Demon's Captive (6 page)

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      Back in Melmanon's room on the ship, Charity watched numbly as he furiously stripped her clothes, hurling them into a corner. When she was naked, her pale skin showed red streaks where his fingers had gripped her. He turned her to face the wall, lifted her hands above her head, and used the leather ties from her top to lash her wrists to a hook set high in the wall. When he finished, she was stretched tight, her bare breasts and belly pressed against the cold steel. Her nipples hardened painfully at the icy contact.
      She heard him move about then leave the room. The draft of air from the door made her tremble. Awful thoughts of how he would punish her flashed through her mind. Paralyzing fear took over.
      As her arms went numb, the thought of being left there forever made her tears flow faster, but it was perhaps only ten minutes before the door swung open, and she heard his low growl. Strange sounds made her shiver in fearful anticipation.
      Charity cried out in surprise and pain at the first hot sting against her back. Her body twisted against the cold wall. The whip struck her back and buttocks, leaving a fiery map of pain behind. Blow after blow rained down, and she huddled to the wall, her wet face pressed into her upper arm. Above each slap, she heard his snarling grunts, an indication of his great rage and the force behind his swings. Her mind blanked, unable to deal with the burn of the welts he laid on her skin.
      When each stroke only maintained the flame, rather than increasing it, the whip stopped. Her mind full of static, she was unaware of his movements behind her. She came to when his hands lifted hers from the hook above her head. Blood rushed back into her arms when they were lowered; pins and needles raced from shoulder to fingertip. That sensation was nearly lost to the stinging of her back. Hoarse sobs tore from her throat as he turned her around to see an unfamiliar shape.
      The contraption was unfamiliar, but, within moments, Melmanon made it clear. As he strapped her into place, she thought this must be real torture. The device bent her forward at the waist, her hips against a bar, her legs held in place with a strap around each ankle. Her breasts hung free and her hands were strapped to a thin bar that extended from the base. Painfully aware her sex was completely exposed, cold air drafted over her and heightened her senses.
      She felt the burning heat of him behind her, but it was something cold that pressed against her. Cold, hard, and slick, it moved along the tiny puckered hole of her anus, then delved between her labia. Without warning, he drove it into her pussy and made her cry out. Not as large as he was, it was nonetheless big and terribly cold. After several ruthless thrusts, it was withdrawn and rested on her anus again.
      Charity knew what came next. Rather than tense, she relaxed. As soon as she felt him press, she pushed back against it. The pain was still sharp as the thing sank into her unprepared rectum. Crying again in great sobs, she felt him change sides so he stood in front of her.
      His hands squeezed and tweaked her breasts until her hardened nipples throbbed. She screamed when pain bit down on the turgid buds, and she saw wicked-looking clamps pinching each one.
      The pain in her ass and at her breasts consumed her, and she twisted and bucked against her restraints, sobbing and moaning. He moved behind her again. She was shocked when he thrust his cock into her pussy, pounding into her cervix over and over as he fucked her cruelly. The furious pumping caused her tortured breasts to sway wildly, eliciting unbearable pain. It was only a few minutes before she felt the scalding heat of his climax flooding her.
      There was only the sound of his harsh growling breaths before Charity felt him withdraw. Still painfully full in her rectum and losing sensation in her nipples, she continued to sob softly, her tears a puddle on the floor beneath her. She heard him go into the lavatory and return. He first unstrapped her ankles, then her wrists. Before she was able to pull herself up, he was gone, the door closing hard behind him.

       Her hands went to her breasts. Charity whimpered as she released the clamps, and blood rushed back into her nipples. She then pulled the plug from her ass. On the bed, she saw several objects, including more terrible devices he hadn't used.
      In the lavatory, she activated the lights and cried out at her reflection. Terrible marks around her nipples gave evidence to the teeth of the clamps. Over her shoulder, she saw the awful welts on her back. With hands braced against the sink, she reflected on the actions that had brought about this punishment.
      Charity had never imagined he would be so cruel. She realized now she had started to care for him, to believe he was not the monster she had first thought. Now, in the face of his abuse, she knew her feelings for him had been a way to rationalize her sexual response. If she cared about him, and he cared about her, it wasn't such a terrible betrayal of her people to find paradise in his arms.
      With this one act, he had stripped away her make-believe world. Bitter tears coursed down her cheeks, and she gave a harsh laugh. In his defense, she'd never even asked him to stop. Her submission was so ingrained she'd accepted his right to discipline her. In this society, he owned her. Reliving his words at the dock, she felt a kernel of defiance flare to life in her mind. Why? Why can't I ever go back? With the pain in her body worse than ever, sharp shudders racked her. At the sight of the pathetic creature she had become at the hands of an unfeeling monster, determination pulsed in her blood. Resolutely facing the drawn face in the mirror, Charity made a grim promise to herself. She would either find freedom or death. Whichever fate all
owed, it would be on her terms.

Chapter Eleven

      Melmanon strode down the corridor, a man possessed. The last of her thoughts still echoed in his mind, and the pain in her body ghosted through his. Hai! He was such a fool! At the platform that morning, he had heard her thoughts clearly. He felt her yearning, her hope. She wanted a man like her, a child of her own. It was almost understandable, considering her civilization, but it was a slap in his face.

      He had spared her from a terrible death. She repaid him by forgetting her place the moment she saw a puny member of her own race! She was a slave -- his slave -- and he knew she would not forget it again. That was his sole reason for the harsh punishment meted out.
      Melmanon had released his fury, and the rational part of him wondered why he was so angry. Unable to answer, he snarled at the voice in his head until it stopped.
      In the rec room where warriors trained, he snatched up a card for the imager and threw himself into a simulated battle. After more than an hour of intense physical exertion, he stalked out in disgust. Even the war games couldn't get his mind off his slave!
      At the elevator, Melmanon paused when he remembered her slight form bent over the rack. The welted skin on her back had blazed a fierce red as he hammered away at her. Even now, thinking about how he had taken her simultaneously made him hard and caused him regret. In the heat of his anger, he had thought only of imprinting his ownership onto her, and forgotten how fragile she was.
      Suddenly worried, he reflected on how cold she had been, her lips white as she came away from the wall. What if she was still where he'd left her, unable to move? He rushed the last few steps to the door of his quarters, but hesitated a moment before opening it and stepping inside.
      The rack remained where he had placed it, but she was not on it. All of the tools he had used were there, along with the ones he hadn't. Looking at the weapons of torture, he felt ashamed as he realized she would have seen them. He wondered if she thought he intended to use them again. Concerned, he crossed to the lavatory, and opened the door.
      She was curled up on the floor of the shower. The water was off; Charity was soaking wet. He stepped closer and saw her face pressed to her knees. Hard shudders shook her, punctuated by muffled sobs. An unnamed emotion tightened his chest. Before he could analyze it, he took a clean cloth from the rack and stepped to the shower door, pulling it open.
      Her strangled scream at his first touch stopped him cold, and he again saw her back, a mass of raw skin and deep bruises. He steeled himself against her pain and lifted her by gripping her upper arms then setting her on her feet.
      She didn't meet his eyes, only stood frozen, hands clasped to her stomach. Her hair hung in wet ropes on either side of her head. With brisk motions, he toweled her arms, legs, abdomen, and lastly, her breasts, where he mentally berated himself as he saw the purple bruises surrounding each nipple.
      Careful not to hurt her further, he used feather-light touches to blot her back, and felt it each time she flinched. Finally, she was dry. He took her small hand to lead her from the lavatory. Back in the bedroom, he lifted her onto the bed and laid her on her stomach. Once she was down, she turned her face to the wall and fisted her hands at her sides.
      He heard her thoughts returning, and felt how desperately she was trying to avoid thinking anything to incite his anger again. Her determination to avoid his anger both pleased and saddened him, though he didn't know why. Lost in his own musings, he focused on her again when she began to shiver.
      Away from the bed, he opened the closet and brought out what he had gotten for her this morning, before their trip. It had been intended to show her how well she had pleased him these last few weeks, but it seemed to serve a different purpose now.
      Charity felt the bed dip as he returned, and she prayed silently he hadn't risen to get one of the devices from his earlier tortures. When she felt his hands on her feet, she realized he was slipping on some kind of shoe. Like her clothes, she felt fur lining and the tightening of laces that ended at midcalf. Blissful warmth returned to her feet, and she hardly noticed when he rose again and left the room.
      He returned about ten minutes later, and she was as he had left her. At the first touch of his fingers on her back, she started. Something warm and smooth was gently spread on the abused skin of her back. The throb and burn began to fade, and she let out a sigh of relief. Within a few minutes, she was aware only of a slight sensitivity.
      He turned her onto her back, and she tried not to flinch as he brought his hand to her chest. He made a rough sound that was oddly soothing, and she forced herself to let him touch her.
      Her breast cupped in one hand, she watched him use the other to dab a small spot of the cream onto her softened nipple. He was careful, and after a moment turned his attention the other globe. After giving it the same treatment, he lifted her like a child onto his lap, one arm curled around her shoulders, and settled her into the space between his legs.
      He gently spread her thighs and dipped between them to press the cream right onto the rose of her ass. She instinctively tensed, and he hesitated only a second before pressing in to spread it inside as well. When he was finished, he reached for something else, and her eyes widened at the beautiful garment.
      It looked like a cloak, one that could easily wrap her whole body. At the throat, there was a beautiful clasp -- two pieces of hammered copper that fit together in the shape of a star. He easily maneuvered her until she was wrapped in it, the clasp fastened securely over the collar at her neck.
      Wrapped in silky warm fur from head to foot, she wondered why he was treating her so well when he had been
so angry before.

Chapter Twelve

      The last of Melmanon's anger had faded after he found her in the shower. Struck again by her helplessness, he was shocked to find himself sorry for hurting her. No matter how many times he reminded himself she was his torture slave -- he was supposed to do it -- he still felt remorse he had wounded her, especially since she had never fought him. Every step of the way she had never resisted, not even to beg him to stop.
      With her in his arms, close enough to listen to her unconscious thoughts, he admitted to himself he had been jealous. On the platform that morning, he had felt her joy for the first time. Like a cup filled to overflowing, her warmth had welled up from her soul to spill out like light into a dark room, expanding until it reached the farthest corner of her heart.
      He had understood then, as he hadn't before, that her real self was not what he had. Her real self had been buried beneath the pain and tragedy of her experiences. When she realized she was not alone, that others like her lived and breathed in the world, she had opened a door in her mind he hadn't known existed.
      It was his jealousy that felt the need to punish her for finding happiness in strangers. Looking down into her face, he saw she had drifted into sleep. She was beautiful. Not only the lush body that gave him so much pleasure, but the woman who thought herself a coward. He didn't argue; she was no warrior. But he understood now it took a different kind of courage to accept what you could not change and try to make the best of it.
      She was exactly what her name implied. Charity. In her language, the word for benevolence, for works of kindness with no need for payment. The way she gave herself to him, never holding back, or making him demand when he desired her touch.
      His life had sud
denly become very complicated.

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      Charity woke to the sound of the shutting door. She sat up when she realized she must have slept for some time, and also that she no longer hurt. She still wore the shoes and cloak he had given her. On the way to the lavatory, she saw all evidence of her punishment was gone, and upon entering, saw that her clothes were hanging on the peg behind the door.
      After washing her face, and brushing her teeth and hair, she swept the cloak aside to look at her back in the mirror. Aside from two or three faint pink streaks, it showed no evidence of her whipping. As she eased into her clothes, she spared a grateful thought for the miracle cream that had eased her pain.
      Back in the bedroom, she straightened the bed and noticed a large folded blanket on the bench. She lifted it and shook it out. It was black, with a large, silver star in the center. After stretching it out on the bed, her fingers rose to the clasp of her cloak. A star. She wondered what it meant.
      His treatment still puzzled her, and she tried again to reconcile the two different faces he had shown her. After the first time he had taken her, there had been a change in his demeanor. Still forbidding and demanding, he had also been an attentive, creative lover who made her almost happy in his bed and her new life.
      She had always experienced pleasure in his hands, so much so that she ceased trying to resist her body's arousal. When they slept, he drew her close, wrapping one arm about her and keeping her snug to the furnace of his body. Although she told herself it was to hold away the cold, she now admitted she enjoyed being close to him, and perversely found comfort in his strength.

      There had been so many nights on the run, fearing death at the hands of the many warriors who hunted for survivors. Melmanon was the enemy, but he had also spared her life. After considering how much worse her fate could have been, Charity thought that was why she was so conflicted.
      With his complete physical and mental domination of her, she had sensed for the first time in her life she was truly safe. No one except her master would hurt or abuse her. Instead of many faceless dangers, there was only one person to worry about.
      But it wouldn't last.
      Even as her mind tried to think around it, she forced herself to admit he had said nothing to her, had made no indication she meant more than just a torture slave to him. Ultimately, he would kill her.
      Only her own resourcefulness would see her out of this prison. Her heart hardened against its insistence of his regard, she reminded herself of her vow. Escape or die.
      Curled in the warmth of fur, she hoped he would give her a chance to flee.