I’ve never liked holiday parties. The crowds, the noise, the strangers, the acquaintances you haven’t seen in ten years whose names you’re somehow supposed to remember, the open-bar abuse, the terrible music, the stupid games, the mistletoe that everyone thinks it’s so funny to maneuver you beneath . . .
I don’t like weddings either, pretty much for all the same reasons, nor am I a fan of the wrath-of-nature-tempting elitism that are gated beach communities. Which makes a Christmas wedding in Boca Raton a whole new level of hell, even if it is a total kinkfest—just as much a collaring, really, as a marriage under God.
So what, you may ask, am I doing here?
Well, for starters, I didn’t exactly have a choice. At least I can’t hear the music, and I’m well away from the drunken crowd and the mistletoe. Fuck, I’m not even in the house. Which is probably for the best, because the only thing I’m wearing is a Santa hat . . . unless you count the big red bow tied around my cock and balls.
I guess that makes me a wedding present. Not sure why Sir stowed me in the barn, then, instead of drafting me into wait-service like the rest of the Santa-hatted slaves I saw on my way past the party, but I guess I shouldn’t complain. They’re all working their naked little butts off, while I get to lounge in the climate-controlled barn and nap. Which, admittedly, would be easier if my own naked little butt weren’t half buried in itchy straw.
On the other hand, I’d rather be serving Sir—even serving Sir’s friends—than be sitting here alone. I wonder who’s bringing him drinks, bringing him food, licking his fingers clean and following him round the dance floor. I wonder if he’s thinking of me as he sips one of those girly drinks he loves so much, dancing and laughing and maybe even taking his turn at reddening the slave-groom’s ass when the boy’s master puts his prize on display.
I wonder, briefly, what Sir’s intent was in gifting me. The happy couple already comprised a slave; wouldn’t my presence just make the poor boy jealous? Or was he a switch, interested in playing for a night alongside his master instead of beneath him? That thought excites me more than I care to admit; the red bow around my cock and balls tightens like Sir’s talented fingers as my body responds. I reach down to touch myself, just once, then curl my fingers into fists and tuck them back beneath my head before I can break Sir’s rules. But it aches, god, like a hunger, an unreachable itch. And it won’t get better anytime soon; the blood is trapped by the ribbon-cum-cock ring, and my thoughts have turned to dangerous places, to threesomes, to foursomes, serving the new couple and Sir all at once, all night long, never allowed to touch myself, never allowed to come . . .
Shit. Enough of that. Truth is, I’m probably just the new dishwasher or something. The thought makes me laugh until I’m breathless. If all they use me for is chores, it would be a sad, sad waste of a gift.
* * *
I fall asleep, wake up some time later feeling stiff and colder than before. The hay prickles and pokes as I stretch, but I don’t get up. I kind of like it, for one thing, especially where it scratches against the fading welts that Sir left on my back and ass the night before. Plus, I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to move, that this is a test, even though Sir said no such thing. Why else would he have left me here unbound, if not to see whether I’d stay put on my own? I’ve no intention of displeasing or shaming him or myself in front of a whole wedding full of Doms and subs.
Which is why I am most definitely not in any way even beginning to contemplate thinking about touching myself without permission, despite my erection having turned nearly the same shade of red as the big velvet bow that’s framing it.
It’s also why I’m so damn relieved when Sir at last comes to get me that I’m kneeling at his feet and pressing kisses to his dress shoes without even knowing how I got there. He’ll rescue me from myself, I know he will.
He always does.
He smiles at me, reaches down to pet my hair, then cups my chin and tugs me to my feet. The kiss he gives me nearly unhinges my knees again, but he’s holding on tight.
He always does.
“Good boy,” he murmurs against my ear, glancing approvingly at my cock, now weeping hard against his thigh. He says it like maybe he’s a little surprised I behaved all this time without the aid of bindings or his watchful eye, and I glow with the knowledge that I’ve pleased him, impressed him, maybe even exceeded his expectations.
“Stand up straight now,” he says. “Arms out.”
Someone’s boy is at his heel, I realize now, only a little surprised that I’d failed to notice the slave earlier over Sir’s commanding presence. Yet he’s a lovely thing, truly, perhaps five years my junior, just as fit, a face made just as surely for television as I’ve been told my own is so many times. My jealousy takes me by surprise—no one should be at Sir’s heel but me—and I have to squash it down with clenched fists and jaw when Sir waves him forward a step and takes two bundles from his outstretched hands.
Said bundles do help a bit, though. One is a rope, and the other a jingle of leather and metal. Sir passes the rope back to the boy, who takes it willingly, head down and cock erect. The leather Sir shakes out and fits over my bare shoulders. It’s a harness of sorts, wide padded straps crossing over my chest and around my waist and buckling at my back. More straps wend between my legs, a built-in leather cock ring fitting snug beside the velvet bow, a long thin strap of leather dangling down from it and brushing the barn floor. Sir finishes his buckling and reaches into the pocket of his tuxedo jacket, pulls out . . .
A horse tail?
Oh, fuck. The barn, the harness . . . How did I not see this coming?
The grin he tosses me when realization dawns across my face is positively evil.
“Ass up, boy,” he says through that wicked grin, and I spread my legs wide, bend over, and grab my ankles. Cold lube squirts against my hole—he must have had a little packet in there along with the horse tail—and then a plug that must be the size of Sir’s wrist is being worked inside me. I haven’t been fucked in three days and I’m way too tight now for something that big to go in easy—assuming a plug that big could ever go in easy. It hurts; my fingers are making dents at my ankles and my poor neglected cock is standing up taller than ever, shouting Pay attention to me! to anyone who will listen.
Sadly, no one is. At least not now. Possibly not at all tonight.
Which, of course, just makes it stand up taller yet.
“Almost there, Nicky,” Sir says, his free hand resting warm and firm in the small of my back to comfort me, or perhaps just to stop me from falling over. But he is true to his word; with one last hot flash of pain the flare pops inside me, and my muscles clench tight around the neck of the plug, drawing it in even deeper. Horsehair tickles at my asscheeks and all the way down to the backs of my knees. I feel so full it’s like his whole fucking fist is inside me. Fuck, if so much as the breeze blows too strong across my cock, I might well shoot my load, permission or no.
“Stand up now, boy,” Sir says, the unmistakable pride in his voice flushing me head to toe. My eyes catch the other slave’s for a moment as I straighten, and this time, it’s him that’s jealous of me.
Sir reaches for the long thin strap of leather still dangling from the harness cock ring and runs it up my asscrack over the horse tail, then buckles it tight to the harness near my shoulders. My hands get buckled into the harness next, resting comfortably at the small of my back, no strain at all on my shoulders or wrists.
Done binding me, Sir takes the rope from the silent slave behind him—actually two ropes; reins, to be specific—clips them to a ring down near my balls, and runs them out behind me. A sharp tug on one pulls my bound cock and balls to the left with a bright spark of pleasure-pain; a tug on the other pulls my junk to the right. I suppose I won’t be needing a bridle, then.
Sir seems satisfied. He gathers up the reins in one hand, cups my arm in the other, and leads me outside into the cold.
Well, more like into the lukewarm and sticky—your average cloying Florida night. A light breeze blows against my bare skin, raising goose bumps in its wake. Walking is . . . difficult with this plug inside me, every step jostling and turning it, rubbing it along my prostate (and possibly the back of my fucking throat), making the horsetail swish and sway. A bug buzzes nearby and, denied my hands, I find myself wishing the tail were real so I could swat the damn thing away. But then Sir leans in and does it for me.
He guides me around the massive home, clumps of partygoers with drinks in hand watching appreciatively as I pass them by. I duck my eyes like a good boy, but not too soon to miss more jealous looks from naked boys and girls stuck carrying trays of food and drink. Fierce pride gathers low in my belly (or maybe that’s just my looming orgasm?); any one of these pets could have been chosen to pull the wedding carriage, but the grooms picked me. Sir picked me.
In the backyard now, down toward the narrow strip of sandy beach, the ocean churning steadily under endless strings of party lights and a near-full moon, a band playing sappy music and couples swaying on the outdoor dance floor. A hundred or so others are seated at white-draped tables, eating wedding cake and other delicacies from silver carts being wheeled through the tables by pretty naked pets in silly Santa hats. I feel eyes on me and straighten my spine, square my shoulders like Sir taught me and high-step toward the beach. Sir leans in and praises me, his breath tickling the shell of my ear with the promise of pleasure, of reward.
My shiver runs straight down to my toes.
Sir marches me past the crowd, down to where the sand is packed hard and damp from the receding tide. There awaits a magnificent carriage, decked all in white satin, room for two and two alone on the padded bench seat above its tall wheels. I move to stand before it without being told, hear the grooms climb inside while Sir hooks my harness to the carriage shaft. It doesn’t look any heavier than the bike-drawn carriages tourists take through Manhattan, but added to the weight of the grooms and the drag of wet sand, I suspect I’ll soon be getting one of the tougher workouts of my life.
Sir hands someone my reins, and I’m treated to two hard tugs again, first to the right and then the left. I was ready for that, but not for the stripe of fire that lands across my shoulders a second later; I yelp, jump, take half a step forward and feel the weight of the cart drag at the straps around my chest. From somewhere just behind me, Sir chuckles and says, “That’s it, Bill. Don’t spare the whip; he likes it.”
I grin to myself and roll my shoulders as the blaze fades to embers; truer words have never been spoken.
Sir speaks again, but this time it’s to me. “Good ponies get apples and sugar cubes,” he says. “If you’re a very good pony, I’ll rub you down and stud you when you get back.”
Well, fuck. This time, my shiver runs right down through the sand.
I don’t know where the grooms will have me take them, or how long I’ll be gone, or how raw my back and balls and legs will be by the time they’re done with me, but I don’t care. I don’t even care that I’ll love every second of it, though of course I will. In the end, none of that really matters—what really matters is that I’m Sir’s good boy, and that he’ll be waiting right here for me, counting the moments until my return just as anxiously as I.