Her Troika (The Complete Story) (Dominion Trust Book 2) (26 page)

“Not a one.”

“There goes that dry spell then, right?”

Derek laughed, shaking his head. “Asshole.”

“An asshole who’s letting you fuck his wife.”

“You may have a point — but you’re still an asshole.”

Kurt nodded. “I’ll go with that. Tell me one other thing though. And be honest. Before you guys were splitsville, back when things were really good. Was there anything you wouldn’t have done for her?”

Derek had to think a moment, to think about a time when things really
were
that good, when they hadn’t been on the rocks, when they hadn’t been constantly at war with one another. “Yeah, of course. At the beginning, sure.”

Kurt flicked a glance over at the barn. “I think about that a lot. If there
is
anything I wouldn’t do for Breanna. How far I’d be prepared to go.”

Derek turned to his friend. “Fuck, dude. You still haven’t answered my question.”

Kurt didn’t say anything for a long moment, looking down, his fingers working his coffee cup round and round in his hands. Then he fixed his gaze upon Derek, the light in his eyes fierce. “There’s more about the Term that we haven’t talked about.”

“Finally. Fuck.”

“Just listen. As part of any Term of Service, a woman is subject to any male member of the Trust, or anyone he employs. She’s essentially owned by the Trust for the duration.”

“Yeah, we’ve been over that.”

Kurt’s jaw clenched. “But you haven’t thought about what that really means.”

“I don’t—”

“Shut up, there’s more.” Kurt sipped from his coffee. “During any Term of service when at one of the Trust facilities, any member may use any of the women who are there serving a Term.”

“What, like taking them for a run? Pulling a cart? Racing them?”

“Yes, all of that — and more. Any member intending to use the facilities — such as this farm — must give notice to the caretaker or director of upcoming utilization. It’s protocol — and helps facilities make all the necessary accommodations.”

“Turn down the sheets, and fire up the fucking machines.”

Kurt frowned. “Dickhead.”

“Just keepin’ it real.”

“Breanna knows this general requirement, knows what it might mean.”

“So … what’s the problem then?”

“Not just one problem, Derek. There’s two of them. The first one is that as of last week, I’m now Director of this facility.”

“Um, I’m confused. This is your farm. Director of what?”

“This isn’t a farm anymore, it’s a training facility. Who do you think paid for all this shit? All these buildings? It sure as fuck wasn’t on my engineer’s salary. When I bought this place, it was a run down ranch house with a leaky septic, overgrown fields, and a barn ready to collapse in a strong breeze.”

“Wow. So the Trust is into you for some scratch.”

“Try a shitload of scratch. But that’s fine — I knew what I was doing. Knew the trade.”

“And what was that?” Derek thought he could see it up ahead, the general shape of it, but he’d learned better than to assume anything here. The craziness of the last forty-eight hours had taught him that.

“I’d agree to be the Director, to take up the task of running this place. And training the women.”

“Okay, I’m with ya so far. You get free upgrades in exchange for fucking and whipping women who volunteer for the privilege. Pretty much down the rabbit hole, but I’m still following you. Not really seeing the problem though.”

“When Breanna volunteered, I knew it wasn’t something I could say no to. It’s one of her deepest fantasies — letting go, being captive, used, subject to more than one man. All of that.”

“One of the many things I like about her.”

Kurt gave him a rueful smile. “Up until the moment my wife sucked your cock, I wasn’t sure I could ever let another man fuck her.”

“Well, I guess we got that problem out of the way, right?” Knowing Kurt really
was
that reticent about this whole thing confirmed quite a bit of what Derek suspected.

And it made him feel better than he wasn’t the only one struggling with this.

“There’s another problem though, with the part about any man being able to use a woman serving a Term. You remember that little shit who freaked out about not winning the bid for Breanna?”

Oh God no ...

“I received a call this morning.” Kurt looked up into the cold, silvery moonlight. “He’ll be here in a week.”

Chapter Twenty One

D
erek found he rather enjoyed leading her by the leash. At first, it had seemed unnecessary, of course — she was a human being, a woman. Why a leash?

But the whys had steadily fallen away during the last three incredible days, thirty-six hours that seemed to have transformed his entire outlook on life.

“I’m still not used to how tall she is in these boots,” Kurt said, chucking her under a bouncing breast as he walked beside her. Her eyes fluttered a little, her step faltering for a moment.

“I love it, actually,” Derek said, turning his face into the breeze, breathing the clean air deep through his nostrils. “She should feel almost … superior, I guess. Really, though, I think it just puts her even more on display. I don’t really know
why
I like it — but I sure do.”

Lino was already on the track, waiting for them. He’d informed them earlier that it was time to progress her training, and told them to meet him out there in ten minutes. Of course, the Spaniard, as aloof as he was thorough, refused to tell them anything else as he’d strode from her stall.

Breanna’s arms tried to twist in their bonds. Perhaps she itched somewhere under all the leather and straps encasing her limbs? They were firmly bound behind her back — Kurt had referred to the particular technique as a “box tie” — her forearms lashed together, her elbows bent at strict right angles. Derek didn’t really give a shit what it was called. What he cared about was the way it pulled her shoulders back, thrusting out those incredible tits of hers, the nipples standing at prominent attention in the cool morning breeze. She wasn’t used to the boots either, and in combination with that devious binding of her arms, he found she was forced to stick out her ass as well, trying to find a new center of gravity.

The pull of the leash assisted her faltering gait, the broad posture collar forcing her chin up, the stout, brushed steel attachment ring at the front glinting in the bright morning sunlight. Derek had enjoyed tacking her up this morning too. As they’d clasped her slim, white throat in the black leather, her breathing had quickened, her nervous fidgeting growing still. Something came over her at the fastening of the straps on the collar, her eyes falling into that faraway gaze he’d seen whenever she was being run. He wondered what she thought about as they steadily bound her, wrapping her body in the brutal harness, her waist nipping dramatically in the embrace of the built-in corset. Her buttocks twitched as the fasteners were tightened along the length of her back.

Then it had been time for his favorite part. The saddle strap.

Attached at front and back to her harness, the thin, rounded length of leather was a perfect fit, disappearing between the soft, bare lips of her cunt as Kurt pulled on the strap’s end, tying it off at the rear of her harness.

At first, she’d stood, practically motionless, her legs in an exaggerated spraddle-legged stance, as if she’d been atop a horse for too long. Then, her eyes closing and her breath whistling from between compressed lips, she’d relaxed, lowering her heels, the strap fully disappearing into the wet, vulnerable pussy. He had no doubt it was uncomfortable, but the remarkable calmness, the new
deliberateness
of her movements, lent another layer of dominance to the proceedings. They’d control even her very cunt. She’d be extremely careful in the way that she moved — and found obedience to their commands both safer and less painful.

Docility by saddle strap. He’d have never believed such a thing existed three days ago.

You were still normal three days ago. Sort of.

They found Lino standing on the track, his foot propped on one of the gleaming struts of a sort of cart. It was essentially a cushioned seat on two steel spoked wheels, low-slung and lightly built. Two long lengths of leather were laid across the seat of the contraption.

Derek found it one of the strangest things he’d ever seen.

Dripping from one of Lino’s hands was a tangle of soft leather, thin silver chain and broad, bright rings. “Take out her gag, and bring her.”

She hesitated the briefest of moments, her gaze locked upon the strange cart.

“Come on, girl.” Kurt unwound the straps of the gag from around her head, tapping her cheek. “Be good.”

“No gag for her run?” Derek actually didn’t mind it. He loved her mouth, the swollen, red lips, the way it formed into an O as she cried out under the lash. As fetching as the gag was in its own right, it did spoil that simple, if sadistic, pleasure.

“Time for this.” Lino held up the mess of straps.

Then Derek saw it.

Holy shit.

Kurt held Breanna by the shoulders as Lino fitted the straps over her hair, a broad length of leather bisecting her forehead, the strap splitting at the bridge of her nose to run down her flushed cheeks. Attached to each end of this was a broad, silver ring. The rings attached to either end of a thin dowel coated in black rubber.

Lino pushed at her lips with the dowel. “Open,
fulana
.”

Kurt grasped her shoulder tighter, giving her a short, sharp shake, and leaned in close, rumbling something into her ear that Derek couldn’t make out over the noise of the breeze.

She stiffened, and opened her jaws wide, her bright teeth bared as the dowel was placed between them.

“This is good. There.” Lino adjusted the straps, pulling the black rubber further into her mouth, the dowel pressing back the corners of her lips slightly. Lino picked up the two long lengths of leather, which Derek could see had metal hasps at one end. Lino snapped each on to the rings at the end of the dowel.

It’s a fucking bit. Jesus H.

Gathering up both lengths of leather in one hand, Lino turned to them. “Use this for control. But you must be careful. She can be hurt with this. Use to guide her, not to punish.” Lino plucked the long, thin carriage whip from the holder next to the seat. “
This
is to punish.”

Lino shook the reins. “Walk.”

Breanna’s darting eyes shown wide through the network of straps clutching her face, her teeth a bright white against the gleaming black of her bit.

The whip struck, snapping a pink line along her right haunch and she lurched into motion, her gait halting.

“Slow walk,
fulana
. Get feel for steps first.” Lino glanced back at them. “She is off balance like this. She needs practice. You must train her to it. To use new muscles.”

They watched, mesmerized as the stout, jet boots clumped through the dust, her rhythm irregular at first, then smoothing with time, and a few more snaps of the whip across her ass.

Derek’s mouth felt as dry as that dust as he watched the movement of her buttocks, each heavy step sending a shudder through the smooth, pale flesh.

Lino shook the leather. “Faster now.”

“They’re fucking …
reins
,” Derek said under his breath, to a chuckle from Kurt.

“Yes, Mr. Derek, this is right. She is filly. She obeys. Obeys you, the reins — and the whip.”

“It’s like perverted equestrian.”

This time Kurt’s rich laughter rumbled. “Like I said, man. You’ve got a way with words.”

Despite the jokes he cracked, there was no denying the lust Derek felt at the sight before him. This tall, beautiful woman, tacked up, reduced to little more than a beast of burden, her breasts swaying as she walked, the snap of the whip leaving its thin, stinging lines across her ass.

Lino pulled on one of the reins and Breanna yelped. He tapped her right hip with the whip. “Obey the pull,
fulana
. Pull on right rein, you turn right, yes?”

He did it again, and this time she turned, stumbling in the dirt as she did. Lino’s whip flashed out, searing her ass twice more in quick succession, her thighs tightening at the smart. “No, you turn until no pull. Then straight.”

They practiced a few more times, back and forth down the track, each turn sending her big breasts swaying anew, the whip snapping at her each time she faltered, her pained grunts muffled by the thick bit clenched between her teeth.

“Can you believe this shit?” Kurt’s gaze was locked upon his wife, his gait stalking, tense, as if he were holding himself back. Derek could certainly relate — he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to endure the railroad spike in his pants much longer.

“This is fucking torture, dude.”

“What do you think this is like for her?” Kurt cocked a thumb at his wife. “No picnic.”