by Vanessa Wu
“No, not really. Just sounds like this method pulls from other disciplines.”
“Everything has a source,” she replied, before picking up what sounded like a well-worn thread. “To go back to the sense of consequence Signor Donati mentioned, you will be using weapons that draw blood, though in very limited amounts. And,” she continued, scanning their naked forms, “you will be doing so without the protection of traditional gear.”
Tom’s cock stirred even as the rest of him tensed.
“Don’t worry, gentlemen,” Elle went on, “you will be required to wear gloves and masks. And you will also wear these,” she said, holding up a small, hard leather pouch, “to protect your future children. We’ve no interest in permanent damage, but your bodies will be exposed, and you will be challenged with moderate pain.”
“When you are not training,” Donati continued, “you will wear nothing but a number painted on your chest, noting your status in the group. You must be exposed—to your egos, as well as the sword. We have only a short time in which to assess you. This is the most efficient route. Does anyone have any questions?”
Tom felt the others shift, weighing their options and very likely themselves. Tom stayed still, despite the strange, seductive weight of Elle Mason’s feline eyes.
“Very good,” Donati said. “If none of you have any questions, I must ask you for your answers. Gentlemen, what do you say?”
Bisset was the first to step forward.
“I accept your terms,” he said.
Alexei Voloshin followed, wearing a hard cock and happy grin. Tom couldn’t blame him on that count at least—he had one hell of a cock. “I accept as well,” Voloshin said. “It is for only two days, yes? How bad can it be?”
“Brother, you have no idea,” Tom muttered, stepping forward. “Signor Donati, I accept. At least I know what I’m saying yes to.”
That left the Spaniard, whose tight mouth and dark eyes kept him fully contained.
“I too know what I agree to,” Cerra said, quietly. “I accept.”
“Good,” said Georgio Donati, obviously pleased. “Now don your equipment and we will begin.”
For a moment, they all stood there, like children afraid to jump off a pier. Huffing with sudden impatience, Donati tapped the floor with his cane.
“Now, gentlemen. Times passes. If you are not back in your places in five minutes, we will begin with disciplinary measures. Do not disappoint.
Steel edged Donati’s sweet, caramel tone. They all heard it and moved to the side of the room where their equipment bags lay. With a sinking feeling in his gut, Tom considered himself and the rest if the group. They were all wrapped firmly in their egos. He had no doubt they would have to be stripped of that too.
Working quickly, Tom undid the cord on the equipment bag and examined the items within—a mask, gloves, and the odd little pouch Elle had shown them a moment before. Tom eyed the pouch distrustfully before loosening the nylon drawstring and lifting the bundle out.
It was a fucking codpiece. They could call it “equipment” all they liked, but it was as close to a codpiece as a jock strap could get, complete with an obscenely padded leather cup. The only thing it was going to cover was his junk, which he supposed he should be grateful for. Tom held it up by a buckled leather strap. It was going to chafe like hell. Still, it could have been worse. It could have been a cock cage. Now those were fucking miserable—he should know. He’d made his subs wear them often enough.
Feeling a little bit better about it, Tom shook out the jock strap and immediately felt worse. The cup was of hard, polished leather, while the “thong” was nothing but buckles and thin canvas straps. It was ugly and uncomfortable—perfectly designed to fuck with someone’s head. Tom looked at the endless mirrors. The vain among them were screwed. Tom thought of Bisset. Then his cock stirred and he sobered up. It would be hell if he got turned on.
Tom assessed his semi-erect state and made a mental note not to get hard.
“Yeah,” he muttered, as his dick ignored him, “good fucking luck.”
Between the blonde with the icicle eyes, the dicks on display behind him, and the fact that fencing and fighting always turned him on, he was as screwed by the cup as Bisset, albeit for different reasons. Bisset’s ego would hate the indignity of it. Tom, on the other hand, wasn’t worried about his ego. He just knew it was going to be hell if he got hard. Fuck me, he thought, unbuckling the straps. It’s going to be a long two days.
Though he didn’t like wearing the codpiece, Tom knew his way around arcane instruments of torture well enough to put it on. Interestingly, he wasn’t the only one. Cerra fit himself into his like a pro, visibly relaxing as he did. Tom had seen that look before, always on subs right after the cuffs went on. He filed the impression away, and then looked at the other two.
Bisset was trying to buckle the cup without losing his suavity, which was standard for Bisset. The Russian with the massive erection, on the other hand, was struggling. Tom briefly considered giving the big man a hand just as Voloshin caught his balls in a strap. Then he decided against it. Tom was a nice guy, but he was a nice guy on condition, and he wasn’t entirely sure how he wanted to play the game.
“Two minutes gentlemen.”
Donati’s voice echoed off the mirrored walls and filled the training room. Tom adjusted a buckle to keep the thing from smashing his balls, while Cerra took pity on Voloshin. Interesting, he thought, as the Spaniard tried not to stare at the Russian’s hard ass. Then Tom headed to the line, ignoring a ripple of unwanted awareness when Bisset fell in behind him.
“Ah, gentlemen, well done,” Donati said. “And your companions? What of them?”
Tom shrugged. “Voloshin was having some trouble. Cerra helped him out.”
Donati nodded benignly. “How kind of Señor Cerra. And what about the two of you? Did you encounter any problems?”
Tom smiled displaying the straight, white teeth his parents had paid a fortune for. “Nope. Easy enough to figure out.”
“And you, Monsieur,” Elle Mason said, addressing Bisset. “Any trouble?”
“Non. Eh, no trouble,” he said. “What about you, Mademoiselle Mason? No special equipment for you?”
Tom watched, fascinated. Rather than flustering her, Bisset’s stab at dominance made Elle Mason grin.
“No, Monsieur,” she said. “No special equipment for me.”
“Pity,” the Frenchman said, doubling down. “I’m curious as to why? Perhaps different standards for women?”
Tom looked away. Meanwhile, Elle Mason pulled a grease pen out of the pocket in her tight, black pants.
“No, Monsieur,” she said. “I wear no special equipment, because I have earned the right to wear clothes.”
As if to punctuate the statement, Elle Mason drew a big, black 4 in the center of Bisset’s chest.
“Just as you have earned the right to wear this,” she went on, circling the 4 like a merit badge and recapping the pen.
“Earn your way up from that,” she said, patting Bisset’s arm. Then she flashed Tom a wink and turned away.
Beside him, the Frenchman’s hand twitched. Tom looked past Elle and didn’t respond. He knew that wink hadn’t been for him. Regardless of how he felt about Bisset, he wasn’t Elle Mason’s tool.
“Ah! And with seconds to spare,” Donati said, as Voloshin and Cerra rushed back to the line.
Voloshin smiled. It was a charming, chagrined sort of smile, like the wagging tail of a St. Bernard who had eaten the Sunday roast.
“Apologies, Signor Donati. This equipment is new to me. Cerra was good enough to explain.”
Cerra flushed, bright enough to show in the mirrors. Voloshin looked straight ahead.
“Well, then. Now that we are all here,” Donati said, clapping his hands, “the trial begins. Kneel.”
No one but Ce
rra moved. Donati muttered something in Italian.
“Por favore, the rest of you. KNEEL.”
Tom’s scalp prickled. He could feel the old man pulling his strings all the way down through his spine. He didn’t like it, but he knelt, as did Voloshin and Bisset.
“Gratzi. When you are not working, you will kneel, resting your buttocks on your heels, knees twelve inches apart, fingers laced behind you heads, arms perpendicular to the floor. This is rest position. Understood?”
“Yes, Signor Donati,” the other men murmured. Tom nodded, unable to find his voice.
“Good. Monsieur Bisset has already earned his starting rank,” Donati said, gesturing to the 4 on the Frenchman’s chest. Bisset’s face went gray. “However, the rest of you have yet to establish your places. Ms. Mason?” he said, bowing slightly to Elle.
“There are two halves to this exercise,” Elle Mason said, moving to a rack of swords sitting flush against one mirrored wall. “The first is to breach Signor Donati’s defense, and the second is to defend against my attack. You will do so with one of these.”
Elle Mason stepped to the center of the strip, holding what appeared to be an old fashioned épée with an ugly, barbed tip.
“This weapon goes back to the days before electrical scorekeeping, when referees needed better ways to track points. In this case, spiked tips. It’s a rough little thing,” Elle said, pressing the pad of her index finger into the tip. Then she held up her finger, displaying a drop of blood. “They tear at padding,” she said, ignoring the tiny wound. “They even penetrate jackets if the catch is nasty enough. Just imagine what they do to skin.”
She sucked the blood off her finger with a smile. Tom’s cock twitched, testing its confines.
“Will you and Signor Donati be using one of those,” Voloshin asked, eying the épée’s tip.
“I will be using one, yes. Signor Donati will be using this.”
Setting the épée aside, Elle Mason pulled out a sharpened pencil and held it up. Voloshin laughed, a strange bark of disbelief.
“I cannot fence an old man armed with a pencil,” he said. “It would not be right.”
“It is not for you to decide what it wrong or right,” Donati said, blandly.
“In fact,” he went on, “I believe, Voloshin, that we will start with you. Select your weapon and meet me on the strip.
Obviously unhappy, Voloshin did as he was told while the rest of them watched Donati hand his cane to Elle. Then, shuffling slowly, the old man made his way to the Russian. Voloshin moved to help him, but Donati waved him off.
“The strip is my home, Voloshin. I am quite fine.”
And surprisingly he was. Tom watched curiously as Donati settled into natural, loose-jointed, comfortable en-garde. Then he held the pencil up like a conductor and nodded to Elle Mason, who watched with narrowed eyes.
“En-garde. Ready. Allez.”
Voloshin stood there, rocking back and forth, not making a move. Donati lowered his guard with a huff.
“Voloshin, if you do not do something you will find yourself tied with Monsieur Bisset for fourth place. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Signor Donati,” the Russian mumbled, before trying a half-hearted lunge.
“You attack like a twelve year old boy,” Donati said, easily parrying the blow.
Voloshin thrust a bit more assertively this time. Donati blocked again. Tom cocked his head, watching Donati’s static defense. There was no footwork, no aggression, no obvious avoidance, and yet Voloshin couldn’t touch him no matter how he tried.
“End,” Elle said. “Voloshin, to the side. Granger, you’re next.”
Red faced, Voloshin knelt as Tom rose and retrieved a weapon from the rack. Then, testing the weight and balance as he walked, he met the little gentleman at the center of the strip. Donati smiled and watched, rocking on the balls of his ancient feet.
Thanks to Voloshin’s bout, Tom knew not to hold himself back, though he was careful not to thrust at full strength. However, he soon found his reservation to be unnecessary as well. No matter how he attacked—lunge, riposte, advance—he could not breach Donati’s defense. His blade simply couldn’t get through.
“End. Granger, to the side. Cerra, you’re next.”
Tom knelt again, curious and preoccupied. He couldn’t see what the old man was doing—he only saw the effect. By the time Donati had finished with Cerra, and then, finally, Bisset, he was no closer to understanding.
Donati pocketed the pencil and brushed off his hands.
“Ms. Mason, would you bring me my cane,” he asked.
“Of course,” Elle Mason said, handing it to him as he trundled off the strip.
“Gratzi, cara. Now, gentlemen,” he said, addressing the fencers. “You failed to get past an old man with a pencil. Perhaps you will do better against this girl’s attack. Mr. Granger, you are first.”
Tom stood, feeling all the more naked for the padded bulk of the jock strap as Elle Mason met him, fully clothed, on the strip. Tom flushed a hot, self-conscious red. It hadn’t bothered him with Donati, but it sure the hell bothered him with Elle. The fact that suddenly his cock was hard enough to strain the confines of the cup only distracted him more. Tom struggled with his face, trying to keep it bland.
“All right, Granger?” Elle Mason smiled, thin and spiked as her blade.
“Sure,” Tom said, with more bite than he’d intended. He was at a disadvantage and it pissed him off. “Whenever you’re ready. Elle.”
Elle Mason’s eyes sharpened beneath lazy, narrowed lids. Tom’s body tensed. He’d misjudged and overstepped. Fuck it, he thought, as his balls tightened against the blunt rim of the cup. There was nothing to do but play through.
“En-garde,” Donati said. “Begin.”
Faster than he could clock it, she lunged, binding his blade when she could have easily taken the point. Unsettled, Tom tried to shake her off, but she bound his blade again. Again he disengaged. Again she bound. Again he disengaged. His temper lashed up as he threw her off, parrying with far too much force, but before he could riposte, Donati’s voice rang out.
“Halt. Point left. Granger kneel, Monsieur Bisset, you’re next.”
Tom looked up, confused. He hadn’t felt her score …
“Look where you’re standing,” Elle Mason said.
Tom looked down. She hadn’t needed to score the point. She had driven him right off the strip. Tom’s face burned. That hadn’t happened in fifteen years. Impulsively, irrationally he stalked off of the strip, as the Frenchman passed him without a glance, dispassionate and cold.
Tom knelt stiffly as Bisset dropped into en-garde. Suddenly, he wanted to spank Bisset’s ass redder than his own goddamned fucking face. The thought of the Frenchman bent at the waist, counting off strokes made Tom even harder than he already was, edging the chafe of the codpiece right to the edge of pain. It was that image that he focused on through the other three bouts, all of which ended in victory for Elle.
“Well,” Georgio said, as Cerra, the final combatant, moved sanguinely off the strip. “Do any of you know why you failed?”
After an awkward pause, Cerra spoke up.
“Because we were distracted, and you were not.”
Donati nodded, pleased.
“Yes. Precisely. You were all defeated because we saw you, and you failed to see us. You were too distracted—by discomfort, ego, pain, or anger—to effectively attack and defend. Consider what that means, gentlemen. It may help you come tomorrow. Now, for the initial ranking.”
Elle Mason stalked the line, ignoring Bisset’s glaring 4. Voloshin received a 2 and Cerra the 1, which meant that Tom received the—
“Three. Better luck tomorrow, Granger,” Elle Mason said, dismissively capping the pen.
Tom’s face hurt with the effort of keeping it blank.
&nb
sp; Tom had been a top for nearly seven years, but it wasn’t rope or humiliation that turned him on. It was bending someone’s will, gently and subtly, so they didn’t even know. That’s what made him hard—discipline and control. He thought he’d had that mastered. Apparently, he’d been wrong.
He stayed in the training room long after the others, pacing the length of the strip. No matter how many times he walked through it, he couldn’t see how she’d maneuvered him off. Where had the power tipped? In the end he had to conclude that it hadn’t—she’d simply had it from the start.
By the time he got to the locker room it was empty, thank fucking god. Tom unbuckled the jock strap and threw it in his locker. His balls ached and his cock was sore from pushing against the cup—he was only a bit above average as far as size went, but his dick was just that hard. It had been since the bout. The fact that losing had turned him on made him vaguely sick.
Throwing his codpiece at the locker felt so good that he almost did it again, but he didn’t allow himself. Instead, he took it out, folded it and placed it on the shelf like the civilized man he was. Then he took the hottest shower he could stand.
He cranked the water up, so the spray needled his skin and beaded over the 3. Relaxing into the punishing heat, Tom stroked his cock …
A thrill of filthy pleasure shot through him as he thought of Elle Mason, lean and feral, driving him off the strip.
“Fuck me,” he muttered, and shut the water off.
No matter how badly he needed to, he didn’t want to come—not thinking about that cold, cold blonde. The power dynamic was off. Somehow, in less than three hours, Elle Mason had fucked him up.
On the surface it was obvious. She’d played him on the strip without tipping her hand. His father would not be proud—Laszlo Granger hated a mark. The fact that there were witnesses compounded that shame. But still, Tom thought, he could have managed even that. Something simpler was fucking him up. Her prowess turned him on. He wanted her approval. He wanted to please her. That’s what pissed him off.
Tom tossed his towel in a hamper.