I hate him.

It’s instant. Fiery hot, burning through my veins like a volcanic eruption.

“Isn’t he sweet, pet?” Mistress laughs, ruffling the shiny black hair of the grinning boy at her side.

“Yes, Mistress,” I reply, jealousy splashing and churning in my belly like acid.

“His name is Gabriel. When I saw him up on the stage tonight in his cute little collar, I just couldn’t pass him up!” She pinches his cheeks, making him blush. “He’s going to be my little angel, aren’t you Gabriel?”

He nods, still grinning, which earns him a swat on the behind and a look that promises more.

“I mean, uh...yes, Mistress.” He looks proud of himself, and Mistress has a hungry gleam in her eyes that I know only too well.

“You can head to bed, pet. Breakfast at eight please,” she says without taking her eyes off the boy.

“Yes, Mistress,” I say again.

She hooks a gloved finger through the D-ring on the front of his collar and leads him down the hall to her room.

For a moment, I remain kneeling on the cool marble of the entryway floor, a riot of thoughts racing through my head. I’ve never seen Mistress with a boy before. I know she’s taken male lovers in the past, but not in the year since I’ve been with her. Is she not happy with me? She hasn’t said anything to that effect, and she’s definitely not one to hide her displeasure. She only casually mentioned attending the auction tonight (which wasn’t even a real auction, I might add), and certainly said nothing about buying some pretty boy who looks barely old enough to drink! And he is pretty; even I can’t deny that. I sigh, getting slowly to my feet and padding down the opposite hallway to my small room.

Once inside, I close the door and slide between the soft cotton sheets of my single bed without even turning on a light. I barely notice the pleasing feel of the cool sheets on my naked skin—such is my agitation. I wonder what they’re doing. I wonder if he’ll kneel between Mistress’s thighs, caressing her with his tongue while her fingers delve into his hair, holding him fast. I wonder if she’ll stoke her desires first with flogger and paddle, heating his skin until it’s as hot as hers; until the demands of her body make her lay down her tools and open herself to him. The familiar pulse of arousal begins to beat low in my belly, and I roll onto my side with a groan, knowing that relief will not be mine tonight.

Sleep eludes me. I feel like I’ve been staring at the wall for hours when suddenly my door is thrown open and I bolt upright as Mistress shoves the boy, now naked and tearful, into my room. Barely over the threshold, he collapses into a heap on the floor, sobbing pathetically.

“Mistress?” I ask.

“Ugh. He’s completely useless. No skill whatsoever with oral sex, and he came all over my Persian rug while I was spanking him. I should’ve known better—all Dominic sees is a little submissive with a pretty face...” She lets her sentence trail off.

I’m not surprised. While Dominic’s charity auction is rightly lauded for its support of many worthy causes, it’s also a notoriously bad place to go looking for a well- trained slave. A superior smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth and I quickly school my features.

“How can I be of service, Mistress?”

“You can take his place in my bed. And you,” she points to the boy, “you’ll sleep on the floor here. I’ll see about a room for you tomorrow.”

She turns on heel and heads back toward her room, leaving me to close the door behind her. For one brief moment, I allow myself a triumphant smile as my eyes sweep over the sniveling boy. Good night, little angel.

“Mmm...pet, you are divine,” Mistress says, chest rising and falling rapidly in the aftermath of her orgasm. Her cunt is still spasming around my fingers, and my face is wet with her juices. She tugs my hair, drawing me up out of the cradle of her thighs and into her embrace, my head resting in the hollow of her shoulder as she runs her fingers through my hair. This is my very favorite place to be.

“You could teach that boy a thing or two,” she continues.

I don’t want to teach him anything.

“In fact...” her voice takes on a contemplative quality, and little pinpricks of apprehension skitter over my skin, “I think you should teach him!” she laughs. “Oh, this is too good...”

I frown, trying to imagine the boy servicing Mistress while I lean over his shoulder and offer pointers; frankly, it doesn’t seem like a terribly sexy scenario. “You’ve never been with a boy, have you pet?” she asks.

Wait. What?

“No, Mistress.” She can’t possibly mean—

“I want you to train him.” She props herself up on elbow, looking down at me with an excited intensity. “You know exactly what I like, and moreover,” her voice turns sultry and she runs a fingertip down my belly to my sex where she lingers, circling my clit, “I happen to know it’s what you like as well.”

“Mistress, I—”

“Besides, I can’t even entertain the thought of f##king him until he learns to control himself.”

She rises gracefully, slipping into her peignoir and taking a seat at her vanity where she picks up her hair- brush and runs it through her dark, shoulder-length hair.

“I leave for Brussels tomorrow evening. You can have him for the week.” She eyes me speculatively through the vanity mirror. “I’ll be curious to see what you’ve accomplished.”

Oh god. Panic makes me swallow convulsively, makes my palms sweat and my mind race. I can’t do this. There’s no way I can do this.

“Mistress...with respect, I don’t think...” The words come out slowly, carefully.

Her eyes narrow and the rhythmic brushing stops. I blunder on quickly, knowing I shouldn’t even as I do. “I can’t train him. I can’t teach him—I don’t know anything about boys, and...and I’ve never disciplined anyone in my life. I’m a slave—”

I break off with a jolt as Mistress’s hairbrush connects forcefully with her vanity.

“Yes, and you’re my slave.” She rises, coming back to sit next to where I’m huddled on the edge of her bed. “And you can, and will do as I say.” She grips my chin in her hand, holding me with her powerful gaze.

“Yes, Mistress.” I say quietly.

“Because you don’t want to disappoint me.”

“No, Mistress.”

“Good.

She stands, and I do the same, allowing her to guide me out the door.

“And pet,” she pauses, and there’s something in her eyes that I can’t define, “this isn’t just for the boy.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

The door closes and I’m left to wonder at her meaning.

At first, I don’t even go near him.

Mistress left the boy in a tiny room adjacent to mine after handing me a bag of toys (“nothing you can hurt him too badly with”), and making sure we both under- stood what was expected of us in her absence.

Thwap.

Right in the center of the pillow. I pull back my arm, the soft tails of the suede flogger brushing against my skin, concentrate and let it fly again.

Thwap.

Another hit. I tell myself I’m getting a feel for it—and it’s true, I am. After all, it would be irresponsible of me not to practice a little before I use it on the boy.

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.

But the truth is, I just don’t want to do it. I sigh, letting the flogger dangle loosely in my grip. I’ve spent the better part of the morning abusing my pillow, but the fact remains that if I can’t teach this boy a few things before Mistress comes home, I’m the one who’ll suffer for it. Resolutely, I toss the flogger back into the bag of toys, grab it by the handles and pad the short distance down the hall to his room.

When I open the door, he’s sitting on the bed with his back against the wall and his legs drawn up in front of him. Thick leather cuffs adorn his ankles and wrists, but his collar, I notice, is nowhere in sight. His head is bowed slightly and dark hair falls across his forehead. He hasn’t heard my arrival, and there’s a quiet vulnerability in him that I hadn’t noticed before. I clear my throat to alert him to my presence and he startles, his eyes immediately jumping to mine. They’re beautiful, like brilliant sapphires fringed by the kind of impossibly long lashes that make women weep with envy. Its no wonder Mistress wants him, I think with a sinking stomach, he’s just so...pretty.

“Hi,” he says.

“Rule number one: don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.” I move briskly into the room, dropping the bag on the end of his bed.

“Okay.”

I glare at him pointedly.

“Sorry.” He has the grace to blush a little.

“Now get up,” I say, the words awkward in my mouth.

He complies, getting uncertainly to his feet, his hands moving as though to cover his genitals before dropping to his sides.

“You might as well get used to being naked,” I say.

“Mistress prefers her slaves unclothed while in the home.” His eyes slide shyly over my body. For the first time in a long time I’m conscious of my own nakedness, and I frown as a flutter of awareness stirs in my stomach. Mistress has always liked my appearance because it differs so greatly from hers: my figure slim and firm where hers is lush and curved; my skin pale where hers is a rich olive; my light hair and green eyes a striking contrast to her dark hair and even darker eyes. I wonder if the boy finds me attractive, and the thought both confuses and appeals to me.

His body is as beautiful as his face, lean and muscular without being overly large, his chest smooth but for a light dusting of hair that begins at his navel and swirls its way down to his cock. I’ve seen plenty of cocks in my life, Mistress has several that she likes to f##k and be f##ked with, but this is the first time I’ve really been close to a naked man like this, and his cock looks so... soft. It seems so unimposing, resting between his thighs, and yet even as I watch it seems to lengthen and swell. I wonder if it feels warm....

The boy’s hand rises into the air, like a schoolboy waiting to be called on.

“What is it?” I’m sharper than I mean to be, unsettled by my thoughts.

“It’s just that...I don’t even know your name. I mean— what should I call you?”

What indeed? I’m Mistress’s pet, but he can’t call me that. Ma’am? Definitely not.

“Ashley.” I say it out loud and it feels rusty on my tongue. “How about...Miss Ashley?”

“Miss Ashley.” He smiles. He looks at me expectantly, but honestly, I don’t know what comes next. I remember the first night I spent with Mistress, how she spent hours learning all the nuances of my body, how unhurried she was while she played with me, discovering how my body responded to different sensations.

I step closer to the boy, my eyes on his chest, and lick my lips nervously. I raise a tentative hand and brush a fingertip over the flat disc of his nipple. He sucks in a breath and I watch as the skin tightens into a hard nub. I do the same to his other nipple and it hardens too, and he exhales shakily. I glance down, curious. Yes, the boy likes this. Bolder, I circle one nipple with my finger, then roll it between my thumb and forefinger, gently at first, then with increasing pressure until he gasps. I look up into his eyes and am struck by the familiarity of his expression—hurt, need, desire—it’s all there.

“You like that, don’t you Gabriel?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

I pinch his nipple painfully and he gasps again. “Yes, Miss Ashley!” He says quickly, eyes wider now. Arousal, hot and sweet, fires in my blood and moves swiftly to my sex. It’s a heady feeling, and yet so unexpected that I drop my hand, momentarily unnerved. I look at the boy, wondering if he senses my confusion, but he looks at me with such expectation, such trust, that I know there’s no choice but to continue.

This time I place both hands on his chest, palms over the slight swell of his pectoral muscles, his heart a rapid staccato against my skin. I move my hands upward, tracing his collarbones and the breadth of his shoulders before moving down again, grazing his nipples with my fingernails. He makes a small sound of pleasure and I do it again, flexing my nails like a cat, scoring the tender skin there and lower, across his ribs and stomach, a host of red scratches rising in my wake. He moans, eyes closed, his cock thick and hard just below his navel, and I bite my lip against a moan of my own because I know exactly how good that feels.

I also know what Mistress would reach for next if she were playing with me, and I leave the boy for a moment, drawing a short leather crop from the bag of toys on the bed.

“Have you ever played with a crop before, Gabriel?”

“Yes, Miss Ashley,” he answers promptly and politely. A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.

I tap the end of the crop against his belly and watch his muscles instinctively clench while his cock bobs just a little. I feel a tiny bit sadistic and for the first time, I consider that I might actually enjoy teaching this boy a few things after all. What was it that Mistress said? No control, and no skill with oral sex.

I begin tapping out a light, steady rhythm across his torso, just enough to warm his skin a little. I love when Mistress does this—it feels like she’s waking me up, like my skin comes alive, every inch of it, and it practically sings with pleasure.

“Do you remember rule number one?” I ask, continuing the same steady rhythm.

“Don’t speak unless I’m spoken to?”

Whap. He jumps a little and his breath hisses out.

“Yes,” I say, “though if you can’t speak respectfully, Mistress isn’t likely to let you speak at all.” I throw in another hard whap for emphasis.

“Yes, Miss Ashley. Sorry, Miss Ashley,” he says with a wince. I circle around behind him, warming his back and buttocks with the same light strokes.

“Rule number two,” I continue, “is don’t come unless you’re told to.”

“Yes, Miss Ashley.”

His skin is beginning to take on a soft, rosy blush, so I make my strokes a little firmer.

“Coming without permission makes Mistress very upset.”

I change my rhythm, interspersing hard with soft: tap tap tap WHAP tap tap tap tap WHAP. He doesn’t answer other than to moan, which I figure is okay, given that I didn’t really ask a question. I keep my rhythm unpredictable, focusing on his ass, watching the muscles there clench and unclench as he tries to anticipate where the next hard stroke will fall. It’s an impossible task, I know, and yet it’s almost equally impossible to stop that reflex.

Watching him struggle fuels my arousal, though whether it’s because I’m the one in control, or simply because I know what he’s feeling, I can’t honestly say. I want to take it farther though—him, me, both of us—that’s what I know. That, and I’m missing the sweet spot.

“In fact, I suspect Mistress was so upset the other night that she didn’t punish you properly for making a mess on her rug, did she boy?”

“No, Miss Ashley.”

“Hands on the bed then, bent at the waist.”

He moves into position without objection, exposing the tender skin at the juncture of his ass and thighs. I run the end of the crop across this untouched skin, then between his legs, stroking it gently across his cock and balls. He moans and rocks his hips forward, seeking more contact. I pull back and immediately deliver a sharp smack right on the underside of his ass. He cries out, a mixture of surprise and pain, and the sound goes straight to my pussy. I do it again, this time on the opposite side, and he grunts and then sucks in a breath, but otherwise holds still.

He’s ready now; he knows what’s coming, so I go to work in earnest, peppering both sides of his ass and thighs with a series of deliberately hard strokes, and though his thighs tremble and his skin turns a deep, rich rose he maintains his position. I watch his body to try and gauge where he is: at first he’s stiff and stoic, but then, as the endorphins start to kick in, his moans become less restrained and his back arches ever so slightly.

Now for the lesson.

“Stand up, boy.” I say, and he complies, turning to face me. His eyes are hazy with pleasure and his cheeks are flushed, and I know a pang of longing so intense it makes my breath catch in my chest. What I wouldn’t give to be in his position right now. And yet, the feel of the leather grip in my hand, the sheer number of things I could do to him...or have him do to me; knowing that I’m the architect of his pleasure and pain right now, all of these things are so much more intoxicating than I’d imagined.

I run the tip of the crop down the center of his chest, over the fine hair below his navel and down to his cock. When he moans again, I’m bolder, tracing the rigid length of his erection, swirling the leather against the moisture that glistens at its tip.

“I want you to stroke your cock for me, Gabriel,” I say, my voice husky with desire, “I want you to show me what feels good to you.” I move the crop lower, brushing it against his balls as he takes his cock in his hand, pumping it slowly.

“But if you come before I tell you to,” I pause, the crop resting snugly against his tight sac, “I’ll make you regret it. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Miss Ashley.” He licks his lips, eyes on mine while he strokes himself. At first he’s almost leisurely, but gradually his tempo increases, his breathing becomes more erratic and I can see his muscles beginning to tense. I tap the crop lightly against the side of his balls and he jumps, breath hitching a little. “Not yet.” I shake my head and he nods that he understands, taking a deep breath and slowing his tempo. This time, I keep the crop moving, stroking it against his balls and the base of his cock. Before long, he’s close again, and I give him another tap, though harder this time than before.

“No,” I say, and for a moment he stills his hand and closes his eyes, swallowing rapidly. When he resumes, I start tapping his balls gently, rhythmically, just as I warmed him up earlier.

“This time when you get close, I want you to ask me to come, boy.”

“Yes, Miss Ashley.” He speaks quickly, voice rough with arousal. I can feel my own arousal pooling between my thighs, and I marvel that this slave, this boy, can have such a profound effect on me. Mistress knew though. Sometimes I think she knows me better than I know myself.

“Can I come, Miss Ashley?” he asks, before hastily adding: “Please?”

I smile wickedly.

“You’ve got to do better than that, boy,” I say. I know he’s a heartbeat away from coming, and holding there, on that edge, is the hardest thing in the world right now, but he does it, muscles straining visibly as he pumps his cock.

“Please, Miss Ashley,” he says. “Please can I come now?”

“Yes, boy.”

He throws his head back, eyes shut, and his whole body shudders as he comes, thick white jets spurting from his cock and trickling down over his fist. I sit down on the bed, my clit pulsing insistently, watching him as the aftershocks of his orgasm pass. His legs look as wobbly as a newborn foal. Fortunately, I think, patting the spot next to me as I recall Mistress’s other complaint about the boy, he doesn’t need to be standing for what comes next.

“Come here, little angel,” I say.