Anew: Book One: Awakened

by Litton, Josie

  “How you clench all around me when you come…”

  In…oh, God, so far in!

  Without warning, he closes his teeth on my ear lobe, sending sweet pain lancing through me. “But you’re not going to come, baby. You don’t even want to, isn’t that right? Because you know I don’t want you to.”

  He’s picking up the pace as he speaks, thrusting faster, harder, impossibly deep. His hands grip my hips, controlling every movement.

  Faster…harder…

  “Nothing matters except pleasing me, right? That’s what you’re made for, every inch of you inside and out. I’m going to possess all of you in every way possible. Before I’m done, it won’t be Susannah you’re imprinted with, it will be me.”

  Faster…

  I can feel the warp of the carpet against my cheek and breasts but Ian is everywhere else, inside my body, inside my mind. I feel his power, his hunger, his demand. His hand fists in my hair, using it to pull my head back. My neck arches, my shoulders come up off the floor. He bows my body even as he claims it, reshaping me to his will.

  Harder…

  His breath rasps from deep in his chest as his grip on me tightens even more. He’s battering against my womb, stretching me almost unbearably. Tears well up in my eyes again and this time I can’t stop them. They pour down my cheeks as the thick, heavy length of his penis jerks suddenly inside me, gushing semen in a hot stream that goes on and on and--

  I come, so hard, so fast, so utterly that everything else, even my own heart, seems to stop. My vision darkens, then is replaced by brilliant, exploding lights. I’m hurled so high that there is no air, no gravity, nothing but endless revolving space, the universe itself, in that instant revealed in all its exquisite, infinite beauty.

  I come and come and come in orgasmic waves beyond anything I’ve yet experienced or would have thought possible made all the more glorious by their ringing affirmation of who I truly am. I, Amelia. My own self.

  As a submissive vessel designed solely for a man’s pleasure, I’m a failure. But as a woman, I no longer doubt myself. I exist. I am real.

  Take that, you would-be orgasm-denying jerk!

  A cry of triumphant ecstasy erupts from me. At the sound of it, Ian softens his grip. He gives a grunt of satisfaction and slumps onto the rug. He’s breathing hard but he still manages to throw a heavily muscled leg over both of mine, his hand cupping my breast possessively.

  With perfect understatement, he murmurs, “Well, what do you know? You have a will of your own after all.”

  Strangely, the idea doesn’t seem to displease him. This is so starkly at odds with how he taunted me just a few minutes ago that I’m at a loss to understand it. With some difficulty, I twist my head around and look at him.

  “Is this a game to you?” I demand. “Figuring me out? Because if it is, you should know that it’s far more to me. I couldn’t live being what I was afraid I was. That’s why I ran yesterday. I was trying to run from myself, from what you said I was.”

  His grip on me tightens fractionally. “You’re not going to run again, are you?”

  The question surprises me. Haven’t I given my word that I won’t? Unless he gives me reason to.

  What is he thinking? That I would run because he compelled me to confront my true nature? Granted, what he did was harsh but considering how it worked out, I’m not inclined to hold a grudge.

  Softly, I say, “I’m not going anywhere.” I wiggle a little more. “I just need to breathe.”

  He relents and eases his hold, turning me so that we are face to face. I feel his quick gasp when he sees the evidence of tears on my cheeks.

  “You cried,” he says. I could swear that his voice is laced with concern and even regret. His finger strokes my face gently. “I don’t want you to cry. I just want…” He blinks, his eyelids growing heavy. “…keep you safe…some bad stuff out there.”

  I stiffen and want to ask what he means but it’s too late. He nuzzles my neck, sending a wave of heat through me, and slips into sleep. It takes me a moment to realize what’s happened, so completely do I associate him with inexhaustible strength and passion.

  Despite the night in the golden bed and everything that has happened since, this is the first time I’ve been able to look at him without him being aware. It was worth the wait. He is an extraordinarily handsome man under any circumstances but asleep he appears younger and more approachable. I find myself wondering how someone who looks the way he does and who was born to privilege became as tough as I sense him to be, a man so determined to always be in control.

  That will have to wait for another time. Far from sharing his exhaustion, I’m energized by what I’ve discovered about myself. It takes some effort but I finally manage to ease my way out of his arms and stand. For a few moments, I gaze down at him with what is undeniably a touch of smugness before leaving him to his well deserved rest.

  Chapter Eleven

  Amelia

  “Your pardon, Miss Amelia,” Hodgkin says, “but would you happen to know where Mister Ian is? There’s a call for him.”

  I look up from the link I’m using and squint a little to see the kindly gentleman who has gone out of his way to treat me with respect and courtesy. It’s mid-afternoon. I’ve been curled up on the floating bed in the pavilion for an hour or so, enjoying the view and getting to know a little more about the world in which I find myself.

  “He’s taking a nap.”

  Hodgkin looks at me dumb-founded. “Pardon?”

  “Ian’s taking a nap,” I repeat. Apparently, this is an event on a par with the appearance of a unicorn. Hiding a smile, I add, “If it’s urgent, I can wake him.”

  The steward coughs, takes a moment to collect himself, and says, “Uh, no, miss. Let’s not interrupt the lad’s rest. May I bring you something? A drink, perhaps a snack?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll wait for Ian.” The reference to Ian as a lad makes me smile. “You’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?”

  “A dozen years, miss. It’s a privilege to work for him.”

  There is so much that I would like to ask Hodgkin about Ian but I sense that doing so would make us both uncomfortable. Instead, I say, “This is such a beautiful place. Do you know when it was built?”

  “The main wing dates from the early 1900s, miss. It was a bit of a wreck when Mister Ian found it five years ago. He had it renovated as well as restored and built the adjacent wings.”

  “Did Miss McClellan help?” I’m treading on thin ground but surely a question about the house, even one that involves her, is all right.

  Hodgkin gives me a long look before he says, “Miss Susannah and Mister Ian were not yet together at that time. However Mister Ian’s mother and sister offered their advice.”

  He has a mother. Well, of course he does. So far as I know, I’m one of the very few people who has never had one. And he has a sister. I can’t help but wonder what she’s like. Younger, older? Does she look like him? He must get along with them both or they wouldn’t have helped design the house. Do they know about me?

  No, of course they don’t. Despite my new found confidence, I cannot imagine Ian telling his mother and sister about my existence. A replica designed to satisfy his every desire? His property? At the very least, they would be shocked, if not outrightly repelled.

  But they must have known Susannah. Were we to ever meet, they would be bound to see the resemblance at once. In the absence of any other explanation, they could suspect the truth. So could others who knew the woman who Ian cared for very much, as he said, but lost.

  A weight grows in my stomach. The future suddenly seems all too clear. Either I remain a strictly private part of his life, compartmentalized away from everything else, or…

  Now that he’s discovered that I really do have a will of my own, why should I assume that he wants a relationship with me? Just because we have explosively hot sex?

  I can hardly be the first partner he’s had that with. And by his st
andards, I must be woefully inexperienced. Theoretical knowledge, after all, is hardly a substitute for real skill.

  I can’t shy away from that or its implications. The plain fact is that I have no legal identity, no history, no credentials, no resources, nothing. For the foreseeable future, I’m completely dependent on Ian.

  But how can I accept either his charity or being hidden away by him, to be visited occasionally when he feels like fucking me? How can I live like that? Either alternative is unbearably bleak.

  “Is something wrong, miss?”

  Hodgkin’s gaze is all too perceptive. Quickly, I say, “No, not at all. Please let me know if you want me to wake Ian.”

  He nods and takes his leave but not before I get the sense that he understands more than he’s letting on.

  Desperate for any diversion, I turn back to the link. Ian said something about wanting to protect me from ‘bad stuff’. I skim several on-line news sources, discovering more about a world not exactly in turmoil but hardly at peace either.

  The world’s population, having peaked at about nine billion a few years ago, is finally on the downslide thanks to historically low fertility rates on every continent. However, those same people who are having fewer kids are demanding better standards of living, with the result that there’s more competition for resources than ever before. Inevitably, the struggle for control of arable land, water, energy, and so on is often violent.

  Nothing about that surprises me. I have a working knowledge of history and events from as recently as a year ago. Catching up with the rest isn’t hard. Before long I can understand why Ian’s defense technology company is so successful. Every large global concern has its own “security” force that rivals the militaries of all but the very largest nation states. In addition, local police departments have morphed into pseudo-military forces in their own right.

  Given all that, there must be a huge and ever expanding market for the tech and whatever else he sells, especially since his concepts of defense and offense seem a little blurry at the least.

  Until I really understand more about the world, I’m not about to judge what Ian does. I’m even willing to admit that I’m glad he can so obviously protect himself and everything he values. But I still wonder at the exact source of his concern regarding my safety.

  I decide to search for information about human cloning. Almost at once, I wish I hadn’t. The headlines are all too clear:

  84% of Americans say anti-human cloning laws not sufficiently enforced

  ***

  Nobel-prize winner calls ‘replica’ process misuse of neural mapping

  ***

  People’s Populist Party demands destruction of existing human clones

  ***

  Brave new world threatens God’s plan for humanity, Vatican declares

  ***

  Fire destroys Mumbai human cloning facility. HPF claims credit.

  HPF? What is that? Thanks to the link, I have the answer in seconds.

  The “Human Preservation Front” is a shadowy group dedicated to opposing what it claims are forces bent on the destruction of “natural” humans and their replacement by slave armies of clones serving a privileged elite. This elite, HPF asserts, no longer wants to share the planet with the billions of ordinary people who they regard as nothing more than a source of violence, chaos, and environmental degradation.

  They are plotting to trigger a huge human ‘die back’ through enforced sterilization that will bring about the extinction of most of the human race. Secret replicas are being infiltrated into every aspect of human society in order to make this happen. For humanity to survive, every replica and the clones that could be transformed into them must be destroyed.

  Holy cow! Could people actually believe this stuff? Slave army? Conspiracy to drive humans into extinction? This is straight out of the fever swamps but the more I read, the more I realize that the idea is gaining some traction.

  Public awareness that human cloning has been going on for decades despite laws to prohibit it has grown significantly in the last few years. Moreover, the revelation that the neural mapping process can be used to create replicas has sparked huge public debate.

  And there is worse.

  In the past year, the HPF claims to have carried out at least half-a-dozen violent attacks against cloning facilities and scientists believed involved with the creation of replicas. There have been eleven fatalities, dozens of serious injuries, and billions of dollars of property destruction but no arrests.

  Bad stuff indeed. And here I thought my biggest worries were having no legal identity and no way of taking care of myself. Obviously, Ian and I will have to talk about this but I’m not looking forward to bringing it up with him.

  Rather than dwell on that, I succumb to temptation and ask the link for information about Ian himself. I expect to see innumerable hits but instead surprisingly few come back. He is the head of Slade Enterprises. He is mentioned in a report presented to Congress regarding the Special Forces. He’s shown up at a political dinner or two. That’s it.

  When I try to find information about Susannah, I get even fewer results. What’s going on?

  I broaden the search, asking for information on everything from ‘Manhattan social scene’ to ‘past-times of the rich and famous’. I think I’m being particularly creative with that last one but all I get in return is gossip about various actors, music stars, and the like. As for Manhattan and anything that goes on there, the link hasn’t a clue.

  Finally, I get it. In an age where information is ubiquitous and privacy is the scarcest commodity, only the wealthiest and most powerful can live beyond the public eye. As much as I understand the urge to do so, I can’t help but think that it comes at a cost. By sealing themselves off in such a way, they make it easier for the HPF and others of the same ilk to spread their wacko conspiracy theories.

  Being stonewalled so effectively brings me to a full stop. I set the link aside, lean back on the bed, and close my eyes. I’m wondering if perhaps I need a nap, too, when my skin prickles with awareness. The air feels suddenly charged. My breath quickens and a languorous warmth spreads through my body as the bed dips to one side.

  I hear the whisper of my name before Ian’s full weight abruptly settles on top of me. That quickly, I am pinned beneath him. In the same motion, his legs thrust between mine, making a space for him.

  His elbows hold my arms tight against my sides. His hands clasp my head as his mouth takes mine. Yet his kiss is unexpectedly gentle, a slow, deliberate savoring that surprises me. We have, as he so bluntly says, fucked. But this gentle, coaxing exploration of my mouth hints at a sensuality more tender than I have experienced until now.

  The need to touch him explodes in me, joined by frustration that I can do so only with my own mouth, my tongue, my breath. The intimate dance leaves me burning for more.

  Finally, he relents, sucking on my lower lip and biting it lightly before releasing me. As he lifts his head, his eyes meet mine. There is no pretense in his gaze, no evasion, only hot carnal need and something more. Relief?

  “You’re here,” he says. His voice is low and ragged, rippling through me.

  Because he allows it, I manage to wiggle an arm free, raise my hand and gently, tentatively stroke his face. The stubble of his day's growth of beard is both soft and prickly. The memory of it against my nipples, between my thighs, everywhere almost undoes me.

  On a thread of breath, all I can manage, I remind him again, “I gave you my word.”

  He closes his eyes for a moment at my touch…at my words? I can’t tell which affects him more. Gazing down at me, he catches my fingers in his and carries them to his mouth, sucking the tips in a caress that sends a jolt of pure pleasure through me

  “And I gave you mine,” he says. “Then I pushed you really hard.”

  “Are you saying you regret what you did?”

  Or is he sorry for what we have both learned about me? Would he rather have gone on believing tha
t I had no will but his?

  “I regret making you cry.”

  I remember how he looked when I refused the collar, how much the prospect of hurting me horrified him. There is a tender side to this man even if he hasn’t shown it very often.

  Daring greatly, I ask, “What about the outcome? You weren’t disappointed by that?”

  “That you came? Hardly.”

  He rakes his teeth along my chin and jaw line to my ear lobe. The tip of his tongue touches the small bite mark he inflicted earlier, stroking it gently. I have to press my lips together to keep from letting the moan in my throat escape but he feels it all the same.

  Looking up, he gives me a smile that goes right to my core and makes my muscles clench. “I’ve always preferred a challenge.”

  A horrible possibility occurs to me. If he’s actually glad that I am the way I am, am I really free or just designed to seem like that for his benefit?

  As though he can read my thoughts, Ian strokes a finger along my cheeks and says more gently, “Don’t over think this, Amelia. Nobody really knows what free will is or even if it exists for any of us. We’ve just decided that it does because otherwise people couldn’t be held responsible for their actions and society would pretty much collapse overnight. So let’s just agree that you can make your own choices and leave it at that, all right?”

  He can’t possibly be as casual about that as he seems. Apart from upending all his assumptions about his shiny new toy, if the replica process can produce individuals with free will, the implications are staggering. What will the consequences of that be for humanity in general?

  I can’t begin to answer that or much of anything else. Doubt threatens to overwhelm me.

  “I suppose…”

  He props himself up on his elbows and frowns down at me. “Don’t tell me you’re still not convinced that you can choose?”

  “No, I am but--”

  He catches a stray wisp of my hair and twines it around his fingers, tugging gently. For a moment, an expression flits across his face--surprise, reflection? I can’t be sure. It vanishes as his eyes turn dark and smoky.