by Alana Khan
I press my thighs together to stem the need. It does nothing to quench my rising desire.
“Yes,” I admit. God help me, I have no idea what monumental shifts are happening inside me, but yes, dear God, I do like it.
He grabs the collar out of my hand where I still clutch it, then re-attaches it.
“Do you like this?”
How can a male born a slave voluntarily put that odious symbol around his neck even though he knows it doesn’t work?
His eyes have never left mine.
“Would you like to tell me what to do, Mistress?”
Holy fuck. My core clenched when he said that word. As if smelling my arousal wasn’t enough, my eyes flying open at that sound was certainly a tell.
“Mistress,” he says again with no inflection so I can fill in the blanks. Do I want it to be sexual? A request? An offer? I have no idea.
He moves in slow motion as he puts one huge palm and then the other on the back of his head. It’s an almost pornographic pose, thrusting out his pecs for my perusal. How could any female alive on any planet not want to attack a muscular, naked male on display less than a hand’s breadth away?
My breath catches in my throat. I slip my hands under my thighs to keep them from following every graceful hill and valley of his muscles from the deep furrows in his shoulders to the crescent divots under each pec.
“Do you like what you see, Mistress?” That word! When he says it, I could swear his fingers are actually plucking my clit! But his hands are still lodged in his thick, brown hair.
I nod dumbly, afraid to trust my voice.
He lifts one elbow slowly, then the other, causing every muscle in his chest to perform for me. My mouth dries, my teeth clench, and I swallow back a moan of desire.
“Would you like to inspect?”
I’m paralyzed.
“Would you like to inspect what you own, Mistress?”
When I don’t reply, perhaps to shake me out of my reverie, he rises slowly, hands still on his head. His cock is directly in front of my face.
I take a visual inventory, noting every curve and dip of his washboard abs, the slight jut of his hip bones, and finally that luscious cock. It’s subtly pulsing not four inches from my face. I can smell his masculine musk. I can almost taste its tang on the air.
For a moment, I wonder if this is a dream. But no dream could be this real, this detailed.
Tipping my head back, I see his face. His gaze hasn’t left me, not for a moment. He’s just breathing, standing, waiting for direction, and I know he’ll wait like that for hours. I have to do something. If only I could decide what to do.
My mind flashes me a hundred sexy choices. I imagine tasting the bead of liquid glistening on the head of his cock. I picture myself grabbing him, lying back, and nestling him against my desperate, wet channel. Dozens more lurid, erotic images dance through my thoughts. But I’m motionless and have yet to voice any of them.
“If this were a play, and you controlled my collar, and you were alone in a luxurious suite with a male who called you mistress,” his voice is deep and low, almost a growl, “what would you do?”.
There’s something about the way he phrased this question that unleashes something in me. Maybe it’s the word ‘play’, it makes everything less real.
I grasp his thighs just above the knees, my thumbs on the tender interior flesh. Sliding upward, I notice the rough hair and smooth skin and the hard muscle underneath. My hands don’t leave his body, but they avoid his heavy balls and jutting cock and slip up over hip bones and flat stomach and perfectly defined abs.
When I pluck his nipples, he sucks in a quick breath. Where did I get the nerve to do such a thing? Now that I’ve found it, I do it again. He’s trying to stay still for me, but he’s as turned on as I am.
Something snaps inside me and I embrace this role I’m playing.
“Don’t move, slave.” My tone is forceful. It sounds nothing like me.
His muscles lock into place.
“That’s right. Follow orders.” I step into the slim space between us; the tips of my breasts graze his belly. Walking around him, I trail my finger along his waist, as one would touch a horse they just purchased.
“What is a slave’s prime duty?” I ask as I cup first one and then the other of his meaty ass cheeks.
“To serve his Mistress,” he says in all seriousness. This is affecting him, too. His voice is hoarse.
“And how would you serve me, slave?” I press myself, flesh to flesh, behind him, reach around and grasp his straining cock with both hands.
He exhales heavily. “However you wish, Mistress.”
I’m so aroused my juices are sliding down my inner thighs. My core is quivering in need. I have never experienced this level of desire in all my life.
“Undress me,” I say as I grab his hips and motion for him to turn and face me.
The corners of his mouth tip up in the tiniest of smiles as his arms inch downward at such a maddening pace I have to bite back an order for him to hurry.
He undresses me with leisurely, patient hands, unwrapping layers of gauzy material until he gets down to just my panties. Settling his huge hands on my hips, he skims the filmy fabric down to my ankles.
“Stop! Look at me.” The picture is so sexy I want to store it in my memory forever. Big, beautiful Dax squatting naked at my feet, looking up at me, waiting for his next command. His cock pointing up at me. My clit flutters in response.
I step out of the scrap of fabric, widening my stance.
“Describe these,” I say as I cup my breasts and thrust out my chest.
He swallows as he inspects them, then licks his lips as if he’s controlling the urge to put his tongue on me.
“Beautiful. Ripe. Their hard, pink tips beg to be sucked, Mistress. Your slave could do that… you have but to ask.”
I step forward into the scant space between us, his nose less than an inch from the drenched juncture of my thighs. Grabbing his hair, I pull his head back so he’s looking at me.
“You’re so forward, slave. I should punish you for that.”
His green eyes don’t leave mine —he’s simply waiting for my next pronouncement.
“Taste me,” I command.
“That’s no punishment, Mistress. That’s sheer pleasure.”
Dax
I woke up this morning hoping to avoid any awkward moments between Dahlia and me. We hadn’t spoken since I escorted her out of my room the other day. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined I would become her willing sex slave in our lush hotel suite today. Nor would I have guessed she would take to her new role with such vigor.
I’ve spent thirty years hating anything on my neck and despising the pain/kill collar most of all. But it’s never been controlled by anyone as lovely as my Dahlia. I don’t mind playing this game, as long as it’s with her.
Grabbing her ass, I pull her forward and dive into her with my tongue. I’ve always loved her taste, and she’s overflowing with cream at just the thought of our play.
Burying my tongue in her channel, I use her own body weight to pull her clit against my face, grinding into her. Her hands spear through my hair, pulling me even tighter against her. She’s moaning with need. This little game excited her body as well as her mind. I can tell she’s already close.
I slip a finger along the channel between the globes of her fine ass. When she doesn’t order me to stop, I slide it against her pucker. Her thighs quiver, then shake.
Her knees sag as she keens in pleasure. Her inner walls pulse against my tongue for long moments as I wring every drop of pleasure out of her. Easing her onto the bed, I stay right where I am, wondering if she’s done with her play.
“Dax, come lie with me,” she mumbles, patting the mattress next to her.
I guess playtime is over.
I slip behind her, cover us both and throw my arm around her.
“Mistress? Can I take off this dracking collar?” I as
k. It needs the controller and her thumbprint to open it.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe I just… did that. Shit.” She opens the collar, then jumps off the bed and launches toward the bathroom door. I beat her to it, grab her hand and pull her back to bed —our bed.
“We can’t share something like that and have you run away,” I tell her shaking my head as I ease us both down and pull her close, facing me.
She can’t look me in the eyes. I half expected this.
“Have you ever had an itch on the bottom of your foot when you were wearing shoes?” I ask. She nods. “Have you ever kicked your shoes off faster than lightning because you had to scratch that itch?”
She doesn’t answer; I imagine she’s waiting for my lecture.
“Our bodies are what they are, Dahl. There are certain things we can’t control: itches, sneezes... and you can’t control what makes delicious honey drip from your core. These are facts of life. We try to hide some of our physical responses: burps, farts, we apologize for coughing, but when we find someone who cares about us we don’t hide them anymore. Did you enjoy that?”
She doesn’t answer —I’ll wait.
Finally, “Yes.”
“Do you wonder if you hurt me or took advantage of me?”
“Yes.”
She didn’t hesitate to answer, so my response is equally swift. “You didn’t hurt me. My cock was hard enough to hammer nails —that should have given you a clue. It still is, in fact.” I thrust my hips forward and graze her thigh with my cock.
“Crap, Dax. That experience was so overwhelming it didn’t penetrate my thick skull that you didn’t…”
“It’s okay. Take a nap. You must be tired.”
“No.” She wiggles down and eases me into her mouth before I can stop her. And right this minima, I don’t want to stop her. Being in her mouth is heaven.
I was hypocritical a moment ago with my pretty speech. Often in our lovemaking I hold back. I don’t want to be loud and boisterous and scare her.
But today I let go of my inhibitions, too. I moan and grip her shoulders a bit too tightly. When I come, I growl deep in my throat to show my appreciation. She kisses her way up my sweaty body and lays her head on my shoulder.
Grabbing my chin, she forces me to look at her. “You should hate me.”
“I don’t.”
“You shouldn’t trust me.”
I shrug. “But I do.”
“Are you going to want to turn the tables? Have me call you Master?”
“Only if it pleases you, Mistress.” I smile, then my grin broadens when the scent of her arousal fills the air.
Chapter Five
Dahlia
Dax and I napped for an hour. I woke with my arm and leg around him and my head laying on his chest. He’s warm as a furnace. Even though we’ve slept together dozens of times, I’ve never felt this comfortable with him.
Until today, there have been three people in bed. Now that I’ve evicted Larry, everything seems different.
I know when Dax wakes up by the subtle shift in his breathing. He grabs me and pulls me on top of him, then peers into my face, his brow lowered as if he’s searching for something. “How’s my Dahl?”
This is Dax, he’s the same guy he’s been since the first time I met him —sweet and concerned about me. His first thought when he wakes up is to enquire about me. How come I never appreciated it before?
“Good. Embarrassed, but good.”
He nuzzles his lips against my neck and whispers into my skin, “Embrace who you are, Dahl.”
“You know doll is a term of endearment on Earth?” I change the subject.
“Your parents were smart when they named you. Everyone could call their daughter a sweet nickname.”
“I need to get up. I have less than an hour to fix my bedhead and get ready for the cameras.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll help.”
I thought he was joking, but after we shower together —no fooling around although the idea did ‘come up’ —he sits me down and braids my hair into an almost-perfect imitation of Petra’s style.
“How’d you do that?”
“I’m good with my hands,” he rumbles as he gives me a piercing I’d-love-to-show-you-just-how-good look.
“You are good with your hands,” I tell him as he rearranges all the flowery, flowy fabric making my curves look curvier. “You’ve made shoes for all the women on board and sewn outfits for some of the men. You’re handy.”
“Handy? That’s a real word?”
“Yeah. You’re handy. Good to have around.”
He nips my neck, reaches under the yards of dress fabric and cups my sex. “Is that right? This hand?” Circling the heel of his hand, he melts me. “Or this one?” He unerringly finds my nipple under all this gauze and plucks it causing an exquisite burst of pleasure.
I push him away and grab his collar from the nightstand. When I turn back, he’s on his knees with his hands on the back of his head.
Holy shit, I never knew the expression ‘weak in the knees’ was a real thing.
“Dax, you’ll be the death of me,” I feign exasperation because I don’t want to cop to the fact that my pulse is pounding between my legs.
He just kneels there, eyeing me. I snap the collar on, then the leash. Instead of rising, he waits for instruction. I realize that what happened earlier today was not a ‘one-off.’ I’ve discovered my own little kink.
“Get up.” He rises in one sexy, fluid motion.
Dinner is an exercise in excitement and frustration. Shadow and Steele sit at another table a few feet from us, as per the verbal contract with Ja’Meer, Master of the Games. It’s just me, perched on a plush, high-backed sapphire blue chair, and my handsome gladiator on his knees to my right.
I take a taste of some of the most delicious food ever created on this or any planet, then give him a bite off my fork.
“Hands,” he says around a mouthful of food as surreptitiously as possible.
“What?”
“Don’t look at me, or talk to me except to give me orders. And the deal was to feed me with your hands,” he says trying to talk without moving his lips like a ventriloquist.
“Shit.”
After eating a bite of perfectly rare mystery meat combined with some fluffy, buttery mashed potato knockoff, I cut him a bite of meat. I feed it to him from my fingers.
I’ll need to jump on the Intergalactic Database to investigate why this is such a turn on. Seriously, is there something wrong with me?
When my fingers swoop in to feed him his next bite, a buttery string-bean-like thing, he sucks my thumb and forefinger into his mouth. His tongue swirls while his eyes roll back in his head and he moans quietly in pleasure.
I’m certain neither he nor the contingent of twenty nearby reporters missed the sultry hiss that escaped my mouth during that little maneuver.
“Dax.” I pull his leash taut without putting any pressure on his beefy, corded neck. “Don’t take liberties or I’ll punish you later.”
“Yes, Mistress.” He gazes straight ahead, his face stoic. He may appear unaffected, but I’m not. I’m certain I’ve soaked my filmy panties and possibly made a spot on the chair.
The reporters are eating this up, frantically speaking into their whisper-write machines.
Okay, perhaps I understand. Female owner, male gladiator —there’s only one reason a person would do this. Everyone in the galaxy assumes I’m fucking my sexy stud. All the interest from the media? People are vicariously enjoying the subtle sexual subtext here. Except there’s absolutely nothing subtle about the pulsing drumbeat in my nether regions.
All my life I’ve been more like Larry the accountant than Dax the gladiator. I’ve been a cautious woman who plays by the rules. It’s who I am. Well, it’s who I’ve been. Suddenly I have an urge to walk on the wild side.
These people want a show? I’ll give them a show.
I lean close to Dax and whisper, “I want to f
uck with them, but I’d never want to embarrass you or make you feel ridiculed. You want to play?”
He keeps his eyes straight ahead and whispers, “Only if it will make you want to play in bed with me tonight.”
“You’re a devil. Game on.”
I dip my finger as daintily as possible into the mashed potatoes, ‘accidentally’ drag my nipple across his shoulder, then stick my finger in his mouth. He obliges by sucking the food off so enthusiastically his head bobs like a woman giving a blow job. He ends his performance with loud, appreciate smacks as he licks every last morsel off my flesh.
