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Trent thumbed the edge of the record sleeve ofKind of Blue, before slipping the vinyl from between the lips of the dust cover.
He took a moment tosmellthe disc. He wondered if he was the only person in the world who did this, who took the time to trulyexperiencethe physicality of things in this way.
“You’re such a damn pretentious asshole,” he muttered, remembering the way his dad used to chide him. Back then, he’d hated to be called pretentious. Now, he was just happy to be the person he was.
Trent grinned as he set the record onto the turntable, enjoying every moment of pressing the old switch which set the thing turning. He almostfelt thesoft click of the needle as it started tracing its way around that big black spiral.
He sighed as the music began. There was nothing else to interrupt this. Nothing to take him out of the zone. Nothing to stop him doing the thing he loved to do more than anything in the whole wide world.
Learning.
He sat at his desk. Like Trent, it was a relic from an era that had long since passed; a rich, mahogany piece that bore the weight of history in its grain. It was an embodiment of understated elegance, resplendent in its simplicity yet luxurious in the craftsmanship evident in every inch of it.
Despite the beauty of the desk itself, what truly made it unique were the small, personal touches Trent had added: a small, framed black-and-white photograph of his brothers—smiling together, a rarity for Duke and Chuck—and a bronze statuette of a horse, a nod to his veterinary profession.
This desk was more than just a piece of furniture to Trent; it was a sanctuary where he could indulge his love for learning, free from the distractions of the world outside.
“Now for a little light reading,” he said, smiling again as he opened the imposingly titledVeterinary Medicine: A Textbook of the Diseases of Cattle, Horses, Sheep, Pigs, and Goats. He thumbed through to find the section he was after. “Ahh, pathophysiology, my old friend.”
For a moment, he paused, glancing at the photograph of Chuck and Duke.
To his annoyance, he let his mind wander. He wondered what his brothers were up to. Probably with their respective partners. Chuck with Millie. Duke with Anita. Maybe they’d be getting ready for dinner. Or doing something… else.
Pah. He didn’t need anything like that. No. A relationship was the last thing he needed. All he needed to be happy was his own company, and the challenge of mastering a new skill, or learning new knowledge.
Nope. No women for Trent. And that was exactly the way he liked it.
Trent focused on the book. But that focus didn’t last long. Because almost as soon as he started to read, there was a fizz, a crackle, then a hard, mechanical snap, and all the lights in his cabin, as well as the music, went off.
“Takis!” cried Trent in anguish. “God fucking damn it Takis!”
With a resigned, frustrated sigh, Trent realized that he was going to have to do it. He was going to have to go to… dinner.
CHAPTER TWO
Itwasn’tthatTrenthated dinner in general. It wasn’t even that he didn’t like being around people. Not exactly.
It was just that recently, he was finding it harder and harder to interact with others. Ever since Chuck and Duke had become happily paired up with their Littles, he saw far less of his brothers than he used to. As difficult as it was for him to admit, it was like a little part of him—of his personality—was wrapped up in his brothers. And now that he hardly ever saw them… well, that part of him, the social part, was fading.
He’d always been something of a lone wolf. When he’d been a kid, his family had lived near Rosy Pastures ranch in Northern Montana, but Trent couldn’t wait to leave. After studying medicine at Cornell, he got a job offer from Rosy Pastures. But he turned them down. He wanted to spread his wings. He’d met Takis at a BDSM club in New York, and wanted to explore the identity he was building for himself; that of a Daddy Dom.
Friends didn’t really fit in with that. Neither did his family. There had been a strong community in the age play scene in New York, but Trent never really saw himself as part of that. He was an outsider, always would be. Not defined by his identity. Maybe he wasn’t even a Daddy Dom, not really. Maybe he was just… Trent.
And that feeling had only been confirmed to him by what had happened with Erica.
Ever since then, he’d found Littles… difficult.
Time to put that out of his mind though.
As he approached the Ranch House, he caught a whiff of something delicious. Marco didn’t do fancy, but his meals were always, without fail, lip-smackingly good. It was amazing what that man could do with beans.
Crickets were chirping. The sky was darkening. There were groups of ranch guests around, some heading to the ranch house, some dallying by the stables, or sitting under the Grandfather, a huge old tree that seemed to be as ancient as the landscape. This place would have been perfect… if it weren’t for the goddamn electrical faults.
Takis had made a considerable investment in modernizing and improving the property over the last couple years. He had replaced a dilapidated barn, installed new fencing, and upgraded the water system. The ranch now boasted an array of modern comforts such as air conditioning, solar panels, and wifi. It was a safe space, a place where Littles, Bigs, and saved animals could enjoy life without the worry of judgment, or—in the case of the animals—a trip to the abattoir.
And it wasn’t just the practical facilities that Takis had improved. The grounds had also been worked on. They were now landscaped with lush green grass, ancient oaks, sprawling meadows, and a variety of colorful flowers that were in full bloom during springtime. The winding gravel driveway up to the main house was lined with red roses and blackberry bushes that smelled like heaven in the summer.
At night, an array of outdoor lighting lit up the trails for horseback riding or evening strolls around the property. Off to one side of the main house was a new, large pond which was home to ducks, geese, and other wildlife that could be heard chirping among the trees at dusk each day.
