Truly helpless, p.11
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       Truly Helpless, p.11

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

  The cabinet door rattled, and she was back behind him. Silky, thick hair brushed against the back of his thighs. Oh, fuck, no. She was giving him a tail, one that was put in place with the help of a rosebud butt plug. It felt twice as thick as what she'd used to fuck him. He was too lubricated to resist her, no matter how he tried.

  "My stallion's still so slick for me," she observed in a pleased tone. "Look at that. No, don't tighten up. You can take this. Don't be stubborn." Her fingers curled around his cock again, a sensual stroke and tug, stroke and tug, that was disturbing, but oh hell... Okay, yeah, it was big, but she coaxed and teased, and it was going in, stretching, burning, and he was working with her, despite his initial resolve to resist.

  When it was seated, it wasn't comfortable, but his dick didn't care, still floundering toward an erection again like a drowning swimmer determined to reach firm footing. It messed with his theory that if she'd used the big plug first he could have kept better control of his response.

  "There it is, all the way in." The tail fell against the backs of his legs, and the burning had him fidgeting, making it swish more, adding to the whole equine identity crisis. God, he was himself, but he was this beast, this powerful beast she described, caught up in a fantasy where he belonged to her, where he had no rights beyond being her property. The more he chafed against it, the more she soothed and stimulated and messed up his head.

  Stepping back up on the dais, she swung a leg over him. She didn't put her fine ass in the saddle right away. First, she straddled his shoulders. The feel of her round ass, wet cunt and springy hair, rubbing against his flesh, provoked the hard, angry need inside him.

  When they'd come into the stall, he'd noticed there were a couple chains with stirrup-style loops hung from the ceiling. She grasped one now with one hand so she wasn't putting her full weight on him. It also gave her the leverage to rub herself over him lighter or harder, depending on her preferences. Her thighs clasped his upper body while she curled the other hand in the reins and his mane, and started to rock. As she rubbed her clit against him, her arousal dampened his flesh. "This is one way I can come," she mused. "Or maybe..."

  She moved back onto the saddle. The brief glimpse he'd had of the pommel when she'd put the saddle on him had shown it was designed for other purposes. It was shaped like a phallus, with a rabbit ear clit stimulator. Since it seemed like she was manipulating it back and at a different angle, it apparently could be adjusted so she could work herself on it while comfortable in the seat. It probably also goddamn vibrated. A sudden tingle through the saddle told him he was right.

  The plug in his ass, something about it was making him shift and rock and, oh God, what the fuck now? He wasn't ready to get fully hard again, but suddenly it felt like he could, he was. What kind of stimulant was in that lube?

  Adding to his aroused state, she'd lowered herself onto the pommel. He was watching her fuck it, push herself up and drop back down. She'd chosen an inanimate object over him, a man who could fuck her to pleasure. A stallion that could cover a mare, bite her neck, hammer into her until he spilled his seed and possessed her completely.

  He tried to jostle her, buck her off, and didn't succeed at all.

  "This is how it's going to be, Marius," she said. "I take care of my own needs. I'll make you come whenever I wish, long and hard, drain you dry, but you don't get to take the lead in giving me pleasure until the day you want the privilege badly enough to mean it. Oh..." She let out a sigh that evolved into a moan, which felt like velvet against his frayed nerves. "You feel so good beneath me when I'm getting off. Nothing better than riding a horse..."

  He was growling in anger, groaning in sexual frustration, watching her pleasure herself, feeling the rock of her through the saddle. She'd even denied him anything more than that brief contact with her cunt. Some of his more creative cursing came through, because she reclaimed the crop and started using it, smacking his ass, his balls, hard enough he was jumping against his bonds for different reasons. She was laughing breathlessly at him, calling him her bucking rodeo mount. He couldn't get away from any of it. His cock got fully stiff again as her husky laughter became longer, deeper moans.

  Something was cracking inside him, the pressure of his emotions building in an alarming way.

  She'd turned him into a fucking horse, made him feel like a horse, one she'd fucked up the ass before giving him a tail and pleasing herself with a damn rubber dick. She was arched back, her beautiful throat exposed, breasts bobbing. He couldn't see that far down, but he imagined her long, flat but soft stomach contracting, her cunt lips and short curls becoming wet as she came at last with low, throaty cries. Her legs, encased in the thigh high hoof boots, flexed with her movements.

  He wanted, he hungered, he needed. He was going to fucking kill her. Or kill something to have her.

  He needed to pull himself back together. She was just a clever bitch trying to take what he hadn't given her. Yet he could only stare hungrily at her as she went over her peak and came, gasping, moaning, claiming her full measure of satisfaction from him. He could watch her come forever. He wished he could be what made her come all the time. Every time.

  Stop this shit.

  But he was tied and could do nothing right now but watch. And feel. He hated it. Yet he never wanted her to untie him, so he couldn't ruin it for her. For either of them.

  When her orgasm was done, for some inexplicable reason he was shuddering as much as she was. After a few long, steadying breaths that did interesting things to her latex-molded chest, she unstrapped her mask and pulled it free. As she bent behind his stallion headpiece, her lips touched his shoulder, where the tattoo armor was. He didn't want that either. Mistresses weren't tender to him. He had a few that he got along with well enough it was a fun fuck, and they were affectionate afterward. This wasn't that. He wanted to tell her to get off him.

  But instead of spitting curses at her, he closed his eyes behind the mask, experiencing the touch of her lips through every nerve ending. She straightened, running her hands over her hair. Even with the compression of the mask that had somewhat mussed her features and hair, she was still beautiful.

  She dismounted, removed the saddle and the harness, but left on the mask and straps that held his head and body in place. She was humming a little tune to herself.

  When she came back, he tensed, not sure what was next. But she began to run a curry comb over him. Tiny rubber teeth massaged his muscles as she moved it in circles over the base of his neck, his back and shoulders, down over his ass and upper thighs, his stomach.

  He thought of her hands on him the other night. This wasn't quite as good as that, but it was close. He tried to drop his head again, responding to the massage, and was thwarted by the straps pulling against his mouth. Murmuring a reassurance, she released those lines and rubbed his shoulders where they fed into his tense neck muscles.

  Threading her fingers through the mane on the back of the mask, she tugged, then found the point of hair at his nape beneath it and caressed that.

  After she worked him over with the rubber grooming tool, she started using her hands, coated with a liniment that smelled of eucalyptus. As she kneaded him with bare palms, he couldn't bite back a noise of bliss. Under her touch, the knots he seemed to carry more often than not started to loosen.

  When she worked on his shoulders, she pressed his head down and held it there with a grip on his forelock and the decorative brow band. The position let him feel the full effect of her touch through his shoulders and neck. Then she brought his head back up. For a pleasurable moment, he was staring right at her breasts, soft round temptations under straining cotton. Moving toward his legs, she worked down his side and along his abdomen.

  When she was done, his whole body felt better, while everything inside was tied in knots, though it wasn't without effort. His insides wanted to become just as malleable under her hands as his outside was. He forced himself to resist that urge, but when her eyes met his in the mirror,
the shuttered finality he saw there speared him through his soul.

  They were done for tonight. She'd give him nothing further in this session. Could he blame her?

  He hated that part the worst of all, the emotions that surged up in him at the end of a session, even the fun fucks. She hadn't allowed him to turn this into that, and that only seemed to make his descent into a dark well of emotions all the more inevitable.

  As he stared at her, he thought of what he'd do if he was free. Maybe he'd reach out and touch her chin, run his fingers along the creases the mask had left on her cheeks. His questing fingers would trace her collar bone. "You're so beautiful," he would whisper, before he knew he'd said it.

  He'd just come; she'd just come. So why did he hurt and yearn? Fuck, he didn't let himself feel that kind of hunger outside the fighting ring. He certainly didn't allow those feelings to slip into a session with a Mistress. His time with a Domme was supposed to be about getting her off. He hoped Regina would agree to that next time so he could fuck her and be done with this.

  He hoped for that almost as much as he wanted her to never give in to him. But they always did. Or they broke. He was the child that always broke his toys before he could figure out how to play with them.

  Sometimes he preferred not to come when he was in a session, letting all the orgasms happen to her. Not just because it kept power on his side, but he'd discovered unreleased passion had weight, something that could fill him and disguise what was empty.

  Maybe there'd be no next time. Even if there was, this tug of war couldn't go on forever. She'd be done with him before long. He wasn't worth a lot of effort, and those that tried too hard just earned his contempt, while contributing to his well of self-loathing, freak that he was.

  Shut the fuck up. Was there a lobotomy to remove one's inner voice?

  She unhooked the cross ties, which allowed him to turn his head to see her. With the mask on he still had tunnel vision, but now he could turn that limited view on her wherever she moved, as long as she wasn't directly behind him. She moved to the sink wearing only the hoof boots, though she unzipped and stepped out of them, so she was entirely naked.

  Most women, even the most formidable Mistress, looked more vulnerable that way, devoid of any trappings to enhance their power or allure, all imperfections visible to all. She moved the way a woman moved who had never viewed clothes as a shield. If she was walking down a busy city street right now, he expected she'd have the same sensual confidence and indifferent awareness. He'd never really understood why there were two terms for being clothes-less; nude and naked. But seeing her, he realized they weren't the same word. Naked was about vulnerability, imperfection. Nude was this is what I am, and it's so damn awesome I don't even think about it.

  A lifetime ago, in his sixth-grade class, they'd visited a bakery on a field trip to a local museum. The baker set out hot cinnamon rolls. Marius remembered having his nose pressed to the glass shield over the baker's work area. The cinnamon, sugar and butter had mixed together in the spiral crevices to form a rich, dark syrup. That was the color of Regina's skin, such a close match that if he closed his eyes and inhaled, he thought he could bring back the scent of the bakery. But he didn't want to close his eyes.

  He'd worship the line of her back alone. Smooth and long, a graceful curve that disappeared into the crease at the top of her buttocks. And her ass...he wanted to kiss, squeeze and bite his way over every inch of it. Tease her rim and make those long, strong legs tremble, her round ass push urgently against his face. She'd turn, swinging one of her smoothly muscled legs over his head and bring him to her breasts, letting him suck and bite there...

  She hadn't spoken, and with him still gagged, he had no chance to affect the mood or break up the intensity that still vibrated in the air. Or maybe he was the only one still feeling it. She looked relaxed. He stared at every part of her he could, but he couldn't get enough.

  Putting on her panties and matching bra, red cotton with a trim of lace, she shrugged back into the tank and pulled on her jeans. Staying barefoot, she tied her locs back into a tail before she approached the dais again.

  She released all the ties holding his legs, then moved forward to remove the mask. As she pulled it off his head, it was weird to see his human face in the mirror but the same eyes staring at him. Regina removed the bit and head straps, setting them aside before she combed his hair back with her fingers. He expected she did it to get rid of that hat hair feeling that came with wearing the tack and mask. It felt good, but before he could stiffen up against that vulnerability, she took the touch away. It had been an automatic, functional gesture, no time to reject or take advantage of it.

  "You can use your teeth to pull off the straps holding the hooves in place," she said, pointing to them. "Wipe down the platform with the sterile wipes under the sink. There are detailed instructions there for cleaning the other tack. Be sure and use the proper cleaning agents with those instructions. Put everything back where it belongs, and then get dressed and leave. You have forty-five minutes to do all that and drive out the gate before I set the alarm."

  "I--"

  She shook her head. "No. You don't get to talk. Just nod if you'll obey, or leave. Before you think about being a smartass, remember the lesson I taught you when you were taking off your clothes. I have no interest in game playing. So nod if you'll do as you're told."

  He could cheerfully tell her to fuck off, that all of it was game playing and who the hell was she to act as if he couldn't do exactly what the hell he wanted? But in a weird way, him acting out right now would mean she had won. She'd pulled something over on him. He just couldn't figure out exactly how she'd done it and he needed to think it through. He could exercise control. Even if he thought she smelled like cinnamon rolls.

  "Are you..." He shut his mouth. She cocked her head.

  "I'll allow one question. Am I what?"

  "Are you wearing cinnamon?"

  "I have a skin dust flavored with cinnamon. Yes. Is your real name Duncan?"

  Duncan Marius Walczak.

  Fuck. Tal, the big Oz asshole, had used his first name. He'd forgotten that, but she hadn't. The way it sounded on her full, glossy lips...he remembered a lullaby, a call to dinner, a harsh cry.

  "That's two questions," he said carelessly. "I'd answer, but I'd hate to see you break your own rules, Mistress. Especially since you've worked so hard to put me in my place tonight, playing horsey."

  She glanced at the slim watch she'd put on her wrist. "Very well. You have ten minutes to get out of here before you'll set off an alarm. Better put your clothes on and get to your car."

  "No need to get pissy. I can clean up--"

  "Go home, Marius," she said shortly. She was moving, striding down the wide corridor of the barn and toward the arched opening. She paused only to shut off the lights, leaving dim emergency lamps to illuminate his space.

  He watched her head toward the building where they'd parked. Wearing her jeans and tank, she was a cock-hardening, deep-into-temptation play of feminine curves.

  It must be the lingering sense of the horse, because for a single moment, those wild instincts took over. He'd chase after her, shove her to the ground and take her the way she'd taken him, with such ruthless lust and need. He'd make her come the way she should have allowed him to do it.

  He trembled with the rage, and it was a close thing. What would she do? Would she fight him? Would he like that?

  His hands bunched into harder fists inside the hoof mitts. She didn't toss him even one backwards look. The distant sound of the clubhouse door shutting echoed in an inexplicably hollow place inside him.

  Fine. Using his teeth, he removed the straps to take off the first "hoof," and then yanked the other free. He pulled on his jeans and shrugged into the shirt, not buttoning it. He dug out his car keys, but paused. He didn't like leaving the space like this, the strap-on, the crop, the saddle and other tack, none of it properly cared for and put away. It felt wrong, irritating
him. They'd had a good time. Why couldn't she handle a little mouthing off? She'd ruined it.

  Yeah, right, she'd ruined it. That was total crap. Looking bleakly around at the wreckage of their pleasure, thinking about how he could have cleaned it all, hung it up and won a look of approval from her...

  "You know what?" he muttered. "Fuck it." So she'd set the alarm and lock him in here. The cops might come. Wouldn't be the first time he'd been on their bad side.

  It took him thirty-eight minutes. He cleaned everything the way she'd directed. He had to do some switching around to remember exactly where everything went, but he thought he got it right. He'd have to pay closer attention next time. She was apparently the type of Mistress who liked to give quizzes.

  He put the horse masks side by side in the cabinet after carefully wiping them down. His fingers lingered on the long, slim nose of her mask. "You are beautiful," he said quietly, thinking of all he'd imagined doing to her while she was wearing it. And while she wasn't. Then he closed the doors, and turned the latch.

  When he walked to his car, hers was still there, and there was a light on in the clubhouse. It looked like she might have the TV on and was drinking a cocktail. But if he knocked, it'd be like he was begging. She hadn't invited him anyway. Hell, she'd told him to have his ass out of here thirty minutes ago. For all he knew, she'd coded the alarm as she'd threatened and he'd set it off when he left.

  He got into his car and drove away, because that was all he knew how to do. When he reached the gate to the property, he hit the buzzer to exit, bracing himself for a shrieking alarm blast. Instead, the intercom near the gate emitted a short crackle of static before her voice came over it.

  "Be at Safe Word tomorrow night," she said. "Nine p.m."

  Swallowing a million different responses, he went with the only one he really wanted to say.

  "Yes, Mistress."

  Chapter Five

  Would he show? Regina figured it was a fifty-fifty bet. He'd been rattled by the whole pony play scene. After having time to think, he'd be all kinds of conflicted about it, tangled up with a bunch of rationalizations about his behavior and hers.