The air gets colder as we walk forward. I hear the sound of dripping water.
Great, I think.
We are going to an actual, medieval-style dungeon. Complete with dripping water.
* * *
We descend a staircase after we enter the dark building. It’s a spiral staircase, narrow and endless-seeming. My feet are now getting chilly, but as we go down, the air is becoming warmer, and soon enough, it’s actually humid and jungle-y. When we reach the bottom, at long last, I realize that we have gone into the ground. It must be a sign of geothermic energy, which makes disturbing sense, given the sharp contours of the land and the presence of obsidian. I have a brief moment of fear—of being in a volcano, or an earthquake zone. I want to ask him about it, in fact, I have tons of questions (I am, in the end, a scientifically minded person, and I’m curious). But I hold my tongue.
The stairs finally end, and he orders me to turn right. I do, and we walk down a dimly lit corridor with crude lights strung along the walls. The doors here are made of wood and metal, giving the place a positively primitive feel.
“Stop,” he commands, and I do. He is no longer holding me. I sweep my eyes over the walls wet with condensation that seems to be seeping through them.
He unlocks a door to my right with an unsophisticated turning of an actual key. And then he extends his hand to my right, and we enter his dungeon.
I stop dead in my tracks when my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, and I suck in my breath.
This is some real, next-level medieval shit. There is a piece of furniture that looks like a table, covered in a black material similar to his robe. It looks cushioned, which is nice and all, but there are numerous restraining devices—heavy, leather-like material with buckles and studs—dangling from the walls and lying at all four corners of the table. A terrifying array of very shiny and sterile-looking objects is set out on another table. I have never seen anything like them, but their shapes and contours indicate that they are of a sexual nature.
Hanging on the wall to my left, there is an array of what look like whips and switches.
He puts his fingers against the small of my back, as he did at the ‘feast’ the night before, gently prodding me forward.
“What is this?” I say. I mean to demand it, but my voice is shaky.
He doesn’t answer. I turn my head slowly to look at him. In the dim light, his big yellow eyes have been consumed by his oddly shaped, reptilian pupils. Hiskrythglows in the semi-darkness, beginning to pulse again.
“Trasmea told me you can’t hurt me,” I warn him. I’m saying it more to comfort myself, more because I want to believe it than because, now that I’m standing here in a medieval dungeon full of torture devices and shackles, I really believe it. “She said you—”
“I cannot draw blood,” he says calmly, and now his voice seems sinister to me and I wonder how I ever had a feeling for him, even for a moment, other than fear. “And I cannot mark your skin.”
That’s all he says for a moment, the terror of what will follow the ‘but’ he’s almost sure to utter next allowed to sink in to my body. I fight it, but it’s still there.
“This doesn’t mean I cannot discipline you,” he says coldly. I feel one of his razor-sharp claws draw along the length of my spine, making my body shiver almost to the point of convulsions of fear. I steel myself, trying not to quiver so much.
His lips are next to my ear when he says, “There are other forms of punishment, Anya Mann, that are not pain.”
What this does to me is something I cannot understand. His words seem to ignite a wave of heat and shivers that travels over my skin, down my neck, along my ribs, into the center of my legs. My chest tightens, and the feeling I have felt so many times in his presence already—like fear, but not truly fear—swells again in my heart.
Or somewhere in that vicinity.
I know I should be afraid.
But I’m not, not really.
He walks around me and over to the table of devices that only moments ago sent a shudder of fear through me. “Undress, Anya Mann,” he says, without turning around. “And get on the table.”
I pull at the silky strings of my robe, and let the material fall from my shoulders to the floor. He turns to watch me, his eyes scanning my body. I instinctively bring my hands to my chest and try to cover myself, and when I do, I realize how utterly ridiculous it is.
I step toward the table and pause at the foot. He is still looking at me, and I still have my hands on my chest. Part of me is humiliated, but another part of me is wondering if my body pleases him. Like his does me, to be honest. Am I the kind of woman that a huge blue alien race is attracted to?
I shake the thought from my head just before he speaks.
“Is this some form of human modesty?” he asks me. “This covering of your body?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He steps forward, with something from the table in his hand that gleams. I shudder, another queer mixture of fear and arousal. “You belong to Zethki. You will mate with all of his most trusted soldiers.” He snorts derisively. “There is no place for such… modesty.”
I drop my hands and glare at him. Then I climb onto the table. It’s awkward, and once I’m there, I realize I have no idea how he wants me to place myself. I sit back on my heels and give my hair a defiant shake.
“How do you want me?” I ask him, managing to keep up my act of defiance. It’s actually easier than I imagined, and as I do it, I feel good. Even if I’m pissing him off. Knowing that he can’tactuallyhurt me, that he might spank me, is actually an incentive.
