Her Troika (18 page)

Keep telling yourself that, playa. This is still all kinds of wrong.

"How ... do you do it?" Derek loathed allowing himself the question, but he needed to know — humiliating or not.

"It was fucking hard at first," Kurt said, scratching his temple. "The dynamic we had was already pretty much in place. She liked to be told what to do — all the time. And I liked telling her what to do."

"Doesn't seem like her — at
all
." He wasn't kidding either. The woman was a fucking lawyer. He remembered Kurt relating how she worked a courtroom, how she handled a conference room negotiation. Fucking pit bull. It was completely at odds with what he'd seen this weekend.

Something wasn't adding up.

"It's not how she is in her 'regular' life," Kurt said, his long fingers making air quotes. "I think that's why she needs this, why she wants this. It's a part of her she can suppress for awhile — for her job — but eventually she needs to be who she really is. Being able to be this way with me." Kurt tipped his head toward Derek. "And with you. It feeds something within her. I don't think she even knows what it is fully, at least not yet. We just kinda go with it though — see where the current takes us."

Derek chuckled, then scrubbed his face with his hands. "You're tellin' me this is all make it up as you go along shit?"

"Um, no." Kurt waved an arm in a wide arc. "All this took — fuck, it took a lot. A lot of planning, time — and ungodly amounts of money. You don't even want to know."

"This place is like an evil perv amusement park," Derek muttered.

"A more perfect description I've never heard," Kurt said, laughing. "But what I mean is, we don't know where this is all going. What she wants, needs — it's pretty serious shit. Part of the reason why you're here, actually."

Derek turned toward his friend. "That still doesn't make sense. Why I'm here, I mean."

Kurt looked away a moment. "Because some of this ... "

Then it fell into place, that one frustratingly elusive piece of the puzzle, the one that opened up more of the bigger picture.

"You can't do it, is that it?" Derek felt the heat rise in his cheeks. "I'm some kind a pinch hitter? A stunt dick? Is that what this is?"

Kurt covered his mouth, stifling his laughter. "You've got a way with words, man."

"I'm not laughing, Kurt. What the fuck is this all for?" Derek jerked a thumb toward Breanna. "She's lying in there half conscious after being practically tag-teamed—"

"Oh, that comes later." Kurt's eyes gleamed.

Derek dropped to a crouch holding his head in his hands. "This is making my head hurt."

"You think too much, Derek. Just enjoy this. Roll with it. It's gonna make more sense as we go along."

He looked up at his friend. Kurt stood with legs crossed, his shoulder against the wall, his hands stuffed into the back pockets of his jeans. "You don't even know how this is going to go. I mean really go."

"Not entirely," Kurt said, inclining his head. "But that's part of the fun."

"This is insane." Derek stood, blowing out a breath, every muscle in his body tense.

"It was good you came when you did though."

"What?" The abrupt change in Kurt's tone confused him.

Kurt stepped closer, his voice softer. "When she knew you were there. It seemed to calm her, I guess. I could feel it in her body."

The flash of envy was quick, but keen. How he'd have liked to have the bewitching woman over his own lap, that pretty little ass spread for anything he cared to dish out.

Yes, just what a non-perv would think.

“Why though, Kurt?"

"I'm not sure I really know the answer to that … but I think this is part of the fantasy for her."

"And what's that?"

"Two men. Using her." He caught Derek's gaze. "Owning her. Anything and everything."

Holy fuck

“There’s more to it than even that though.”

Derek held up his hands, palms up. “Might as well tell me now. I don’t see how things can get any weirder at this point.”

“I can’t.” Kurt’s eyes settled on his slumbering wife. “Has to be something she tells you.”

“Gonna be a neat trick for me to ask her this when she’s gagged all the time.”

“Or with your cock down her throat.”

“Fuck you.”

Kurt chuckled, winking. “She won’t always be that way, you know.”

“What? Gagged?”

“Among other things.” Kurt turned on his heel facing back into the enclosure, talking back over his shoulder, his gaze not leaving his wife’s slumbering form. “She’ll go back to normal life. Eventually.”

Derek hadn’t the foggiest idea how he’d even broach the subject.

‘Oh hey, Bre. I was wondering. Why do you like your husband to treat you like an animal and share you with other men like a goddamn party favor?’

Did he even
want
her to return to normal life? The thought of her imprisoned there as their plaything on that farm, more or less on a permanent basis, held a dark, twisted allure that was equal parts exciting and disturbing.

“Fuck me,” Derek muttered, shaking his head.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Derek looked around, desperately needing to change the subject. “We lost Lino again?”

Kurt shrugged. “Hell if I know, the guy comes and goes as he pleases.”

“You don’t … mind that? The guy works for you doesn’t he?”

“Technically yes, but it’s not just for me.”

“Uh, care to elaborate?”

“It’s actually the Trust that employs him — I think. It’s not really that important though.”

Not that important who pays the tab for the guy who trains essentially captive women on Kurt’s farm? What the fuck?

“Like I said, he’s good at what he does.” Kurt glanced back at Derek. “Even when he is around people tend to give him a wide berth.”

“Especially the wives, I’ll bet.”

Kurt’s grin beamed. “Some people call him the ‘Slut Whisperer’. Can you believe that shit?”

It was Derek’s turn to stifle laughter. “That fits, dude that so fits. Who came up with that one?”

Kurt’s grin faded away. “Quinton Trask.”

“Who the hell is that?”

“Remember the kid pooping in his pants at the auction?” Kurt shook his head. “Little shit.”

“No way.”

“I wish I was joking.”

“Why do you guys put up with that? You had so many goons there that night I thought I was on a mafia movie set. Throw his little ass out.”

The faint sound of a door closing could be heard from somewhere on the other side of the barn

“You don’t know how much I’d like to eighty-six his ass out of here. But it’s not that simple.”

“I heard him spouting something about his dad. Is that why?”

Kurt nodded, his brows knit together. “His father is George Trask — who just happens to be one of the Primes of the Trust.”

“And that means … what?”

All these titles, and rules, and weird little political considerations just about had Derek’s head spinning. He felt more like the new guy now than he had all weekend long.

“Let’s just say none of us want to get on George’s bad side,” Kurt said. “His little spawn knows it too, and he uses it any chance he gets. Quinton seems to have inherited George’s ruthlessness, but none of his brains. For a second that night, I thought this might all go to shit. If he got his hands on Breanna … ”

The statement hung in the air, heavy. Derek had no real idea what had narrowly been avoided. What he did know was that he had a healthy urge to put that kid through a wall. The thought of Quinton Trask with his hands all over Breanna, made him want to put the kid through a wall a couple more times — just to be sure.

“He’s been a problem at the auctions for a while now. But everybody humors him.” Kurt leaned an arm against the frame of the stall entrance. “This can’t go on forever, though—”

“Has the poison been drawn out?”

Derek spun around, his heart thudding. “Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me!”

Lino stood smiling in the corridor outside the stall, a long, thin whip clutched in his crossed arms.

Kurt chuckled, his expression lightening. “Affirmative.”

“Good.” Lino turned, heading toward the harness area. “Follow me, Mr. Derek.”

Derek looked to Kurt who held up his hands, mouthing: “I don’t know.”

The Spaniard led both of them to the tall cabinet near the harness, opening both doors wide. The array of gear inside was dizzying, buckles glinting, leather gleaming. Some of it looked like something Derek would like to try on Breanna; some of it was so alien he hadn’t the slightest idea
how
to try it on Breanna.

Lino handed Derek a long, flexible strap, perhaps an inch and a half wide, the tip split into two tongues of leather.

“Um, what’s this for?”

For whipping her sweet, round ass, you idiot. And don’t try to deny you can’t wait to use it.

Lino’s fingertip traced the edge of the strap. “Edges round, see?”

“Don’t trust me with the Big Boy whips?” Derek nodded toward the cabinet. “Why don’t I get to sit at the adult table?”

“Dickhead,” Kurt muttered, chuckling.

Lino’s jaw hardened. “This spares her hide from your clumsy hand, Mr. Derek. Until you can control, trainer whip only for you.”

“It’s like you’re graduating from diapers to pull-ups, dude,” Kurt laughed. “‘Trainer whip’, fuck that’s awesome.”

“This is not funny, Mr. Kurt.” Lino’s cold, bright gaze fell on each man in turn. “Punishment is serious. It has purpose. You do not punish her to make your
chorra
hard, you punish her to train, to teach. You both will punish her —” Kurt’s expression grew pinched, his brows knit together. “—so you need to learn
right
way.”

Derek wondered why the mention of punishment would cause such a reaction in his friend. Was Kurt bothered by the idea?

You two just worked her over, dude. I doubt he had a problem with it.

Derek cleared his throat. “So where the hell were you, anyway?”

“This is large farm, Mr. Derek. Holds many secrets. They must be … tended.”

Derek glanced at Kurt, who shrugged. “Just go with it.”

“Are you ready?” Lino closed the cabinet doors with a soft snick.

“For what?” Derek folded the strap onto itself, liking the feel of it in his palm.

Lino held out a hand in the direction of the stalls. “For more training, Mr. Derek.”

Chapter Sixteen

T
he girl's ass was beet red, the whip leaving a tracery of darker, swollen weals. He loved whipping her, even when she'd done nothing wrong.
Because
she'd done nothing wrong.

"Stop clenching, M." Quinton stroked a palm over her quivering flanks. "Two more now, then it's back on the track for you."

She began to weep then as he stepped back, sighting his stroke, tapping the heavy leather against her buttocks. "Be still, or I'll start over."

The buttocks quivered as the leather struck, M rearing up off the trestle, her bound arms writhing behind her back. He loved the way her strong thighs tightened as the hurt of the stroke sank into her flesh.

"That's a girl. Only one more now, but I'm not giving it to you until you get back in position." His whip tapped her thighs. "Come on, over. Right over."

Sobbing now, the girl obeyed, haltingly. He waited until she'd calmed somewhat, the clenched, martyred buttocks finally loosening, revealing the cleft, the dark whorl of the anus.

He slashed the final cut in with extra vigor, catching her low down, nearly across her cunt, and she screamed, both of her feet kicking up as she writhed over the trestle.

Quinton let her cry for a minute, merely standing beside her, drinking in her misery. This was what he loved most, their cries, their distress, their helplessness in the face of his desires. But as he watched her, it came to him again.

There was something wrong, something missing.

The fucking auction.

Throwing down the whip, he strode out of the stable block, the cool salt wind off the sound ruffling his hair. Quinton found the groom at work on one of the tandem carriages. During M's last paired run with the new girl with the big round ass — he thought she'd been called Genna or something, but he hadn't yet determined what her new name would be — one of the wheels had cracked at the rim.

The groom looked up at Quinton's approach. "Contrite slave-girl, now?"

He nodded at the groom and pointed back toward the block. "Wash her down then get her out in the traces. Two wheel, light. I'll be out there in ten minutes."

Quinton pulled out his phone and dialed the number, walking toward the house, the soaring Western Hemlocks above him whispering with the wind. "Tell me you've got good news."