Binding Brinley (Captives of Pra'kir Book 1)

by Maren Smith

  He reached the top of the stairs, and for one glorious moment, all thoughts of impartiality was forgotten. His cock didn’t just stir, it swelled. Rowth swelled. Pure carnal need surged and all he could think, as he took in the deliberate defiance she had indulged during his absence, was how good it was going to feel when he carted her hot little body down into his cellar and for the first time, forced her to hug the barrel all his lovers came to fear… until he took the strap from its peg on the black stone walls and taught her, with great skill on his part, to fear that instead. She would be bawling those intoxicating tears of hers long before he took out his cock.

  He distinctly remembered telling her to stay put, but her chair was empty (punishment number two) and her now cold supper sat barely touched (punishment three) where she should have been sitting. With her back to him, Brinley sat hunched on the edge of the table, with her legs dangling over the side by Rog’s chair. Had he known she was going to do something so unhygienic, he’d have put underwear on her.

  “What are you doing?” He managed to sound far more annoyed than he actually felt. He was proud of that.

  He’d have been prouder, of course, if only she reacted to that tone with some semblance of guilt or even startlement. Brinley didn’t even look up from what appeared to be the study of her own hand.

  “Is this some sort of topical ointment residue?” she asked, holding up her fingers. Before he could move, she brought them up to her face as if she were going to smell it.

  Everything inside him went cold in a flash.

  “No!” It was too late. Although he reached her in record time, she had already breathed the whiteness in and, judging from the tiny flecks of white on her nose and upper lip, not for the first time. He grabbed her wrist. Ignoring her bark of protest, he snatched her off the table. The kitchen sink was closer, but an even bigger unsanitary nightmare than the comparatively mild offense of parking one’s bare behind on a surface meant for eating. He rushed her to the main waste room, right off his office.

  “Hey!” She grabbed the counter for balance when he dropped her next to the sink. “What’s your problem?”

  Catching her slapping hand, he shoved both under the tempered spray of the sensor faucet. He tapped it twice to up the soap content and scrubbed—her hands, her arms, her neck and chest. Washing an eel would have been easier. The soap made her slippery and her refusal to hold still only made it harder as he went from hand to hand, and then arm to arm. She wiggled, kicked and thrashed, and when he lost his grip on her slippery limbs, she snatched them away. Forcing him to engage her in a childish game of keep-away before he could recapture and scour her clean.

  Seizing the back of her neck, he wrestled her down on the counter and all but wrapped her in a headlock before she’d let him scrub her face. She bit the washcloth when he tried to wipe her nose. When he abandoned the washcloth, she bit him.

  General Magistrates did not show pain. Not even when sharp human teeth clamped down on the thin web of skin between finger and thumb, and ground until blood was drawn. They didn’t shout, either. The world would be engulfed in ice and every living thing on Pra’kir a glacial statue before he willingly acknowledged that the sound he made was anything more than a sharp cough of surprise before he wrest his hand free.

  General Magistrates did not get even, either. So that was definitely not what he was doing when he grabbed her, throwing her up over his shoulder and—kicking, shouting and beating at him with her fists—lugged her into the shower.

  “Mind your legs,” he said, setting her down in the bottom. He’d have put her down much more gently, but the choice to shove away from him at that last precarious instant was all hers.

  Landing on her back, Brinley banged her heels on the wall. Her people back on Earth might have heard her shout then, but he took advantage of her half-second’s pained immobility to rip the flimsy garment from her body and slam the shower door shut.

  “Lock,” he ordered.

  The locks engaged as she rolled on her hip. The glass rattled under the fury of her beating palms, but the door held.

  They glared at one another through the clear barrier. He held up his hand, showing the wound she’d given him. A corner of her vicious little mouth curled upward and then the naughty little beast held up her hand too, her thumb cocked at an angle and a single finger extended. He didn’t know what that meant, but considering her glare, he was fairly certain he ought to be offended.

  And she had bit him. So, making a mental note to do some serious soul-searching about this later on, for now…

  “Sanitize,” Rowth ordered.

  Twin rows of water jets, twenty in all, pelted her from all three walls with spray after hot, soapy spray of water. Brinley flattened against the glass, drawing her legs up as she curled into the door for protection against the driving water. The plump mash of her face and breasts quickly became all that he could clearly see of her once the fog of steam obscured the door.

  She yelled, but it was all curses.

  Folding his arms across his chest, Rowth watched and waited until those insubordinate shouts died away, becoming little more than teeth-gritted grunts as she withstood the water’s assault.

  “Back away from the glass,” he told her, flexing his wounded hand. “The soap needs to get to all of you.”

  She’d earned enough punishments for one day, so it was probably for the best that he couldn’t make out what she snarled back.

  “I have given you an order,” he warned, and flexed his hand again. He did so hate having to repeat himself. “Back. Away. From the glass.”

  Slapping both hands up against the shower glass, she gave him two fingers now—one on each tiny hand. They glared at one another through the steam-obscured door. He didn’t have many implements in this room, but there was a paddle in his desk drawer and fresh switches aplenty growing just outside his front door. He was mentally debating which might be the best tool for this particular job, when Brinley shoved backwards. She sat in the bottom of the shower, her legs drawn up and her head tucked against the pressure of the water jets striking from all angles. Her arms were too thin to adequately protect herself. Eventually, she gave up and stubbornly settled for protecting her breasts and her sex alone.

  Stubbornness. That was one thing Brinley had more than her fair share of. It was also the one trait he found least desirable in a woman, and yet there was something about Brinley’s special brand of obstinacy that struck him as being just so damned… crushable.

  He waited until every inch of her was drenched in both water and suds before he switched the shower cycle to rinse. He rewarded her compliance by softening the water jets. If anything, she hunched in on herself that much more. He cocked his head, but her face was hidden behind a straggly curtain of dripping brown hair. He couldn’t see her expression.

  When he touched the door, the locks disengaged, allowing him to reach in and check the temperature of the water. The warmth was pleasant, although the spray was still a little harsh. He tapped the first jet twice, softening the pressure until the shower became little more than a gentle rain. He preferred something a bit more brisk, but Brinley was small and soft and already her skin was flushed a bright pink all over.

  Rowth shut the water off and stood for a moment, simply watching her drip. She looked even smaller than usual, hunched like that. But size and infantile age aside, there was nothing child-like about her. Hers was a woman’s form, with dips in all the proper places and curves angling out at all the right degrees. Her nipples were a shade too pale, not dark but a light pinkish-brown that he found both disturbing and intriguing. She had one arm hugged across her breasts, trying to hide them from sight, though not very effectively. During the course of the shower, those budding tips had swelled under the warm pressure of the water. Now, as the cooling drops slipped down her skin, each had puckered into tight buds. The right peeked out at him from between her splayed fingers; the left, from just above the flattening squeeze of her forearm. Her other han
d was clapped between her legs, shielding herself from him there as well. He didn’t need to see. He remembered exactly how she had looked, bent across his knee while he’d applied the hairbrush. The high, firm curve of her buttocks, the plump folds he’d glimpsed tucked between her kicking legs as he’d pumped the butt plug in and out of her. The glistening pinkness of her inner folds, secreted within the concealing furrow of the outer set. Oh yes, and the ease with which she had colored under his disciplinary hand. She didn’t yield quickly, either. She made him work for her submission.

  He liked that in a woman.

  “Roll over,” he told her.

  Brinley didn’t move. She didn’t even lift her head.

  Folding his arms across his chest again, he waited while she ignored him. It was a losing game and she knew it. Yet there she sat, defiant to the bone, and damn if that didn’t make him want her more. He wanted to strip his clothes away, to let her sit there as sullen and sulky as she pleased while he revealed all the hardest angles of his body to her. The body that ached at the thought of punishing her. Of driving the last glitter of tearful defiance from her alien eyes, until only the luster of her erotic tears remained. The tears that would slip past her lashes, rolling like all the other watery drops currently hugging the dips and valleys and rounding mounds of her.

  His fingers twitched to follow in their wake.

  Rowth did not move, but in his mind he could already feel the warm wet of the shower tiles beneath his feet as he stepped over the lip of the sliding door to stand, looming above her.

  “Roll over,” his throat tightened to command yet again. He would be calm with her, relaxed in his authority because there was no need for him to be anything other than that. All she could do was obey. She might not want to face that realization now, but he could see the seed of that realization growing in the backs of her shimmering eyes. He could feel it in the needy throb building low in the shaft of his cock, filling his belly with the undeniable pulse of his own longing. He could taste it, the surge of victory he would feel when her breath caught in the back of her throat right before her gaze locked on the jutting length of his cock and then, tremblingly, then she would give in.

  His excitement thrummed as he imagined how she would obey—rolling first onto her hip, before she falteringly lay her belly upon the wet tiles.

  He would be careful of her legs as he stepped over her, straddling the smallness of her body, exalting in his victory as he lowered himself to kneel and then cover her. There would be no gentleness in the hand that bound itself in the wet bondage of her tangled hair, catching her fast, forcing her cheek flat against the unyielding tiles. There would be no gentleness in the reminder he growled into her ear as he gripped the base of his hungry shaft, dipping his hips to prod the waiting heat between her quivering buttocks.

  “Defiance will be punished,” he could already hear himself tell her, heightening her trepidation and his excitement both. “Accept the body that punishes you.”

  His hips twitched as he imagined that force of that first glorious thrust.

  Would she cry out right from the start or, true to human form, would she grit her teeth and try to withstand it, depriving him of her tears, her mortification, her pain as he pushed and pushed, filling her slowly but without mercy until he was as buried within the sheath of her as her tiny disobedient body would allow? His blood fired at the thought of her defiance—her silence—even then. That silence would last only until the initial tenderness of his invasion at last bypassed the natural tightness of her and at last she opened to accept him.

  Tiny sparks of electric wanting zipped through the tension in his flesh as he imagined balancing his weight upon his knees. One hand on her shoulder and the other in her hair on the floor, he would fuck her as naughty girls deserved to be fucked. As he liked to fuck. Whispering over and over in her ear, “Bad girl… Bad girl,” until she took up the mantra and wept it for him in synchronized time with the driving pump of his hips.

  I’m sorry I was bad.

  He’d teach her to say that. It would heighten his excitement and a woman as stubborn as Brinley, well, that would be a phrase she would come to know very, very well. That and his favorite disciplinary mantra of all: Please, Master, punish me with your cock.

  Oh yes, Brinley would learn that phrase too. She would learn to cry it, scream it, yield to the humiliation of it even as her body yielded to the commanding drive of his. Her mouth, her sex, her ass, her teeth-gritted squeals as she was made to take as little or as much, as soft or as hard as he chose to give it.

  Rowth shuddered, his eyes almost closing from the desire throbbing through every inch of his hard body.

  He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to wring the cries from her until all she could do was lie limp beneath him, exhausted by all the hurt and the involuntary struggles that hurt had spawned. And when she thought he’d at last taken all from her that she had to give, he would force her to give him the one thing he knew she would fight with all her being to deprive him of. He would make her enjoy it. He would make her orgasm in a way that would not feel rewarding, but which would be a lasting reminder for her. Everything she was was for him now.

  And he would have everything.

  Trembling in the bottom of the shower, as if she could sense the dark path his thoughts had taken, Brinley suddenly dropped her gaze. For one brief moment frozen in a heartbeat of time, he thought he’d imagined it when she turned her head away from him. Her movements reluctant, she rolled onto her hip just as he’d envisioned. She turned the vulnerability of her back to him, and then the perfect moon of her blushing ass as she lay on her stomach in the bottom of his shower.

  Obedience given most unwillingly, but obedience none the same.

  The whole of his body shuddered. The ache to fulfill the rest of his fantasy was almost beyond his ability to defy. But in the end, he did defy it. He rewarded her instead and rather than crawl on top of her and pin her to the tiles to receive her first in the long list of sexual punishments that so aroused him, Rowth bent. He lay his hand gently on her head, holding it there for nearly a full minute before granting her the forgiveness that someday she would come to crave: “Good girl.”

  As gentle as he had been with Rog, he lifted her out of the shower. She did not fight him when he dried her. She did not fight him when he put her back in bed and tucked the blankets in tight around her. Setting the security codes to lock down the room, Rowth left her to spend the night unmolested. He hoped she was grateful for that. The nights when she could expect this kind of reprieve were fast coming to an end. He could feel it, pulsing hot in the pit of his belly and at the base of his cock.

  He wondered if she could feel it too, and where in her body that sultry sensation might right now be plaguing her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A man could bring a human into his home, but he couldn’t legally beat one half to death. That was the somewhat modified adage that Rowth liked to keep in the forefront of his mind when dealing with Brinley, especially in those first few weeks. Her world now revolved around discipline and carefully structured schedules. His world had revolved around both practically from birth, and absolutely by the time he reached his third year and his father determined him ready to begin his education. Well, now that Brinley was here and no longer befuddled by hospital-strength painkillers, it was time she began her education as well.

  Brinley didn’t like it. Brinley wasn’t subtle about not liking it. Rowth liked to think himself a man of great patience and calm and quiet authority, but he’d arrested toddlers in full-blown tantrums who were more agreeable than she was in any given moment or on any given day, and it was slowly, surely and silently driving him insane.

  “I require that you learn how to read,” he told her the morning of her second day. He provided her with a tablet, carefully sanitized to restrict its access to only the programs he chose—a handful of children’s programs and a singing alphabet game that was purported to be the best learn-to-read assistance ava
ilable to parents today. He provided her with plenty of both nutrition and hydration, set the security codes to restrict her movements to her bedroom and its adjoining bathroom, and then left for work. At no point during the whole of that second day, even with all he knew about Brinley and her human stubbornness, did he once consider that she might do anything but what he’d requested. Oh, he thought she might resist a little bit. She’d pout. She’d sulk. She’d give him that funny little finger gesture that she was growing increasingly enamored of flashing whenever she was slightly annoyed and thought he wasn’t looking, or when she was intensely annoyed and couldn’t wait for him to look so she could give it to him with both hands. But like the food and drink he left on a plate on her bedside table, eventually she would grow bored with staring at the underside of her canopy bed curtains and she’d make proper use of it. Anything, even children’s singing alphabet games would be better company than… nothing.

  At least, that’s what he thought. Brinley’s tiny alien brain, however, wandered along logic tracks every bit as different as the rest of her. He came home that second day to find she hadn’t touched her food or her water, not so much as a crumb, and the tablet was gone. Completely, without a clue, gone.

  “All right.” Arms folded across his chest, Rowth braced himself for defiance. “What did you do with it?”

  She gave him a finger by way of reply.

  One of these days he was going to find out what that gesture meant. And then he was probably going to break that finger the next time she gave it to him. Causes had consequences. No one knew that like a magistrate. Pretty soon, no one on Pra’kir was going to know it quite like a certain General Magistrate’s human being.