I Am The Thorn King, The Lord of Brambles

I Am The Thorn King, The Lord Of Brambles

CHAPTER ONE

I like sunsets, but perhaps not in the traditional sense. If asked, I'll agree wholeheartedly that the oranges are spectacular, that the reds complement the pinks, that it is romantic. The beauty for me, however, lies to the East. I turn from the sunset to watch the night-rise. The way the last rays of the sun strike the high, craggy mountains of my homeland to give them a pale bloodiness. The clouds, bruising from purple to a smoky blue, stretching where they will. The smell of night, that after-a-rain clean musk of soil and breezes carrying sap on the wind. The sound of it; that first swell of frustration and struggle, the dead in the middle of the night, the quickening of the early morning. The cruel power I feel growing in me as the sky dies from blue to black. The stirring in my abdomen, the heat in my chest, the hunger speaking to me from my loins, the blood surging through my body – they tell me that now, now is the time to fulfill what I am. A sadist.

I started early, though I wasn't exactly aware of it. I learned to read at a very early age, about three. I could read textbooks when I was five, and by chance I came across an anatomy and biology book. My mother, a biologist, always had lots of these lying around. Thus, I learned the hidden places of people and what the physical act of sex was. By the time I was about six, I realized that I found the girls in my class to be quite attractive, while I did not find the boys to be so. I had crushes, but of course that was as far as it went. I remember a crush I had on one particular girl for about five years. The usual story – like somebody for a long time, but never really seem to get around to telling them. The suspense of unrequited puppy-love is almost better that way, when you're so new to the world. Can you imagine what it would be like if a tiny Korean girl, so perfect in every way, came over to a shy blonde boy (such as myself), kissed him, and said “Hi, sweetie!”? Can you? I probably would have turned red and run away, never to rejoin the dating scene. So no, we were just very good friends, and she slugged me in the chest when I said that she looked pretty in the pink dress that her mother had shoved her into one day. So I learned to be around her, and hide what was inside my heart and in my thoughts. Which, as it turned out, proved to be very useful to me in another respect. When I turned seven, I began to have dreams.

Many women, naked, are in rows on either side of me. What's that behind me? A very big man. He will do what I tell him. The ladies are in very weird wooden things, bent over at the waist like those high school girls who lean over counters and car hoods to talk to people. Their hands and heads are held by the heavy wooden stocks, and they cry a lot, but they can't get free. I won't let them free.

One of the ladies doesn't cry. I stop in front of her, look her in the eye. Dad always says that when you meet someone, you should look them in the eye. She does not cry, she stares at me.

“Why don't you cry?” She doesn't answer my question. She should not do that. If somebody asks a question, it's very rude not to answer. She ought to know that. I wave my hand at the big man. He walks to her breasts – they're kind of big. He grabs one at the tip, and starts to squeeze and twist. The lady still looks at me. She's starting to cry, one tear at a time.

“Don't cry,” I say, wiping a tear away. Then I wave at the big man again, and he grabs her other breast, at the tip, and twists very hard. The lady starts to cry very hard.

 

“Why didn't you cry when I wanted you to? Don't cry.” I wave something different to the big man again, and he pulls out a big clippie thing. He moves behind the lady. There are big hand prints on her breasts, and I cup a little bit of one in my hand, very gently. The lady is still crying, but not so much now.

“I hate you!” She yelled at me. That's not very nice. She shouldn't do that. I wave to the big man, and he spreads her legs apart. She tries to kick him, but he is very strong. She keeps bringing her legs together.

“Stop that.” She doesn't listen to me. I grab her other breast with my other hand.

“What are you doing?” She asks me. She sounds very afraid, but she should have listened to me. I pick my feet up off the floor, and hang from her breasts. She starts to scream, and throw her chest from side to side. She swings me back and forth, but that only makes it worse for her. If only she had listened from the start. Her screams get higher and higher.

“Please, let go!” She asked me nicely, but I want her to do something for me first. “Spread your legs,” I order her. She does it very quickly, even though they shake. I let go. She's crying again. I wave to the big man, and he spreads her legs and high butt cheeks. “This is for earlier.” I wave to the big man, and he puts the clippie thing, as big as my hand and as strong as the big man's hand, somewhere between her legs, like he's clipping two things together. I hear it snap shut. The lady's eyes go very big and her face gets very red, but only for a second. Then she starts to scream very, very loud. The big man starts to hit her with his palm, hard, on the flesh around her hips and thighs, on her spread cheeks. I motion the big man to me, and we start to walk away. The lady is screaming and slamming back and forth in the stocks, her big breasts bouncing back and forth and side to side. The big man and I walk away, down a long line of women, all crying.

Notice anything else about the dream? Anything jump out at you? Hopefully the fact that at the time, I was seven years old. I woke up from that dream without really knowing what it meant. I told my parents I had a bad dream, but that I didn't remember what it was about. For some reason, I thought that if I told them they would ask me a lot of questions, and talk to me a lot. Maybe even be angry. I didn't give it much thought, and just went to school like you're supposed to.

Let me make something very clear. I was a normal child. I laughed a lot. I played with other kids. I had lots of friends. I spent the night at my friend's houses, and we would watch movies or play video games late at night, and then get up and go outside the next day. I had loving parents who were very proud of their only child's progress in school. I didn't think it was right to hit or fight girls. I read a lot, was shy around new people. Just an ordinary, though unusually quiet and intelligent, boy. I've had normal girlfriend/boyfriend relationships in my life. But when I was about ten, I began to realize that something was different about me. Something that absolutely must be kept secret. One day, I ran across the word “sadism” by accident in the city library. Sadism. That must have something to do with being sad, because “sad” is in it, right? I went and looked it up. The definition leered back at me, and I quickly turned the page to the beginning of the “G” section so people wouldn't know what I had been looking at. I felt a little sick. Was that what all those dreams meant? I started to feel really sick, but I also started to feel . . . something else. Something within me felt like it wanted to get out.

When I was in kindergarten, our class had an incubator with chicken eggs in it. One day, during recess, I decided to stay in and read. I heard some cracking sounds in the incubator, and I rushed over in a panic. Jean, the teacher, was cleaning up some paints in the painting area. I hurried over to the little plastic dome of the incubator and stared. There was a little beak, coming through the shell. I went and got Jean, and she called everyone inside to see it. Other kids asked me whether because I had seen the first one “being born,” if that made me the mommy. Smarter ones corrected them; no, he's the daddy. I didn't tell them that I couldn't be the daddy, because I was a human. I did, however, proudly watch the little chicks start to hatch. I stayed the rest of the day, even into the afternoon group, to watch them. And they did, sure as anything else in the world. When I felt that unknown something within me start to hatch in the library, I waited with the same fascination. I went back to the dictionary, pulled it off the shelf, and took it to a quiet corner in the library. I wondered if there had been a picture next to the definition, flipping quickly to it. No picture. See also: pain, domination, dominatrix, fetish, leather, etc., etc. . . . As I felt the dull hurt in my groin, I recognized the nature of the hatching egg: reptilian, not avian.

And here I sit at twenty years of age in a charcoal-colored Jeep Grand Cherokee, waiting for the fulfillment of a dream, waiting for a doomed young woman to come back to her house. I'm 5'8”, a little below average height. Got some crap about that in high school, get more crap about it now that I'm in college. Still, it's good-natured, and I go along with it. What I lack in size, I make up for in capability. I weigh about 153 lbs, and it's all muscle. Hard, toned, defined, explosive, fluid, predatory. My body is a source of pride for me, my self-guided chrysalis transformation from a prison of rotundity to what I am today. My dirty-blonde hair, darkening now to my father's light brown and spreading across my chest, legs, and abdomen as well, has a permanent tousle to it. Years of martial arts and a recent year of boxing have made me more than confident in a physical situation. Years of reading about warrior cultures, ethos, tactics, and training, have focused me to a razor's edge. The Art of War , by Sun Tzu, has had a particular affect upon me. My eyes oscillate between green and blue, depending on . . . who knows what. Usually they're an off-gray, though. I have strong, quick hands, broad shoulders, a narrow waist, a well-muscled back. I'm trying to give straight facts. About my dick, there's nothing too special, though I grew a bit when I got to college. I'm about 7”, allowing a smidge on either side of that for good and bad days. I'm fairly thick, though I've never measured it. The girls I've been with can grasp the circumference with their hand not quite comfortably. I curve slightly to the left and I have a large head covered by a foreskin that I'm quite fond of. And I'm ready.

Quelling my growing erection with a thought, I watch the driveway two blocks away. She's due back soon. My heart starts to pound in my chest. So long. So much planning. So much that could be. The girl I'm waiting for is curvaceous, her hips and ass flaring out and down from the muscles on either side of her spine. There are many similar young women out there, but they seem like cheap knock-offs when I compare them to this beauty. It's less a difference of note and more a difference of tonality.

I check my watch. 1:34 am. She's not due for another eleven minutes, at least. Out of boredom, I glance through the dossier I have constructed on her. Glossy 8x11 photographs, taken from rooftops, taken in malls, taken through windows, taken at her church with a fake press pass, taken with her legs parted in a simple and short-lived missionary to her idiotic Limp-Bizkit-Wannabe-Pot-Smoking-Prematurely-Ejaculating-And-In-A-Goddamn-Punk-Band-Buffoonish-Motherfucker-Fraternity-Jackass boyfriend. Okay, so I'm a little jealous. He probably voted for Bush, too. Asshole.

She's 5'6”. I know a lot of guys out there go for the smaller women, because they're easier to dominate or it's just a thing for them, but I like to look somebody in the eye. She's not petite – she's sturdy, able to bear what I will inflict upon her. She is well-toned, though, with clean lines and muscles that can push back when you're fucking that hungry muscle between her legs. Though, to be fair, she doesn't know that yet. Her breasts court “C” cup range and move with the beauty that nature gave them when she runs down Harvard Boulevard at 8:10 am. Her tawny hair tumbles down the back of her head to rest between her shoulder blades. It wakes up at 7:25 am on weekdays as a tigress, and she tames it with straighteners and blow dryers that I want to scream at her not to use, that she's so beautiful without all the things that she thinks she needs. If she's going out for the night, she puts some bounce in with a curler, which isn't so bad. She went out tonight, to see her boyfriend and go to a club to dry-hump him. I get hard sometimes, thinking about her getting separated from him in the club and ending up in my dimly lit corner of the club, watching with a small camera in my “stylish” sunglasses. Zoom function, my friend's design. Well, he's not exactly a friend. Let's call him a supplier for now. Other girls come up to me in the club, and I sate myself for a time with substitutes.

I don't have a problem attracting women. Woe be to them. I remember one girl, we met at the neon-lit bar of the club that my target and her boyfriend had gone to, fake ID's in our hands. She looked up at me with a quirk in her eyebrow. Christ, she looked fifteen. We went up to the cushioned room, the VIP room she paid for (gotta love those rich sluts), and she began to squeeze my cock through my jeans. I had watched her ass crease and sway as we walked up the stairs, and I was ready. A juicy ass is my biggest turn-on, followed by a pretty face and full head of hair.

My black tee shirt slid off easily. She crouched on her knees at my side as I sat on the wide, circular couch. She brought me out and started her performance. I let it go on for about ten minutes, contenting myself and her to fondling her barely-B-cup breasts. She wasn't too bad, but she wasn't good enough to merit my sitting there and giving myself into her lack of a skilled tongue and mouth. I slid my hand to the inside of her thigh at the knee, slowly kneading the flesh there. Slowly kneading the flesh higher, higher. Running one light finger over her thin and wet thong, flowing my fingers under her thong to sit at the top of her little mound. My four fingers, side by side, glided over the shaved surface of her sex. She moaned as I passed over her lips, a little firmer, and tried to press into my hand, her tongue sliding along the indentation at the back of my flared head, then falling over me in wild drunken abandon. I kept my hand just outside of the range of pleasurable pressure. There are many ways to be a sadist, and denying pleasure is one of my favorites. My hand slowly worked it's way between her parted legs and raised ass, already quaking. When I reached the beginning of the crack of her ass, I paused. She stopped her squeaking on my cock, and raised off it to pout at me.

“Hey, don't stop! I paid for this damn room you asshole, and you're going to –”

She stopped in mid-bitch as her mouth opened wide and her breath left her when I sharply dragged my hand back the way it had come, burying two fingers in her. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and I knew that for a split-second she was completely off-guard. I grabbed the back of her head, twisting her enraging highlights in my left hand and throwing her involuntarily open mouth down upon me. Evenly and strongly pumping her with my right hand, her head with my left, I bit the dimple on the side of her hip. She started to gag, making little noises that couldn't make up their mind between pleasure and lack of oxygen. I pulled her up slowly, still working her pussy as she pushed it into me. She stopped panicking, waiting for her turn to get air. An inch from being off me, I forced her back down, over her untalented tongue, deep into her mouth, her throat, her tonsils quavering, her throat starting to shiver, her nose buried in my pubic hair. She began to retch. She fought against it for a second, slapping my thigh as she shoved herself still further onto my hand. I quickly pulled her up.

“So, you like it rough, huh? I like it rough too,” she cooed stupidly. I stared at her for a second, right in the eye, before she fell over me again, using her hand to work my shaft. I slapped her hand away and pulled her up, bringing her around in front of me to kneel. I gave her my most unnerving quiet stare and she started to squirm under my gaze, while I was happily thinking about the camcorder running in the sunglasses I had set at a good angle to my left. I shoved her tank top and bra down to release her pert tits.

“Hold them up to me.” Without waiting for an answer, I pulled off my jeans and moved to the edge of the couch. She knelt, giggling and lightly pinching her nipples. Time for a lesson in deepthroating. I pulled her into me, her breasts rubbing up beneath my balls. I told her to use her breasts, to play with them. As she did, I dug both hands into her hair and slowly began to tease her mouth up and down my cock. Even with me handling most of it, she still managed to be inelegant, simply opening her mouth wide and never bringing her lips into play, thin as they were. As I worked her up and down, I looked up at the TV screen showing the hallway outside of the room. Lo and behold, there was my little prey, standing with her goddamn boyfriend. The lack-wit. The ghetto-pretender. The backwards-hat cheesedick. The fucking Abercrombie billboard. An alarmed squeaking made me look down. Her mascara was cascading down her face from the anger that had been coursing through my hands and into her mouth. I immediately assumed one of my characters.

“Don't cry,” I said softly. “We can stop if you want.”

“No, that's okay,” she sniffled. “But just go a little easier, okay?”

“Okay, baby.” I pulled her up and kissed her long and sensuously, lingeringly. Five minutes of throat-pumping and gagging later, I was nearing the end of it. I pulled her up, told her to get a deep breath. Then my hands crushed her into me again. She still hadn't gone all the way, but she would. Looking at the monitor, I watched my prey fidget nervously with her knee-length skirt and the purse on her elbow. I watched her as the moron left for a second, watched her alone, looking into the gray-green of my monitor, wondering who was in there. She's pretty in the scratchy green light, I thought as I plunged the girl's head down and my hips up, to the very root of my spasming cock. She began to choke, but I only allowed her an inch up and an inch down, fucking the frantic ropes of saliva coming forth. Later, I buttoned my jeans, took the girl by the arm, put on my shades-and-hat disguise, walked out past them, and proceeded to get the girl too drunk to remember.

I look at the rest of the dossier, shaking off memories and anticipation. She lives alone in a duplex apartment. Alone – no roommates, no kids, no family, no boyfriend, no fucking Cujo to tear your calf off. That is to say, no dogs. I made damn sure of that last week. She's been going to school at the local college for a year now, no decided major yet. She's estranged from her parents, only a few friends to speak of, and of course the boyfriend. And there they are – Mungsucker and my target.

He's trying to come in, drunkenly I might add, but she's shaking her head no. Guess she's worried about getting to work tomorrow. She shouldn't be. They start to shout – I can hear them from where I sit, two blocks away. Perfect, now she won't be missed for too long if she doesn't call. He storms off and peels out in his big masculine truck as she goes into the house and slams the door. Now.

I quickly check myself over: small bag, a pair of ultra-baggy jeans, a belt, an Abercrombie long-sleeved shirt, and a Gap baseball cap, all courtesy of her boyfriend's closet-o-crap. If any fibers are going to be dropped in her room, I want them to lead somewhere else. I pull the car around, driving towards the nearby freeway and the overgrown dirt alley behind the little row of houses with a duplex on the end. I walk to her back door, patiently pretending to ring the doorbell for the benefit of any watchers. At last, I hear the rush of water in pipes as she steps into the shower like she does every night. I quietly pick the lock with a locksmith's gun – why the hell aren't these things regulated better? – and pad into the house. Speed and stealth are the two factors at play now. Reaching into the bag, I pull out my essentials and distribute them: black leather gloves, a soft black cloth, and a small black bottle of chloroform.

I pad my way up the carpeted stairs, willing myself not to pay attention to the pictures of her friends on the wall. A soft gold light flows across the floor from the bathroom, the sound of rushing water behind it. I can feel sweat trickling down my back, creeping and slithering along like a coy tongue. Now I crouch in her room, noting the closed curtains – this is almost too easy. Now all I have to do is—I hear the shower stop with a squeak. Fuck. She dries off in her room. FUCK. My heart starts to pound and jump, choking me with glee. No, I can't panic. Think. Where does she dry off? In front of the vanity. Okay, where will she not immediately see me? No good, there's nothing in the room. Just the bed, the door, and the closet. The door will have to do. I quickly squirt some of the chloroform in the rag and clench it in my fist, flattening myself against the wall that will be covered by the door in a few seconds. Still not good: the sound of her feet is making me go blind with lust and anxiety, while my fears and uncertainties are making my hand shake. I force myself to go still, to become as cold and unfeeling as ice. I'm watching this. It's all a movie, a play, a grainy smuggled film, a story. I hear the hinges start to squeak, slowly spreading light onto the bed. She walks in, and it takes all my willpower not to breathe, to hold still for those crucial few seconds where she feels secure. She flicks on the light, still scrubbing at her hair. I must be still. She shuts the door. Not yet. She lowers the towel to her shoulders, standing naked and unreal with her back to me. Now.

With a rush, I wrap my right arm around her chest and arms, pinning them to her sides. My left hand, chloroform-soaked rag lying upon the open palm, covers her mouth as she opens it to scream, muffling the destructive cry. My blitz carries us to the bed, crushing her mouth and nose into the rag. Her legs drum wildly, and she fights with a strength she didn't know she had, a strength she didn't know wouldn't be enough. Her struggles begin to slow, and soon she goes limp. Shaking, I climb off her, turning her head to the side so she won't suffocate. And there she is, prostrate on the bed. Helpless to me. Ripe for the taking. No older than me, still a “minor.” Her round and firmly meaty ass braced against the bed. Her breasts splaying out to the side. Her unblemished skin still glowing from the shower. Her hair in a damp tangle above her head. There she is. And suddenly, I cannot move.

I could leave right now. I could leave, and go have a normal life. Go back to school, find a nice girlfriend. I could have normal relationships, I know it. I can let this girl have the life she has dreamed for herself, worked hard for. I could let her be fully human, not subordinate to another's desires. And such base desires at that. My plan is to keep her for the summer, make her anew. Then, when I go back to school in the fall, either sell her or lease her, as a sex slave. Selling would be safer. Somewhere overseas, far away from anyone less capable than me, who would sell me out in an instant if they were busted. She'll never be asked to play cards. She'll never be asked what she would like for dinner. She'll never be asked an intellectual question. She'll never have a shoulder to cry on that was not the source of her tears. I could leave this insane and evil plan behind. I could die without shame. We could each live a normal life, with only one night of trauma between us. I sigh. But we won't.

I check my watch. 1:58. I must have been standing there for a long time. Losing time. The chloroform will wear off in a few hours, so I need to work quickly. I hurriedly stuff my chloroform kit into my bag, and check outside. Anyone watching from windows will simply see the girl's boyfriend carrying her to a car, his face blurry in the dark. I rummage around in her closet and dress her in a set of sweats after drying her off.

Five minutes later, she's lying in the backseat of the jeep with the rest of my abduction equipment. I snug my cap down on my head and turn the key in the ignition. Something makes me look at her. She looks asleep, the middle seat belt resting against her hip. There's still time to end this. I could put her up in her room and leave. Not really conscious of it, my hand has worked its way to the shifter, chunking it from park into drive. I turn back to the gloom of the dirt alley, and slowly roll away into our oblivion.

Twenty minutes later, I'm at the base of the hill where I've made my den. I live on the outskirts of a decently sized city of 300,000, possibly yours. The city lies on a broad plain, with ocean blocking expansion on three sides and high mountains blocking the remaining route. There are roads traveling the coast on either side of the mountain range, and it is off of one of these that I live. My closest neighbor is at least a half a mile away, and everyone out here is too rich to give a fuck what their neighbors are up to or think. Just like me. I suppose some explanation is in order. My parents, who were always distantly supportive, are what you might have called “old money.” And they were, right up until that fateful Concord flight over Belgium. For two years now, I've been on my own and for one year, psychologists have bored me.

Up, always up. That's how you get to my house. Finally, I can see the gate to my compound. I key the pad sitting ten feet away from the gate, and watch as the heavy iron spikes glide away into the reinforced cinderblock. A double-bend later, and there it is. A large house, two visible floors, with a commanding view of the sea and the mountains across the arm of the ocean . . . and a massive basement with sound-proofed walls. I carry her down to her new home – a small heated cell, unlit, with a mattress, pillow, and blankets set against the wall. I undress her and bind her hands and feet with the shackles bolted to the floor. She is starting to come out of the chloroform fog: all it will take is a sharp noise or movement. I stash some hydrogen peroxide in a squirt bottle in the corner of the room and leave quietly. Afterwards, I go into the adjacent room to get dressed. She will have to be broken before she can be mine, and there's no sense in wasting time. Black sweatpants and a black tee shirt are my standard casual attire for such things. I glance around the walls and settle on a red-leather whip; not my style, really, but it is a symbol of force and power, a weapon of fear. With a crash, I kick open the door to her room, and she bolts awake.

“What do you want?” Her voice cracks with desperation. To her, I am but a silhouette outlined in the corridor. I don't reply, simply letting the coils of my whip fall to the floor. Her eyes follow the threat with widening horror. “Oh God, please just let me go. I promise I won't tell anyone!” Again, I say nothing, simply tighten my grip on the leather handle with a menacing creak. She starts to back up and notices her chains for the first time. Her mouth drops open, and then I speak in what I have been told is my surprising baritone. Timing is everything.

“I have chosen you to be mine. You will not be found. You are to become my slave. You no longer have a name. Your name is Slave, just as mine is Master.” She stares at me in disbelief.

“But . . . but you can't DO that!” I slide the tip of the whip closer to me and gather it in my whip-hand.

“Because you are in my power, you will obey my every command without question, or you will be punished. You may, however, talk or scream as you like, unless I instruct you otherwi—”

“Let me go! You can't do this to a person!” She interrupted me. Bad mistake, Slave. With the tip and hilt of the whip in my hand, I lash out a back-cut against her thigh. Her short scream is part surprise, part pain. She will learn. I strike her on the other thigh, up by her hip. Now her cries are more pain than surprise, starting higher and living longer.

“And you will never . . . never, disrespect or embarrass me. Or you will have far graver consequences than temporary pain.” As I speak, she shudders and cries as red welts appear on her, one on each side. No matter, I will continue.

“I can see that to be of any use to me, you will have to be broken first.” At the word “broken”, she begins to wail and sob, cringing away from me. She doesn't have any idea, but she soon will.

“Understand,” I say less harshly, “that once you are broken and have submitted to my will, your life will go easier. You will not be wantonly beaten or mutilated. Your medical needs will be met. You will not become pregnant – I have had a supply of your birth control pills delivered to me.”

“Please,” she sobs, “just let me go, just let me go. I promise I – I'll never tell anyone, ever. Just let me go home.”

“You will never go home. The rest of your life will be lived out in servitude to me,” I say gently. Then my face becomes hard, cruel. “Your old life is gone, dead. I decide what your life is, now. And you will call me Master when you address me.” She manages only a frantic “No!” before my whip cracks into her side. She doubles over and begins to cry.

“Your breaking begins now.” I throw the whip and my shirt into a corner and move to stand at her feet. Though her body tries to claw away, her eyes cannot escape mine. I push my knees between hers, forcing them apart so that they knock against my hips. She tries to fend me off with her hands, but the chains only go so far. Her hands strain a few inches from my face, grasping only air. I stare at her twisted face, tears streaming down from her eyes, her lips contorted in terror. She throws her hips from side to side under me, flailing her legs as though she was trying to swim. I grab a wrist in each of my hands, and tighten my grip until she cries out. Slowly, inexorably, I force them down to the floor.

Her sobbing stops and she begins to breathe raggedly as I bring my face to within inches of hers. Her eyes are wide, as though the eyelids had been cut away; her pupils dilate and contract sporadically. A single small, infinitely pitiful sound escapes her throat, and then I kiss her. She squirms wildly, trying to throw off her rapist, but to no avail. I bite her lip sharply, and a note of pain escapes from her.

I move down to her neck, pulsing and red, trailing cruel kisses as I inhale her scent. There are so few words to describe smells, yet so many for our poor eyes. I envy the wolf, so more knowledgeable than we in so many ways. I pause at her breasts, heaving rapidly and bouncing from her frenzied gaspings.

No amount of pleading could have pleased me more than her first heart-felt scream as I bite into her nipple. I fill my mouth with her breast, gnaw on the flesh, leaving deep purple marks and bruises as I work my way over every square inch of skin. Her screams reach a new level of realized horror when I work my hand down to her clit and begin to rub fiercely.

After a short time, she cannot help her body's responses. I know they are not hers – I know that she does not secretly enjoy this. It is simply representative of a body's desire to experience less pain. Many of our ancestors were rapists, and it did not become a woman to go unlubricated. It begins to flow from her fear-tightened pussy, and I jab in two of my fingers. Her screams are beginning to annoy me, and I leave her breast to anchor my mouth to hers. One breast lies untouched, while the other is sprinkled with purple punctures that slowly ooze bright red.

I stop fingering her to slide down the front of my pants, revealing my blood-engorged erection. I rest the head at the entrance to what is essentially her virginity. I suddenly stop my movements, and raise myself to look her in the eye, one hand holding her wrists while the other holds her hair close to her head. Realization spreads across her face, and the tears begin to flow silently, her mouth forming a pleading and silent “No.”

“I am the Master, and you are the Slave.”

When I shove in, a shuddering wail goes through her, shaking her body as though her soul were leaving through her pores. I begin to slowly piston back and forth, moving my mouth down to her other breast to mirror the marks of it's twin.

Her moist heat clings to me and draws my eyes to look down at my own swollen length, slapping against her unshaven lips and drawing panicked undulations from the gentle oval valley of her belly. Her delicate navel quivers beneath my coarse and hairy one, her outlined hips struggle to escape from the driving V that leads down between my legs, her soft flesh recoils from my hirsute strength and carapace-like abdominal muscles. Her womb screams as its defenses come to nothing.

My cock begins to stiffen from wood to rock, and I feel my hips pick up speed as I near my first orgasm with my first slave. Hours of denial and suspense lend strength to my hips, and I begin to slam in and out of her, to my full length. Her screams, having died to sobs fifteen minutes earlier, rise to new levels of defilement. My wild thrusting lifts her hips off the mattress, and I grip her breasts for handles of pleasure and pain. My cock spurts and jumps deep within her as my beastly breathing roars to life in triumph over the life I have taken. I can feel the heat, the slickness of her, my long slow final thrust to her very depths, yet all without the inner grip that the pleasures of lovemaking bring. I stay inside her for a few long moments, listening to her muted moaning and weeping. Then I stand and pull myself into my pants, not bothering to cinch the drawstring. Remembering my stashing from earlier, I snatch up the bottle of hydrogen peroxide and douse her breasts and crotch with it. I grab my things with a single swipe of my arm and look at her, stare down as she lies on her side to gaze at the wall and shiver while she weeps and hugs herself. I draw two blankets over her, raise her head over her pillow.

“Rest. You're going to need it. Tomorrow you will address me as Master, or you will be punished mercilessly.” She turns her tear-bright green eyes upon me, holding back her next sob.

“Why? Why are you doing this?” I stare at her for only a few moments, the months of planning, the capture, the rape, the escaped opportunity for our separate lives running through my head.

“Someday, you will understand.” I leave and close the door behind me with a soft click, silence greeting me savagely in the hall, following me up the stairs to my bed. As I pull the sheets up to my shoulder and turn on my side, I can't help but think. Then, perhaps, you could tell me. Sleep comes slowly.