by Alana Khan
After he wrings every second of bliss from my orgasm, he repositions me and slides me onto him.
“Yes, Sir,” I breathe. The feel of him inside me is magic. He fills me, begins moving, and transports me to physical bliss.
We keep our connection—hold our gaze. Even though I just came, I’m consumed with need for him. He wrenches one more release from me, then jets into me with a guttural bark of pleasure, his eyes closing in satisfaction. I love feeling his liquid warmth inside me.
The picture of him, muscles straining at the height of release is a memory I’ll carry with me as long as I’m able.
He drops little kisses on my mouth and forehead and the tip of my nose, pulls out, lies down next to me and positions me on my side facing him.
“You’re a good female.” He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “You deserve the best.” He shutters his expression, then flips me onto my other side facing away from him. Surrounding me with his powerful arm, he tugs my back to his front and kisses the nape of my neck.
He may think he can distract me with his superpower—knowing how to arouse every one of my erogenous zones—but I’m beginning to read him, too. Something’s bothering the big, purple male.
He said I deserved the best as if the best wasn’t Voxx from Zinn. It’s the first time I’ve seen a chink in his egotistical, arrogant armor.
If we were a real couple, we’d have a conversation. I’d ask him what was wrong, and he’d tell me. Or perhaps I’d mention that I’m scared shitless about my condition which seems to be getting worse instead of better.
But we’re not a real couple. And we don’t talk. The unspoken rule is not to share things. I’m his fuck-toy and he’s my master—that’s the setup.
I have no energy and can’t work up enough anger to keep from drifting to sleep.
~.~
“Wake up Victoria. You’ll upset your sleep cycle if you nap any longer. I made lunch.”
I sit up and scrub my face with my hands. It takes me a moment, sitting on the side of the bed, to put my full weight on my feet. I haven’t fully recovered from my episodes. I’m weak and sluggish.
Two minutes later he’s lifted me up and I’m sitting on the bar watching him plate some Zinnian dish I have no frame-of-reference for. Even though it’s all mystery meat, he’s a wonderful cook and has never served me anything that wasn’t delicious.
“I made you a present while you were sleeping,” he informs me as I chew. He’s feeding me, his face soft and affectionate like an indulgent parent. He’s a man of many moods. I like this one.
“What is it, Sir?”
“I’ll show you if you’re a very good girl.”
“I love being a very good girl for you, Sir. Your wish is my command.” All of a sudden I’m feeling energized… and frisky. A present? I lurve presents.
He leans close and whispers, “Tell me something you’ll do for your Master when you’re feeling better. Something that will show him just what a good girl you are.”
“I will allow him to use whatever implement of destruction he wants from his wall of torture.” Holy fuck, what just jumped out of my mouth? I don’t do pain. No! Where did those words come from?
His eyes pop wide, I even surprised Attila the Zinn.
“I’ll take you up on your offer another day, little Earther. I must admit, you surprised me. You must really like presents. Don’t worry too much, there’s always the color red.”
He must be feeling guilty because he leaves me on the bar while he cleans the kitchen and doesn't even ask me to help.
“Ready for your present?”
Something’s weird; the way he’s smiling looks diabolical.
“Yes, Sir?”
“Worried about my present?” One eyebrow lifts.
“You look… like a mad scientist in a movie. Like you’ve got something unpleasant up your sleeve, like Lex Luthor or the Joker.”
“Two more pop culture references I’m not familiar with, but if I had feelings, your remark would wound me.” He pouts in a mock-offended pose.
“Good thing you don’t... have feelings.” I smile, then add, “Sir.” I never know when to let my guard down with him. Maybe never is a good strategy. But he’s in a good mood and smiles again. Goody. This is the Voxx I like. I don’t know how long he’ll stay around, but I’ll take what I can get.
He lifts me up and sets me down in front of the krannock. Shit. He punked me. He must have something terrible in store for me.
“Wait here. Don’t move a muscle.” He takes a step away then turns back toward me. “You’d better use the restroom, do something to your hair to keep it off of your back, then come back to this spot. With alacrity.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Two minutes later he configures the krannock into a flat table, like a padded hospital gurney, covers it with a flat white sheet, and lowers it to the floor.
“Step up.” He helps me onto it.
“Yes, Sir.”
Why is it I’ve been on this tiny two-person ship for over a week and I’ve never noticed all the eye bolts placed strategically in the ceiling and on all the walls in this little sex alcove? Is he going to hang me from the ceiling? What happened to his vow not to hurt me today?
My mouth quirks as I realize he never really promised not to hurt me today, he just said no positions. Is hanging from the ceiling not a position?
“Hold onto my shoulders,” he says as he grasps my waist.
“Yes, Sir.”
The krannock lifts me about two feet off the floor and Voxx rigs two ropes to two different eye bolts. I think this might arouse women who are into kinky sex, thinking it’s foreplay. Me? I’m getting more terrified by the second. And hating him more by the second as well. Fun surprise, my ass.
“Here.” He hands me the ends of the ropes. “You’ll be standing for a while. You might need these to feel more stable. Face the wall.”
Oh, no. Did he grab a whip? Is he going to start wailing on me without explaining the rules? Just what is the proper etiquette for losing bowel and bladder function in terror? Oh yeah, we’ve traveled this road on Day One. There is no proper etiquette except I’m in charge of cleanup.
“Stand still,” he commands.
“Yes, Sir.”
Then I feel him do… something to my back. Is he misting me with water?
“May I ask what you’re doing, Sir?”
“No.”
He started at my neck and has covered every inch of my back with a fine mist of something. After turning me a few inches to the right, he starts again. Spraying from my neck to my shoulder and down my arm. Now I can see it. He’s painting me blue.
“Watcha doin’, Sir?” I feel like a kid at Christmas. This is turning out to be a fun surprise.
“What does it look like, little Earther?”
“You’re painting me blue, Sir?”
“Exactly.”
A while later he has painstakingly painted every square inch of my skin blue—a very pretty shade of blue. I’ve wondered if this is some extreme form of kink, but one of the beauties of rooming with a naked guy is that you can always assess the state of their arousal. He’s not. Aroused, that is.
Is this some weird Zinnian ceremony? I consider this might be some type of secret ritual whereby I give up all rights to return to Earth. I speculate that maybe this is some magical rite he thinks will keep me from having another allergic reaction.
He’s not talking.
“Need to pee?” These are his first words in long, quiet minutes.
“No, Sir.”
“Next phase,” he announces, so focused on his work he’s distracted.
He changes something in the space-age version of an airbrush he’s wielding and paints darker blue markings on my chest.
“Neytiri!” I squeal. “You’re painting me like Neytiri, the female lead from Avatar!”
“I wondered when you’d figure it out, Victoria. For a barrister, I thought you’d catch on about an h
our ago.”
“I was too busy wondering what weird sexual fetish this was. I didn’t know you were being wonderful.”
“Ever hear the old Earth saying give with one hand and take with the other? If you hadn’t noticed, I don’t bother to hide my weird sexual fetishes. But tell me again how wonderful I am.” He looks so handsome when he’s teasing.
I glance down and see Neytiri from Avatar coming to life on my own body and feel no compunction against praising my big Zinn. “Wow! This is amazing. You’re amazing.”
Perhaps that was a bit over the top, but he’s grinning and really, what’s the harm in that?
“Need a break?”
“No. I’ll hold it. I can’t wait to see the finished product.”
“Hold on to the ropes,” he says as he lowers the krannock to the floor. “Go pee, then come right back. Do not, I repeat, do not look at yourself in the mirror.”
An hour later, he’s striped my skin, braided my hair into tiny little Neytiri braids—I had no idea his hands were so nimble—and has adorned me with a feathered necklace and headdress. We debated for a while and he made me beg, but I’m wearing the little triangular loincloth that pulls the whole costume together.
There’s no full-length mirror on board, so Voxx records me and plays it on every screen in the ship.
“Wow. Thanks, Sir.”
First of all, I look awesome. I’m not tall and slim like Neytiri, but I could be her shorter sister. Second, the big purple asshole did this for me. He could have watched porn all day, or Netflix and chilled, or tinkered with his star charts. But he researched Neytiri and went into his little 3-D printer alcove to produce the airbrush, body paint, and feathers. Then he stood there for hours getting me gussied up.
“You’re welcome.”
“Why’d you do it?”
“Three little letters, Victoria,” he gently scolds.
Of course, the big prick has to assert his dominance. At least he’s my big prick. “Sorry. Why’d you do it, Sir?”
“I did it to please you.”
My face freezes. My whole body is paralyzed. I’m a statue. I order every molecule of my being not to cry, but it’s really hot and really wet behind my eyes right now.
“Please me, Sir?” I squeak.
He nods like it’s matter-of-fact and obvious as hell. Well, it’s not matter-of-fact and obvious as hell to me.
I grab his wrist and look him square in the eye. “Why did you want to do that, Sir?”
His eyes search my face to see if I’m teasing, but he must see how serious I am. He grabs both my wrists and bends his face to within inches of mine.
“Because I searched and investigated and conferred with everyone I know. I saw you juggle school and shitty jobs. I read your online diary where you wrote about eating nothing more than noodles so you could buy school books. And I know you don’t want me to mention it, but my heart clenched along with you when you cried because you couldn’t swerve in time to avoid hitting a deer on the road.
“Most important, I consulted my own heart, and I picked you. I realize you just met me, but I’ve watched you for years. I’ve known you for years. I’ve…” He clamps his mouth shut and turns away. Was my big, Zinn, the bane of my existence, my purple nemesis, going to say he’s liked me for years?
My stomach clenches and drops like an elevator without brakes.
“Could you… could you finish your sentence, Sir?” I’ve never wanted to hear anything as much as I want to hear what he has to say right now.
“I was going to say I’ve invested eight days of my life training you to be a good submissive,” he says without emotion as he stabs me with his silver stare.
“Well,” I force my voice to be just as light, just as emotionless as his, “what are you going to do with a perfectly well-trained blue submissive?”
“I had some very specific, very creative ideas when you were holding those ropes on the krannock and I was spraying every nook and cranny of your delightful body. But I wouldn’t want to harm a sick female.”
“You’re so right, Sir. I know you don’t like to be told what to do, but if this little blue submissive doesn’t get inoculated very soon, she might have a relapse.” My face is calm, and my voice is bright, and I can feign nonchalance just as well as he can.
When he just stands there I add softly, “I want to please you, too, Sir. I’m feeling good enough to try anything.”
It’s as if the Energizer bunny just got new batteries because he leaps into action. Within moments his hands are laden with rope, lots of it.
“You have to promise me something, my little blue submissive.”
“What, Sir?”
“Promise you’ll use the safe word if you start hurting.”
“Scout’s honor, Sir.”
“Is that a trick?”
“That’s a pledge to follow the rules, Sir.”
He steps closer and his nimble fingers begin encasing me in knotted ropes. I saw something like this in a movie once. The bad guy tied up the heroine and left her for the rats to eat. A frisson of fear flies up my spine, then I tune in to his warm, competent fingers flying close to my skin. His mastery is skillful… and arousing. Where did he learn such a thing?
“Want to fly, Neytiri? Just like in the movie?”
“Yes, Sir.”
He’s serious. He looks so… earnest. This male has spent his whole day pleasing me. No, that’s not it at all, that makes it sound like he made me come a few times. The word pleasing doesn’t begin to touch what this male has done for me today.
He’s pleasured my body, sure, but look at him! He’s dressed me up and now he’s going to make me fly. I’m beginning to understand the ‘Commander’ thing. He wasn’t lying when he said what we have has nothing to do with me giving and him taking. He gives, too. Just in a different way.
He provides me with a padded stool as he trusses me with thick green ropes that look amazing next to my blue skin. They’re sturdy and soft, like silk. My mind lets go of its tight hold on reality. I release my need to control everything and allow myself to drift in space with no thoughts.
I come back to the present as Voxx presses a glass of sweet, aromatic grape juice to my lips. I hadn’t realized, but I’m thirsty and needed a bit of sugar. After I finish my drink, he dips his head to mine and kisses me softly.
“You okay, zara?”
Am I? I conduct a mental inventory. “I’m more than okay, Sir.”
I’m tightly encased in ropes. I’m lying on my stomach on the krannock and he’s wrapped beautifully tied knots around my ankles, thighs, and wrists. There’s an elaborate web crisscrossing my torso, and decorative macramé-like configurations surround my breasts, acting as a fancy push-up bra.
“I need to get this area just right,” he says as he captures my nipples between his fingers, causing a yearning down below. “No,” he shakes his head, “I think they still need more attention.”
“Too much attention,” I protest. Need flies along my nerve endings. “The blue paint between my legs is going to wash off, Voxx, I’m dripping wet for you.”
He plucks my nipples again, liquid longing pools in my core, then he says, “I can fix that, zara.”
He stands in front of me so I can watch as he knots more rope. Is the rope moving of its own accord?
I watch more closely and see that while his fingers are flying on one piece of his creation, the rope is knotting itself several inches away. Is this another object he can controll with his mind?
He unties my tiny loincloth and tosses it on the floor. Reaching between my legs, he secures the cord, taking great care to position it on my aroused bud. He performs a flossing motion that almost makes me come, then tightens the cord to keep the knot in the perfect place.
“How’s that? Better?” His voice is velvet-coated steel.
“Mmm.” It’s half pleasure, half pain—the pain of far too much pleasure. Now I want to come.
Ruh-roh, Voxx’s magic rope is fu
ll of amazing surprises—it’s vibrating.
“Voxx!” I scold. I’m painted and trussed, and there’s a knot of pressure on my little button, and now it’s vibrating with as much delicious force as my magic wand back home. I’m dripping wet.
“There’s a place in hell for males who tease their females to distraction,” I try to tease, but hot rivers of need are running through my veins.
“And perhaps we’ll meet each other at the crossroads there, because you’ll be in the special hell reserved for females who drive their males crazy,” he kisses my ear and comes away with blue lips. I doubt he knows. It doesn’t matter, he’s still freaking gorgeous.
