Practice Makes Perfect


© Clare London



“Take your clothes off, Darwin,” I said, the menace in my voice barely masked. I stood with arms folded, the silk of my shirt tight against my broad chest. Hand-tailored jodhpurs clung to my well-defined legs; my expensive leather boot tapped an impatient tattoo on the bare stone flooring of the stable. A slim riding crop balanced precariously between my gloved fingers.

The young man in front of me flinched – his arms moved instinctively to the hem of his shirt.

“Please, my Lord…” he whimpered.

I stood back a little way – I let the hint of my most sardonic smile tease at the edges of my mouth. “Get on with it. I want to see you stripped. Will you disobey me even now?”

The wide blue eyes flashed up at me with an erotic mixture of excitement, misery and fear, and I saw my proud expression reflected in his pupils. My cock grew hard in my pants. I let the crop drop slightly in my grip, and the end brushed at my thigh.

“Now! Or you’ll feel the weight of this against your back until you scream for me to take you!”

The man gasped, his eyes widening even further with the anguished anticipation of what was to happen to him. He peeled the shirt up over his head with shaking fingers. His chest was smooth and pale, as befitted his youth, but with well-defined adult muscles. I let my eyes run up and down the lines of his ribs, savouring the erect nubs of his nut-brown nipples.

“And the pants, Darwin. You’ll not need them for what I want of you this night.“

He let his eyelids droop briefly, as if to shield himself from the hunger in my expression. His hands were slim and smooth, unused to a servant’s work, and they moved clumsily to his waistband, tugging half-heartedly at the ties that held up his poorly sewn britches.

There was a sudden pause.

“For fuck’s sake, Dave…” came a plaintive cry from behind me. “Are you crying?”

“No!” snapped the young man. He straightened up suddenly, showing a slender, muscled body that was as tall as mine, and now looking a lot less juvenile, and a hell of a lot less submissive.

I sighed. “He is, Paul. I must have scared him.”

“For Christ’s sake,” growled Dave, glaring at me. “Humiliate me, why don’t you? It’s just the damned lights in my eyes –“

“Cut!” came the voice of Paul, our director, and there was a communal sigh from behind the cameras. “So… guess that’s not going to work. Back to your trailers, everyone – we’ll try the scene again later. Dave – Stuart – script review in ten. OK?”

I glared at Dave, shivering now without his shirt. He glared back at me.

But we both answered promptly enough – you didn’t upset your Director without good reason. Not when you were $1.2m over budget, and three weeks behind schedule, and Will Smith had just opened in another blockbuster.

“OK, Paul.”


“Take your clothes off.” My voice was still imperious, though it was sultry now with the hint of repressed passion, and a fascination with the rebellious young man who lay at my feet on the stable floor.

“I’m damned if I will!” he replied, bravely enough. “You’ve no right to treat me like one of your damned horses – nor do I have to obey you like one!“

I laughed, a harsh sound that echoed in the bare stable. My elegant accent covered an edge of pure steel. “Oh but I think that you do, Darwin! I own this stables and this estate, which means that I own you – and you forget it at your peril. You have a family, I believe – a young sister; an invalid mother. Dare you refuse me what I want? Dare you put your own family’s well-being at risk by presuming to challenge me?”

I saw his body shake; his face pale further. There was still the light of resistance in his eyes – the dark flash of hatred and disgust. It was a look that inflamed me; that inspired me to take him tonight – and to take him hard!

“Take off your clothes,” I repeated, and could barely hide my triumph as he started to pull his meagre shirt over his head.

“All of them!” I snapped. “Now! Or you’ll feel the weight of my crop across your haunches –“

There was a sudden pause.

“Fuck it!” came Paul’s voice in the background again. “He’s laughing!”

I stared at the man on the floor, who was now rolling on his side, convulsed not with fear of his master – but with roaring laughter.

“Haunches -!” he gasped between hiccuping. “Haunches -! What am I, a pig?”

“Dave – Stuart!” came the cry. We could tell that Paul was speaking through gritted teeth. The camera crew exchanged weary glances. There was going to be no ‘wrapping’ tonight.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence in my performance, Dave,” I hissed. “If you can’t act professionally –“

“Trailers!” yelled Paul. “Script review! Now!”


“Take your clothes off,” I said. My voice was quiet and firm. It had an edge of desire to it that leaked from my mouth like melted chocolate. There was a hint of desperation, too. I would never beg, that was obvious, but my body would plead for his in every ache of its nerves.

He knelt before me, his eyes shadowed under his fallen hair. His dark pink tongue slid out from inside his mouth, and licked swiftly at his plump lips.

I let the slightest of groans slip from my throat.

“All of them?” he murmured. His voice lapped around me like summer waves under a waning sun. His fingers played gently with the fastenings of his shirt; his gaze flickered greedily from my face to my lap, and back again. My pants felt impossibly tight.

“Yes, all of them,” I commanded.

I reached out and took a firm hold of the thick blond tresses that pooled around the man’s neck and shoulders. He gasped as I pulled him towards me, none too gently.

I kissed him – firmly. Almost harshly. Several times. And he kissed me back with as much enthusiasm.

“So what do you say?” he murmured as our lips peeled apart.

“…off,” I moaned. Words were escaping me, words that should have been my livelihood. “Please.”

He stretched like a feline, his eyes holding mine with a gleam of awareness of his power. He smiled – a wide, generous, hungry smile. He lifted his shirt over his head, and I saw the ripple of muscle across his shoulders like the shudder of lust and love combined.

He leant forward, balanced as he was on the end of my bed, and the trailer rocked slightly underneath us. We never got the really good quality ones on location shoots. Particularly not when we’d just wasted another day’s filming and incurred the wrath of both Director and crew alike.

“You only had to ask nicely, Stu,” he purred. He slipped a hand inside my own shirt, and pinched at my painfully erect nipple. I sucked in a desperate breath, and he laughed softly and deliciously cruelly.

“You only had to ask.”