By My Side ... (A Valentine's Day Story)

by Christine Blackthorn

  "Most of us have scars, not all of them visible. Not even the majority of them."

  Reschkar's voice was pensive, though he looked at her, not the retreating orc. Did he think she did not know that? Or that she did not see the ones writ large in his eyes?

  The scent of the food reached her, seduced her, held a perilous lure, heavy spices and delicate flavours teasing her. She was hungry and even though she would have given anything to hide the fact, her stomach's growl made it impossible. Embarrassment warmed her cheeks. She wanted to cringe, lean away -- away form the food, away form him, away from weakness.

  Food was dangerous, its power immense. With it, one person held so much control over another, held all the dominion. She had learnt that lesson. Food could be reward or punishment -- or it could simply be a way to impose one's will, to torture and tease. She had trained her body years ago, when the first attempts at bonding had begun, not to expect food at regular intervals. Elena had skipped meals and often gone whole days without nourishment in order to minimise the power food could hold over her. She was good at it, or had been. Since the steady diets of the last few days, however, her body had come to expect more habitual nourishment and was objecting to the sudden state of scarcity. It cramped in protest, demanding food. Worse, it growled audibly, the sound loud in the quiet of the room.

  She hated this sign of her weakness, especially as it revealed an area of shame too dangerous to bare to a potential enemy. Elena knew food was her enemy. Her slightly too large breasts, the curve of her hip, all attested to that. She was not self-conscious of her body, not to any real degree. You could not be when your surroundings main desire is to dominate you, to break your self-possession and mental protections without causing you any physical harm.

  Nudity, the resulting sensation of vulnerability, of being at someone's mercy, and the verbal barbs and humiliations any physical imperfections could be based on, were the obvious choice. So she had spent a not inconsiderable part of her adulthood naked among predators waiting for her to falter. In an odd way, the regular nudity had desensitised her to her own body and its physical imperfections. It lost the power to hurt her soul very fast. One simply could not live and always be embarrassed.

  But it allowed a person to develop some realism. No matter how little she ate as an adult, she would never have the lithe, graceful slenderness of a true beauty. She hated food. Shame and fear warring for predominance in her mind. Her hand covered her stomach as if she could hush it with the gesture, too aware of the danger of letting others know your weaknesses. Nudity and hunger she could deal with -- the constant betrayal of her own body would be harder to fight. Elena found herself glaring at the offending food.

  Reschkar laughed, entirely oblivious to her discomfort, the sound free and open, filling the high ceilinged room with a surprising outburst of humour. He grinned at her, his strong thighs a cage surrounding her, but a relaxed cage. His head lay against the backrest, the white hair contrasting against the dark wood like moonbeams on a mountain lake. His features lazily calm, the brilliant yellow of his eyes dimmed by sleepy lids, the line of the scar on his cheek softened in the firelight. It gave him an even more fantastical air, a being out of this world, strong and sensual, dangerously erotic and still a monster. How would a normal human see him -- a threat or a wonder? Throughout all the days of their journey, she had never seen him this relaxed before.

  "Well then, darling, it is time to eat."

  He smiled as he carefully chose one of the bite sized pieces on the table. He offered it to her lips, the memory of each time he had done so on their travels swimming between them. Her lips parted, though not enough to take the food. She hesitated, caught in the strangeness of the moment. When had she come to expect her food to have the underlying tang of his taste, to be offered to her from his hand? The days on the road had conditioned her fundamentally, deeply enough that she expected her most basic needs, food and shelter, to be under his control, to be provided and met by him. She had never even considered what it was he was offering her, had merely opened her lips to receive it, in the secure knowledge that whatever he would provide, she would take. How far was she falling? How fast?

  The savoury, pastry-wrapped bite hovered before her lips, the succulent smell making her mouth water and still she hesitated. She could not take it. His eyes had lost their sleepiness, were large and sharp, holding her in place, demanding compliance. Gone was the relaxation, supplanted by a predatory tension focused on her mouth. Just as had been the case throughout the travel the simple act of feeding her held a by far deeper meaning to him. He would not allow her to deny him that importance. His fingers touched her lips as he stroked the piece of food over her mouth, leaving behind the taste of cinnamon and clover -- and underneath that, the spice of him.

  The tip of her tongue snaked out to wet her lips and found his finger. Heat coiling in her, met its mirror in his eyes. Images, sense-memories rose. His lips on hers, the taste of him invading her core, subsuming all sensations under its power. This quickly she was reminded of their kiss, his touch an addictive temptation beckoning to her. Her mouth fell open before she had made the decision to give into the call of his touch. When her lips closed around the offering, she barely noticed the taste of the food under the sensation of his fingers withdrawing, their touch almost abrasive over the sensitised skin of her lips.

  Somehow, Elena became mesmerised by the curve of his lips, as if the act of feeding her had somehow created a link between them. There was a tingling sensation, an electric prickling along the inside of her lower lip, where his fingers had touched her. Each breath she took aggravating, her own heartbeat pulsing through that spot she could still feel his touch. It was near painful, the pulsing heat spreading through her, sizzling along her skin.

  She felt goose bumps rise along her arms, the small muscles along her spine tensing with each breath. When she swallowed, she had no idea what she had eaten, but her whole body was primed, yearning for the next bite, his next touch. Her hands had fisted on her thighs, the temptation to stroke over her own skin, to alleviate the tingling need for stimulation, overwhelming. But she knew her own touch would not be enough.

  Elena was transfixed, with him the focus of her whole being. When his tongue wet those generous lips, the sheen of moisture darkening the inhuman paleness of his skin, she wanted to lean in, felt the movement as a shadow on her own lips. She groaned, the sound low and almost inaudible. Her mind had no awareness of the second bite of food she had eaten. He chuckled.

  "Close your eyes, little one."

  The command, and the expectation of obedience behind it, broke her preoccupation. Her eyes jumped to his in alarm, her question out before she could censor it.

  "Why?"

  Elena cringed, the expectation of punishment an electric current waking all her instincts. Was she allowed to speak without invitation? Had he ever said anything on those lines? She could not remember. She needed to remember the rules. Confusion and a strange sense of loss swamped her.

  Before, at the court, her position of submission would have meant punishment for any word she spoke uninvited. Here, it was different, it felt different. He was subtly changing the rules, changing what she had come to rely upon. She froze in her uncertainty, torn between the expectation of pain or an answer to her question. When his hand rose she jerked away, adrenalin too high for her to control the automatic reaction. Her head turned aside, its angle designed so that a blow would miss her nose or eye, do the least amount of damage. Elena hated the lack of depth perception when her eye was swollen closed.

  His knuckles grazed her left cheekbone, a caress not a blow, his skin cool against the heat of hers.

  "I like it when you speak, Elena. There will not be any repercussions for breaking your silence, rather the reverse. If I want you mute, I will gag you."

  Was that intended to reassure her? How was she supposed to react to a statement like that? But it was clear he did not expect any reaction from her, what he expected of
her was obedience. His large hand stroked over her eyes, repeating, without words, his command to close them. It was hard, hard to close them and hard to keep them closed. She felt him lean in, felt the warmth of his body reflected along the line of her brow. She had to clench her eyes closed to resist the temptation to look, to know what he was doing. His large hand stroked her hair in a slow, sensuous move, cradling her brow to his chest, his warm palm coming to rest as a soothing weight against her nape. She felt his words caress her ear.

  "You are preoccupied with what you see, not what you feel."

  It took her a moment to understand the seemingly random words. Then, realisation dawned. He was answering her question, he was telling her why he had forced blindness on her. And he was right. Without sight everything seemed to crash in on her, sensation, scent and sound; all that had been overshadowed by the power if his presence came back, swirling around her senses.

  "As much as I enjoy your eyes on me -- this is not the time. As yet, I do not know what you like, or dislike, and I cannot read your body when all you react to is what you see. Like this, blind, you will tell me what you need."

  "You could just ask me."

  There was definite snark in her tone. Had she gone mad? She must have, or the warm scent of forest and wood emanating from his skin was drugging her rationality and waking her recklessness. At home she would never had dared to used this tone when kneeling before a Master. She would have been too proud of her ability to obey, her well trained submission, to even consider it. And now, here, she had just snarked an orc, a being who could break her neck with the merest flick of a talon. She desperately needed to start thinking before she spoke! No, she desperately needed to think. She was being drawn into some strange maelstrom of sensation, an unbridled force ripping away each thought before it could take root and lead to another.

  "I could." He purred, entirely unfazed by her tone. "But it would be a lot less fun."

  Fun for whom? She suspected that their perspectives on fun might differ markedly, but was glad her verbal filter had reengaged and kept her from giving the sentiment voice. Elena was afraid he might suspect what she had been thinking anyway. She felt the kiss to the top of her head before he let her go.

  The moment he broke physical contact with her, the compulsion to open her eyes reasserted itself, became an almost painful itch on her skin. She gritted her teeth in the desperate attempt to control the impulse, to keep herself from at least spying out between her eyelashes. He was too smart, too observant, not to notice and she was too smart not to see this as the test it was.

  Reschkar let the time stretch, let her fight her own inclinations without moving, without letting any sensation, or sound, distract her from her rising anxiety. She had no idea what he was planning to do next. The uncertainty weighed on her. It was excruciating, with each second she could feel her muscles tighten a little more, adrenalin collecting in her limbs, readying her for the threat she could not see, a threat she knew in her rational mind was not there. When a light touch stroked over her lips, she jumped, rising on her knees, quivering with the need to escape, to throw her weight back, away from him. However, she managed not to open her eyes. It left her shaking, weak in her bones as the adrenalin subsided faster than it had risen. Slowly, her body settled back into its familiar position, still tense. But she was also left with a strange feeling of triumph.

  "Good girl."

  The tone was that of praise, the sensation of warm pride contained in it, enough to let her ignore the words. It was pathetic, really. She had heard uncountable nobles praise their lowest pets with this endearment -- and just as with those dogs, the words made her want to perk up, made her happy. Had she had a tail she was sure she would have wagged it. And instead of despair and disgust, emotions she should be feeling, emotions that would make sense, she only felt a wave of calm pleasure.

  "Good girl." He repeated, his voice warm and confident, bringing home the lesson he wanted her to learn.

  Praise had not been a common occurrence in her adult life. She longed to allow herself to luxuriate in it. Was there any point in questioning her own emotions? This was all too different, too new -- she was losing all mental hold on the situation. Why fight? Why not just give in and settle into it? When another touch on her lips reminded her of the demands of her stomach, she opened her mouth to receive the next offering from his hand.

  If he had thought she would be less aware of him without her sight, he was mistaken at a fundamental level. Every move his large body made, the smallest shift in his position, communicated itself to her through changes in air currents and heat reflecting from her skin. She became exquisitely sensitive to him, his breath, his touch, his taste. Her breasts grew heavy and taught, swollen by the rising tide of arousal and even without sight she knew her nipples were hard, her areolas sensitised to a level of near pain.

  When he bent forward to offer her another bite she thought she could feel his movements against her skin -- and when he leant back to let her swallow, she felt bereft. Since he had ensured the room's temperature was comfortable in her nudity, the shivers along her spine could not be attributed to the climate. Heat pooled between her legs and she felt the moisture gather at her entrance, seep out to coat her swollen folds with a sheen of arousal.

  She wanted to shift, to rub her thighs together, to allow her body some relief from the rising pressure of arousal. It had never felt this way. In the past she had been aware of the reactions of her body in an almost scientific, an academic way -- noting the physical signs of pleasure, of a rising orgasm with detached interest. Under the hands of men, and women, who had spent decades, sometimes centuries, to perfect their technique, her body had found physical fulfilment, but her pleasure had been as remote as that of her partners. They were there to bond her, even though they held no particular attraction to her body, and it would have insulted their own sensitivities had they left her unsatisfied. She had been there to be bonded and to deny them the satisfaction of having brought her to orgasm an unnecessary insult in the face of her certain failure to bond.

  With him there was no detachment -- she felt the pleasure of his touch in her mind, her arousal not a warm sea of pleasure but a tidal wave threatening at the horizon. For the first time she wanted to come, almost needed to come, to find the stimulation which would bring her to orgasm. But his will held her immobile, kneeling at his feet, whilst her body's hunger for food was replaced by another hunger in torturous little steps. So she took bite after bite.

  It did not take long for her stomach, used to small amounts of food in short intervals, to signal an end to its demands. How he knew, she had no idea, but as soon as she began to wonder how to tell him of her satiation without drawing his anger, he ceased to feed her. His thumb stroked over her lips, spreading the spicy taste of the last bite, mixing it anew with his own on her lips. And just that immediate, the tingling need for his touch was renewed on her lips. When his hand slipped around her head, tangling with the fine strands of hair at her neck, she knew what would come, anticipated it, angled her head to allow him better access. His mouth touched hers, the coolness of his skin was a soothing balm, a relief for the tingling need coating her lips -- there and gone too fast again.

  "Open your eyes."

  His voice was hoarse, almost strangled, as he gave her the command. Elena opened her eyes. What she saw was breath-taking and sexier than hell. She had never seen a man so aroused. The heat in his eyes was shielded by heavy lids, his pupils dilated with the force of his arousal, his lips wet and trembling under panting breaths. The tightly wound muscles of his chest and shoulders gleamed with a sheen of sweat. Her eyes travelled lower. Against the thin trousers, his erection was starkly delineated, its hard length straining against the woollen fabric.

  For the fist time in her life, her mouth watered at the sight of an aroused penis. She wanted to reach for him, to free his cock and taste it as she had tasted his fingers. Wanted to find out if the moisture staining the fabric darker at its tip
tasted of the same dark spice, the same temptation as his mouth. But she could not move, could not make her body shift even a millimetre. She was mesmerised. He wanted her to stay still, she did not need to him to say it, she could see it, feel it. It was enough to make it impossible for her to move even the width of a hair. She was caught in those yellow eyes, each breath, each heartbeat at his will -- or so it felt to her.

  "I will break you."

  It was not a warning, nor said with any tenor of remorse, or doubt. It was a statement of fact, nothing more, nothing less.

  "I will break you. I will possess every aspect of your being, enter every niche of your mind until there is nothing in you which is not touched by me." He had to take a deep breath. "And I will enjoy every single moment of it."

  "I know." She had no doubt on the veracity of the statement.

  Her voice was strangely calm, too normal for her own ears. She had accepted the end of whatever independence she had been able to preserve as an ErGer long ago -- had accepted, even expected, she would in all probability die by his hand the night she went to meet him. There was no need to reiterate the issue, no need to warn her. She knew what she was. He leant close again, his lips stroking hers, replacing the remnants of the taste of food with a sense of him.

  "No, little one, I don't think you do know."

  What was there to say? She could only tell him, once again, that she knew what she had gotten herself into and it would not ... the thought gave her pause. Her mind turned over and she looked at the situation from his point of view. Why did he tell her again and again he would be breaking her? Regret? Did he need her forgiveness before the fact? She had grown up among beings who saw power as the ultimate goal, willing to sacrifice anything and everything in its pursuit, no justification necessary. He was a monster, his nature violent and unrestrained -- could it be he had more scruples than all the ones before him?