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

by Christine Blackthorn

  Elena wanted to tell him it was not necessary, that no matter what would come of it, she had gone into this with her eyes wide open. She was bound not only by her word, the promise of absolute obedience, but by her own will as well. She had spent all her existence as a burden, never quite good enough. Her parents had abandoned her to the care of a supernatural court because they could not face the dangers of bringing up an ErGer child. She had been loved and cosseted in that court -- and then she had failed them. Every year she had failed them again, her genetics promising something her mind seemed to be unable to fulfil. She was tired, tired of being a loved burden. He would break her? Possibly, but he also would give her a use, her life a meaning. She started to tell him, but he stopped her with his finger across her lips, just as he had at the start of the evening.

  "No, Elena, I think it is time to show you." He took another kiss before rising.

  A Beginning

  "Kneel in front of the fire, please."

  His voice had changed. It held a deeper quality, smooth hardness surrounding her, making her move before she had even realised there was a demand in his words. Her reaction was a puzzle to herself. She was not a biddable woman, not even a little. Elena had learnt, long ago, to follow the rules of submission because it was what was expected of her, because she wanted to bond, to be useful and to fit into the hole that had been made for her before she had been able to speak.

  The need to please was an intrinsic part of submissive nature, or so she had been told, and she was conscious of that need in herself. Sometimes she thought she could not breathe for the desire to make the ones she loved approve of her, be happy, love her. She wanted to belong, to be safe -- her need to please an integral part of this, linked to these desires because if you pleased others it was less likely they would hurt you. And this is where she differed from a true submissive. She suspected this is what made her defective. She was only too aware of her own motives, her own selfishness. All she did was a direct result of her desire to live as long as possible. But just now, at his order, she had moved without a thought for survival or belonging.

  Her body settled into the familiar pose before the fire, on autopilot whilst her mind turned that thought over and over in her head. What did it mean that with this man, the orc, the only desire in her mind was to satisfy his demand to the best of her ability? Elena was so caught in her thoughts she jumped when his large hands came to rest on her shoulders.

  "That busy mind of yours is still running in circles. How long, do you think, will it take me to switch it off?" If there ever was a rhetorical question, this was it.

  Over her shoulder, Elena could see him on one knee behind her, his large shadow surrounding her. She felt him lean in, felt the touch of his breath whisper over the naked skin of her neck, before his velvet voice stroked her ear.

  "Look into the flames, sweetheart, see them dance. Just see them. Don't look away."

  His voice made her turn her head to the flickering fire, the dance of flames catching her attention, mesmerising her. But before she could get lost in the sight, his sharp teeth scraped over her shoulder toward her throat, breaking the spell. Her head whipped around, every muscle tensing in anticipation of punishment, her body straightening under the fight or flight impulse. What was he doing? His teeth so close to her jugular were a dangerous reminder of his predatory nature. She expected censure, or feral lust, in those alien eyes, but when she met his gaze there was only amusement. And an uncomfortable satisfaction. He had realised, before she herself could even do so, how her mind was still ready to flee. So he had set her up, had given her enough rope to hang herself by defying his command. What form would her punishment take?

  "The flames, Elena. Look at them."

  His warm hands rested on her shoulders, their pressure moving her body into the familiar position with calm persistence. Did she move? Did he make her move by force? She was not entirely certain, nor was she certain it mattered. Caught in his gaze, it remained the same: she moved for him.

  But she could not let herself sink into the hypnotising power of the moving flames, not knowing what kind of punishment he was planning for her. And there would be punishment. She had disobeyed. He had no choice but to punish her. It was an integral part of why the use of submission was considered an aid to the bonding of an ErGer. The natural shock of an adult being forced that far under the control of another, allowing another person the right to correct, to hurt, broke down the walls of emotional and social independence erected over years. It opened one person to another, an artificial measure for what an ErGer bond established naturally. So she was aware of his every move, every breath, terrified of what he would choose to do.

  "The fire. See it." He reminded her gently. But she could not. He sighed, even the light touch of his breath on her skin making her jerk in fear, so tense was she.

  "Relax, little one. There will not be any punishment."

  "But..." Why could she not shut up, not take what he was offering and be happy with it. Did she have to provoke him? Elena bit her lip, holding in the rest of the sentence. He sighed again, deeper this time, a hint of long-suffering patience colouring the sound.

  "Elena, you were startled and could not help your reaction. I trapped you. I will not punish you for your instincts reacting to years of conditioning."

  She still could not relax, her mind desperately scrabbling for comprehension. All he did, all he said, went against everything she had ever learnt, whilst still fitting the framework of action which had surrounded her all through her life. He should punish her. He had the right. It would be a good way of forcing her compliance, of breaking those shields keeping him from binding her with pain and degradation.

  "Tell me what you are thinking?"

  It was a definite command, his voice testament to his unwillingness to let her stew in her own mind.

  "I don't understand why you did it, if not to have a reason to punish me."

  Her eyes had found him again over her shoulder and she saw the flash of anger heating his eyes. Then he shut the emotions down, as if he had a valve he could simply tighten. His voice was calm when he tried to explain:

  "You seem to have little to no comprehension of your own mental and physical tension, the constant state of alertness you live in. When at rest, you are not relaxed. I made you jump to shake you from that state of nervous anticipation, to break that spell and give you a chance to settle down."

  She knew he was right about her state of constant readiness -- but she was not sure she liked the fact he had seen it, where no one else had ever cared. And she was even less certain she knew what to do with his statement. How did he expect her to relax in the face of what was to come? He gave her no chance to ask anything else, his hand guiding her head back towards the fire. And this time, confused and lost as she was, the flames caught her.

  Elena fell into the interwoven reds and oranges of the flickering light. She knew what he was doing, knew he was blindfolding her in a unique way. She doubted his way would be any more successful than the many times her sight had been taken in the more conventional manner. Lack of sight was supposed to frighten her, to heighten her vulnerability and deliver her into the mercy of her partner so that her mental defences were undermined by anticipation, trepidation and sensation. As her eyes fell into the licking flames her lips stretched ruefully -- the only thing she anticipated by now was failure. When she felt his mouth at her shoulder this time, she controlled the instinctual jerk of her muscles.

  "Tell me what you feel, from your toes to the crown of your busy little head." It was a whispered command, spoken against her skin, his breath travelling over her in the wake of his voice, her skin tightening, sensitising, becoming aware of him on a sensual level. She could not suppress the shiver trembling through her bones.

  With a halting voice she tried to comply, caught in the moment, in the request.

  "I can feel the cold floor under my toes..."

  "Is it cold?"

  His question halt
ed her description, made her hesitate and consider how she really felt. Her toes were cold, ice cold ... but the cold did not come from the floor. She was kneeling on a pelt, sheep if she was any judge, her toes buried among the soft strands of fur. It felt soft like cotton wool, and warm, the heat from the fire having drenched it with energy long before Elena had come to kneel there. It lay against her cold skin in a warm caress of fabric. The ice of her toes slowly giving way to the realisation of warmth, her muscles relaxing first in her toes, then along the high arches of her feet, the strained pain of her ankles. It called to her and she let her feet slide fully into the soft temptation, flattening against the warmth of the floor. The soft fleece moulded to her cold toes, caressed the high arches of her feet, soft as down. She sighed, her muscles giving up their rigid tension. But her mind had not forgotten he has asked her a question.

  "No, it's my feet. They were cold." A dreamy quality had entered her voice, as if only part of her mind was on the words whilst the rest was caught in the lure of the sensations battering her resistance.

  "And now? Are they warmer?"

  "Hmm." The noise she made was affirmative and distracted, her vision filled with the dancing red of the fire whilst all her attention centred on the languid spread of relaxed warmth along her legs. She felt him move closer, his chest warming her back, the heat of the fire bathing her front. It caught under the fine hair along her arms, smoothing her skin, calming her mind. Again, his breath whispered over her shoulder as he spoke.

  "Go on, Lena. What do you feel? Are your legs cold too?"

  She felt the rumble of his words through her back, trembling against her spine, melting it. It was so easy to let herself lean into the solid presence of his body behind her. To let him take her weight. A heavy band of warm velvet slid around her waist, pulling her more firmly against that warm wall. It was easy to answer now, her mind drifting in the sensations.

  "No, they're not. They burn. A little."

  And it was true, there was a strange burn along her shins, the tense coldness giving way to the awareness of her smooth skin. The shaving blade she had requested before her bath had left her legs smooth, but sensitive, and the gentle scrape of fibres irritated, just a little. She could feel each little strand of fleece against her skin not unlike little pinpricks. The sensation was not painful, or even uncomfortable, only there, dancing over her skin.

  "Burn?" She thought she heard a smile in the question.

  "Yes."

  "Do you like it?" Dark temptation.

  "Yes." Did she say it aloud? Did she have to?

  The warm weight of his hands stroked down her arms. Slowly, deliberately, every inch of her skin becoming aware of his touch, the scrape of his calluses, the softness of his palms. The strength of his fingers spanned her wrists, reminded her without words of her position in his power. She could feel the prick of his claws -- and then the slow slide of them retracting under his skin, leaving only the soft touch of his fingers. He stroked along her hands, let her feel the calluses and strength in his palms, then slipped his fingers into hers, let their hands entwine. She felt surrounded, captured and held, his body supporting, enveloping hers, his scent invading her with every breath. She was sensation without thought. The words left her mouth without volition.

  His teeth returned to the side of her neck. A sharp sting, lingering until laved by his tongue in lazy movements. She leant into his touch.

  "Tell me." His words wrapped around her mind, stealing her ability to rationalise on even the most basic level. "How do my hands feel on you?"

  "I am warm and still your skin is warmer against mine."

  Their entwined hands rested on her thighs, the heat of his skin penetrating hers. She wanted to look down. Somewhere in the muddled recesses of her mind she wondered how the paleness of his white skin would contrast against her human flesh. But her vision was filled with flames, their dancing mesmerism blinding her to all but his touch. The heat, his hold, her lack blindness, made everything she felt so much more overwhelming.

  "How does it feel, to be held like this?" Gentle seduction in his melodious voice. She turned her head, rubbed her cheek against his shoulder like a cat begging for touch. The body she leant against shook with deep chuckles.

  "Safe." And after a moment's hesitation she added. "Calm."

  She flexed her fingers, not to dislodge their entangled hands but to feel them, to clear her mind to it. There was a sensual delight in the feeling of his hold tightening, in feeling the scrape of his fingers over her thighs as they curled around her hand.

  "I see you want to play."

  Danger in his voice, just enough to tantalise her, to wake her trepidation, to threaten her newly acquired calm. It should have frightened her. Should have been a warning. Instead, she let her head drop back onto his shoulder, leaning into his strength. Her eyes fell closed, the flames dancing against her eyelids, just as they danced inside her body. There was no reprimand for her inability to hold onto his order to look into the flames, just a dark satisfied hum against her skin.

  His fingers, still entwined with hers, stroked along her thighs to the sensitive skin on the inside of her knees -- and then, with gentle pressure, their interlinked hands stroked further up.

  "How does that feel?"

  There was something illicit, something decadent about the feeling of her own hands opening her thighs to the flames, to him. Her body, in the normal course of bonding attempts struggling for arousal, had dampened further, the folds of her sex tightened under exposure to the colder air of the room. Her blood surged. She had never been so aware of her own body's reactions, the changes arousal wrought on it. Her breasts felt swollen and heavy, warm, strangely stretched, yearning for stimulation with a painful intensity. There seemed to be a strand of languid pleasure swirling along her veins, tightening in her womb, the folds of her sex swelling, exposing her more and more. She wanted to be touched, wanted to touch, and her inability to do so, not his hands holding her, but something deeper, something in her own mind, kept her suspended in a state of gentle need.

  "Beautiful." There was near reverence in the tone of his voice.

  It jarred her, threw ripples along the passion-heated pool of her mind. It was a lie. She was not beautiful; she was barely useful. It was enough of a reminder to break the strands of sensation woven around her and bring her mind back to the present.

  Her lids lifted and her eyes found the dancing shapes of the flames again, their hues of red and orange throwing a warning against the walls. She felt her muscles tense in slow increments. Before she could give into the temptation to put some small distance between them, his hands lifted her own to twine around his thick neck. It bowed her upper body, exposed and lifted her breasts in a position that felt vulnerable, almost obscene. She did not like it.

  "Keep your hands around my neck, Elena."

  His voice was a warning, an admonition to remain as his own hands abandoned hers to caress along her arms, her sides to her waist. And though his voice held no threat, it had lost the languid gentleness of only moments before. Within the span of a millisecond the atmosphere had changed from relaxed heat to tense anticipation, and not in a good way. Coils of fear, of dejected expectations, wound in her stomach in an acidic helix of rising tension.

  His hands, still warm and sure, rested against the dip of her waist, his fingers meeting over the gentle curve of her stomach as if he could feel her discomfort. They were warm, their touch soft, muted and without insistence. Still she could not think of it as anything but a silent demand to give him what he wanted. Just as every touch in her life had always been. Confusion rose. What did he want? She had gotten lost in her own body, had forgotten to catalogue and learn the instructions he gave her. There was no list in her mind. She always had a list. That was what made her so good at this game of Dominance and submission. She needed to get her mind together, work on a strategy. She jumped when his thumbs painted a caressing half circle over her skin.

  "What is it, little
one?" He whispered.

  "Nothing." Automatic denial.

  His fingers kept up their gentle pattern, the warmth of his touch soaking into her skin. It did not reach her soul. She felt the whisper of his kiss on her temple.

  "So beautiful."

  His tone had turned deliberate, testing. And just as before, the lie made her tense. She turned her head away from him, away from the flames to face the dark shadows of the room. She did not want him to see her anymore.

  "Elena, why does it hurt you when I call you beautiful?"

  "It does not."

  It was a lie and therefore another failure. She had promised to tell him the truth and would not, could not, be pathetic enough to tell him that nothing would work, would give him what he wanted. He would not be able to break her shields and bond to her. Not with empty compliments, not with gentleness or warmth. She had failed to live up to the potential of her genetics ever day of her adult life. The only reason why he wanted her, why he looked at her with desire was based on a lie. He saw her as his future, a future for his people and the chance was too high, too probable that she would only be a burden to them all. Again. In the end, she would be unable to bond and his admiration would wane. He would begin to see her as the defective specimen she was. Then there would be pity -- and eventually anger.

  It would be then, that moment, when he would admit to himself that she had failed, when he would stop to even try to bond her. And then he would go over to just take without heed to her health, would drain her blood slowly and mix it with the sustenance of the court to give them at least the temporary benefit of her presence. She almost wished that moment was there already, that they could just jump to the end and forego this farce.

  Elena felt his sigh as a foreshadowing of what she saw as the inevitable result of their association. How could it be that only a week ago she had come to peace with this and today the fear of the certain failure was so present again? Would it have been easier had she not spent a week with them, had she not started to feel for these people? They deserved better than they had gotten all their lives. They deserved an ErGer worth the name, not a defective specimen like her. She only identified the burn on her cheek for a tear when she tasted its salt on her lips. With brutal self-possession she pushed down the rising pressure behind her eyes.