Master of the Galaxy (2 page)

“Place your hands behind your head,” he told
me.

I did as he asked, trembling at his words
but not because they frightened me. Instead his voice evoked an
urgency in me, something that had been starving and seemed to be
now waking up from a long famine and wanting to be fed, demanding
matters of flesh and carnality to satisfy its salacious
appetite.

He walked behind me and disappeared from my
sight.

I became aware of an ache that was beginning
to grow between my thighs. It felt as if something was drawing in
and up inside of me, a need smoldering, warming, throbbing. I
wondered what it was as I tried not to writhe while standing in
place. And then more tingling, but from my breasts this time. I
wondered why they were beginning to hurt as well. Then I realized
it wasn’t my breasts, it was my nipples. I glanced down. They stood
erect, hardened into elongated, taut peaks. And they ached.
Terribly. I almost brought one hand down to touch them to relieve
the pressure.

Suddenly there was a frightful crack and a
pain like a stripe of fire landed across my buttocks.

“What?” I cried out, taking a small,
stumbling step forward, flinging my arms forward to try to steady
myself.

“I did not say you could look down,” he said
from behind me. There was a hard edge to his voice.

I immediately understood. I regained my
balance, raised my chin and laced my hands together again over my
coral curls just above my neck. I kept my back straight despite the
residual pain, which was not really a pain now, just a warmth.

Crack. He swung again. The sting was intense
and I gasped, but only a little. Crack. I was silent for this one.
And again. Crack.

Four times total. My eyes leaked wetness
although I did not so much as twitch even a muscle.

There was a brief silence and then he said
to me quietly, “I am pleased,” for the second time in my life and I
thought I would burst into tears at the sweetness of those
words.

He walked around in front of me and touched
the long thin reed he held in his hand to my breasts, lifting them
up one at a time and releasing them. I watched his face but did not
look down this time. His eyes met mine, calm, confident, focused.
They seemed to have a look of what I would now describe as arousal
and desire. At the time they looked only as if they were the eyes
of a god, deep black with shades of gold, eyes that could devour
me. I remember thinking that I wanted to be devoured.

He drew the cane back swiftly and I closed
my eyes, thinking he was going to strike me across my breasts, but
no stroke came. Instead, I felt his hand wrap around one of my
wrists and gently pull it down to him. He attached something wide,
cold and hard around it. I kept my other arm in place until he drew
it down to him and did the same to my other wrist. I opened my
eyes.

“These next strokes will be a bit harder,”
he said, studying me. “I will have to restrain you for it.”

I do not know why, but the words he spoke
sent a shower of sparks through my body, igniting the blaze below
my navel that already kindled there. My belly was aflutter with
nerves, currents of anticipation running just under my skin, the
pulse between my thighs growing ever stronger although I had no
idea what lay ahead.

He led me to the back of the chamber to a
simple cross of sorts in the shape of an “X,” made of some type of
firm, but giving material, which leaned forward at a slight angle.
I had noticed it in my room, of course, even examined it cursorily,
but paid no real attention to it, unable to imagine what it was or
for what it could be used.

I realized then that there were little
chains of metal at the upper ends of each crosspiece and to these
he took each of my wrists and fastened them, tightening the links
until my arms were stretched as far as they would go above my head
and out to the sides. Behind me, he tapped the cane gently at one
of my ankles until I understood that I was to move it the same
distance apart as my arms. Then he fastened each ankle to the
matching cross.

It is hard to describe how I felt once he
had done this except to say that I felt completely powerless,
exposed and open to him, a raw vulnerability which both excited and
aroused me. I felt more alive than I ever had up until that time in
my life. My skin was infinitely more sensitive, the caress of the
metal, the posts, the air an unrequited tactile awareness, as if
every pore in my body yearned for Him and what he desired to share
with me.

Did I trust him? It is a logical thing to
ask. It is true I had no choice then, restrained as I was,
helplessly immobile, whatever formidable skills I had as a
Jiikorian effectively neutralized. He had never once tried to use
his powers on me and never did he do so. I do not know whether they
would have worked on me, but it is pointless to speculate. He
needed nothing more than Himself. But back to the question of
whether I trusted him. I did, although I do not think I could
explain why to your satisfaction. I was not afraid for my life
although it is not true to say that I was unafraid. I had no idea
of what he was capable and I still may have no idea to this
day.

He moved aside the hair at my neck, drawing
it from my back and letting it drape down to one side. His touch
was gentle, tender even, and my skin tingled where his fingers
brushed against it.

“This,” he said, “is a different implement,”
and he let the tails of what felt like braided leather dangle
against my now exposed neck. I arched up against it, so surprising
was the feeling, a warm, muted softness, but at the same time
austere, obviously a tool for sadistic purposes. He feathered his
hand over my back, sliding his fingers together with the leather as
he drew the strands lower and my mouth went slack at the sweet,
exotic waves rippling over my flesh. He let the feel of velvet
drift lower over the swell of my buttocks and ran his hands over
the curves of my flesh. I whimpered at the shadowed sensuality of
his touch. I could not help it.

Then he withdrew and there was a long moment
of silence before I felt a sudden heavy thud across my buttocks
which threw my body forward against the padded crosspieces and
forced a sharp exhalation of air from my lungs. There was a sting,
an ache, but also something pleasurable in the stimulation and I
felt as if I was beginning to leak fluids from my body although I
could not understand why.

Before I could complete my thoughts, he
landed another blow. And then he began to strike me in earnest, the
tails of the flogger alternating from one side of my buttocks to
the other, sometimes wrapping around my hip which caused me to bite
my lip to keep from crying out, my breath now coming sharp and
fast.

He continued, his cadence rhythmic, unbroken
until just when I thought I might not be able to take any more, and
then he stopped and moved toward me.

“Such a good girl,” he said, his breath warm
against my neck.

I took a deep breath and exhaled, my skin
covered with a sheen of perspiration.

“Do you know why I’m doing this?” he
whispered in my ear, sweeping one finger under my chin.

“No,” I gasped.

“Because I can,” he said. “And because you
need it done to you.”

I felt a tremor in my belly, electricity
flickering down my spine and felt my stomach clench with disbelief.
But I was still aware enough so that I knew the truth of his
words.

He stepped back then and he struck across my
back. My head flew up and I let out a small involuntary cry, so
unprepared was I for the change in sensation. It was different,
sharper, more severe but also more diffuse. The many tails of the
lash can be individually felt as each strikes the skin in a
slightly different place at a slightly different time when it is
swung. It is a sensation that is difficult to understand unless you
have felt it for yourself.

He stopped immediately and was behind me,
running his hand gently over my back, tracing the light outlines of
red he had just placed there. I sighed at his touch, so comforting
and encouraging it was, and wanted, at that point, to do anything
he asked of me.

He continued then and did not stop this
time, even when I began to whimper at each stroke, unsure whether I
was prepared for this, doubtful whether I would please Him. My arms
wilted, held up only by the hard alloy attaching them to their
tethers. But the pain gradually seemed to merge with pleasure, each
sting, each lash, each stripe fading, melding into a union of
exhilaration, until I began to cry out a little with the sybaritism
of it and my head dropped forward. I felt several lashes fall hard
across my thighs and then he stopped and I was only dimly aware
that he had.

He knew then how much I could take and I
suppose it was not much.

I felt his fingers trace my back, gently rub
at my buttocks. He whispered how good I was, how strong I was, how
pleasing I was. I whimpered and moved against him as much as I
could, savoring the feel of his hand on my skin which was like
honey over my abrasions.

He moved my hair aside and kissed the top of
my shoulder. It was a soft, gentle kiss, a kiss of approval,
perhaps even a kiss of affection. My head dropped forward with the
sweet reward.

And then he did something that almost made
me scream with bliss. He put a finger inside of me. Somewhere I had
never imagined a finger would go. I had never felt anything like it
before. He began moving it with soft, gentle upward thrusts and I
thought I might die from pleasure. Truly I did. I moaned, my head
falling forward, my long reddish hair stuck to my temples from
exertion, an inferno, a tempest growing between my thighs. Then, he
inserted another finger and continued plunging into me. I could
hear my own juices, slick and heavy, I felt rivulets running down
now on the inside of my thighs as he continued his exquisite
probing and I was openly moaning now, lost to pleasure, drowning in
wonder.

It was then that I felt something within me
budding, growing, building. An excruciating, insufferable,
delicious longing that began to lift me up to unfathomable heights
to which I had never traveled until I thought I would fall from
them, burst apart and shatter into a thousand pieces. My breathing
was heavy, labored, my senses had withdrawn in on themselves. I
felt a fevered blackness squeezing around me, pushing me up higher
and faster, rushing toward a blinding, dazzling brilliance.

Then suddenly, he withdrew and stepped back
from me. I gasped. I cried out. I wanted to beg him to continue,
but somehow knew I was not supposed to beg for anything. I felt
bereft, abandoned, more alone than I had ever felt in all my one
hundred and thirty-nine years.

There was a moment of silence while I heaved
in my restraints, my hair falling forward in a long damp tangle.
And then I heard his voice chuckling from behind me, low and
rich.

“And they say Yarians never get wet.”

I was relieved to hear him still there. I
never tire of hearing his voice. Yes, it is imposing and demanding,
but soothing and comforting at the same time. I wanted more. I
wanted his touch again. I pushed myself back toward him.

He chuckled again. “Patience, patience, pet.
I think perhaps you will get no more today.”

Was I his pet? I did not care. It was his
second sentence that struck me. Would he really leave me alone,
unfulfilled? I would not be able to bear it. But that is exactly
what he did. He left.

It was only later that two women came,
unshackled me and helped me to the bed in my chamber. I lay down
nude, unmindful that I was unclothed, exhausted, weary, and also
unfulfilled, still aching for his touch. They rolled me gently to
my stomach. I did not care. I was so tired. I felt them run their
fingers lightly over my back and buttocks, listened to them discuss
my state amongst themselves, heard them say that my marks were not
bad and really did not need attending to.

I wondered then what they meant. They were
not bad? Would there be worse to come? If only I had known then
what I know now, I would have questioned His temperance that first
time.

I soon came to realize that I was not alone
in my standing on His planet. There were others to serve Him, girls
of all varieties, each one perfect and beautiful, girls with dark,
creamy skin, spiraled black hair to their waists, pale voluptuous
girls with soft, white locks, willowy girls with skin of burnished
copper, hair of cinnamon. They all seemed much more skilled at
pleasing him than I. They were, as a whole, quiet, careful,
helpful, docile.

I had never been quiet or docile and
struggled with that as I wanted to please Him as well. I talked
with those girls who would speak with me, male staff, soldiers,
anyone who would hold a conversation. He did not seem to mind and
never took me to task for it. The only time I became tongue-tied
was around Him and not even always then, as you will see. Despite
my innate sense of superiority, I always felt inferior to the
perfection with which he surrounded himself.

All of His girls wore collars, all of
different stones, gems or jewels. I had been trained to recognize
precious materials. None was as rare as the Tavos stones I wore
around my neck, but each was lovely. I admit I did feel special as
if I was His favorite but whether I actually was or whether I just
wanted it to be that way, I do not know.

* * * * *

He continued to come to me and during each
visit, slowly taught me more of what pleased him, but there soon
came a time I will never forget in all the thousand years I may
live. This is what happened.

I had learned how to kneel properly the way
he liked and I waited patiently for him to speak to me.

“This time will be a little different. I
think you are ready for it.”