by Alana Khan
Voxx has never lied to me, so I know he’ll stop when I say ‘red’. If I don’t like what he’s about to do, I’ll say ‘red’ a minute into his little ‘experiment’ and we’ll move on. Hopefully to something I’ll like.
“Scoot over and get under the covers. You need to finish your nap.”
He pulls off his clothes and joins me. Wow, an afternoon nap might just be better than sex. I can’t remember the last time I did this. Between law school and juggling a couple of jobs just to stay afloat, I didn’t have the luxury of naps.
He curls behind me, splays his hand on my belly, and kisses my head. I notice the sun pouring in through the windows and “Afternoon of a Faun” streaming into my consciousness from hidden speakers as I drift off to sleep.
I’m awakened by my hips dancing, pressing against something warm and firm. Voxx is finger fucking me and my body is halfway to the finish line before my brain is awake.
“Is this fair, Sir?” I protest, but it’s delicious to wake up like this.
“No. Things are never fair with me. I’ll always be in charge.”
I turn onto my back and open myself more fully to him.
“Please don’t penetrate me, Sir,” I say coyly as I bend my knees to give him better access.
“I’ll do as I please, little female,” his voice is deeper than usual and he winks at me. Is he doing a bad imitation of a marauding pirate? Have I discovered Voxx’s playful side?
“Please, Sir. I’ll be forced to tell the authorities.”
“Report me if you want; I’ll already have had my way with you.” He slides another finger inside me. “Go ahead and yell. Don’t you know you’re far from home and no one is coming to save you?”
“Have you no decency, Sir?”
“None.” He dives between my legs and replaces his fingers with his tongue.
“Please don’t take my maidenhead, Sir. I beg of you. I’ll be sullied,” I say as I press his shaggy head even harder against my clit.
“I’ll take what I want,” he mumbles against my greedy flesh then penetrates me with his tongue as his thumb circles my needy nub.
“Do what you will. I will never enjoy your caress.”
“We’ll see.”
He returns to his ministrations, working me over in earnest. My orgasm hits me at a hundred miles an hour. I scream his name as every muscle in my body spasms in pleasure.
“I told you not to bother resisting,” he licks his shiny lips and tosses me a roguish smile, “no one can hear your screams.”
I wait until the last aftershocks of my release ebb, then lean down and grab that beautiful cock.
“Don’t force me to do such a disgusting thing,” I beg as I slide him into my mouth with a lusty hum.
He pulls out of me and presses my shoulders into the mattress. “I have something else planned. Ass position, beautiful.”
Shit. I don’t want this. All my relaxed muscles and happy thoughts cease. Playing ‘innocent maiden to depraved pirate’ just evaporated and fear pounds along my veins.
“Yes, Sir.” How many seconds of pain do I have to endure before I say ‘red’? I promise myself all I have to do is count to ten by Mississippi’s. I feel his weight leave the bed and hear him opening drawers in the white dresser on the other side of the room. Is that where he keeps his implements of torture?
“Blindfold,” he announces as he strokes my hair. He attaches a serious blindfold over my head with what feels like a dog collar closure. This isn’t a blind man’s bluff blindfold from childhood where you can peek. It’s pitch dark in my world right now.
“Can you see?”
“No, Sir.”
“Good. What do you hear?”
“Debussy, Sir.”
“How does Debussy make you feel?”
“Soft and floaty, Sir. Calm.”
“That’s why it’s playing. Dive into the music. And this.”
‘This’ is two fingers pumping into my core.
“That’s right,” his deep voice is next to my ear. “This is pleasure, right Victoria?”
“Yes, Sir.”
He pulls my hair to the opposite side, over my shoulder, and kisses a line from the nape of my neck all the way down my backbone to my ass. His lips are feather soft and make faint little smacking sounds from time to time.
He stands, and I hear him grab something off the bedside table. Every muscle in my body tenses.
“Lift your head.”
I do as I’m told.
He sticks something in front of my face. “Smell this.”
They have different animals on Zinn, but I know leather when I smell it. I tense even more and know instinctively that my tight muscles will make the impending pain worse.
“It’s leather, Sir.”
“That’s right, zara. Here.” He brushes the stiff leather handle across my mouth. “You’re such a good girl. You do just as your Sir asks,” his deep voice is seductive.
“Sit up on all fours and tip your head back.” I follow his instructions. My throat is fully exposed as I lean as far back as I can in this position. The tips of my breasts are thrust out in the cool air.
He must have flipped the implement of pain in his palm, because now I feel leather strands brush across my lips, almost like soft kisses. I try to count, but don’t know how many strands there are.
The feel of them is like an expensive purse I bought once at a second-hand shop. I didn’t have the money for it, but I splurged. The shopkeeper said it was deerskin, and it was the softest leather I’ve ever touched.
“Relax. I promise there will be no surprises. I promised pleasure, right?”
“Not exactly, Sir. I believe your exact words were ‘maybe you’ll like it’.”
“I promise no surprises. Right now all I want is for you to get back into the Ass position and dive into the music.”
“Yes, Sir.”
If this is the point of the exercise, I’m doing great. I actually relax a bit.
“Better?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“No surprises,” he promises as the leather implement begins a leisurely journey down my spine from nape to waist. The tendrils caress me. Most drag in a straight line, a few stragglers stray from the pack.
I tune in to their feather-light caress, actually lifting my back to capture more of their leathery kiss. I’m still present for every stroke of the buttery tendrils, but I find myself diving into a quiet cocoon of pure awareness, of being fully in this moment.
“Pleasure, correct?”
“Yes, Sir.”
This goes on for the entire length of Debussy’s “Reverie.” During the last few minutes of the piece, the flat leather strands caress up my ankle and leg, across my core, to the other ankle. Now that my terror has ratcheted down to mere fear, I try again to count the strands. There are too many to count.
“Follow directions, Victoria. Be in the music.”
I do as I’m told, even allowing the word ‘red’ to move to the edges of my mind. I’d been keeping it close so it would spurt out of my mouth the moment I felt pain.
“Gymnopedie No. 1” begins to play. Not Debussy, but one of my faves nonetheless.
“Good girl. You’re back in the music. No surprises. I’m going to touch you in a different way. See if you can find the pleasure. If not, say ‘yellow’. Unless it’s pain, then say ‘red’.”
“Yes, Sir.” He waits for almost a whole song. I guess he realized my muscles had tightened.
“Now, Victoria.” He snaps the tassels on my bottom. I tune in. No pain.
As soon as he said ‘now’, my nostrils flared in fear, my arms began to tremble. In that one moment I launched from calm to… high alert.
Voxx stands, unmoving, behind me as I gather my thoughts. There was the sound of the impending stroke, like a quick whoosh, then the impact which hit with a smack. Perhaps the noise created more fear than the blow itself.
I tune back in to the music, it’s “Lark Ascending” by Vaughn Williams. You�
�re so smart, Voxx, you even keyed it up to the moment the bird is flying higher and higher with every note. I allow myself to fly with the lark, and every muscle in my body stands down, waiting for Voxx to conduct the orchestra.
“Checking in, zara,” his husky voice whispers next to my ear.
“Fine, Sir.” Thanks for the lark, I want to tell him, but I just sink into a calm place.
He rubs my left butt cheek, right where he snapped it. His hand is warm and tender. It’s like a caring anchor. I cling to it, knowing he’s right here with me, and I hold onto the music as it keeps carrying me higher.
The whip begins at my bottom and moves up my spine. I have no idea what he’s doing, but I try to imagine it in my mind’s eye. He’s making swift figure-eights along my back. There’s a rhythm of the whoosh of the flogger as it travels in the air, and the dull smack as it hits. The smacks are soft as they flick me over and over, the tendrils like tentacles—sometimes sliding over my skin, sometimes grabbing it a little too forcefully.
He stops, his palm sliding up and down my back, grounding me with his touch.
“Okay?” His voice is deep and warm and for a moment I hold onto it instead of the music.
“Yes, Sir.”
“No surprises,” he announces, and I wait for something to change.
Just the tempo changes as the flogging continues. It’s all good.
“Okay, Victoria? Yellow?”
“No, Sir. Green.”
“No surprises.” The strokes are harder now. I hear the air whoosh with each flick of the flogger, I feel not only the harsh caress of the tendrils, but the swirl of the air.
“Breathe, little Earther.” I follow his commands—breathing and listening. And then it suddenly dawns on me that people do this for pleasure.
How does this become pleasure, I wonder. Because it’s me and Voxx, and we’re doing this with consent. And the adrenaline is coursing through me in powerful waves, pooling in my core and radiating out from there. This isn’t the pleasure of an intimate kiss, or even his tongue on my clit, this is hard and harsh and demanding. This is a bonfire as opposed to a candle.
At first, I focus on the pleasure and ignore the little stings of pain as the strands strike the swell of the sensitive bottom curve of my ass. Then the fingers of my mind seek out the little sparks of pain. Somehow they morph into desire.
Now that I’ve found the pleasure, I dive in deeper. I moan, little grunts that are half pleasure, half pain. I wonder if I could come from this.
“No surprises, zara,” he’s standing to my side, his voice firm and commanding. The music’s louder now, something with a pounding beat, rhythm we could fuck to.
“Count to six out loud or in your head.” The intensity of the flogger increases as he alternates slaps across each ass cheek. I count in my head. Knowing how many makes it easier to tolerate. It’s not pain, exactly. No, it’s not pain at all. It’s intense awareness of every atom in my body. I’m on fire for Voxx.
“Six,” I announce on the last stroke.
By the sound of it, he tosses the whip to the floor. His hand caresses the meat of my ass, then he drops kisses there.
Climbing in behind me, he nips the skin along the column of my neck as one hand plucks a nipple and the other delves between my folds.
“You did so well. I’ll take the blindfold off in a minute. Tell me how it felt.”
“Like a nice massage, Sir. Until the end. The last six stung.”
“But you didn’t say ‘red’, did you zara?”
“No, Sir.”
“Do you know why?”
I don’t want to admit I learned how to like it. Instead I offer, “Because I wanted to please you, Sir.”
“Yes. I’m sure you did. And I appreciate that. But there’s another reason.”
“What, Sir?”
His fingers leave their post where they’ve been sliding between my folds and he grabs my hand. He thrusts it between my legs and hisses into my ear, “Feel that, zara? Have you ever been this wet? You’re gushing with arousal. Want me to make it better?” He nips my ear far harder than he should. It produces sparks of lust.
“Yes.” I won’t tell him I’m desperate for it.
He leaves the blindfold on, flips me onto my back, and his hands fly along my skin—moving, caressing, squeezing, plucking. There are little playful slaps and scratches with nails that claw a little too rough. And then he’s biting me. Not close-lipped bites that cautiously cover his teeth, but harsh nips that tug a corresponding zing right between my legs.
“Sir.” I want to call his name and beg and plead and moan, but those three little letters are all that escape my mouth.
He pulls off the blindfold and grabs my chin between his thumb and forefinger. He captures my gaze, I can’t glance away. It’s an order.
He kisses me hard and passionate and commanding. His tongue invades me. I couldn’t resist if I wanted to. And I don’t want to. What I want right now is to scream that I love him. The word is chanting over and over in the back of my mind like an obstinate mantra. Thank goodness I have the presence of mind to clamp my teeth shut.
“Hold on, zara,” he says as he slides on top of me, then plunges into my core, thrusting all the way to the hilt in one swift, harsh movement.
I grasp his ass cheeks and for one moment I notice every slide of the powerful muscles under my palms. Then I’m carried away by the feel of him in my channel, his grunts of lust, the force of every thrust that pounds me closer to the headboard.
There’s nothing soft about this coupling. It’s unyielding and vigorous—just like him.
“Harder,” I urge, even though it’s barely a whisper in his ear. He pistons into me, our flesh slaps together with wet, carnal noises that increase in frequency as I listen.
He quickens his stroke and perfects his angle and my eyes fly open in pure lust. “Can I come, Sir?”
“Not until you say it.”
He’s pounding against me, my passion is swirling so fast and so high I feel I’m going to drown in it. If I don’t come soon, I’ll burst into flames on this bed.
Crazy as it is, out of all the words in the universe, I know the one he wants to hear.
“Master.”
“Come, zara.”
And I do. It’s cataclysmic, incendiary. I couldn’t stop it if I tried. It overwhelms me. My muscles clench his magnificent cock as he coaxes pleasure from my deep, private spaces. “Master,” I say again, for the pure pleasure of saying the word into his ear.
A loud bark of bliss accompanies his release. His warm fluid jets inside me and a feeling of completeness surrounds me as I descend back to this room from where I was dancing in the stratosphere.
“Sir,” I say it on a sigh. I’ve yielded everything to him. At this moment I have no resistance left.
“I liked Master better, zara. But Sir will do.” He pulls me on top of his chest and nuzzles my neck.
~.~
He gave me grape juice and chocolate—the Zinns appropriated many wonderful things from Earth—and let me sleep for maybe an hour. I’m still not back to normal from the aftermath of whatever his sperm did to me on the Drayant.
He’s sleeping on his side next to me. It’s still light outside and I take the opportunity of his somnolent state to catalog his face. His beautiful skin looks almost rosy in the fading light of the afternoon.
I’ve known him only ten days, but in that time his alien-ness has faded from my awareness. Purple is the new tan, I guess. It’s just Voxx. Voxx from Zinn.
I fist my hands to keep from touching him. They itch to trace the arch of his white brow, or the coastline of his skin where flesh meets hair. I want to map the slope of his nose and the bow of his lips.
I’m going to miss him.
He’s been counting the days since we met, noting with every second and minute that passes that our time is limited. I’ve counted as well. Just ticking off the minutes until I can return to Earth. But that changed since I woke up in t
his house.
This house that catches the setting sun just right, and is decorated in my favorite colors, and has this cozy bed where love is made and true words are murmured.
I never thought this would happen, but I’ll miss this male. Well, I won’t. By some odd trick of technology, I’ll have the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. I won’t remember him or miss him at all.
I’ll get home and resume my studies and probably have an itch to date again for some unknown reason. And for another unknown reason, none of the candidates will measure up. Ever.
