Her Troika (The Complete Story) (Dominion Trust Book 2) (36 page)

"You can manage words, Elaina. I'd say you can breathe just fine." He tapped her hip. "Let's see if we can get it one more notch though."

"George, please!"

He smacked her bottom with his heavy leather riding gloves, delighting in the bounce of her soft, pale flesh. "That's enough out of you, Elaina. We can always add a saddle strap too, you know."

She stilled. "No ... no, Sir. I'll — I'll try."

"Good." He grinned. "Now, deep breath and hold."

Her body swayed as he hauled on the strap sharply, just forcing it through the hole. "Good! This what?" His finger counted the notches on the waist strap. "Twenty three inches. You used to handle twenty without a fuss, light of my life. This is mild."

"Yes ... Sir," she whispered, her breath coming in quick pants.

"Perhaps I have been going easy on you." His hand coursed over the curve of her hip, palming the smooth flesh. Her round bottom flared dramatically below the enhanced narrowness of the corseted waist, her buttocks heavy, quivering. How he loved his wife's bottom, never tiring of its lushness. He very much looked forward to seeing it shake and sway between the shafts of the cart once more. It had been too long — and he'd decided her absence from the track would come to an end. Perhaps in time, he'd even compete with her once more?

"George, loosen it, please. Just one notch. It's cutting me in half."

He laughed, patting her hip fondly. "You'll get used to it, my dear. Let's head out now." Taking up the long leather leash, her affixed it to the burnished silver ring at the front of her collar. Her eyes peered out at him from between the chocolate leather straps of the head harness, her hair secured into a single long plait with a leather tie. He nodded toward the heavy boots encasing her feet and most of her lower legs. "Do you remember how to walk in those?"

"I think so."

He followed her through the quiet paddock, the gray light from the overcast afternoon, spilling across the packed earth of the floor. She stumbled once, the impossibly high running heels forcing her up almost onto her toes, her calves bunched into clenched muscle.

He liked the new harness. Unlike some of the other running girths that seemed to be all the rage on the circuit, Elaina's corset/harness combination left the entirety of her ass and hips exposed, her bounding naked flesh free to be both admired and to feel the burning kiss of the whip. The newest fashion seemed to emphasize the utility of the harness, some of them embedded with steel attachment points for the traces of the carts. These often left only the under curves of the buttocks exposed. Often with the further impediment of the tail, this left — to his tastes, anyway — comparatively little flesh to whip. He felt that reins and commands, while effective with a well-trained girl, were no match for the sharp pain of the whip stroke. Nothing got through to them like lines of fire laid down upon their flesh, exhorting the bound woman to greater speed, greater effort. To George, nothing commanded obedience better than the lash.

Elaina's arms, firmly secured in the single sleeve he favored for practice extended down her back, the broad steel ring at the end where her hands bunched together linked to her collar by a long leather strap. This pulled her arms up enough such that it kept them from protecting her ass from the strokes of his whip. When it came time to race, a box tie would be safer, more secure. But now, for a little practice run on his private track, a single sleeve would do.

A whimper sounded from the shadowed recesses of the paddock, and George pulled on the leash, bringing Elaina to a stop.

"George?"

"Quiet." He tugged the leash with him as he moved toward the sound. "Come on, girl."

A deep voice made shushing sounds as they walked into the darkness, George's eyes adjusting to the lower light as they passed out of the brightness of the paddock and into the stable block itself. Rows of stalls stretched down either side of the long building, here and there, narrow beams of faint daylight shining in from gaps in the roof.

"Brayden, what've you got there?" George brought his wife shuffling over to one side of the block, tying off her leash on a well-worn steel cleat.

The groom stood up, a damp cloth in his hand, the rough cotton stained a faint pink in places. "Yes, Sir. Just tending the new girl, Genna. She's been ... worked hard."

The naked girl had been lain face down over a long table, the bright colors of a woolen horse blanket spread beneath her. Long jet black hair spread haphazardly across a pale back, her body hitching as she wept, her arms tucked beneath her head. She was very well-fleshed, her curves packed tight. She had the kind of figure he knew might tend to over-ripeness in later years, but now in the flush of youth bespoke voluptuous perfection. The broad, round bottom had been whipped severely, the skin flushed a congested scarlet, a tracery of whip marks overlaying all of it, some of the starker weals blooming in places with spots of blood.

"I see," George said, feeling his pulse quicken with anger. He kept his expression impassive though. "She's been a lot more than worked hard. Who took her out?"

He knew the answer of course, but had to hear it anyway.

"Quinton, Sir." Brayden's brows drew together, his sober gaze meeting George's. "Said she wasn't trained up yet. Needed to know what was expected of her."

The little shit.

"George, the poor thing. Shouldn't we ...?”

He turned back to his wife. Her face had bled most of its color, her eyes wide. "Brayden will take care of her, Elaina. She'll be fine."

"But her father? What will he say?" Elaina's mouth tensed into a thin line. "This isn't how it's supposed to be done, George."

"I know it — and it’s not her father we need to worry about. I'll take care of it." He took up the leash, guiding her back out toward the paddock. "You've got more immediate things to attend to, don't you?"

"I think we should—"

"Do we need to add the bit for your practice too?” George pulled her close, fixing her gaze with his. "Brayden knows what to do. She'll be alright once she heals. We can figure out what to do once we've talked to her."

"Yes, Sir." She looked past him toward Brayden and the softly weeping Genna. "I just ..."

"I know, Elaina. I know. We'll fix this." He led her out into the brightness of the paddock, her boots clomping in the dirt, his mind flying with possibilities, with eventualities, and with hard choices he'd hoped he'd never have to make.

The cold, gray morning matched his mood as he led his wife out toward the track, letting her lead him rather than yanking on her leash. His mind was elsewhere when it should have been on the pleasure of once more having Elaina between the shafts of his cart.

Genna was the young cousin of Grayson Cordray, a powerful real estate investor in Seattle. She’d been put up for auction as a servant, but George hadn’t yet been able to determine why. She certainly didn’t need the money — her immediate family owned huge tracts of land in Eastern Washington and western Idaho, notwithstanding the vast wealth of the Cordrays. Unfortunately for her though, with a body like hers, she’d drawn the attention of several regulars on the auction circuit — including his son.

Now, George had to figure out how to make this right. Once word got out how Quinton was treating the girl — and word
always
got out, eventually — there would be the inevitable summons to Seattle. A quorum called. Arguments, threats, and a hefty fine. This hadn’t been the first time Quinton had run afoul of Trust laws.

This was different though — Cordray was as ruthless a Prime as the Trust had ever seen, and even George with all his influence, would have difficulty stopping it if he petitioned to have Quinton brought up on charges with the Council. Something would have to be done.

“Sir.”

George turned back toward the voice. Brayden stood at the threshold of the paddock entrance, cloth in hand.

“What is it Brayden?”

The head groom’s drawn, oddly pale face glanced up at the gray sky, and his chest rose with a deep sigh. “There’s something else you need to know.”

Chapter Twenty Eight

"W
e need to talk about what's going to happen next weekend." Kurt pushed one of the tall cups of coffee across the table, the wafting steam illuminated in the morning light.

"Nice call," Derek murmured, tipping the cup back, the hot liquid refreshing, even as it burned his tongue.

"She doesn't even know what she's got in store for her."

"She doesn't?"

Kurt cracked a rueful smile. "No clue. Which is why we need to talk about this — and what we're going to do about Quinton."

"I thought you said there wasn't anything you
can
do?" Derek had a few ideas on what could be done about that little douche bag. Oh yes, quite a few indeed.

Kurt sat back, his finger tapping the white plastic lid of his coffee. "Nothing I can do, technically. But I may try something anyway. We're
not
letting him get his hands on her. Just have to figure out how."

"You mean
you’re
not letting him getting his hands on her."

"What?" Kurt's eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Derek straightened in his chair, the t-shirt pulling uncomfortably tight across his chest. "It means this is over. I'm out. I have to be."

For a moment Kurt just watched him, his body utterly still, the faint hum of traffic from the street below the only sound. Then he set his coffee down on the nicked tabletop. "We've already been over this, Derek. Why do we keep coming back to this?"

"Because it's what needs to be done — and it's what needed to be done all along."

"What? You leaving?"

"Yes." Derek sipped the hot coffee again, fighting a losing battle against dry mouth.

"So you think this is … okay? Just ending things?"

"There are so many things not okay with this, that I don't know where to start, Kurt."

"Like fucking my wife — then leaving her? Is that it?" Kurt's jaw clenched, his long fingers squeezing the coffee tighter.

"That's not how it is at all—"

"So, you're going to tell me you didn't fuck her last night?"

"No, goddamn it, that's not what I meant!" Derek felt a flush of heat at his neck. "Yes, I did. I — I shouldn't have, though. And I know I can't do it again."

"Because I wasn't here." Kurt's flat tone made it as a statement rather than a question.

Derek blew out a long breath. "Look. Last night, I realized something. And this is gonna make me sound like a fucking pussy."

"Worse than running out on her does?"

"She's your
wife
, you asshole!"

"That doesn't matter — as both of us have been trying to get through that fucking rock head of yours. That
doesn't
matter."

"I'm scared shitless of this, Kurt." Derek felt the flush burn hotter, his cheeks heating with it. But he knew he needed to get this out, needed to make Kurt see. Understand why he was so wrong for this, for all of it. "Cassandra ... I can't go through that again. I need to just figure it out — and I haven't yet. And the last thing you two need is some dickhead with a shitload of baggage trying to figure his shit out. You don't need that. At all."

"You know she told us, don't you?"

"Who — what the fuck are you talking about?"

"Cassandra called me a couple of days after she moved out."

Derek felt something break inside of him at her name. The shame, the hurt, the anger he'd felt, came flooding back in.

"How? Why?"

"She asked me what was wrong with you." Kurt sat back, crossing his legs, the leather of his polished shoes gleaming in the morning light. "I told her there wasn't a thing wrong with you — and that if she left you she was just proving what the real problem was, who the real fucked up person was."

"She ... told you?"

"Everything."

"Jesus." Derek slumped forward, his elbows on his legs. He dropped the coffee on the table, and held his head in his hands. "I can't ... believe this."

"It's true, Derek. But let me tell you something — and I don't give a fuck if you say you don't believe this or not. You aren't broken, you aren't a freak — and you damned sure aren't the reason your marriage fell apart."

"I don't want to talk about this." Derek stood, snatching his cup from the table.

"Tough shit, Derek. It's time to put this behind you — behind us." Kurt jabbed a finger toward the hallway. "That woman in there
needs
it to be behind us."

"I'm not doing this, Kurt. Christ, this isn't ... it won't work."

"At the risk of beating a dead horse here, I'm going to ask why. Why won't it work, Derek?"

Derek threw his coffee against the back splash over the sink, the cup bursting with a loud pop, brown liquid spraying everywhere. "Because I'm falling in love with her, you asshole! I'm falling in love with your WIFE. And if I don't break it off now ... it'll be too late."