Read Online Boy (The Training House #2) by Eden Bradley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Eden Bradley
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the first time. And for the first time, it doesn’t fucking matter.
That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.
Chapter Six
We sleep. When I wake up, the hazy amber light streaming in through the top half of the stall door, which has been left open, tells me the sun is setting. It occurs to me that there are probably other slaves in the stalls close to ours, that they heard us fucking, heard Aimée coming, sobbing, screaming. I know what it is to be in such a position, how it makes your body thrum with jealousy, with the need to come that can be so intense it feels like your skin is burning, as if you need to tear it from your body simply to get some relief. Or maybe that’s just me. I’ve done those things to myself. There were times when I needed it.
Aimée stretches, yawns, and I hand her the water bottle. She drinks obediently. She does everything obediently. Almost. There’s just enough fire in her to let me know she is no mindless sheep of a slave, which is something one often finds in this crazy, kinky world of ours. Some slaves have been in it too long, have lost themselves so completely there’s nothing left of them . Some Masters love this, but I hate it. The sheep are boring to me, devoid of interest, devoid of the spark that makes them a challenge. Yes, I love to see them hand themselves over, and I understand we have a need to lose ourselves. But you still have to be a person under all that—an individual—or what’s the fucking point? If you have nothing left of yourself, you have nothing left to give, or so it seems to me. But what do I know? I’m the one who doesn’t fit in, as Dominant or slave.
I run my hand down her sleek side, and she surges into my touch. Nice. I’m hard again, instantly, but that’s a condition of my life, and I can handle it, my nearly-eternal erection.
“How are you doing?” I ask her between the throbbing pulse-beats of my hardening cock.
“I’m good. A little sore, but fine. How are you doing?”
“What?”
“You sound surprised that I would ask.”
“I am.”
“My Master Graham threw his back out fucking me,” she says, a hint of amusement in her voice.
“Your Master Graham wasn’t me.”
There’s a long pause, then, “No. He certainly wasn’t.”
I look down at her and she’s biting her lip, those pretty white teeth coming down on the plush pink of her mouth, making me want to bite her, too.
“Christopher? I don’t want you to be him. I don’t even want you to be the Master—Master Damon. I want you to be whoever you want when you’re with me. Master or slave, or this heady combination of both that makes me… I don’t know, exactly. But it makes me drunk with the possibilities. Sub-drunk. Is that even a word?”
“It can be. It can be your word. Our word.”
She smiles. “Will you tell me something?”
“Tell you what, pretty?”
“Anything. Something about yourself. About what you went through before becoming a slave, when you were young.”
“Why do you want to hear about that?”
“Because that’s when you reveal yourself to me. Is that…is that okay to ask of you?”
I roll onto my back, pulling her with me, and press her cheek down on my chest. She curls in like the kitten she is. And suddenly I have an image of her lying on her back, fluffy white ears on her head, purring at me as I dangle a toy above her.
Fucking hot.
But what was she asking? Oh yeah. My sad past.
“What do you want to know?”
“Um… What about your addiction? I mean, if you’re okay telling me.”
“I’ll tell you anything—I don’t care. Fuck. That’s bullshit. I do care. I don’t tell just anyone this stuff. I’ve kept it to myself most of my life. I don’t particularly enjoy feeling like I’m burdening anyone with my crap.”
“It’s no burden. It’s important, don’t you think? To who you were, who you’ve become?”
“I don’t know that getting hooked on smack was as important to who I am now as
That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.
Chapter Six
We sleep. When I wake up, the hazy amber light streaming in through the top half of the stall door, which has been left open, tells me the sun is setting. It occurs to me that there are probably other slaves in the stalls close to ours, that they heard us fucking, heard Aimée coming, sobbing, screaming. I know what it is to be in such a position, how it makes your body thrum with jealousy, with the need to come that can be so intense it feels like your skin is burning, as if you need to tear it from your body simply to get some relief. Or maybe that’s just me. I’ve done those things to myself. There were times when I needed it.
Aimée stretches, yawns, and I hand her the water bottle. She drinks obediently. She does everything obediently. Almost. There’s just enough fire in her to let me know she is no mindless sheep of a slave, which is something one often finds in this crazy, kinky world of ours. Some slaves have been in it too long, have lost themselves so completely there’s nothing left of them . Some Masters love this, but I hate it. The sheep are boring to me, devoid of interest, devoid of the spark that makes them a challenge. Yes, I love to see them hand themselves over, and I understand we have a need to lose ourselves. But you still have to be a person under all that—an individual—or what’s the fucking point? If you have nothing left of yourself, you have nothing left to give, or so it seems to me. But what do I know? I’m the one who doesn’t fit in, as Dominant or slave.
I run my hand down her sleek side, and she surges into my touch. Nice. I’m hard again, instantly, but that’s a condition of my life, and I can handle it, my nearly-eternal erection.
“How are you doing?” I ask her between the throbbing pulse-beats of my hardening cock.
“I’m good. A little sore, but fine. How are you doing?”
“What?”
“You sound surprised that I would ask.”
“I am.”
“My Master Graham threw his back out fucking me,” she says, a hint of amusement in her voice.
“Your Master Graham wasn’t me.”
There’s a long pause, then, “No. He certainly wasn’t.”
I look down at her and she’s biting her lip, those pretty white teeth coming down on the plush pink of her mouth, making me want to bite her, too.
“Christopher? I don’t want you to be him. I don’t even want you to be the Master—Master Damon. I want you to be whoever you want when you’re with me. Master or slave, or this heady combination of both that makes me… I don’t know, exactly. But it makes me drunk with the possibilities. Sub-drunk. Is that even a word?”
“It can be. It can be your word. Our word.”
She smiles. “Will you tell me something?”
“Tell you what, pretty?”
“Anything. Something about yourself. About what you went through before becoming a slave, when you were young.”
“Why do you want to hear about that?”
“Because that’s when you reveal yourself to me. Is that…is that okay to ask of you?”
I roll onto my back, pulling her with me, and press her cheek down on my chest. She curls in like the kitten she is. And suddenly I have an image of her lying on her back, fluffy white ears on her head, purring at me as I dangle a toy above her.
Fucking hot.
But what was she asking? Oh yeah. My sad past.
“What do you want to know?”
“Um… What about your addiction? I mean, if you’re okay telling me.”
“I’ll tell you anything—I don’t care. Fuck. That’s bullshit. I do care. I don’t tell just anyone this stuff. I’ve kept it to myself most of my life. I don’t particularly enjoy feeling like I’m burdening anyone with my crap.”
“It’s no burden. It’s important, don’t you think? To who you were, who you’ve become?”
“I don’t know that getting hooked on smack was as important to who I am now as
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