Chapter 1 #2
Nola’s been Cook at The Training House for years, since long before my arrival, and we’ve become friends, of sorts.
She’s kinky as fuck, and the House offers her the unique opportunity we all share: a good job in an environment that allows us to taste the more elite brand of kink.
This place was built for sadists. None of us has much time for a personal life—the House often is our personal life—but she spends her days off with a woman somewhere in the city, and seems to be content enough with the arrangement.
“Good morning,” she answers cheerfully, nodding to Mistress Clara’s lovely blonde-haired DeLayne to pour my coffee.
DeLayne reaches for a mug in the cupboard and Nola’s right there, smacking her hand with the long switch she always has at her side.
“Wrong mug, dear. Choose another.”
DeLayne’s blond brows draw together as she peruses the cupboard, choosing a large white mug, then turning to Cook with a hopeful look.
“Wrong again,” Nola tells her, smacking her bare breast this time. “Surely you can do better for our dear Gilby,” she says, sending me a wink.
I grin, nodding. I like this little game. I like the small welt appearing on the Girl’s firm tit.
She bites her pretty pink lip, reaching this time for a brown ceramic mug and holds it out for Cook’s inspection.
“Excellent,” Cook says, giving the Girl another smack for good measure. “Now pour his coffee, then go sit on your mat and finish peeling those potatoes. We can’t be late with Master Gilby’s dinner tonight.”
I shake my head at the title, but I suppose it’s appropriate now that I’m in charge. It’ll take some getting used to.
“Poker tonight, Nola?”
“Nope. Night off with my girl,” she says. “But don’t worry. Robert’ll see that one of the slaves delivers your dinner.”
I nod. “Good, good.”
The Girl pours my coffee, and with a quick little curtsy, hands me the mug—hot and black, just as I like it. I don’t ask Nola any questions about her tête-à-tête. Her private life is her business, and if she wanted to tell me more, she would.
“Can I whip you up some breakfast, Gilby?” Nola offers.
“Sure, and thanks. Eggs and beans with toast?”
She shakes her head. “You’re never really going to be Americanized, are you?”
I bark out a laugh. “Not if I can help it.”
“Where would you like to eat?”
“I’ll take it in my quarters.”
“It should only be a few minutes.”
“Thanks, Nola.”
I head back downstairs and into my rooms, where I pace like a caged dog. That’s what I am, isn’t it? Fucking trapped in my own mind. In my own dick.
No. It’s my goddamn heart, isn’t it?
Maybe all of it. Yeah. But what the fuck am I to do with myself now?
With a long sigh, I go to the big armoire in my sitting room and swing open the doors.
Inside are all manner of tools of the trade: floggers and whips, paddles made of wood and leather, Lucite and rubber.
My beloved billy clubs in various weights and sizes, including my special beauty: a hand-painted truncheon with a thick, rounded end, an early twentieth-century piece from Edinburgh.
I reach for it, and the ridged handle is smooth on my palms from decades of use, its weight the most familiar to me.
But I never impale any of the slaves with this one.
No, I have others for that use—larger, heavier pieces.
My beauty I’ll use to beat a slave, but only the best slaves, the ones whose flesh is worthy of its history and delicate decoration.
I’ve yet to use it on Giselle. The idea is almost too fucking delicious, and I can’t fucking go there. Well, I haven’t. But now I’m to be Master of the House, and Giselle will belong to me for a time.
Fucking unbearable.
Fucking exquisite.
I set my little treasure back on its hook, take a sip of my nearly-forgotten coffee, and rub a hand over the short stubble on my jaw.
“Get your shit together, you arsehole,” I murmur.
“Sir?”
I turn to find the strapping Dietrich standing in the doorway with a tray.
He’s been left with us before when Mistress Clara takes one of her trips, often to her home in Paris and just as often to the slave markets to bid on new flesh.
A good Boy, he’s tall and blond, like some sort of Nordic god, his cock uncut.
Beautiful specimen. Good hands when I need a massage.
Nice tight ass when I need a good fuck and to keep my mind off other matters.
I’m geared more to women, but a Boy will always do in a pinch, especially if he’s a stubborn, bad slave who needs a good working over, or a pretty Boy like this one.
“Boy, set that tray down on the table and come here.”
He does as I demand, coming to kneel at my feet, his head bowed, palms flat on the floor. Mistress Clara does train her slaves well. But all I can really think of right now is the relief I so desperately need to keep me from acting a fool.
I have another sip of coffee, set the mug down, and grab him by the hair, digging my meaty fingers into his scalp, and haul him to the leather-covered table that takes up the center of the room.
I bend his body over the table and shove his face down onto it, and without even bothering to give him a beating, I unzip, take my hard cock out, kick his muscular legs apart, and shove into him.
He grunts, spreads his legs wider, and I arch into his tight ass.
I feel him take a few deep breaths, opening for me.
But as I begin to fuck him in long strokes, I’m not even seeing him anymore.
No, instead my head is full of images of my Giselle.
God, to fuck her like this! It’s been years that I’ve denied myself.
It’s for her own good.
Yeah it is, but God damn it…
“God damn it!” I yell, knowing this slave Boy won’t understand and likely won’t care.
I fuck him harder and harder, my balls pulling tight with pleasure, and there’s this strange gob of lust and need and goddamn yearning that I can’t fuck my way past.
I reach around and wrap his big cock in my fist and pull, hard enough to hurt, to make him grunt and moan. And it should please me, his pain, but I feel nothing for him. I feel nothing but physical pleasure that isn’t fucking enough, damn it to hell, because it isn’t her.
I pull out, tuck my half-hard cock back into my trousers and stalk to the cupboard once more, grab a heavy, slotted wooden paddle, and slam it down hard across his ass.
His flesh is burning bright instantly. I do it again and again, raising welts, then I scratch the welts with my nails until I draw blood.
His breath is coming fast, he’s groaning, and I can see his cock is hard as stone.
I take him by the shoulder, turn him around, and shove him onto his back on the table.
And I know nothing will do but one of my lovely billy clubs.
I take down one of the thickest wooden clubs, smack his thighs until he obligingly raises his knees, then shove the club up his willing ass.
His face goes bright red and he sputters, but he takes it like the good goddamn Boy he is.
“Don’t you fucking come,” I tell him.
He clenches his jaw and I love to see the struggle on his face—a beautiful face, but not the one I want.
Not the one I need.
I fuck him harder, knowing I’ll make him bleed, but that idea pleases me, as it often does, and the harder I fuck him in short, jabbing strokes, the harder my own dick becomes.
I take it out again with my free hand and wank, jerking m’self hard enough to hurt as I fuck this Boy.
I need it. Need to feel the pain, that extremity of sensation.
Need to come all over him, to humiliate him, which always makes me feel redeemed, somehow.
“Yeah, I’m a sick fuck,” I growl.
Then the jizz pumps through me and I spew all over his chest, his face.
He’s still taking the fucking with the billy club and his poor cock is swollen and bright red.
But I’ve gotten what I need, and I sense that he has, too, because there’s fear in his eyes as he blinks up at me, waiting to see what I’ll do to him next.
I can’t help but grin down at him.
“Need to come, Boy? Answer me.” I slap his face to make my point.
His eyes are wide and blue, but he lowers his lashes as he whispers, “Yes, please, Sir.”
“Too fuckin’ bad, ain’t it? Off you go.”
I pull the club out of him, pull him to his feet, and send him out the door with a smack on his ass.
I do feel a bit better. But not well. Not well at all.
It’s Giselle I’m starving for. She’s what I always need—and can’t fucking have. No, I’ve had to exist with this never-ending yearning that’s as bad or worse than any denied slave has ever felt.
Does my new position in the House change anything? Or more to the point, should it? I made this decision—bringing the Girls here—for damn good reason. Is it fair of me to even attempt to rethink it now?
Is it fair if the reason is that I feel like I’ll fucking die if I don’t?
I get up and look at my breakfast on the tray, knowing I can’t eat it. I pick up my now-cold coffee and slug it back.
“God fucking damn it,” I mutter.
I try to think what Damon would do, or Christopher.
Of course, Christopher would tell me to have Giselle brought to me, fuck her and beat her all day and night, and figure out the rest as it comes.
I’m not sure I’m of the same mind as Christopher, but then, who is?
Nah, I’m more like Damon, if anything. But what the fuck would he do, given a situation like this?
Maybe the question is, what did he do, given a situation like this?
He submitted to Christopher so he could be with him and Aimée. That’s sure as fuck not in the cards for me, but still…perhaps the same theory applies? Have I tortured myself long enough?
I need more time to figure it out, and fucking pretty Boys isn’t going to help, in the end. I pick up the phone and punch in an extension.
“Yes?”
“Robert, I need you to send Sandrine to me tonight.”
“Sandrine?” he asks—the man who questions nothing in this House.
“Yeah, Sandrine. I’m the interim Master of the House now, Robert. Don’t give me any shit.”
His tone changes instantly. “Of course. What time?”
“Eight o’clock. I’ll be in the study.”
“Very good, Gilby. Any other instructions?”
“Just the Girl, naked. No. Use the heavy steel collar and long leash.”
There’s a bit of a pause, then, “You’re going to be a very good Master of this House.”
“We’ll see about that. Just have the Girl ready for me after my dinner.”
My hands clench into fists as I hang up the phone, itching to have them on her now.
But waiting is part of the discipline of being a Handler or a Master, isn’t it?
I’d best be sure to remember it. And meanwhile, I’ll use the day to go over the inventory with Nola, as well as have her tell me how the back end of running the House works.
I should know every aspect of its operations if I’m to make a good Master. I can’t let Damon and Christopher down.
Except the truth is, when it comes to my lovely, silent Giselle, I just might.
I just might fuck up her pledge to a lifetime in this House, the pledge she sealed with the House brand, for fuck’s sake.
But it seems the universe has put this opportunity in front of me, and I might go fucking mad if I don’t take it, see it through.
Which is why I need some time to ponder on it first. And why I’ve sent for her sister tonight—to feed my lust for sex and pain and perhaps even a little blood. To buy some time.
But I’m lying to m’self, ain’t I? Because I already know what the answer will be. I’m going to have her, but more than that, I need to…what? Make her mine? Buy out her contract?
Convince the Girl to love me again?
“Fuuuck!” I yell into the empty room—as empty as my cold, shuttered heart has been all these years.
It’s waking up, though, and it’s going to be a bloody process. It might be the end of my job in this House. It might be the end of me, and of her, which is what’s kept me to my word all this damn time. It’s always been about her, ain’t it?
I’m willing to take that risk with myself. But with her? That’s what I need to figure out.
“Yeah, yer fucked,” I mutter. “Well and goodly fucked.”