by E J Frost
“If Lo’s okay with it, I am.”
“Great.” Harry claps me on the shoulder. “I’ll text him and let him know.”
“Thanks. I’ll look forward to meeting him.”
Maybe this is an opportunity to find a more accepting band of brothers. I’ll be open to anything the fellow has to say.
We return to the table and Brenna looks a question at me. I kiss her temple to let her know everything’s okay. She picks up one of appetizers off her plate and offers it to me. Looks like a tiny, deviled egg on a thick, round cracker. I obligingly open my mouth, bite off half, and nip her fingertips before she withdraws them.
The heat hits my sinuses like a grenade blast. I manage to chew and swallow with only a small cough before drowning the heat with several gulps of water.
Brenna grins at me while chewing her own half.
“How much hot sauce did you put on that?” I growl.
She picks up a little bottle of red liquid from near her water glass and eyeballs it. “Less than a teaspoon, Sir. Too hot for you?”
“No.” Fuck, yes. I may never be able to taste another thing. “Bring that bottle with you when lunch is done. I’ll find a use for it later.”
Bren gulps and nudges the bottle around behind her glass with her finger.
“Mmm, not so funny when the tables are turned, is it, girl?”
“Worth it for the look on your face, Sir.”
“We’ll test that theory later.”
“Sir.” She toys with a pile of cucumbers and shredded onion that looks similarly tampered with, her eyes following the motion of her fork, not meeting mine. “There’s a thing tonight. Some of the house subs are going. It’s just drinks. Maybe two or three hours. It’s just, it might be my last chance to go as a house sub.”
We talked about her taking a hiatus from the club, but not about it being a permanent break. That she’s looking at it that way makes warmth bloom in my chest.
I slide my hand over her shoulder and under the fall of jewel-toned dreadlocks that she’s left long and loose today. I cup her nape and rub my thumb up and down the long tendon in the back of her neck. “Are you asking for permission to go?”
Her shoulders drop an inch. “Yes, Sir.”
“Good girl. I’m very pleased with you. You have permission. I’d like your company afterwards but if you’d like a night off, I’ll head over to Logan’s.”
She’s shaking her head, her dreadlocks brushing over my forearm, before I even finish. “I don’t need a night off, Sir.”
I lean in and kiss her temple. “Good to hear. Gimme a bite of something that won’t strip the lining off my damn tongue.” She forks up some pulled pork and gives me a big bite. After I enjoy its smoky sweetness, I ask, “Where’re you convening for drinks?”
“We start at a bar called Chicklets about three blocks from here and usually end up in the nightclub.”
“That’ll work. We’ll meet you at the bar in the nightclub when you’re done. How d’you feel about bourbon, girl?”
“Never tried it, Sir.”
“Mmm, you can try a sip of mine and if you like it, I’ll treat you to a glass. That means no scening tonight. It’s potent stuff.”
Her eyes finally rise to me and she gives me puppy eyes that would have done Pop’s spaniel proud. “No sex?”
“Didn’t say that. We might have to try something really crazy, like vanilla.”
Bren chuckles. “Hard limit, Sir.”
I pinch the nape of her neck. “Now, you know that’s just a challenge, girl. Should we make a little wager on how many orgasms I can get out of you with plain old vanilla sex?”
She shivers under my hand. “Sucker bet.”
“That’s right, girl.” I draw her to me until I can nose aside her dreads and nip the soft shell of her ear. “I don’t need fancy toys to make you come. Just my cock in one of your warm holes and my voice in your ear. If you’re a good girl, I’ll even play with those pretty tits.”
She shivers harder. “Sir.”
“Yeees,” I drawl. “Something you need more than the rest of your lunch, girl?”
She pokes the cucumbers again with her fork. “Food here’s really good, Sir.”
Oh, that smart mouth.
“It is,” I concede, picking up a mini sandwich and checking it for excess hot sauce before I wolf it down. “I think orgasms are better. But that’s probably just me.”
I trace my finger up and down the back of her neck, just to get her shivering again.
“Sir.”
Such a sweet, needy whine.
“Eat up, girl. If it’s better than orgasms, don’t let it go to waste.”
She wriggles in her chair. “Sir.”
“Take your shirt off. Down to your bra. I want to see those pretty tits while I finish this better-than-orgasms lunch. If you’re a good girl, I’ll let you come while I fuck that ass later.”
Brenna shudders, but unbuttons the white dress shirt she’s wearing. Is that my shirt? I think it is. Bold girl, stealing my clothes. She’s wearing a white lace camisole underneath that looks stunning against her colorful skin. When she left Logan’s this morning, she was wearing a sweatshirt with a gold heart over the left breast circled by the letters “IDGAF.” I had no idea she had all of this hidden underneath. Sneaky girl.
She drapes the shirt over the back of her chair. The table’s gone silent as she’s disrobed, and Bren flushes a gorgeous shade of pink with all the eyes on her. She’s been naked in front of everyone at the table, I’m pretty sure, but it’s different when I’m making her undress while everyone else is fully clothed. Under the camisole, pushing against the soft fabric, her nipples are tight points. No barbells today by the outlines, which is a shame; I absolutely love the blue metal against her pink skin. She shifts in her chair and keeps her eyes on the food. I soak up her sweet, embarrassed arousal.
Conversation starts up around the table again and I whisper into her ear, “I can’t see those tits, girl. Don’t hide what’s mine from me. Push the straps off your shoulders and let the camisole fall down to your nipples.”
She squirms so hard I think she might be on the edge of an orgasm, but she does as she’s told, flicking the camisole straps off her shoulders and letting the silky fabric slip down until it’s clinging to her nipples. She’s crimson all the way down to the edge of the camisole.
“Beautiful, girl,” I purr in her ear. “That’s what I want to see. Close your eyes while I feed you. Honor blindfold.”
Her fluttering eyelids close and she goes nearly limp under my hand. I spoon up some of the incendiary-looking cucumbers and hold them to her lips. She opens her mouth without hesitation.
As she chews, I whisper to her, “Everyone in this restaurant is looking at you. Everyone can see how beautiful you are, with your glowing skin and your hard nipples. Every man in here wants to suck on those nipples, even the gay ones.”
She chokes on a laugh.
“I’m the envy of every single fucker in here, my dirty girl. They’re watching me feed you and knowing I’ll be fucking that mouth and that pussy and that ass later and they’re wishing they were me. They’re swallowing hard thinking about how those tits taste, but the only mouth on you is going to be mine.”
“Sir,” she mumbles.
“Eat, girl.” I feed her one of the mini sandwiches off my plate, leaving my fingers to tug and play with her lower lip as she chews. After she swallows, I push my fingers in between her teeth. “Suck off the crumbs.”
She does, eager, hungry draws against the pads of my fingers. I reward her obedience with a nuzzle and a nip on her ear.
“Logan wants to do a breeding scene after lunch,” I tell her, playing with her plush lower lip before feeding her a forkful of pulled pork. “But I’m not interested in putting you in some soft breeding stall with cushions under your knees. I’m going to harness my mare, make her spread her legs and take it while I breed her holes. Think you can come while you’re bent double,
girl?”
“I never have, Sir.”
“Mmm.” Maybe I won’t bend her all the way over. “Do you have any tack, girl?”
She chews a second mouthful of pulled pork before she answers. “Yes, Sir. I’ve got hoof boots, a face harness, reins, a tail, and a horse mask here.”
I take it as a sign of how far I’ve come that I don’t feel a wash of jealousy at finding her already kitted-out for pony play, knowing that she must have done it with other Doms, probably some of whom are in this room. She hasn’t done it with me yet, and that’s what matters.
“And does my mare know any fancy steps in her hoof boots, or is she just a slutty little breeder?”
Bren’s shivering continuously under my hand. Her camisole slips off one nipple and sags to her waist. Her breasts are perfect pears, golden and pink. I pull on her nape until her back arches and I can lean over and taste her. Suckling on her nipples, while I continue to pull on her neck, draws a soft cry out of her. Her thighs clench, muscles shifting under the yoga pants she’s wearing.
I trail my mouth back up to her ear. “Now, if my filthy little filly had been a good girl and not sassed her owner about the food being better than the orgasms he gives her, she could be having one right now. Instead, my mare’s going to have to suffer for an hour or two until her food goes down and her owner can put her in a proper position to be bred. Answer my question, slutty mare.”
She flushes even more deeply, which I didn’t think was possible.
“I— I know how to walk and trot on them, Sir, and I can dance a little.”
“Mmm, then after lunch, you’ll go get changed into your tack and show me your paces. Leave off the mask. I want to be able to check my mare’s teeth.” I’m not a fan of masks and they didn’t figure into Bren’s fantasies, so I don’t feel any need to include one. “And if my saucy mare gets any ideas about biting her owner, I’ll put her in a Jennings gag for the rest of day. Just think of how embarrassed my dirty mare will be if she has to go for drinks with her friends wearing a gag?”
Bren bends over toward the table. “Please, Sir, I’m going to come,” she whispers.
“No, you’re not.” I pick up a butter knife and press the dull edge into her nipple. She jolts and lets out a little squeal of surprise at the touch of the cold metal. Across the table, Logan and Harry chuckle darkly. “Behave yourself, my slutty mare. No creaming yourself at the lunch table.”
“Sir, please. Please, I’m asking permission.”
“Which you don’t have.” I flick the camisole off her other nipple and snap the butter knife against it with my thumb, eliciting a bigger jolt and a louder squeal. “Now we’re going to finish lunch, and then I’ll hose down my dirty filly before she puts on her tack. A little cold water will keep those orgasms at bay, won’t it?”
“Yes, Sir,” she pants.
Although Bren begs me for orgasms, she rarely begs for anything else, particularly not an end to her torment. The only time I can remember was when I was breaking her pussy with the dragon dildo. Otherwise, despite her sass, she’s more than happy to take what I dish out. My sweet, sweet slut.
I let her cool off a little while I feed her the rest of what’s on her plate and eat what’s on mine. When we’re both finished, I release her from the honor blindfold so she can watch me tip out a little of the hot pepper sauce, rub it between my fingers, reach down the front of the yoga pants she’s wearing, and paint her clit with it. She squirms on her chair, but I think that’s more from me stroking her clit than because of the heat. It will take a moment for the burn to sink in. While she’s squirming, I tip more hot sauce on my finger and rub each of her nipples with it. She looks at me curiously. It takes a while for capsicum to work on tissue that’s not mucus membrane like the mouth, throat, and pussy, but she’ll be feeling it in a few minutes, particularly after repeated applications.
While everyone drinking coffee and tea, or in Emily’s case, a banana milkshake, I keep painting my dirty girl’s nipples and clit with pepper sauce. It hits her hard after five minutes, the burn biting deeper and deeper, until she’s writhing in her chair, gripping the seat with white-knuckled fingers to prevent herself from rubbing off the burn. Her face is so crimson its purple, dotted with sweat; her breath comes in delightful little hisses. Each breath makes my cock pulse.
“Is my filthy filly ready for her hose-down?” I murmur in her ear.
Bren nods frantically and my cock jumps at her predicament. No one really wants a cold shower. Even in the middle of the summer, they’re barely pleasant. But she knows cold water will soothe the burn, which has to be something she wants, probably more desperately with every passing minute.
Just to prolong her delicious agony, I make another pass over her nipple and clit with the hot sauce.
“Sir, please,” she hisses.
“Ah, have I finally gotten you to beg, girl? Is that yellow I hear?”
“No, Sir.” She sets her jaw and huffs out a breath through her nose. My salty-sweet, stubborn sammie.
“Well then, I think we should let your lunch digest a little more before I hit you with the cold water. I don’t want to upset my filly’s delicate tummy.”
“My stomach’s cast damn iron,” Bren grumbles. “Sir.”
“Is that your way of saying, ‘please, Sir, I’d like the cold hose now’?”
I hear her teeth grind. That makes me chuckle as I lean in to nip her ear.
“Was that a ‘yes, Sir,’ girl?”
Her teeth grind so loudly I bet Logan and Harry can hear her.
“Yes, Sir.”
I slap her thigh. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”
Brenna’s expression when I offer her my hand and help her out of her chair is pure murder. It makes me roar with delight.
*****
Watching Bren trot on her hoof-boots, tail swishing against her calves, nipple clamps jingling, makes a pulse thunder in my cock that drowns out the rat-tat-tat of her hooves.
Dots of water still glisten on Bren’s glossy, colorful hide. The room’s warm, and the water I hosed her down with was warm, too, because no matter how sassy she can be, Bren doesn’t deserve a cold shower. After I washed her and we collected her tack, Logan led us upstairs into a large, open dungeon with several stocks and pillories bolted to the hardwood floor. We passed a long line of kinksters still waiting at the entrance to the Stables and I’m glad we didn’t have to join that line. There’s something to be said for Logan’s VIP status at the club.
I settle on a lounger next to Logan, stretching out my legs and crossing my ankles. That relieves a little of the constriction of my pants across my groin. I’ve already shed the jacket I wore to lunch and now I roll up the sleeves of my shirt, movements Brenna’s eyes track. Lazily, I pick up a longe whip from the club-provided selection and crack it in the air a hand’s width from Bren’s ass. She flinches at the noise and stops trotting to stare at me.
“Chin up, shoulders back, my filly. I didn’t say you could stop.”
She throws her shoulders back and starts trotting in place again. Beside me, Logan chuckles. He’s got Emily face-down over the lounger while he works a tail-plug into her ass. She’s squirming and whimpering, and I gather the plug is bigger than she’s used to. Her pink hooves beat on the floor out of synch with Bren’s steady trotting.
“How many stripes should our little mares get if they break form?” he asks me conversationally over the squelching of the plug.
“Mmm, at least three. I think I have a talented filly here. Look at her trot.”
Logan glances at Bren and grins.
“Very talented.”
Bren starts to smile before her head snaps around at the sound of the gallery door opening. Good girl that she is, she doesn’t stop trotting. I praise her and stroke her shoulder as I rise and walk past her to greet the people who have entered.
Harry’s in the lead, holding his slender twink’s reins. Pence is in full pony gear, from hoof boots to latex body suit to h
arness and bit, his eyes shielded by blinkers. A step behind him walks the black-haired girl who was at lunch with Harry. She’s barefoot, wearing the black basque set of a house submissive, but no pony gear. Her hands are behind her back and as she moves away from the door, I see she’s handcuffed and leashed. Javier, a bald Dom I met at Logan and Emily’s collaring ceremony, holds her leash. I give him a nod and a smile. We had several good nights in Niagara Falls and I like his particular brand of topping.
Two men and a woman follow Javier, the second man shutting the door behind them. I don’t recognize any of the three. Both of the men are in their late thirties or early forties. One’s dark-haired, shot through with gray; the other’s a dirty blond. The dark-haired man has a full beard, deeply tanned skin, and lines etched around his eyes that suggest he’s spent a lot of time squinting against the sun. He’s big and broad, with a barrel chest. His black T-shirt overhangs his low-slung jeans slightly. The blond is a few inches taller, his body leaner, his face twisted by a scar that drags down the edge of his left eye and dimples his cheek all the way down to his chin. The scar pulls his mouth into an ironic half-grin. He’s also wearing jeans, but is bare-chested except for a leather chest harness. The blond leads the woman, who is in full pony regalia like Harry’s twink. Her body-harness and hoof-boots are burgundy leather and there’s a plume of black and burgundy feathers bobbing above her sculpted afro. Gray eyes peer out of her half-mask, a bright contrast against the dark red leather and her chocolate skin.
Harry introduces me to the newcomers. “Mac, these are the fellers from upstate that I told you about. Napa and his VP, Wreck. Their submissive is Napa’s old lady, Tiana.”
I shake with Napa, the dark-haired man who I figure is the club President, and his blond VP. Tiana gives me a respectful curtsey, which I acknowledge with a nod.
I introduce Logan, Emily, and Brenna. When I call Brenna “my girl,” I see Javier’s brow lift. I guess that tidbit hasn’t made the rounds yet.
“Your girl’s got nice form,” Wreck says, nodding at Bren. The glance he casts her is admiring but not lustful, and I appreciate the difference. “You think she’s up to a little competition?”