I have actively fantasized about this creature, this great alien beast who makes every human colonist and king shudder at the mere sight of his picture. I imagined that if I were in his presence, I might somehow make sense. He hated humanity, and so did I.
He has no idea that I stole one of the wanted posters and secreted it about my person, looking at it in the evenings when they all left me alone and I was able to enjoy myself in solitude. I used to imagine having conversations with him over a nice spot of carnage and then engaging in acts too filthy to put words to. I literally don’t know how to explain some of the things I have imagined him doing to me.
He is even more incredible in person than I imagined him to be based on the pictures. He is a rough green hue, with a fearsome face of absolute masculinity. Every feature that could mark him as male, does. A heavy brow, narrowed eyes, strong jaw containing teeth designed for tearing and chewing. An omnivore like our own species but much more powerful. The bite strength of a fabled creature known as pit bull is attributed to his kind.
“Your kind know me as Blackmane,” he agrees. “You will call me lord and master.”
“I can call you lord or master, but not both. It is impractical and unseemly.”
He shifts me slightly on his lap, moves my skirts up a little and slaps my thigh. The strike still shocks me. Everybody who knows me even in passing knows that hitting me is a very bad idea.
“I have no interest in tolerating your human sass. You will speak when you are spoken to, and you will speak with respect.”
I say nothing, but I remain very, very angry. He knows nothing of propriety, or the conventions of honorifics. He is a filthy alien brute with no education whatsoever and he is beneath me in every way possible. All my giddy thoughts evaporate with that slap, my imaginings swept away and replaced with the flat of his big palm.
“Arrogant wretch,” he growls, though I have not spoken a single word of my thoughts to him. I have already resolved not to bother to grace him with a word again. I will be liberated, of that I am certain, and this brute who just took the liberty of striking me, he will suffer greatly for it.
Blackmane
This is a triumph unlike any other — and I have experienced a great many in my time. I have crushed worlds and made entire populations bow before me. I am feared because I deserve to be. This princess is perhaps the rarest jewel in all the Pleiades. Few have ever seen her in person. Her existence has been questioned as perhaps being nothing more than a rumor, a lie told by her father Arthas of the Pleiades. But images have been widely spread, portraits and videos in which she appears to be the prettiest, most ethereal creature ever to have sprung into creation. One image of this young woman can change the course of fashion across many hundreds of planets.
It did not take long for her to require some punishment. That fact does not surprise me. She is likely spoiled. Princesses always are. Being declared special at birth destroys any attempt at proper character development.
What does surprise me is the fact that she is not horrified or frightened. Instead, she has a very strange little smile on her face, a smile that does not match her eyes. Her reaction to being abducted is not what I expected. Where is the begging? The crying? She does seem unbalanced, but not in the way most captives are. They usually either withdraw into themselves and pretend with all their might that they are not being kidnapped, or they melt down completely with begging and pleading. I find both fairly tedious and at this point, boring.
This princess looks me dead in the eye and smiles, as if a thought has just occurred to her that really amuses her very much. She says nothing, obeying my order. I should be pleased that I have already made an impression on her. Instead, I have the feeling I am missing something.
“You will obey me,” I tell her. “Any disobedience, verbal or physical, will be met with harsh punishment. You may have been a princess where you came from. In my realm, you are no more and no less than any other prisoner.”
“That’s clearly untrue,” she says, pert again. “How many prisoners do you cradle in your lap?”
She has a wicked sense of humor, I think. And a brave one too, given the warning I have just given her, and the way she must be stinging from the slap. I was not gentle. I do not want her to think that she will receive special treatment. I want her to be humbled.