“Over the desk,” he said, rising. Chris scrambled to keep up with him as he walked into the spacious sitting room between the two bedrooms. The desk was a good height, much like Grendel’s desk back home, although much more delicate-looking. They had discovered it was fairly sturdy, though.
And when Grendel walked to one side and reinserted his cock into Chris’s mouth, it proved to be exactly the height he was already used to. How convenient. He would have to send a note to management.
Or better yet, have Chris let them know.
Chris gagged, almost as if he could overhear Grendel’s thought processes. Grendel reacted without thinking; he pulled out and cuffed the servile man and then slammed back in. This did not exactly provide time for more proper cock sucking to be achieved, but oh, it felt good.
“You need more practice,” Grendel said as he allowed his cock to get harder and wetter. “Maybe I should have invited Gordon over. He might like a change over from his Texan cook, don’t you think? With Leon away, I’m sure he must be feeling deprived anyway.”
Questions during cocksucking were almost always rhetorical. Chris made no attempt to respond.
“Or actually, there is Jack. Now that it’s been a while since he had Brian every day, I bet he’s aching for some regular cocksucking. That girl he’s dating just doesn’t seem quite as... biddable as he might be used to.”
Grendel pulled out again, and ruffled Chris’s hair affectionately. Chris drew a breath and choked out, “As you wish, Master,” coughing as he finished the words. His hands gripped the edge of the desk as Grendel walked behind him and kicked his legs further apart.
“This is what I wish,” he said, taking bruised flesh into his hands. “Right now.”
Chris’s groan at entry was almost as good as the actual sensation, accompanied by the spreading of his hands, as they shook. Grendel knew it wasn’t the pain per se, although it always hurt a little when there had been so much time between reaming. This was one of the ways Chris lost himself; one of the few times when he let go. It was primal to him, a sort of core usage that was mingled with his identity and fantasies.
The first time Grendel had seen Chris, his hand buried deep into a slave woman at a Marketplace party, he had thought, “Who is that boy, and why isn’t he in that sling?” Chris had been so cool that evening, so professional and distant, with that sweet, jailbait-face. The owners present didn’t know whether to watch him or the squirming, screaming woman poised so neatly on his small hand, but Grendel didn’t have any such conflict.
And the first time he had Chris before him, on his knees, all he could think of was “how will she collect for this little treat?”
But the first time he bent Chris over and fucked his ass, no questions came to him. In that moment, there were no mysteries. Chris belonged to him. Chris was meant to be used by him. Master and servant, top and bottom, sadist and masochist, whatever terminology applied, they were matched perfectly.
Which was why he couldn’t afford to do this more often.
But in this moment, he reveled in the tight heat embracing his cock, in the warmth of the beaten flesh that he ground his body against. His thumbs dug into layers of bruises, and Chris arched his back and moaned with every spasm of pain.
Grendel reached across the desk and grabbed hold of the chain locked around Chris’s throat. He jerked up, and Chris gasped, and Grendel tightened his hold. Dangerous games. There was no one else he could do this with. No contract stood between them. The Marketplace could have nothing to say, could do nothing to protect Chris, remove him, shelter him.
To both of us, Grendel thought, as he twisted his hand and drove his hips forward, the collar is not real.
But my hand is. And your breath is, boy, and your fragile windpipe and of course the blood pulsing...
The red rose cut into Chris’s shoulder seemed to flare under the marks of the belt. The edges had risen, as they always did when he was beaten, and Grendel, who was not normally drawn to blood, again wished that he had seen it done. That he understood why it was there. In the pleasurable frustration of a man who paradoxically wanted to know everything yet always wanted something new to discover, he wanted to know about all the various marks of ownership, the proof that others had come before him and made this man gasp and cry and blush and scream. But he didn’t ask those questions.
Suddenly, a spasm of pain flew through Grendel’s body. It took him a moment to realize it wasn’t physical, but a harsh, electric moment of pre-cognition. I can’t mark you, he realized. Unless that collar is as real as my hand and your breath.
He released the chain, and Chris collapsed forward, choking for air. The heavy coughs were like rhythmic spasms throughout his body, and Grendel could feel the compression along his cock. It was no act, no moment of make-believe when Grendel allowed anger, frustration and fear to take over and they drove his passion thoughtlessly as Chris just braced and panted for breath.
The end was sharp and long, and Grendel threw his head back as he came, feeling the explosions race through him. He pulled out quickly, and heard Chris gasp again. The man who managed so many trainees, who had written so much, created so much, was shaking. But he didn’t move, didn’t fall to the floor, didn’t speak.
Grendel looked down as he stripped the condom off. Well, there’s blood, he thought, tossing it onto the tile floor.
“Clean up,” he said as he walked to the bathroom. “And keep silent.” Somehow, hearing Chris thank him right now would be unbearable.
* * * *
Alex and Rachel returned from their sailing adventure after lunch. Rachel, an indifferent sailor, had taken the opportunity to lay out in the sun while Alex and Gordon Reynolds took control of the exquisite catamaran available for resort guests. The slave who was technically there to take them out spent most of his time making drinks and pointing out local landmarks. Gordon and Alex were both excellent sailors.
Chris collected bathing suits and tote bags and ran a bath for Alex while Rachel showered in the separate stall. By the time she returned to the bedroom that she had shared with Chris on the first night and Alex on the second, she found Chris had laid out shorts and a blouse for her. He was emptying the sand out of her canvas bag into the trash can. Alex had decided that Chris should wear all white for this week in the tropics—and characteristically, his linen trousers were razor creased and the short sleeved shirt looked fresh from the laundry.
“I want a T-shirt,” Rachel said, as she walked across the room naked. She had covered the fair-skinned Alexandra with gobs of sunscreen, but only smeared a little across her own nipples and tattoos. She tanned beautifully.
“Of course, Mistress, my apologies.” Chris took the blouse and hung it up and brought back a T-shirt for her. She grinned and sat in the big papasan chair, her legs spread. It had been her choice how Chris was to address her this week. But rather than turn her on, it seemed to bring her to the edge of giggles.
“So, what did the big guy do to you while we were out?” she asked, wiggling her toes.
“I’m afraid that is not for me to say, Mistress,” he said smoothly. “Will there be any other service I may provide for you?”
She pouted for a moment and then beckoned. “There sure is, hot stuff. Come on over here and get me off. I need to relax a little, and you’re the perfect siesta.” She pointed to the floor in front of her, and as he moved, she spread her legs wider. “I can get used to this,” she said, her voice lilting up as he knelt. “Maybe I should ask Alex if we can keep things this way when we get back.”
He didn’t answer, and for a moment, she wondered why. But then she remembered; he was not to question, not to be informal, not to be casual in any way. Part of her loved this instant obedience from her friend and long-time lover. Part of her was annoyed at not hearing him tease back.
But all of her was distracted from these thoughts as he began to kiss her inner thighs. “Yeah, that’s it, that’s it,” she sighed. “Make it good, sugar.”
And so he did. And when she came once, she decided twice would be better. By the time she was up to four, he was on his back while she rode his mouth and fingers, and they were in that position when Alex came in.
Rachel didn’t stop her rhythmic rocking, or the way she was twisting her own nipple rings. She grinned at Alex and licked her lips, and Alex laughed. “Well, I was looking for a massage, but if you’re keeping him busy...”
“Just wait—wait a minute,” Rachel breathed. “Yeah, that’s it, sweet boy, nice boy, keep going, yes, just like that, yeah, oh yeah! Make it nice, make it good, show off for pretty Alex, that’s right!”
Alex folded her arms and smiled as Rachel started to shake, her lips spread back in a grimace that Alex knew very well. “Oh yeah, you sweet mouth fucker, work that clit, come on, faster, keep it going, that’s it you son of a bitch, here it is, Alex, here it is, oh yeah, mother fucker, yes, yes!”
Alex watched Rachel come, her head cocked to one side. It was always exciting to watch Rachel; it was like having a porn actress around sometimes. But much more honest.
Rachel leaned forward and stretched like a cat before getting up. “He’s all yours!” she said energetically.
“I think I’ll give him a moment to make himself presentable,” Alex said gently. “Five minutes in the other bedroom, Chris.”
“Yes, Madame,” he said. Whispered, actually, his voice was hoarse. No wonder, Alex thought, as she turned to go. After a morning with Gren and lunch with Rachel, I’m surprised he can speak at all.
She did wish she’d seen him on his knees when Grendel was reading the paper, though. Grendel promised he’d repeat that tomorrow. Apparently, he found it very relaxing.
* * * *
Chris staggered back into the suite after he had taken a light meal in the employee/slave dining hall. The other three occupants were all out and would probably be out late; every night at the resort offered an array of entertainments ranging from cabaret performances to amusing slave competitions to outright orgies.
Although how an orgy could possibly be any different from the regular daily activities was an honest question. At least in this particular suite.
“Hola, Diego,” he said wearily to the gray haired man who was turning down the king-sized bed in one of the bedrooms.
“Hola, Chris,” the slave replied cheerfully. “You help?”
“Sí, chi.” The many arrangements that slave owners and the occasional trainers made when they took over the small resort ranged from having personal slaves do none of the work of caring for a room, to all of it. Chris imagined that he could have taken care of it all, but didn’t mind that he was not required to. And it was pleasant to have contact with a senior slave, even for a few minutes at a time.
Together, they made short work of the rooms. Diego removed the wilting flowers from the largest arrangement and put mints on the pillows, and Chris thanked him in rudimentary Spanish and then took a hot shower. The fourth one today. He had rarely spent so much time grooming himself. Between brushing his teeth and hair, washing his body and keeping the white clothing clean and pressed, he felt like he was living life twice as fast as necessary. But thus far, he had not been found unacceptable whenever he presented himself.
The water made his bruises throb, but he used the hottest water he could stand and then did a series of stretches while his body dried. He was becoming more limber as he increased time stretching and running. His weight had remained the same, and he was sure he would never have the washboard abs so admired in men, but at least he was losing some of the flabbiness around his waist and hips as muscles were developing elsewhere.
He studied himself briefly in the full length mirror, and then turned away to dress. That body was not who he was.
The only thing he liked was the chain. He wiped it down with a dry cloth before he put a clean shirt on. As he fastened the trousers he glanced around the room one more time. All of Rachel’s clothing, which had been strewn about before she left for dinner, was put away. Dirty laundry had been sent out. Safe sex supplies and favorite sex toys were handy, the bed inviting. Since no one had communicated a preference to him, there was a pallet at the foot of the bed in each of the bedrooms. He adjusted the lights in the two rooms and then went into the sitting room with his book to take as comfortable a position as he could on the floor and wait for someone to return.
He did not regret agreeing to come, to play this role for his employers. He knew, intimately, the pain of this taste of the forbidden. But he had not expected Rachel to be here as well, and even when he was told to include her in the travel arrangements, he had not imagined that she would be given free rein over him, co-equal to Grendel and Alex.
Chris wished that his feelings about that situation were clearer. Certainly, he had bottomed to Rachel before, and on occasion under Alex’s control the two women had found... interesting ways to use him.
But for Rachel to be suddenly elevated to owner status, even pretend Owner—it was awkward. Especially since she didn’t enjoy it all the time.
But that was bad, unproductive thinking. He took this collar, even if it was for only two weeks. If Grendel and Alex wanted him to offer service to anyone they brought into the room, or to send him into the marathon sessions some owners enjoyed watching or participating in, for these two weeks they could do so.
Still, he was grateful that when the three returned from their entertainments, Alex and Rachel went into one room hand in hand while Grendel snapped and pointed for Chris to go into the other. Exhausted as he was, it was just easier to serve and then sleep at the foot of Grendel’s bed.
* * * *
Alex had tried to be quiet, but she heard the door to Grendel’s room open and the discreet cough behind her as she had barely finished perusing the contents of the little refrigerator in the wet bar.
“Pardon me, Madame, may I be of service?”
She smiled, and then straightened up. “Mineral water, please,” she said, retreating to the couch. “And did you pack something stronger than aspirin?”
“Yes, Madame, I’ll have it for you right away.” Chris was in a summer robe and loose white pajama bottoms. His hair looked tousled, but otherwise he was awake. It was scary how quickly he could wake up and move. Grendel told her that there had been a few times early in his relationship with Chris, when he was still seeing him privately, when Chris had awakened suddenly in the middle of the night, as if from a night terror. But they had seen no evidence of this in their house, and certainly Chris never reported sleeping problems to them.
He delivered the water first, no ice, the way she preferred it, and then vanished into the shared bathroom and came back with both the painkiller and a small bottle of mint massage gel. Alex said nothing, just nodded, and he stepped behind her and very gently worked his cool fingertips against her neck and shoulders and then at her temples. The mint seemed to release the headache pain in its vapors, and his silence was comforting as well.
“You’re a treasure, Chris,” she murmured, as he capped the bottle.
“Thank you, Madame, it is my pleasure to be of use.” His voice was low too, and he refilled her glass without making any sign that he was ready to go back to sleep or for her to request something else. She had often found him up and about on her restless nights, and at first thought that he was also wakeful. But she soon came to realize that he did not consider it proper for him to be asleep while she or Grendel were awake.
How they had earned such devotion was surely one of their life’s blessings. How to keep it was one of their challenges.
“I want you to find some interesting new body for us to play with,” she said idly, when he returned from the bathroom again. “Tomorrow afternoon. The best of what’s available; someone we wouldn’t see at home.”
“I understand, Madame.” He nodded, and she could see, almost feel the way he was already considering options. “Will three o’clock be satisfactory?”
“Perfect. Now go back to sleep. You woul
dn’t want Gren to wake up and not find you there.” She waved her hand in a shooing motion, and with a slight bow, he went quietly back into the room. She knew that he would sit near the door, listening for her, waiting for the light to go out before he went back to wherever Grendel had put him to sleep.
She went into her own room and Rachel’s mumbled welcome and thought that life was pretty good.
* * * *
Chris outdid himself by acquiring a pair of pleasure slaves, not staff at the resort, but loaned from an Argentine couple who were only too pleased to show them off to a pair of American trainers for a few hours. The woman was tall and slender, with perfectly formed breasts and long black hair that ran down to her waist. And her partner was a classically formed man with wide shoulders and narrow hips, his nipples pierced and eyes sharp. The two of them came in matching sarongs.
The two trainers took their loaned slaves down to the larger play-room set up in the main building and left a note for Rachel, who was getting a manicure and pedicure, to join them if she felt like it.
Rachel thought about it as she kicked off her sandals and got dutiful admiration for the colors she had chosen. She asked Chris to describe the slaves for her and speculated on what Grendel and Alex might do with such a pair. But Chris’s polite, noncommittal answers annoyed her, even as the idea of shaking him out of formal behavior captivated her.
“Maybe you should wear a sarong, Chris,” she said, tossing her head back as she drank some Diet Coke. “It would look cute!”
“Thank you, Mistress,” he said, and was there just a touch of his dryness there? “I appreciate your interest. However, my wardrobe has been chosen for me.”
Still in white, he was in heavy cotton shorts and another button down shirt. She thought he looked like some kind of camp counselor. Even his sandals were white, and how—and when!—he kept them that way was a mystery. White leather just was not very practical. In the four days they had been there, he had picked up some sun himself. But not enough. Rachel wondered if she could get him down to the beach one day. The last time they had gone to the beach was an afternoon down at Cherry Grove over two years ago. Chris was not very good at relaxing; he had spent most of the day studying for an exam for one of his psychology classes. He had refused to remove his shirt, too.
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