And that was a second object that he was slipping into the folds of her pussy. It stretched her open, rubbing against the membrane that separated it from the phallus in her bottom. The pressure was unbearably delicious. The phallus in her pussy was large—not as large as Voso or Mozok, but large enough to make her feel overwhelmingly full. Large enough to press against the root of her clit, promising to rub against it and bring her to climax…
But then, even though she tried to wiggle against the pressure, she could not get it just right. Voso placed a hand on her lower back to stop her from grinding against the dildo as Mozok pushed it in.
“We shall leave you for a bit,” Mozok said.
Mina whimpered, twisting her ass in the air with futility, trying to move so that the two phalluses might somehow make her come… But they would not, she knew it. Her hands were bound and so were her ankles, and Voso was now affixing something between her knees, spreading them slightly apart.
And then, leaving her to her pleasurable torment, they left her.
* * *
The trials of Trothplight continued in this way, each day beginning with a session of training, which Mina enjoyed immensely. The rituals of Trothplight seemed to have no end of devious manners in which to train females into submission. As the days wore on, Mina gave in to the training, and found herself thinking of it, looking forward to it, even, during the periods of time when she was left to her own devices. At first, she was given minimal free time and was confined to her immense and luxurious quarters. But in time, the aliens seemed to understand what she did not want to admit to herself, let alone to them, and they gave her more freedom to wander through the immense fortress.
She was surprised by herself, by what she did with that time. The training implements inside of her were a constant reminder of what she craved most. Though Mozok and Voso inevitably pleasured her to completion if she behaved as they asked her to, they never gave her the connection that she most wanted.
It troubled her somewhat that she craved a connection with them; she wanted them inside her body, wanted to pleasure them as much as they pleasured her. And though they commanded her oral pleasure frequently and returned the favor to her even more frequently, they never had penetrative sex with her.
There was no real way for her to beg them for it; she didn’t want to let them think they had the upper hand; but also, the encounters were not hers to command. They required complete submission, and though she would never tell them, at some point she began to want to give it to them, very willingly. She supposed this was part of Mozok’s madness, his desire to drive her to give up on Trothplight. He wanted her to desire him so much that she would say anything—even the words to end the agreement—in order to get what she craved.
And so she stayed strong, never begging for what she wanted, no matter how much she wanted it. She spent her afternoons, free to roam, looking out at the stormy sky with both reassurance and trepidation. When the storm was over, she would win, and she could return to her life as normal. But the thought of that return created a hollow feeling inside of her.
“Stockholm syndrome,” she whispered to herself each night, trying desperately to convince herself that her feelings were not real, and that she would need only to hold on until the storm passed. As soon as she boarded an Earthbound ship, rich enough to save her parents, she would forget Mozok and Voso, and everything that had happened there.
CHAPTER12
Voso entered Mozok’s aquatic quarters silently, seating himself in a distant chair and folding his fingers together across his chest. Mozok sensed his blood brother’s disquietude, and he knew where it welled from. But he could not bring himself to address it frankly.
It was the first time in his life he had felt unable to confront something. The first time that he feared having made a terrible decision, the first time that he regretted a choice in the dark hours of the night. Mozok was not a man of regrets, not a man to ponder his choices. If they turned out differently than he expected, he was in possession of a keen and creative mind, and he simply adapted himself to the new challenge.
But Mina Groza had been the kind of mistake that he did not know how to transform. He did not even know how to explain his problems to himself. The plan, as he had seen it, had been foolproof: regardless of what Mina Groza did, he, and therefore Voso, stood only to win. Survive Trothplight or not, Mozok and Voso would obtain the contracts, and therefore secure the protection of Old Celox.
Mozok looked over at his old friend. Once sworn enemies, they were now bound by an oath of blood, and Voso was the only creature Mozok cared about. Yet Mozok had not bothered to consider his feelings in this matter. Or his own.
Why would he have, he thought bitterly, and as he did, he made a face. His emotions were boiling up, appearing on the surface, readable to Voso, and probably to anyone else who might see them. He detested an expression of emotions—in fact, he detested emotions.
And yet there was no denying that he had them.
He grasped his glass so fiercely as he thought that the delicate, hand-blown glass cracked.
Voso cleared his throat.
“Friend,” he said quietly.
Mozok glared at him and brushed the glass, still full, impatiently from the table it rested upon. The dark liquid spilled on his floor, and the glass shattered.
Voso did not move or speak.
“Spare me your observations, Voso,” Mozok snapped. “I am perfectly capable of drawing those conclusions myself.”
Surprisingly, Voso’s eyebrows arched questioningly. He frowned, bringing his fingers to his lips. “Are you?” he asked. Then he added, “I worry that I myself am not.”
Mozok stood up and paced, too infuriated to say anything.
“It doesn’t matter,” he spat at last, as if he was responding to something that Voso said. “If she doesn’t give in, then we shall be married, and the contract will become ours along with her. We cannot lose.”
Voso was looking at him intently, in a way that he rarely did. It was for his intuitive wisdom, dispensed rarely, that Mozok appreciated Voso. He valued the other creature’s ability to see his blind spots and his valiance in disclosing them to him.
“Speak your mind,” Mozok snapped at him. “I can see that you think you have something to say and so you must simply do it.”
