Binding Brinley (Captives of Pra'kir Book 1)

by Maren Smith

His chest felt tight. His cock was thrumming and pulsing, vibrating with the hunger that filled him at the thought of his hand on her buttocks, prizing the fullness of her clenching cheeks apart before taking his own cock and pressing it to her.

  He could feel the heat of her core, the slick hot slide as his cock found no resistance at all to that first disciplinary thrust. He could feel her hair in his fist, the plump bounce of her ass as he punished her with the force of his pumping. He could all but hear her cry, that sobbing wail as she realized it wasn’t over simply because he’d pulled out of her puss. Oh no, that wail would escalate into the most seductive of pleas as he realigned himself to the tighter fit of her other passage.

  “Next,” Rog drawled, finding the next line.

  Realigned, and then pushed. Slowly. Very slowly, gradually increasing the force until she could not clench tight enough to keep him out and, instead, granted him access via that ultimate act of submission.

  “Rowth?” Rog asked, licking his muzzle as he watched curiously from across the room.

  Rowth lowered his head, wondering if he would be her first. The first to take his strap to her. The first to bend her to his rule. The first to force her body to accept his cock and ride it to his satisfaction, whether it was comfortable for her or not, whether she wanted him to or not.

  He was going to split her ass with his cock, while she begged and pleaded and promised to be good.

  “Fire.”

  Rowth snapped out of the fantasy and looked to the cooking counter. There was no food in it, so the pan was still cool. He turned his frown on the Mekron. “Liars get taken to the cellar.”

  Rog grinned. “Looks like… you’re already… in the cellar with… someone else.”

  When he pointed, Rowth looked down. The front of his trousers were tented as far as the soft gray fabric would allow. It didn’t matter how far down he tugged his sweater, there was no hiding a bulge like that. Rowth frowned.

  Rog chuckled. “Plus… you’re letting all… the cold air out… of the… cupboard. You only do that… when you’re… anticipating… the arrival… of one of your… buxom… pain sluts.” His chuckle turned sing-song. “Someone’s getting… frisky.”

  Putting the red meat away and keeping the white, he tapped the cold cupboard’s lock so the doors would shut. “I’m sorry, did you say you wanted two thousand lines instead of one?” He took the meat to the sink to open the sealed packaging.

  “We’re on the third rule.” Rog managed to stop laughing, although he wasn’t quite as successful at killing his smile.

  “Punishments will continue until I deem them equal to the committed offense.”

  “Keep talking… about punishments and… you’ll need… a cold swim… before supper.”

  “Write it. Down.”

  “I am… I am. Pun-ish-ments… will… con-tin-ue…”

  While Rog wrote, each letter of every word taking several long seconds to form, Rowth began supper. He prepared a thick stew. Something simple, a comfort food from his youth which his mother had often prepared whenever anyone fell sick. He was just starting the dough for drop-sop and wondering why he felt such a strong desire to cut the pieces into childish shapes—his mother used to do suns, moons, stars, law books and the Writ of Balance, which was really a tiny biscuit cut to look like a scroll, sometimes with the word ‘Writ’ carved into it before she would bake them—when Rog said, “Is this… a masturbatory list… or will… you be listing… any actual… rules on this?”

  Rowth shot him a sour look, but he dared not turn from the sink. His belly felt molten, his cock was straining against the confines of his pants, and all he could think about was the arch of Brinley’s back and the muted squeal she forced through both gag and gritted teeth as he made her alien body to take the full sinewy length and girth of him. Slow at first, but deep. So deep. Balls deep, while her muffled mews turned to groans and the heat and tightness of her bound body gripped him like a fist. Pussy first, if she was a good girl. But knowing Brinley, it would be a long time before he felt the feminine folds of her heated core yielding to his invasive thrusts. Bad girls got it in the ass—hard and fast, with very little time to adjust to that first full penetration or the humiliation of being taken as uncomfortable and vulnerably as he intended to make it.

  As he liked to make it.

  “Where are we?” Rowth asked.

  “Rule… four,” Rog supplied.

  “No lying, stealing, cheating, or disobeying any command given by the Master.”

  Except that Brinley would. He’d seen it in her eyes the first time the word Master had hovered unspoken on her lips, waiting to cross them into open verbal acknowledgement. He’d seen the darkening defiance light the backs of her green eyes as she’d swallowed that word back and then lied, pretending not to know what he’d wanted of her.

  He would break her of that.

  Rowth’s hands went through the mundane motions of cooking, chopping meat and vegetables. His face was a mask, the same grim expression he used in court, but his cock throbbed, a steady drum of arousal that only grew stronger as the Brinley of his thoughts flashed him another of her defiant stares. He had years and years of experience in curing the disobedient of their natural willfulness and defiance. Brinley might not be of his world, but she would learn what he would and would not tolerate or—his cock thrummed; his blood heated, zinging through his body on waves of sizzling awareness—or she would suffer all the delicious consequences.

  “The Master will be given all deference, obedience and respect in both word and deed.”

  “…ly-ing…” Rog drawled as he continued to spell out the fourth rule.

  “All cursing shall be refrained from as the Master does not allow it in his home or within his presence.”

  “…ste-al-ing…” Rog enunciated. “Used to be… General… Magistrate. Now… it’s ‘Master’.”

  “A daily schedule of activities will be provided and adhered to without deviation unless permission has been requested and granted.”

  “…ch-eat-ing…” Rog said, a little louder.

  “Failure to get permission will result in immediate discipline.”

  “Rowth,” Rog interrupted with a sigh. “I’m still… on Rule Four.”

  “Failure to be obedient, respectful, grant deference or respect will result in immediate discipline,” Rowth mused. “The Master is the only one allowed to dispense discipline, or to determine the duration and severity of said punishment.”

  “You’re… going too… fast.”

  “The submissive is never allowed to either refuse required discipline nor to punish herself.”

  “Rowth…”

  “The submissive is always to be polite and kind, in private and public.”

  Lowing the pen, Rog looked at him. “Rowth…”

  “Whatever the Master decrees is final and absolute. The submissive is not permitted to argue, ever.”

  “You forgot… one.”

  Pausing in the midst of adding a block of frozen broth from the freezer to the cooker with the meat and vegetables he’d just cut into bite-sized chucks, Rowth turned to him. “I’m not done. What could I possibly have forgotten?”

  “The submissive… shall not strike… the Master… over the head… with any hard objects… because I’m… pretty sure that’s… where this is… headed.”

  Rowth arched his eyebrow. “I sincerely doubt she could. At least not without a step stool.” Grunting, he allowed for the incredibly remote possibility that he didn’t know everything. “But then, she is human, so… fine. That can be the fourteenth rule. Do you need time to catch up?”

  “If I remember… them all… correctly—” Rog studied what he’d already written. “—about two days.”

  Snorting, Rowth put the lid on the cooker. “Let me know when you’re ready to pro—”

  A soft alarm sounded from the computer in his media room and one of the newsfeed monitors switched to a floor plan of his house. Brinley’s room wa
s highlighted in red.

  Checking the time, Rowth’s snort became a soft chuckle.

  Turning in his chair to look across the room at the flashing lights on the monitor, Rog asked, “What… is that?”

  “The alarm.” Rowth set the time on the cooker for twenty minutes. “Our guest has just discovered that her windows are unlocked.”

  “She tried… to escape? From… a room built… over a forty… foot drop… into the cove? You… did tell her… about… the razor-teeth?”

  “Not yet, but I will.” Wiping his hands, Rowth dropped the towel on the counter and headed back to the stairs for the second level. His cock was still hard, still throbbing, still every bit as eager as the rest of him to counter whatever she was going to throw at him.

  It was probably wrong to be this excited over a disobedient slip of an alien she-child, but really… Brinley was proving to be the biggest challenge to his authority that he’d had in years.

  He was a little surprised at how much he was enjoying it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Brinley lay on her back in the middle of the giant four-poster monstrosity that was her new bed, fighting a losing battle against her own tears, the mattress turning the heated throbbing that was trying to escape her bottom back inward in a way that made the lingering effects of her spanking hurt more, and wishing the bed truly could be considered monstrous because at least that would give validity to what she was feeling. Like everything else on this planet, it refused to accommodate her; it was a very nice bed. Massive, much bigger than her human body required, with black metal posts engraved in ripples (almost like Roman pillars) from floor to ceiling, with swoops of deep blue gossamer netting that draped all around her, probably to keep out swarms of biting insects although there were none in the room at the moment.

  Three huge panels of glass made up an entire wall that faced the cove, letting in the light from a white-hot sun currently painting the evening sky in homesick-inducing shades of orange and pink. From where she lay, she could just see the fringe of rock and vegetation that protected this cove from the ferocity of the outer ocean waves and the swath of plum-colored sky that chased the orange and pink from the opposite horizon. This tier of the house was low enough for her to see the rippling cove water as it caught the colors overhead; nature’s daily masterpiece, painted in a failing alien light, as beautiful and as cold and untouchable as any picture she’d ever seen in a museum on Earth.

  She had to get out of here.

  Yeah. And go where?

  Brinley stared out the windows, all three floor-to-ceiling panes of which had swiveled open the instant Rowth carried her in and placed her on the bed. Open they remained, even after he’d left. Whether the house had a way of detecting her in this room or if it was following some pre-programmed directive, she didn’t know, but it was depressing. Here she was, a captive in a big jerk’s house, on a world full of more just like him, with three open windows and she couldn’t do one damn thing about it. Rowth was right. Her legs, although they looked almost normal despite some residual bruising, were useless. She couldn’t walk and until she could, she couldn’t escape.

  As if there were any place she could go, her subconscious whispered.

  Shut up, the rest of her replied. She was running on emotion and instinct right now; common sense wasn’t yet welcome to enter the conversation. She couldn’t walk anyway, so there was no point in even thinking about escape.

  Brinley stared at those windows, hating every one of them for the view of false freedom they offered. Her mouth tightened. So did her chest. Her bottom, however, burned and throbbed, protesting the increased pressure of her weight when she abruptly sat up. Careful not to catch her feet in the folds, she threw back the blanket Rowth had modestly draped over her nakedness (her paper gown having been left in a torn wad in the dining room). It was a long way to the floor, and she already knew touching down was going to hurt. In two parts now, thanks to the spanking.

  God, that was humiliating. He’d spanked her! Treated her like the foster child he’d already claimed her to be. Put her thumbprint on all the ‘proper’ paperwork while she was sedated. A swell of renewed fury surged inside her, washing through her in time with the ocean waves she could hear rolling up against the rocks of the cliffs outside.

  Catching her own knees, one at a time she lifted each of her legs and gently lowered her feet over the edge of the mattress. Several inches of empty air separated the bottoms of her feet from the polished stone tiles. No rug. This place was probably cold as hell in winter. How that distant discomfort could so thoroughly override the more immediate agony she knew awaited her when she finally worked up the nerve to slide off the bed, she didn’t know, but it was the only thought she clung to as she grabbed the bedside table, sucked several deep and bracing breaths, and—astronauts over the side—down she went.

  Her feet bumped lightly down, followed by the rest of her, and the shock of hurt that radiated through her new-grown bones was almost more than she could endure. She dropped, landing on her butt to clutch and cradle her shins, groaning and rocking until the worst of the agonizing waves had passed. She blinked through a rush of tears, scrubbing them away on her wrists rather than allowing them to fall. She’d shed more than enough tears on account of this miserable planet. It wouldn’t get not one more out of her. Not if she could help it.

  Brinley carefully lay her aching legs out straight. Letting her arms do all the work, she dragged herself backwards, scooting on her butt across the cold floor to the lip of the open windows. The salty-sweet ocean breeze swept over her face and through her hair. The freshness of the water flavored the air. Every breath was tainted with the faint floral scent of all the flowering plants, trees and twining ivy that overflowed every ledge wide enough to support life from the tops of the cliffs all the way down to the sparkling water.

  Leaning against the flat pane of the open window, Brinley cast her gaze across the stone balcony to the high open rail with its handful of posts, each set a Rowth’s standing-length apart. Plenty wide enough for her to lay down along the sheer edge and simply… roll right off, if she wanted to. She didn’t venture outside. She didn’t want to get close enough to see how deep the water was—deep enough to drown in or so shallow that she risked breaking herself upon the jagged rocks, in which case they’d probably just heal her up and throw her back in this room again… with the windows closed, maybe—and be forced to honestly confront either option. She stared at the orange ripples of water, knowing in her heart that she was more angry than sad, and nowhere near suicidal enough to go through the pain of falling off the cliff, much less what would come after that. She might not have anywhere to go, but if she was going to jump off the balcony, at the very least she wanted to jump into a slim hope of escape, rather than an instant (or worse, not so instant) watery death.

  She needed to wait. She needed to heal first. Clothes might not be a bad plan either. Nor would a knife or some form of defensive weaponry, survival gear, food, water, a rough idea of where her companions might be located, and enough titanium and fuel to build a rocket capable of taking them all home.

  Despite herself, a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, but it didn’t last beyond the time it took her to reach through the window and let her fingers dip into the fading sunlight. She sat, mulling over the hopelessness of it all for she wasn’t sure how long, but she was still there, with no more than the barest tips of her fingers dabbling in the dying light, when the door to her room slid open. She didn’t turn around, but she knew she wasn’t alone any more when she heard the crisp sound of Rowth’s hard shoes as he crossed the floor.

  “Did I or did I not tell you to stay in bed?” he asked, the deep rumble of his voice as infuriatingly calm as ever.

  “Not,” Brinley countered. She let go of the sunlight and covered as much of herself as she could with only her arms. She didn’t look at him. “You never said I had to stay in bed.”

  “Incorrect.” A soft whisper of cloth told h
er he’d just folded his arms across his chest. A wall of highly muscled disapproval and, judging by the tone of his voice, a frown leveled right at her. “I distinctly remember telling you, ‘Stay here.’ In fact, it was the last thing I said before I left.”

  Heaving a sigh, Brinley rolled her head against the window and frowned back at him. “I did stay here. ‘Here’ isn’t ‘bed’, however. On my world, people who speak in vagaries don’t get to be magistrates. Or if they do, they aren’t good ones.”

  His eyebrows arched and he tipped his head, considering that for a moment. As shuttered as his expression was, she thought she saw just a flicker of surprise—or perhaps amusement, or maybe even irritation; he was very hard to read—zip through the dark calculation of his eyes. As swift as a blink, that zip was gone and once it was, she had a hard time convincing herself that she’d seen anything emotional in him at all.

  “All right,” he conceded. “In future, I will endeavor to be more specific with my commands, and you can endeavor to follow them more closely. We’ll make that Rule Fifteen.” Unfolding his arms, he stepped closer, beckoning her to him even as he hunkered down.

  Brinley didn’t move. “Are you holding your breath?”

  He blinked. “No. Why would I?”

  “So I can watch you turn purple and pass out while you wait for that to happen.”

  He tipped his head at her again. “The way you talk,” he mused without smiling. “It’s as if you don’t even know who I am.”

  When he reached for her, she thrust out her hands to prevent it, but he scooped her into his arms anyway. He took pains to keep her lower legs from jarring one another, but she still arched with a sharp gasp when her ankles touched.

  “You should have stayed in bed,” he said, carrying her back to it.

  “I should have stayed on Earth,” she snapped, with enough acidity that it was a wonder she didn’t leave scorched holes in the bedspread where he laid her down again.

  “Ah, but then I would surely miss the pleasure of your company.”