Master of the Galaxy Page 2

  He continued, his cadence rhythmic, unbroken until just when I thought I might not be able to take any more, and then he stopped and moved toward me.

  “Such a good girl,” he said, his breath warm against my neck.

  I took a deep breath and exhaled, my skin covered with a sheen of perspiration.

  “Do you know why I’m doing this?” he whispered in my ear, sweeping one finger under my chin.

  “No,” I gasped.

  “Because I can,” he said. “And because you need it done to you.”

  I felt a tremor in my belly, electricity flickering down my spine and felt my stomach clench with disbelief. But I was still aware enough so that I knew the truth of his words.

  He stepped back then and he struck across my back. My head flew up and I let out a small involuntary cry, so unprepared was I for the change in sensation. It was different, sharper, more severe but also more diffuse. The many tails of the lash can be individually felt as each strikes the skin in a slightly different place at a slightly different time when it is swung. It is a sensation that is difficult to understand unless you have felt it for yourself.

  He stopped immediately and was behind me, running his hand gently over my back, tracing the light outlines of red he had just placed there. I sighed at his touch, so comforting and encouraging it was, and wanted, at that point, to do anything he asked of me.

  He continued then and did not stop this time, even when I began to whimper at each stroke, unsure whether I was prepared for this, doubtful whether I would please Him. My arms wilted, held up only by the hard alloy attaching them to their tethers. But the pain gradually seemed to merge with pleasure, each sting, each lash, each stripe fading, melding into a union of exhilaration, until I began to cry out a little with the sybaritism of it and my head dropped forward. I felt several lashes fall hard across my thighs and then he stopped and I was only dimly aware that he had.

  He knew then how much I could take and I suppose it was not much.

  I felt his fingers trace my back, gently rub at my buttocks. He whispered how good I was, how strong I was, how pleasing I was. I whimpered and moved against him as much as I could, savoring the feel of his hand on my skin which was like honey over my abrasions.

  He moved my hair aside and kissed the top of my shoulder. It was a soft, gentle kiss, a kiss of approval, perhaps even a kiss of affection. My head dropped forward with the sweet reward.

  And then he did something that almost made me scream with bliss. He put a finger inside of me. Somewhere I had never imagined a finger would go. I had never felt anything like it before. He began moving it with soft, gentle upward thrusts and I thought I might die from pleasure. Truly I did. I moaned, my head falling forward, my long reddish hair stuck to my temples from exertion, an inferno, a tempest growing between my thighs. Then, he inserted another finger and continued plunging into me. I could hear my own juices, slick and heavy, I felt rivulets running down now on the inside of my thighs as he continued his exquisite probing and I was openly moaning now, lost to pleasure, drowning in wonder.

  It was then that I felt something within me budding, growing, building. An excruciating, insufferable, delicious longing that began to lift me up to unfathomable heights to which I had never traveled until I thought I would fall from them, burst apart and shatter into a thousand pieces. My breathing was heavy, labored, my senses had withdrawn in on themselves. I felt a fevered blackness squeezing around me, pushing me up higher and faster, rushing toward a blinding, dazzling brilliance.

  Then suddenly, he withdrew and stepped back from me. I gasped. I cried out. I wanted to beg him to continue, but somehow knew I was not supposed to beg for anything. I felt bereft, abandoned, more alone than I had ever felt in all my one hundred and thirty-nine years.

  There was a moment of silence while I heaved in my restraints, my hair falling forward in a long damp tangle. And then I heard his voice chuckling from behind me, low and rich.

  “And they say Yarians never get wet.”

  I was relieved to hear him still there. I never tire of hearing his voice. Yes, it is imposing and demanding, but soothing and comforting at the same time. I wanted more. I wanted his touch again. I pushed myself back toward him.

  He chuckled again. “Patience, patience, pet. I think perhaps you will get no more today.”

  Was I his pet? I did not care. It was his second sentence that struck me. Would he really leave me alone, unfulfilled? I would not be able to bear it. But that is exactly what he did. He left.

  CHAPTER 3

  It was only later that two women came, unshackled me and helped me to the bed in my chamber. I lay down nude, unmindful that I was unclothed, exhausted, weary, and also unfulfilled, still aching for his touch. They rolled me gently to my stomach. I did not care. I was so tired. I felt them run their fingers lightly over my back and buttocks, listened to them discuss my state amongst themselves, heard them say that my marks were not bad and really did not need attending to.

  I wondered then what they meant. They were not bad? Would there be worse to come? If only I had known then what I know now, I would have questioned His temperance that first time.

  I soon came to realize that I was not alone in my standing on His planet. There were others to serve Him, girls of all varieties, each one perfect and beautiful, girls with dark, creamy skin, spiraled black hair to their waists, pale voluptuous girls with soft, white locks, willowy girls with skin of burnished copper, hair of cinnamon. They all seemed much more skilled at pleasing him than I. They were, as a whole, quiet, careful, helpful, docile.

  I had never been quiet or docile and struggled with that as I wanted to please Him as well. I talked with those girls who would speak with me, male staff, soldiers, anyone who would hold a conversation. He did not seem to mind and never took me to task for it. The only time I became tongue-tied was around Him and not even always then, as you will see. Despite my innate sense of superiority, I always felt inferior to the perfection with which he surrounded himself.

  All of His girls wore collars, all of different stones, gems or jewels. I had been trained to recognize precious materials. None was as rare as the Tavos stones I wore around my neck, but each was lovely. I admit I did feel special as if I was His favorite but whether I actually was or whether I just wanted it to be that way, I do not know.

  * * * * *

  He continued to come to me and during each visit, slowly taught me more of what pleased him, but there soon came a time I will never forget in all the thousand years I may live. This is what happened.

  I had learned how to kneel properly the way he liked and I waited patiently for him to speak to me.

  “This time will be a little different. I think you are ready for it.”

  I said nothing because I knew it was not my place to, but I felt an expectant thrill at this, a quiver of readiness, an excited flutter stirring inside. I was humbled by his confidence, by his faith in me.

  He had me rise and then he lightly stroked my cheek, my body instantly aflame at his touch, my eyes liquid, glowing with desire and anticipation, my heart pounding at his nearness. He always seemed to have this effect on me. I do not know why.

  He gathered my hair in his hands and without warning, he lowered his head to mine, tasted my lips and then parted them with his tongue, gently at first and then with more hunger, until I was drowning in his heat and desire, driven mad by his greedy possession of me, his voracious pillaging of my mouth, a fever burning inside me that I felt could never be extinguished.

  If you have not guessed yet, since Jiikorians have no need for sexual activity, it was my first kiss and the pure, unadulterated power, heat, wetness, and animalness of it raced through me like a torrent of fire. I whimpered into his mouth, galvanized by passion and craving, his ravishment so overwhelming, so absolute, it was as if I was consumed in a blazing tempest of lust.

  When he stepped away from me, I was panting, my eyes closed, my breasts heaving, having never known such a compl
ete primordial awakening. I felt him fasten the cuffs around my wrists, familiar, comforting now. This time, however, he stretched them over my head and began to attach them to a single ring which hung low from the ceiling.

  I opened my eyes, still effulgent, still dazed from his kiss, but panic began to arise in me as he ratcheted my wrists higher, stretching my body up, pushing my breasts out. I struggled a little, feeling more and more defenseless, this new position unfamiliar, completely at his mercy. He met my eyes; they seemed to smolder with arousal and then they softened, he gave me a small smile and kissed my forehead and I relaxed a little with this gesture. I believed I could do this if he thought that I could but it would be untrue to say that I was not apprehensive.

  He walked toward the pegs on the wall where he kept the contrivances that he prized so greatly. He came up behind me and the first stroke landed across my buttocks. I immediately recognized it as His flogger. But the lash was harder than any he had previously given to me and I winced against the sting. I knew it would leave welts.

  Another came and another and soon he was lashing my buttocks and thighs, leaving angry red marks, before he moved up to my back, swinging his tool in an intricate dance as he marked me in an exquisite criss-cross pattern while I struggled not to move away from his reach, trying not to cry out. I had nothing to rest against, I turned slightly from side to side, it was hard to be still, in the center of the room, having little balance, my arms strung high above my head.

  He stopped and I slumped in my restraints, knowing he was not done. He had many other implements, but he was to choose only one more to use on me this time. He seemed to always know my limits, even if they were beyond what I thought they were.

  I felt him sift through my hair and then he wrapped his fingers around my throat and forced my head against his strong, muscular chest. I leaned into him, my breathing stuttered, acutely conscious of his careful, but steady pressure, around my windpipe.

  “Such a good girl,” he murmured against my ear.

  I felt a gush of wetness slide out again at his words. I felt I must be a river now, the floor running slick with the helpless evidence of my arousal.

  “This next one will hurt, it will cause you pain, do you understand?”

  I could not find my voice, but nodded mutely, as much as I could given his grip around my neck.

  “It will please me to give this to you,” he said. “Will you accept it?”

  I did not know exactly what it was I was supposed to accept, but it did not matter. I managed to croak, “Yes,” and I meant it.

  He released my throat, tilted my head to the side and kissed my neck, his lips lingering against my skin. He stepped behind me and I heard him pick up a different implement. And then, for the first time, I felt the cruel caress of his whip. He stood back from me, I do not know how far, but I could tell he was much experienced with it, each stroke landing precisely where he pleased it to. If the other implements were like fire on my skin, this was an inferno, the pain dancing over my back, buttocks and thighs like white-hot bursts of living embers.

  I tried to turn away from his mastery, so intense was it, but as I twisted away, it would catch around my sides or my belly sometimes wrapping around my breast, flicking onto a nipple. I shrieked and cried out. I could not help it. He moved in front of me and I could not look at him as he continued his deliberate, methodical almost graceful strokes, this time lashing my breasts intentionally, striping my belly, the front of my thighs, while I mewled and whimpered and cried, trying not to beg him to stop. And then one stroke landed hard and calculated across the front of the patch of soft hair above my thighs and I screamed with agony.

  I did not realize he had tossed aside the whip and moved into me until a moment later, so consumed with pain I was, tears falling from my eyes. He knelt before me which, even in the recesses of my pain-dulled mind I thought was strange, but then my wits worked no longer as I felt his tongue lap gently where he had just laid his lash, where some part of my anatomy, a tiny bud buried within soft folds of pink, was hardened, engorged with blood, throbbing and aching.

  And I needed only one soothing touch and I exploded, screaming and lost, immersed in the most intense, unendurable sensation so far beyond belief, I cannot even describe it to this day. I knew not where I was or who I was, only that I shook as the foundations of my body were rocked from their very core, pleasure soaking me, drenching me, dragging me under a merciless current, as I spun, spiraled and whirled caught up in a hurricane of bliss, torrents of euphoria coursing through me until I thought I had fallen unconscious from the intensity.

  But he did not stop my torture then, as he continued tasting, nibbling, licking and sucking at my button, drinking the release from my core and then returning to tease another gush from me mercilessly, completely without remorse, as he dragged another and then another climax from me as I screamed and screamed again until I finally broke down and cried and pleaded with him, begging him to stop the pleasure.

  He finally kissed my aching nub and rose, smiling as he ran his hands over my breasts and belly, soothing my inflamed skin, whispering his approval of me, even while I hung from my restraints, drenched, drained, faint.

  And then dimly I became aware of something so inconceivable, so extraordinary, so incomprehensible, I was bewildered, stunned, riveted by this new perception. I had thought I could not experience anything further with Him, but I was wrong, so shamefully, utterly, morally wrong. It was the sensation of being filled, of being pleasured inside, and not just my skin, but something that swallowed me so fully it blotted out my thoughts, eclipsed my reality, gave me entirely over to a new delirious hedonism. I felt his shaft, soft silk over hard iron, caress inner walls I did not know I had, and then power as he began to drive into me deeply, fiercely, almost viciously and my body bounced and battered under his stroke and I cried out brokenly. It was like nothing else I have ever experienced.

  He lifted me from the floor then, taking the pressure from my wrists and I wrapped my legs around his waist as he held me in aloft easily in his strong arms. I felt connected to Him, as if he was literally a part of me, more than his affectionate words, his sensual touches, and now I understand, of course, that in fact he was.

  Each piston of his cock, each pounding of my gripping, pulsating orifice, each plunge into my wet friction was like a flood of bliss, of rapture, a flurry of turbulence and I was drowning in his dominance, freed by his control, longing and hunger flowing through me like a blizzard of fire. I was inundated, overcome with delight, my body thrumming with desire, my hair in tight, damp ringlets, perspiration gleaming on my skin like a sheen of oil. I felt the slickness of his chest as well, the sweat of his exertion, heard the grunts of his pleasure and I could feel his delight in me.

  I have little remembrance of him unsnapping my wrist cuffs, but my hands suddenly fell around his neck and I shuddered at the pain as the blood rushed back into my arms. He carried me to my bed and withdrew his huge organ, leaving me gasping with shock. I tightened my hold around his neck, desperate this time, willing at this point, to risk his ire, his retribution, anything if he would only not abandon me. I may have babbled this to Him. It is entirely possible although I would not recall if I had.

  He looked at me and said, “I’m not finished with you yet,” with a growl in his voice.

  He flipped me over onto my stomach and jerked my arms to the head of the bed, pulling my body up with them, as he locked my wrists to an attachment in the frame leaving me prone.

  I remember then his hands running reverently over my back, caressing my buttocks, tracing the lines he had inscribed with his whip. I know he spoke softly to me and I believe he may have whispered something of praise or appreciation, but my beautiful, intelligent mind was floating so far distant in a corner of the universe of my essence I could not focus on the words he said, only their tone.

  Then, much to my tremendous relief, he entered me again from behind. He continued to take me aggressively, fervently, a
lmost brutally, as if he could not get enough of me. I could feel his body above mine, his muscles taut and defined, his breathing fueled by passion and desire and I could feel his lust crashing over me in waves. He plunged into me, filling my warm, tight tunnel with the enormity of his hot, rugged, pulsing rod, a breathless tempo, unappeasable, and again something within me began to swell, an inflating balloon of delight, overtaking me, gusting, speeding me to a pinnacle and I did not try in the least to fight it.

  “No,” he said harshly. “Not now.”

  I gasped, astonished, I understood, but could not believe it. I was not to be permitted the explosion I had experienced earlier. If I had thought anything unendurable before this moment – the blows of his whip, his unrelenting stimulation of me, the unimaginable pleasure of release – this was far, far worse. He pulled me to him hard by my hips, thrusting powerfully into my blazing sleeve and yet permitted me no liberation, no release of the intense, consuming pressure, continuing to stimulate me, over and over, pounding into a spot deep within me, until I finally did not think I could hold back the tide of bliss that threatened to engulf me. I began to quake, the sensations excruciating, wresting my climax from me and then I heard his voice, intractable, cold, unforgiving.

  “Not. Now.”

  His words themselves were far more ruthless than any lash, far coarser, fiercer, more severe. I had no choice but to obey Him, the unspoken consequences too terrible to consider. But oh how difficult it was, you have no idea.

  He sped up his possession of me then, a ravenous, bestial, demanding, driving that only made me nearly hysterical with my need for him. As I wavered on the brink between release and pressure, hanging only by a sliver of control, I began to think I had truly died, only to be resurrected, and then made to die again until finally I felt the struggle turn to pain and an unbearable pressure even greater than the last and I nearly collapsed, my body wracked with silent sobs, slowly slipping from awareness.