She woke gasping for air, shivering. That nightmare again. God.
At least she couldn’t remember it. That was a small comfort, but the effects on her body were chilling enough. It took her a minute to realize where she was again. Not her cell. She had a new master, one who kept a beautiful cell for her. One who fed her fresh bread and clean water.
It took her a moment to hear it: something between a groan and a whimper. She glanced at the window first, fearful of wild animals. The house was practically in the middle of a jungle. The sound came again, this time more clearly through the wall—from inside the house. When it was accompanied by a muted thump, she thought she knew what it was. Who it was.
Her feet hit the cold, gnarled wood, and she padded into the hallway silently. His door was open. She saw a shadowed figure flail on the bed, but far from scary, the sight was endearing. He had nightmares—like her.
She crept inside. How exactly would she wake him up without speech? Perhaps she could shake him, though the thought of touching him without permission… but she had to try. She knew the pain of being trapped inside a dream, again and again.
When she reached the side of the bed, he stilled. This room was darker than hers, without a window. The sheets drew gray relief against the black night. Perhaps his dream had ended.
In a flash of shadows and whip of wind, she was wrenched onto the bed. With a silent cry, she fell—caught by softness and blanketed with male musk. Uncertainty kept her still, but curiously she felt no fear.
No menace simmered in the air, just pain, and that was an old friend to her. Harsh breathing sawed just above her, touching her face like a caress. She waited, wanting. Longing for something, but what?
His hand on her breast, heavy and possessive, came as a shock. She jumped and twisted away. He didn’t slap her for her error, only straightened her body out, pulled a
t her lips like she was nothing more than a cloth to be spread out nice and straight. But he knew what she was—flesh and blood, oh yes. His cock lay thick and hot against her thigh, burning, seeking. His hand returned to her breast, probing, tweaking.
She had been in the dark before—blindfolded, hurt. She had been touched by hands and cocks before—humiliated, used. But not like this. Tears stung her eyes. Long dormant arousal unfurled inside her. Blasphemous thoughts whispered through her: you’re not a slave. You’re a woman.
“I’ve missed you.” His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been the one covered in a cloth and poured with water. A warm-cold touch on her nipple told her he’d licked her. “God, I’ve missed you so much.”
This wasn’t for her. Not his arousal, not his tenderness. It was for some woman in his memories.
Of course it had been too much to hope that she deserved it. He didn’t even know her. She had done nothing to prove her service, to please him. But a part of her shriveled and fell away, and only then did she realize how much she wished for this. Only when it extinguished did she recognize the hope she had harbored all this time.
What did it matter if she was a good slave? What sort of goal was that?
She did the unthinkable: she pushed him away. It was nothing more than a nudge, her weak arms against a broad, unmovable chest. He caught her wrists and held them above her head, set her defiance aside as if it were nothing. She was nothing.
She lay still, unblinking at the night. Tiny specs floated across her vision—insignificant, like her. Her hands were pinned above her, her legs spread by his hips, but she wouldn’t fight this.
He returned to her nipples, licking, suckling. It was instinctive, those actions, not a sign of affection. But the kisses—oh, they were different. His lips brushed the underside of her breast. He kissed the side and the sloping top, and then his lips met her chest in the middle, where her heart would be. He roamed higher, to her neck, and she felt her pulse beat against his lips. She swallowed. This would never be for her. Even the best slave didn’t deserve such treatment.
Please. Her lips formed the words. No sound broke the silence, because she was a part of the night. A silent specter to complete his dream, a shadow of the woman he wanted.
She felt him nudge her entrance, the head of his cock broad and insistent. Instinctively she clenched, fearing the pain. He thrust inside—hard. She gasped.
“Oh Jesus. So fucking tight.” He sounded drugged, still trapped in the dream that made this all okay. She knew all about that dream, the one with white lies and endless reasonings. Or with none at all: just live.
He pulled out and slammed back in, his cock reaching deep, and his thighs opening her wide. Her mouth was open, in shock, in pain. Although, it wasn’t really pain. She was wet, at least, and he hadn’t even needed lube. He was just big, and she had always been small.
Then his hips dipped, and he thrust upward, hitting a spot that made her eyes roll back in her head. She thrust her hips to meet him, like a slut, she was a slut, who cared when it felt like this? That awkward pain of betrayal faded beneath the onslaught of physical sensation. Her cunt ached, she ached, and then he moved harder, faster. She was pinned to the bed, and it seemed like he would never stop, and she didn’t want him to.
But then he did. He pulled out, leaving her inner muscles clenching at nothing. With a smooth motion, he flipped her onto her stomach. She immediately tilted her hips up and back to meet him; he slipped inside. His body fit to hers, chest to her back and muscled thighs coarse against her own.
Making love.
The thought blinded her, streaking through her haze of sex and fear like a shooting star. That’s what he was doing: making love to her. Even if it wasn’t really her, it was beautiful. Even if he couldn’t even see her in the dark, she felt beautiful.
“But why?” he whispered. “Why did you do it?”
A sharp slap to her ass shocked her. She grasped the sheet and waited for another, but it didn’t come. His hand snaked around her body to cup her breasts, to pinch her nipples. And then twist. This time she felt her inner muscles spasm around his cock, and he groaned in her ear. That’s what he was doing. Increasing his pleasure with her pain. Playing her body like an instrument, tuning it to sing for him.
She was still full of gladness for his earlier tenderness, and now a shroud of submission descended upon her. He pinched her other nipple, and she contracted again. She lifted her upper body ever so slightly to allow him better access. His breath caught, and then he sat up, pulling her up as well.
She sat up in the middle of a strange bed, in the dark, impaled on the cock of this Master she didn’t know. He pulled and twisted her nipples, forcing her body to writhe in his cruel embrace. Her slavery had never been sweeter.