, in a weird, inexplicable way — but he wasn't about to admit that to the Spaniard.

"I'm not watching her feet," Kurt said, nudging Derek's shoulder. The straps from her harness had been temporarily freed, hanging about her torso, their black lengths whipping in the breeze. With each exaggerated step, her big breasts shuddered and bounced, drawing the eye unerringly. Her boots pounded the earth as she walked haltingly around the pole, Lino lending fiery encouragement to her steps whenever she slowed.

"Wait until you see her doing comportment training — I'm assuming Lino has that planned too. I've actually seen video of other owners putting their girls through it." Kurt whistled. "Hot as fuck."

"Comport, what?" Derek couldn't keep his eyes from the movement of her breasts, especially as she came closer, following her endless circular path. He wanted to reach out and hold their soft weight in his hands, bounce them in his palms, see them redden as he slapped them.

Whoa.

This place was already getting to him. What once had seemed too far was quite the norm. But what he didn’t yet have a handle on what came first — the eye-opening spectacle of this place, or did this perverse caricature of a farm merely awaken him to that which was already within himself?

Lino passed by them, giving the men a conspiratorial grin.

"Enjoys this part, does he?" Derek grasped the top rail of the fence, thankful the fence made his erection less visible.

"He enjoys all of this, trust me. We haven't even really gotten started yet, dude. Lots more to come."

Derek looked up at the sun, blocking it with his hand. Even though it was now getting into early evening, and the angle of the sun had grown quite long, the air was still stiflingly hot, the dry earth kicked up by Breanna's heavy boots shrouding the whole enclosure in a faint cloud of dust. "Tending. What was he talking about, anyway?"

"Tending?" Kurt cocked his head. "Oh, back there! Yeah ... there are others around."

"Other farms? Like this?" Derek rubbed dust from his eyes. "Holy shit. I need to get out more."

Kurt laughed, lightly kicking the base of the fence. "No, no. Not what I meant. Other people here. At this farm."

"Oh. Other, um, owners? Or people who work here?"

The place was massive, and though he couldn't see any crops in the immediate vicinity, he doubted that was the case once you walked the land a little. It made no sense to have a place this big, and do nothing with it.

"Both." Kurt lifted his chin toward Lino. "But he was talking about other girls."

"Whoa, whoa. Other girls?"

"Derek, you were at the auction — there are other women who are serving a Term, or are about to start one. Where do you think they go to be trained?"

"All of them are trained — like
this
?" Derek watched Breanna stumble, taking two quick steps to catch her balance, the chain pulling her up short, her breasts swinging wildly. Lino's whip snapped out, and seared the back of her thighs, Breanna's pained grunt audible over the sound of the breeze.