Truly helpless, p.10
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       Truly Helpless, p.10

         Part #10 of Nature of Desire series by Joey W. Hill

  Whatever she'd done to secure the mask had also locked his head in a raised position and increased the tension at the corners of his mouth. Now, in addition to being unable to move his head side to side, he couldn't drop it down, either.

  She shifted back and attended to the stomach strap she'd left loose. A clink of metal, a whisper of straps against his leg, and he realized she'd threaded the band through another strap. He grunted as she tucked his cock beneath the crisscrossed pieces and bound his rigid organ to his belly with the girth. She then pulled the other piece up between his legs, his balls and buttocks before securing it to the back of the saddle. When she tugged on it, he bit back an oath as it compressed his hardening cock against his belly further and dug into his ball sac, separating his testicles.

  He growled against the bit as she positioned a wide ring, sewn into the strap, between his cheeks, right where it would give her access to his rectum. He didn't need a fucking safe word for this? Okay, yeah, everything she'd said had been right. He wouldn't use it, but skipping it, not giving him the choice, that was wrong. No matter how stubborn he was, she was supposed to be the responsible one. She didn't usually go this route. He thought he'd known what to expect from her.

  She put her hand on one of the lines running to the bit, so he felt the tug on it, the degree of restraint. It tilted the stallion's head toward her. His head. Bent in such a way that it looked like he had it bowed to her. "Your only task is to obey my commands, heed my touch. You are not Marius, the man that fucks with Mistresses' heads for reasons that don't bring you any pleasure or peace. You are a horse. My horse."

  Now what was she doing? She retrieved another thing from the cabinet. As he watched, gagged from speaking and mostly blinded, he saw only glimpses of her face when she bent before him. He did feel the incidental brush of her body from her movements. She curled his hand into a fist, her fingers too-briefly upon his flesh before she released the cuff on his arm and replaced it with a glove-like piece that enclosed his fist and forearm up to the elbow. Hoof mitts, designed to look like a horse's front hooves, depending on how much the pony player spent. He expected these looked pretty damn realistic. When he shifted, the bottom piece, where the knuckles of his fist were resting, clopped against the boards of the platform.

  Velcro straps secured the mitt to his wrist, arm and elbow, effectively restricting the use of his hands. She'd given him hooves.

  Now that he was properly outfitted in mask, hooves and tack, she returned to touching him, a thorough and maddeningly dispassionate evaluation of his shoulders, biceps and forearms, as if she were a trainer testing the soundness of his "legs."

  It made him feel restless and he tossed his head. The lifelike reaction of the mask and hooves were unsettling, melding with his physical movements. Damn if he wasn't feeling like a damn horse. She crooned to him, her big, powerful animal, her stallion, one that would need a good rubdown after she gave him a hard workout. She slid her hand from his shoulder to his upper back above the saddle, fingernails scraping his flesh there before moving to his buttocks and upper thighs. She pressed gently on the fading bruises, and somehow she seemed to know which ones were from Siren and which were from the fight, because she passed over the former, refusing to acknowledge another Mistress's attempt to claim him.

  He could assume that possessiveness was there, use it to his advantage, but he didn't have enough information. He tried to lower his head, throw it back, adjust his hips. The visual seemed to please her, because she chuckled softly, a hint of her throaty laugh that went straight to a man's cock. She slapped his flank, a stinging blow.

  When she followed it up with a caress of his side, she came so close to his stiffening cock that his hips flexed, trying to force himself into her hands despite the binding straps. A breath later, a riding crop popped his flank, hard enough he jumped and hissed. "None of that now," she chided.

  He pulled against the restraints in angry reproof. All he earned was her amused chuckle and the uneasy confirmation of how securely he was tied.

  "You're a spirited mount. I'm going to enjoy that while I'm fucking you. I need to go and change, but there are cameras. I can see you in the dressing room. You're not alone." Her fingertips slid in one more lingering caress over his shoulder and backside.

  Good. He knew how to handle fucking. She'd be done with him after that, and she'd let him go. She wasn't so different from other Mistresses. But he didn't like this. He was becoming far too aware of the restraints, the quiet she'd imposed on him, how little she was asking. He needed the bitch to ask for more, hurt him, demand everything from him. Then he could take all the pain, give everything to her she thought she'd wanted and spit in her face. Laugh at her, and let her see he'd given her nothing. What the hell was the matter with her?

  What the hell was the matter with him? Reining in the odd surge of emotion--and ignoring how he was falling into horse metaphors--he focused on baser interests. He wished those cameras were two-way so he could see what she was doing, how she looked as she removed that tit-alicious tank. She had a powerhouse figure. Generous breasts and a taut, round, high-set ass. She didn't have stick legs, her thighs strong and healthy, toned pillows to cradle a man as he was plowing her cunt. Her slim auburn and black dreadlocks reached the middle of her back, the beads she seemed to like to use as embellishment clicking when she moved. She had long, elegant fingers, but her hands were surprisingly strong.

  Her dark. They were a rich maple syrup kind of color that had a touch of red when the light hit them the right way. Then they were back to being dark, coated in shadows hard to interpret, but sucking him in regardless.

  Okay, he wasn't thinking about sex. He was thinking about her freaking eyes.

  He stared at himself in the mirror. For a blink he forgot it was a mask and saw himself as a restless, angry horse, one that yanked against his bonds. The pull on the bit made his cock harder, and he stomped the hooves. He imagined covering her, driving into her, baring blunt teeth and latching onto her throat.

  A peculiar feeling was coiling and uncoiling in his belly, like an agitated snake. Horses didn't like snakes. He stomped again, harder. He shook his head. The mane pattered against the mask and the tack jingled. The hooves made the dais vibrate, thanks to the wood beneath the thin rubber mat. His trapped cock convulsed beneath him, balls hanging heavy and loose on either side of that cutting strap. He had to suppress an animalistic urge to hump air, his rutting need to mate. Where the hell was she?

  The bite of the bit at the corners of his mouth, the hold of the ropes keeping his head up, increased his agitation. He rocked, trying to loosen things, but she'd secured him too well. He was held fast.

  It seemed like she'd been gone forever, but he knew it was only minutes. He needed to calm down, get a grip. He couldn't. Fuck it, what was happening? He didn't panic over hardcore shit, and this wasn't even half hardcore. He needed...

  "Easy..." Her voice came through an intercom near his head. She'd said she had cameras in the room. She'd neglected to mention the audio function, but it was welcome. Too welcome. His senses strained to absorb her words.

  "Settle down." Her tone became firm. "Your Mistress will be back with you in a minute. Behave for her."

  He behaved for no one. He wanted to lay back his ears and pluck the intercom from the wall, smash it under his hooves.

  Then he heard her coming back and need lashed him harder. He tried to see more of her in the mirror, but he could only see a piece of her. It confused him. Pink latex, black rubber.

  She was moving. Her heels made a delicate clip, clop sound, a measured, echoing rhythm he understood when she moved into his field of vision and stood before him. She was moving like a horse, one foot up, then the other, a subtle prance that made her breasts quiver.

  She was wearing a pale pink latex mini dress, sleeveless but with a high neck. It clung to her breasts like a second skin, showing off large, firm nipples that made him have to swallow several times to keep drool from esc
aping around the bit. The skirt creased high up on her thighs. Her stilettos were designed to look like hooves in the front, ladies' heels in the back, showcasing her long, toned dark legs all the way to the upper thigh. Her body was everything he'd want to fuck, even as it looked too good for him, inaccessible. No mortal man was worthy of fucking a goddess.

  Snapping himself away from that crazy thought, he lifted his attention to her face. She wore a horse mask, too, as detailed as the stallion's head she'd put upon him. Only hers had a long elegant nose and feminine lines, including a long, silky forelock that fell along the jaw of the mask, emphasizing the column of her neck beneath. The dark eyes he'd been describing to himself were even more unsettling, the shape of the eye holes emphasizing how much her liquid brown irises and large pupils were like a mare's, vibrant with life and intensity.

  She was an erotic meshing of horse and human. He'd said he didn't get this. She'd just forced him past that line and shown him that he could get this. All he had to do was let it happen...or have a Mistress who gave him no other choice but to do so.

  He'd gone rigid. He had no ability to talk, to get loose, to even utter a freaking safe word, if he used one. He could handle pain and fucking. He didn't like this unfamiliar territory. She was testing the boundaries of what he normally was with a Mistress. She'd made him into a horse. A stallion that chewed on the bit, stamped his hooves, pulled against the reins, snorted his anger and lust. If she let him go, he'd be on her in a heartbeat, just like an animal, taking whatever he wanted. She was a physically capable woman, but she was still a woman. He was stronger. He could take her by force, make her submit.

  He suspected she knew all that, and yet she showed no fear. It made him hotter, harder. It made him want her more.

  "You asked me what I thought when I watched you fight." Her voice was a muted purr from the confines of the mask. She moved behind him, that feminine clip clop gait. She was placing an object on the dais next to him. She must be leaning against the platform, because he felt her body as she did something, slight rhythmic movements. In the mirror, he could see a piece of her smooth brown shoulder, the tilt of the mare's head.

  "I was horrified. Worried about what would happen to you. Worried you would be seriously hurt. Yet I was also aroused by your strength and raw ferocity, the beauty of how you fight. That primal part of woman that responds to certain kinds of strength and violence from a male? I wanted to bind all that power beneath me, feel it plunging. I wanted to take you to your hands and knees and make you my mount. So that's what I'm doing."

  He chewed on the bit and made a strangled noise that sounded a little too much like the angry snort of a steed for comfort, especially when he did it again, warning her. She gave him that soft laugh and struck his flank with the crop once more.

  She stepped up on the dais behind him. This time, he caught enough of a glimpse to understand what she'd been doing. She'd been oiling up a black rubber phallus, one she'd strapped over her hips and waist. This was what he'd anticipated, but he resisted, yanking against the ropes. She ignored him.

  "I'm glad I made sure your head has to stay up. I want you looking at yourself while I fuck you."

  Taking the phallus in her hand, she pressed it through the ring that had kept his ass accessible to her. At the first touch of it against his opening, he clenched up and fought her in earnest, but she'd left him no way to refuse her. His cock was pulsing, leaking pre-come he could feel dampening the tip. The sudden explosion of physical response as she began to enter him was so unexpected, he was afraid he might spew. He'd been so much in his head he'd ignored how his body had been readying itself, reaching for this, wanting it. Which lessened his control with her even further.

  "You know, when a mare is being bred, and there's concern that she might resist the stud to the point she'll do him damage, they sometimes temporarily hobble her, or strap one leg. It's to ensure she's receptive, get things moving in the right direction."

  She dropped forward, her hand between his shoulder blades, and teased the valley of his spine with the tip of her tongue, sending a starburst of sensation through all his nerve endings. It converged on his cock, making him groan as the straps bit cruelly into the thick shaft.

  "I can feel how much you want me, Marius, when I strap down all your shit, inside and out." Her other hand slid beneath his belly, traced the side of his steel cock. "Feel how big you are. My beautiful stud."

  She straightened and kept working the dildo into him. He'd been fucked up the ass before, but not recently, so he was tighter than usual. Staring at the small part of her he could see in the mirror, he imagined the rest. The arch of her back, the jut of her nipples. The quiver of her breasts and crease of latex over her undulating hips. The way she was probably moistening her lips beneath the mask. Her cunt would be gushing, blissfully wet.

  While he had to envision all that, he saw the hard quiver of his own muscles as she fully penetrated him and sunk deep. His mind might not be sure how to react, but his cock wasn't having the same problem. Despite the pain the strap was causing him, it was pulsing like a countdown on a bomb timer. Lust fueled by the unspecific rage churned inside him.

  When he yanked against the ropes, she grasped the straps between harness and mask, increasing their tautness. He made a rebellious noise of anger and need.

  "The stallion doesn't like being mounted by the mare, does he? But oh, the mare loves it, all that rage of the alpha who won't submit, but he's going to. What a tight, hot little ass you have, my sweet, sweet boy."

  Fuck, he was going to come just from her talking. He snarled against the bit. He struggled, hoping to force something to twist or slip so she'd have to stop and loosen it before his circulation was cut off, but she was too damn good at this. She was starting to thrust in a diabolical rhythm. He could feel his climax rising, commanded wholly by her. He made a noise of furious frustration as the reaction boiled up from his balls. He kicked his back feet against restraints that wouldn't yield to his temper.

  "You've no control or influence at all here," she said in that same steady purr, one laced with enough desire he could tell how turned on she was. But it gave him no power. He had no way to turn it to his advantage, since she had him bound, gagged, and had pulled him to the brink of climax without any element of persuasion. She was making him do her will.

  "You'll come when I want you to come," she said, echoing his thoughts in that same even, relentless tone. "You're my breeding stud, my property, my responsibility. I know what's best for you in a way you don't. You live by your fighting instincts, but they take you into a place where you do yourself and others harm. I won't allow that anymore."

  She was punctuating her breathless monologue with rhythmic, slow strokes that were cutting every line he had on his own reaction. "When you have a Mistress that's broken you, ridden you, and who fucks your ass when you need it, you're protected from everything, including yourself. There are no choices. You're my mount and that's it. You serve me. I own you, Marius. Come now."

  He strangled on a roar, fighting the orgasm that rose and crashed down upon him. Even knowing his resistance played right into her hands, he couldn't make himself let it go, play the game, because she'd knocked him too far out of his normal headspace.

  "Now," she repeated sharply, and he groaned, hips jerking as she reached beneath him and wrapped deft fingers over the crisscross of girth and strap to grasp his cock and balls. Semen instantly spurted wet heat over her fingers, against his chest and upper arms, his abdomen. He dug in to the platform on the hooves and almost buckled to his elbows.

  His hips worked just as he'd shamefully imagined it earlier, a male animal humping air as she fucked him with harder thrusts, her other hand seizing his mane and twisting. In the mirror he saw two horses. The stallion's badass countenance turned dangerous from the angry flame in his eyes, the way he was fighting his restraints. Whereas the mare's head moved in a steady feminine dip of motion, her dark eyes luminous upon him, pleased with his respon
se, alive with her own lust. Knowing he was making her so hot, without having had a thing to do with it himself, with no was fucked up.

  "That's it. That's my beautiful boy. Beautiful stud. All done for now." She spoke in a quiet hum as he finished, as his body shuddered beneath her. "What a mess you've made, but that's all right. That's exactly what your Mistress wanted from you."

  As she slid from inside him, a hard aftershock jolted his muscles. He was trembling with the force of his reaction. His physical reaction. That was what he told himself.

  Yet his gut clenched when he heard the whisper of straps and clink of the buckles that told him she'd removed the strap-on and set it aside. He confirmed it when she moved in front of him again.

  He didn't know if it made her merciful or even more cruel when she removed the dress. The hoof stilettos were thigh high boots, and she wore nothing under the dress, so she stood before him in the boots and head mask alone. Her breasts, big, round and tipped with nipples that reminded him of black cherries, captured his gaze. He'd sort of lied when he'd said black cherry Jell-O wasn't his favorite because of her. He'd been thinking about that flavor a lot lately.

  He was hungry to suckle, never mind his cock had just been drained. Christ, she wasn't done.

  No, this was good. Of course she wasn't done. She hadn't come yet. She would want him to make that happen for her, which would put him back on familiar footing. She wouldn't keep him in this ridiculous get up. As he counted on that, he didn't let himself miss out on the view.

  Her trim thatch of pubic hair was ebony as her hair. The soft ropes of her locs fell down her back below her mask, an enhancement to the mane.

  She tsked, her gaze coursing over him. "Before I go for my ride, I think one very important thing is missing." She left his view, though he angled his head as hard as he could to get a brief glimpse of her bare ass twitching in a saucy walk as she circled him again. Wearing those boots, Christ, she was a picture. If he ever got free of this...