But I always imagine it withhim.
Okay, maybe sometimes with more of them, these muscled, fierce, frightening, enormous males who I’m told I will have to ‘breed’ with. I want to say that I feel frightened or upset by the prospect, but the reality is more complicated than that.
Still, it’s usually Rysethk that I imagine. Maybe it’s because he has been torturing me sweetly for weeks (I guess, I have no way of measuring time, especially when I have these lapses of memory).
When we enter the room, I’m already aroused, looking forward to his discipline, if I have earned it, or to the arduous pleasure he will inflict upon me, with no release, unless I do what he asks, please him with my performance or endurance, show him that I can be the submissive female he insists I must be.
I slide the robe from my shoulders and let it fall to the floor, shivering in the cool air. An odd thought flits through my head, an image of a hot spring—which is something I have never been to, only heard of, a feature on planets like Earth where water is heated beneath the ground and springs to the surface in warm enticing pools. It always comes to me when I’m cool, in this room, with Rysethk here by me.
He places his hands on my shoulders, and a current of pleasure emanates from his touch, but I try not to let him see that. I start to move toward the soft table, but he gently holds me back.
“Zethki has demanded the ceremony of your marriage take place tonight,” he says. “And the breeding ceremony, which will be the next day.”
I can’t help it; a shudder travels through me and a cold emptiness carves itself out in my abdomen. It feels like a sinkhole that is swallowing me from the inside out; my heart falls in, and I feel like I’m in free-fall.
“You must be ready,” he says. His voice seems to have gotten quieter.
I turn my head slightly to look at him, and he prods me forward, giving me a sharp swat on my bottom. “You must cease these antics. You must submit to Zethki, and to his men—”
“And to you,” I add. I don’t even know what the tone of my voice is supposed to mean, or be. Am I trying to tempt him? Agreeing with him? Accusing him of something? I don’t even know.
It feels like it has been a long time since I have gotten a rise out of him, so I’m surprised, wholly, to find myself spinning through the air suddenly, and then laid out across his lap. I don’t even understand how he moves me around so fast without so much as a slight pressure that pains me. But I know what is coming, because he has spanked me before.
The first crack is sharp and hot, and tears spring instantly to my eyes. He follows it with numerous smacks, too many to count, each adding to the fire on my skin, which spreads out to my lower back and between my legs. He delivers the spanking at a steady pace, and I struggle a little at first, then relent, sinking into his hard muscled thighs, my pussy throbbing with desire. There is no hiding that anymore.
The smacks attenuate, becoming duller, until at last he rests his hand on my bottom and keeps it there, adding to the heat and the stinging throbs that I hate and love.
“Anya,” he says. “You must. Youmustsubmit.”
I don’t really know how much more ‘submitted’ I can be, so I say nothing.
He lifts me easily like a rag doll, and sets me on his lap, cradling me the way he did when he made me drink his sleeping medication for the space flight. I want to resist the way I feel, but I sink into him anyway, leaning against his chest, putting an arm up over his shoulder. I love the smell of him—it’s a very human, enticing scent, musky and redolent with power and strength. I inhale, and my insides are fluttering again. I love to be held by him after he disciplines me. I can’t help it, I no longer care what it says about me, or if it’s anti-feminist or ‘submissive.’ It’s simply what I want.
And it feels familiar. He feels familiar. This embrace feels familiar. I can’t understand it, it makes no sense. I brush my lips against his neck, before I can even think of what I’m doing. The reaction courses through his body; hiskrythcomes alive. I feel his cock throbbing against my thigh.
His hand comes to my head and holds me to his shoulder when I try to turn my mouth up to his. It seems only natural that I would kiss him now, and somehow I know what his lips will feel like, as if I have tasted them a thousand times before.
New tears well up in my eyes. I don’t know where they come from or what they mean.
“Anya,” he says. His voice is like the purr of a cat, coming from someplace deep inside of him. He stops my hand, as I reach for his jaw to caress it, and he holds it, briefly, to his face, before moving it down with reluctance, pressing it to my own thigh.
His lips graze my ear, and send a thrill through me as he speaks. “Anya, you must do this, do you understand? You must let Zethki take you, you must submit to him, you must please him. And then you must allow… yourself to be bred. You must do this, you have to…” His voice trails away, and something cold moves inside of me. Flashes of scenes from my dreams race across my mind’s eye, and the confusion that plagues me crowds my mind like a fog. What is happening here?
He is stroking my hand, gently, tantalizingly, with a finger, and we are still like this. He is pressing me to his shoulder with force—I can’t feel it, but I know that if I try to move, I won’t be able to. His muscles are tense, a coiled energy is snaking through him, and his cock is rock hard. The ache in my pussy is deep and almost painful; I can only think of how I want him.
I want him.
My body wants him.
My heart… wants him?
I stare at his fingers moving over my hand.
“Rys,” I say. It’s a nickname, and it rolls off my tongue as though I use it every day. I have a moment of pure confusion: I don’t know who I am, or if I’m dreaming, and there is no time to assess that because I’m moving again. He is lifting me, lying me down on the table, climbing on top of me, staring into my eyes.
“I don’t want Zethki,” I hear myself say. I reach for his face and he snaps my wrist from the air, as if to stop me, and I think I see anger flash through his eyes. For a moment I’m afraid, but it fades in the same fog of leftover dreams.
Are they dreams? This doesn’t seem like a dream, except for its content.
