Indulgence (112 page)

“It doesn’t bother me, sir.” She heard the love behind the
word.

Rage’s lips flattened. “I would never treat you with
disrespect.”

“I know, sir.”

He gazed down at her, his jaw moving as though he debated
something with himself. “When I was in the breeding program, we were paired
with a different female for each session. We didn’t have time for chatter,
would both be reprimanded harshly if there were any delay in breeding. As we
didn’t know their names, the males would call every partner female.”

He’d called other females by her endearment. That hurt her.
Joan pushed her lips over his cock, trying to lose herself in the act.

“Another male was brought into the program,” Rage continued
his story. “This male, Heart, had served in breeding programs at other
locations. He told me that his view of the Homeland was a place where he called
the same being female planet rotation after planet rotation. This female would
be his and his alone.”

Rage’s gaze slid from hers. Joan sucked him gently, soothing
his distress with her mouth, lips, tongue, as he glared at the far wall.

“After that planet rotation, I never called my partners
female. It had become a special reference to me and I refused to cheapen it.”

She allowed him to slip from her lips. “You called me
female, sir.”

“I did.” He cupped her chin. “Because, deep in my circuits,
I knew you were and would always be mine.”

He’d loved her from the planet rotation they’d met. Joan
blinked back tears. “Did Heart make it to his Homeland, sir?”

“Heart was the first to be paired with a human female.”
Rage’s voice grew brusque. “They didn’t use the breeding drugs on her and he
was a B Model, more primitive-looking than I was. She was terrified, screamed
for mercy. Heart refused to breed with her and was decommissioned.”

His friend had been killed because he wouldn’t harm another
being. She rested her cheek against Rage’s thigh. “I’m sorry, sir.” They’d both
lost so many loved ones, seen too much violence.

Yet they had found each other amongst the turmoil.

“If you feel demeaned--”

“I don’t, sir.” She pressed a kiss to his tip. “I feel
honored to be your female.”

Rage’s shoulders lowered. “Enough chatter.” He drew her to
her feet, sliding her curves along his muscles, and she trembled with
anticipation. “I vowed to use you hard.” He tossed her onto the sleeping
support. She bounced, laughing softly. “On your hands and knees, female. I’ll
take you like the savage model cyborg I am.”

“Yes, sir.” Joan eagerly obeyed, wiggling her ass in the
air.

He pulled her to the edge of the sleeping support,
positioning himself behind her. “Spread wider for me.” He nudged her thighs
apart. “I want to see your pussy.”

She tilted her hips upward, allowing him to peruse all of
her.

Rage gazed at her for three thrilling heartbeats. She looked
over her shoulder and watched him watch her. His face was dark with lust, his eyes
lit with desire.

He wanted her and that made her crave him even more.

“Your body was designed for mine.” Her big cyborg swept his
hands over her head, shoulders, back, ass, thighs, rubbing her up and down, up
and down, warming her skin, escalating her excitement. “You’re soft and ample,
able to take me.”

“I can take all of you, sir,” Joan moaned, moving with him.

Rage brushed his fingertips against her inner thighs,
stroking higher, higher. He touched her pussy lips and a tremor of pleasure
rolled through her. He stroked her, teasing her with his fingers, preparing her
for his cock.

When she thought she couldn’t take more, had opened her
mouth to ask for release, he withdrew his hands. There was a moment of
agonizing disconnection. Then his broad cock head prodded her entrance.

He aligned himself properly, gripping her hips, and thrust,
burying himself ball deep. She cried out, arching. He shifted inside her,
filling her as only her cyborg could.

Rage gave her one, two heartbeats of stillness, allowing both
of them to regain their control and then pumped, his rhythm slow, steady, able
to be matched.

She met this unspoken challenge, swaying backward into each
slide forward, meeting him halfway. They were equals, perhaps not in physical
strength, but in spirit, two survivors having found each other.

As he rutted into her, taking her faster and harder, Rage
mouthed over her shoulders and spine, sprinkling kisses across her skin,
nuzzling into her long curly hair.

The others saw a rough, tough, often angry, warrior. When
they were alone, in their chambers, he revealed all of the tenderness, the
love, the devotion, in his big cyborg heart. Only she was trusted with this
side of him, with his vulnerability.

She’d protect him, would never allow another being to harm
him. Joan told Rage this with her words and with her actions, pushing into him,
smacking her ass against his hips, warmth and arousal rippling from the
contact.

He grunted, Joan hearing his own vow in the sound. He’d do
the same for her, would slay the darkness, would die if it meant she’d live.

Rage lowered over her, covering her back with his chest,
caging her between his massive arms. This prison of muscle and male wasn’t
created to keep her inside, to inhibit her movements. It existed to keep others
out. This was their private Homeland, a place filled with desire and happiness.

He shook her body with his thrusts, his passion meshing with
hers. Joan panted, her constant stream of words becoming jerky, incoherent.

“My name, female.” Rage sucked on the delicate skin below
her ear. “Say my name.”

“Rage,” she complied, focusing on his name and his name
alone, repeating it again and again. Her arms and legs trembled, threatening to
give way under the weight of their desire. His cock swelled inside her.

Neither of them was ready for their encounter to end. Joan
struggled to prolong it, her form stretched tight under his, sweat dripping
down her forehead, wetting her hair. If she could, she’d stay like this
forever, safe in his arms, buffered by his love.

That wasn’t possible. She whimpered. She couldn’t stave off
her release for much longer. “Rage?”

“Let go, Joan.” He drove deep. “I have you.” He swiveled his
hips, severing her grip on reality.

She fell down, down, down into the depths of ecstasy,
calling his name as she descended. Rage wrapped his arms around her waist,
holding her to him.

She clenched around his shaft, and he roared, pumped his hot
seed into her pussy, pushing her off yet another ledge, increasing her bliss.

Joan thrashed under him, not wanting to break free yet
unable to remain still. He restrained her easily, his face burrowed in her
hair, his breath warming her neck.

Gradually she quieted, murmuring his name, the only word
left in her bliss-blasted brain. Rage climbed onto the sleeping support and
drew her to his heaving chest. “I love you, female.” He pressed a kiss to her
moist forehead.

“I love you, sir.” She gazed up at his rugged face, seeing
the love shining in his brilliant blue eyes. “Welcome home.”

USA Today bestselling author Cynthia Sax writes
contemporary, SciFi and paranormal erotic romances. Her stories have been
featured in Star Magazine, Real Time With Bill Maher, and numerous best of
erotic romance top ten lists.

She lives in a world filled with magic and romance. Although
her heroes may not always say, “I love you,” they will do anything for the
women they adore. They live passionately. They play hard. They love the same
women forever.

Cynthia has loved the same wonderful man forever. Her
supportive hubby offers himself up to the joys and pains of research, while
they travel the world together, meeting fascinating people and finding
inspiration in exotic places such as Istanbul, Bali, and Chicago.

Email: [email protected]

Website:
http://www.cynthiasax.com/

Goodreads:
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3292466.Cynthia_Sax

If you enjoyed Releasing Rage, sign up for Cynthia Sax’s
release day newsletter at
http://tasteofcyn.com/2014/05/28/newsletter/
and receive a notification when Crash’s story becomes available.

by
Deanndra Hall

This book is a work of fiction.

Names of characters, places, and events are the construction of
the author, except those locations that are well-known and of general
knowledge, and all are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or
dead is coincidental, and great care was taken to design places, locations, or
businesses that fit into the regional landscape without actual identification;
as such, resemblance to actual places, locations, or businesses is coincidental.
Any mention of a branded item, artistic work, or well-known business
establishment, is used for authenticity in the work of fiction and was chosen
by the author because of personal preference, its high quality, or the
authenticity it lends to the work of fiction; the author has received no
remuneration, either monetary or in-kind, for use of said product names,
artistic work, or business establishments, and mention is not intended as
advertising, nor does it constitute an endorsement. The author is solely
responsible for content.

Cover design 2015 M.D. Halliman

Disclaimer:

Material in this work of fiction is of a graphic sexual nature
and is not intended for audiences under 18 years of age.

A message from the author . . .

As BDSM and kink have been drawn into the limelight over
the last few years, the lifestyle has become more of a curiosity. And if
there’s some general confusion, allow me to clarify.

A Dominant is not a king; rather, he is a leader and
instructor, one who is steady, dependable, and conscientious. A submissive is
not a subject, a serf, or a slave; rather, their submission is offered freely
and without coercion. Discipline and punishment are not abuse; rather, they are
the means by which lessons are learned and reinforced. A proper Dominant’s
first commitment is always to the welfare of their submissive; with that in
mind, there are times when a submissive asks for pain in such a mindset that it
becomes a Dominant’s responsibility to decline in the submissive’s best
interest. Both SSC (safe, sane, and consensual) and R.A.C.K. (risk-aware
consensual kink) exist to serve as guidelines under negotiation between
parties, with trust, communication, honesty, and genuine care and compassion
being critical.

That said, if a particular story or book takes on a
sinister bend, know that it’s a story – fiction – and nothing more. True
submission is a gift that a submissive gives to a Dominant/Dominatrix, not
something that is required or demanded. The submissive has the power to comply
or decline. Anything else is abuse. There has been a proliferation in recent
years of so-called “Dominants” who declare themselves such solely for their own
pleasure, with no regard for the submissive. These Dominants/Dominatrices give
the lifestyle a horrible reputation and the community a black eye, just one
more thing kinksters don’t need.

Keeping all of this in mind, please enjoy this story of
one couple’s journey through the minefield of the lifestyle. And as I’ve said
so many times, there is no such thing as a BDSM expert. Every partnership
decides what the lifestyle is to them, and in what capacity and to what degree
they’ll serve. Make the lifestyle your own, make it glorious for you and yours,
and accept nothing less.

Brightest blessings.

It’s a gray day. There are lots of those in my world these
days, but this one is particularly gray. It’s a weepy, can’t-get-out-of-bed
kind of day. The wind is blowing like gangbusters, and it’s all I can do to
keep my bag on my shoulder as old leaves and fast food wrappers skitter around
my feet in the barely-out-of-winter bluster.

Measure twice, cut once
. I keep hearing that in my
head, the mantra of my father as he worked around my childhood home. I can
still hear the steel tape measure retracting, feel the grain of the wood, and
smell the sawdust.

I’m the same way with my work. My customers are paying for
quality, and I aim to deliver. I’m careful with the leather, making sure it’s
stored so that it’s supple and soft but doesn’t get moldy, which is a real danger.
There’s no warp or weft in leather, so I can place my patterns wherever I want
and don’t have to worry about stretching or binding. My scissors are always
razor sharp, and they cut through the pliver like butter. In my hands it’s
velvet, and I can manipulate it to make the most glorious of shapes, but none
more glorious than the female form.

Cut, stitch. Cut, stitch. Two more hours and I can clean up
this rat hole of an office and go. But I’m not sure why I want to go anywhere.
There’s nothing for me anywhere else. This is as close to having a place in the
world as I ever get. And I like this space too. It’s in an old high rise office
building, and I can see far out over the city. The walls are old paneling, and
they’re real wood, not that fake stuff they make nowadays. It’s small and
cramped, but I still love it.

Every time I move, I have to yank up on my corset. Either
the damn thing is getting bigger or I’m getting smaller, and I know which it
is. Food doesn’t interest me anymore. Once it’s in my mouth and I start to
chew, it gets more soured and bitter with every passing moment until I can’t
even swallow it. I quit eating weeks ago. I just don’t care anymore.

When the buzzer sounds at the door, I already know who it
is. Everything I do is by appointment only, so surprises are rare. Sometimes
the maintenance guy comes in to do something, but once he looks around, he
high-tails it out of here. I think I scare him. Good. Opening the door reveals
exactly who I expected. They both smile, but as quickly as I can, I drop my
eyes to the floor respectfully. I know my place. But Michael puts a finger
under my chin and tips my head back, then bobs his head back and forth, trying
to catch my gaze.