Stay Vertical (The Bare Bones MC #2)(4)
So Lytton flipped the girl over and finished his workout by sliding his prick in to the hilt. He loved watching the action in one of several mirrors affixed to his playroom walls. He even forced the slave to watch, wrapping her neck chain around his wrist and yanking until her eyes bulged from their sockets.
“Admire me, bitch,” he growled. But he was looking at his own reflection in the mirror.
Obligingly, she wiggled her ass—about the only part of her body she could wiggle, Lytton had trussed her so well. He hadn’t gagged her, though. He wanted to hear her obey and praise him. “Oh God yes, Sir. You are f*cking divine. You are so divine you are holy. Your ass is like a slab of beef.” He slapped her flank with his palm, correcting her. “Nicely marbled beef.”
Lytton liked this slave. She was flowery with her words, a trait he encouraged. The usual “oh God your cock is so big” had gotten old a long time ago. He didn’t even usually bother remembering their names—some chicks would do anything for an ounce of Eminence Front—but he thought this one’s name was Diane.
Diane was right. His glutes contracted beautifully every time he slammed into her *. His left deltoid shimmered as he gripped her by the waist, and his lumbar muscles undulated nicely as he uncoiled his spine with each thrust. If he swiveled his hips a certain way and f*cked her in time with the slaps he peppered her red ass with, he could even admire the red and black, stylized tribal tattoo of an eagle draped over his entire shoulder.
The ink had seemed rebellious five years ago when he’d first gotten angrily blitzed and demanded that Knoxie decorate him. Knoxie had tried to say something about not inking blitzed guys, something to do with their blood being too thin and bleeding all over his shop, but apparently Lytton had head-butted him until he complied.
The giant goose egg on his forehead had backed up Knoxie’s story, but the design was absolutely stunning, and Lytton never once regretted it. Every time he looked at it—which was often—he was reminded of his unalienable birthright, that he was a native son of Fort Apache.
No one could tell him any different.
Lytton arched into Diane and spanked her so soundly her piercing cries were probably completely real. He was so pleased with what he saw in the mirror that he lost his supreme control and ejaculated.
Digging his fingers into her waist, he held his breath as the overpowering waves of ecstasy rolled through him. His balls contracted up close to his body, wringing the utmost exquisite torture from the leather squeezing every last drop of semen from them. Lytton liked it when something hurt so bad it was good.
It was the second time he’d come in the past half hour, no small feat even for a sexual acrobat such as himself. He held Diane tightly to his crotch, but when he felt the blissful waves subside, he practically tossed her away. She would have fallen to her knees, but the suspension cuffs around her wrists were hooked to an overhead bar, preventing that. She just sort of hung there, rotating in the wind like a tetherball.
Lytton had been actually thinking fondly of her a minute ago, but now he had no use for…what was her name again? He was an angry young man, bad to the bone, and he took pride in that. He knew that he had every right to be angry.
His cock still standing at half-mast, he took a few strides to the spanking bench to untie the other girl. He had started out doing some fancy kinbaku rope work on her but had actually become bored halfway through, so he’d just wound the ends of the flat nylon rope between her wrists at the small of her back. Her bare tits jutted nicely and her eyes were appropriately pleading above the mouth gag, but Lytton had been getting bored with such shenanigans lately.
He had been pushing the bondage envelope to prevent boredom. He’d drawn blood while flogging a couple of recent slaves. When one had gone crying to her boyfriend about her welts, the guy had come rampaging out to Lytton’s Leaves of Grass Ranch. That was a dangerous enough escapade in itself what with all Lytton’s security measures in place.
Lytton used to use spike strips, for instance, on the only access road through his fortress-like front gate. Then some * inspector from the state Department of Health had shredded his own tires on his way in for a surprise inspection. He told Lytton if he wanted to be a legitimate medical marijuana grower, he had better stop using illegitimate tactics. Now Lytton had to be satisfied with ineffective cattle guards that wouldn’t keep out a determined rabbit. So he’d backed those up with a few mercenaries armed with Uzis patrolling the ranch in ATVs.
Lytton’s partner, Tobiah Weingarten, had actually given him a stern dressing-down after that incident. Well, what the f*ck? The bitch had gotten her ounce of Eminence Front weed. And her welts would heal. But Toby said if Lytton wanted to get that carried away anymore he’d best not do it in an upstanding place of business, but go down to Mormon Lake or into Pure and Easy and rent some f*cking cave where nobody would notice blood splatter on the walls.
“And don’t forget to take your fur kilt and wooden club,” Toby had yelled, “because no one’s going to be able to distinguish you from the other Cro-Magnon men in your cave.”
“I got rid of the guy, didn’t I?” Lytton had protested.
“Yeah!” shouted Toby. “By giving him two whole ounces of Young Man Blue! You know I have to account for our product down to the last one-one-hundredth of a gram, so how’m I going to explain that when the regulators come knocking?”