Master of the Galaxy (4 page)

Was I addicted to pleasure? As a Yarian, I
was not supposed to need it. Yet I craved it or at least I craved
Him.

* * * * *

In time I learned there were others besides
Him on the planet to whom the girls were expected to go. I do not
know why such a thought did not occur to me on my own. I would
never have expected Him to be only male in this position on his
planet. But I did gather that he was the leader, ruler, overseer,
whatever he might call himself or expect to be called, although I
never asked exactly what he was and no one ever volunteered to tell
me.

The girls would giggle and talk amongst
themselves about the different preferences, styles, and techniques
of the men on the planet. They were shared freely and seemed to
enjoy it. I was never able to identify who belonged to whom or why
or when the girls were called to serve who they did. Never once did
He share me or allow me to be called or used by another. I honestly
do not know how I would have felt about it had it happened although
I suspect that if it had been His will, I would have gladly done it
for Him. But only for the purpose to serve Him if it pleased Him.
For myself, I needed no other, wanted no other.

It would be impossible to describe
everything I learned while I was with Him. Or you would not have
the patience to listen to me. But the last time he came to me
before I was taken from him is poignant in my mind, perhaps because
I thought about it so much in the time following my removal from
His planet.

I knew that other girls were instructed and
skilled in the art of bondage, often set to the task of preparing
each other, and especially new arrivals to the planet, using their
extensive knowledge of ropes and knots.

He enjoyed trussing me up in all manner of
beautiful and stunning stages of confinement and I grew to love it
as much as he did, but never once did he have anyone work on me
other than himself. Nor did he teach me nor see that I was taught
the art so that I might apply it to another. He seemed to take
great pleasure in wrapping my body personally, setting each knot
purposefully and carefully, tightening the bonds to the point of
discomfort but just short of pain.

Although his movements were gentle, the
results were not, but the soreness and distress were welcome,
cherished, my reward the contentment and approval that blazed in
his eyes as he bound me this way or that, clearly pleased at my
submission, my devotion, my giving of myself to him and whatever he
desired of me. I felt there could be no greater pleasure than for
him to look at me that way, knowing I completely and wholly
satisfied him. And despite the many carnal and erotic pleasures of
the flesh to which I have become accustomed, I still feel this to
be true.

It was night and this time he had a long
length of strong Urconian silk, soft on the skin, but sticky,
bonding to flesh where applied. He had me stand before him and
proceeded to swathe my shoulders, chest and breasts in an intricate
pattern until my breasts jutted out, tightly bound, engorged,
flushed with blood, aching, my nipples erect, hard, painful, but I
knew better than to touch myself. He wrapped my arms then, behind
my back, from my upper arms to my wrists using a delicate spiral
intertwined with many fine, complex knots, sensuous but severe and
restrictive until I was helplessly immobile, the way he
preferred.

Without warning, he raped my mouth with a
savage, sudden kiss, short and brutal, and then drew a blindfold
over my eyes, while I was still breathless from the sultry feel of
his mouth on mine, wanting more, always wanting more.

“Stand in place,” he said, desiring to bind
me no further nor to restrain me in any other fashion.

Such instructions were usually the most
challenging to adhere to. If I could be tied to a post or a cross
or hung from a ring or locked in a pillory, I could simply give in
to what was to come, but if I had to hold myself out freely for his
ministrations, without any crutch on which to rely, it became
considerably more difficult.

He used his crop mercilessly on my bound
breasts until I threw my head back in an anguished ecstasy and
became so far gone, it took a long time of his whispered
reassurances to bring me back. Sometimes he allowed me to float
undisturbed in my own paradise of space and time and sometimes he
wanted me to feel all that he had to give me in unadorned rawness.
Tonight, he wanted that. He wanted me back.

Blindfolded, I could not see what implements
he chose next, although he used several, the last being the cane.
He started with my breasts which were already deeply marked and
then he spun me around, lifted me easily and tossed me onto the bed
on my stomach. My arms were bound tightly behind my back and I had
nothing with which to catch myself so I fell hard and lay
submissive and open where he slung me. He worked on my buttocks
until they were striped like the red and golden birds which graced
the skies of his planet.

Finally, he stopped and I had drifted away
again.

“Kneel,” he commanded.

His voice cut through my soaring daze and I
knew immediately what he was granting me. I was elated, floating
even higher, desperate with gratitude for the opportunity as I slid
gracefully from the bed and fell to my knees before him. I felt him
remove my blindfold and I looked up at him, my eyes relucent,
glowing with adoration.

He smiled at me indulgently. At times he
required strict obedience of me, never allowing me to raise my eyes
to him unless first given permission to do so. But after so long,
he knew what I was greedy for, what concessions he would make for
me. He would tell me that he spoiled me. And it was true, he
did.

And so he traced my cheek with the back of
his hand and said, “Yes, pet, you may have your reward.”

With tears in my eyes, I accepted his
beautiful, swollen pole into my mouth, engorged to a size around
which I could almost not wrap my lips, but which I admirably did,
his beautiful, pulsing, throbbing member alive in my mouth, purpled
with bright red veins of arousal, his foreskin fully retracted,
leaking precious pre-cum which I sampled greedily before falling to
my task to demonstrate my gratitude and affection for him. If I was
ever intoxicated by his attentions to me, it was nothing compared
to what I came to love, worship and cherish as his cock.

This was what I could give back to him. I
could serve him, delight him, obey him, but I had nothing which I
could actively give him but this. I took immense delight in
worshiping the center of my universe, the source of my unending
pleasure, bringing him to the same level of combustion to which he
brought me, although he could also arrive there in other ways.

I drew him in deeper as he had trained me to
accept him into my throat.

The first time I had tried this, I felt I
had disappointed him miserably as I gagged and choked and
sputtered. I had said to him, “I have failed you,” my eyes
downcast, growing wet. But instead of wrenching at my hair and
forcing himself into me, he had chuckled softly, stroked my hair
and said, “You have not failed me, little one. Believe me, you will
know when you have failed me. You will have no doubt when that
occurs, but it is not now.” And he was right. I knew that he was
not merely saying such a thing. Whenever I did fail or disappoint
him, I was quick to feel the power of his wrath, the sting of his
lash, and was reduced to real tears. I understood then that I had
not failed him in my efforts, but I was determined to improve, to
please him more.

And now, I could. I took all of him, bathing
his shaft with my tongue the way he taught me to please him,
applying gentle suction and swallowing his cock down my open and
welcoming throat as he grunted with delight. As much as I would
like to use my hands to feel his exquisite balls, to caress his
rod, to feel his strong, warm skin under my fingertips, he
generally did not ever permit me to use my hands, although of
course, on nights like that one, I had no choice when my arms were
bound tightly behind me.

If you have not noticed, he is always in
control, self-possessed, composed, never flustered. And when I am
able to worship him in this manner, allowed to show my adoration,
my requital, he is still all of those things, but there is a part
of him that he gives over to me and when he is particularly
pleased, as he was that night, he groans my name passionately as he
explodes into my mouth, feeding me liquid ambrosia, as I drink
every taste of his essence, swallow each spurt of his release and
suck at him gently to coax the last drops from his luscious,
softening member.

And as pleasure crackles like fire down his
spine while he spurts, strains, and surges between my lips, the
world pitching and revolving around him, I hope that I am sometimes
drawn in and encompassed within his wildly spinning orbit and that
he notices I am there with him.

As the planet righted itself for him that
night, he picked me up and threw me on the bed again on my stomach
and I wondered how he could have recovered so fast, but he had no
plans for using me that way as you will see. Instead, he retrieved
a knife from the wall which he had never used on me for anything
other than cutting my bonds and indeed that was his purpose that
night.

When the silk had fallen away, he rolled me
over and rubbed the circulation back into my arms, running his
hands over my breasts, reverently tracing the welts, bruises and
marks which he had left there. His fingers played with the tips of
my nipples, already sore from his lashing, but I made no protest,
no whimper. Indeed, the attention caused my breathing to quicken,
my clit to strain and throb and a whirl of fiery cinders to skitter
through me again.

He looked at me then, with dark, lust-filled
eyes and purposefully exhaled across my breasts, his breath like a
fleeting draft of flames. He took my nipples in his teeth and
teased them, charges of electricity flickering through me, his lips
and tongue moving around the peaks like a blaze, branding me with
passion, as I was caught up, submerged in a froth of hunger.

I felt him smile against my belly as he slid
his lips lower, leaving a hot, fiery trail which burned my skin
until he reached my core and he lapped at the profusion of wetness
trailing from me, swirling with his tongue until he had tasted all
of my juices smeared around my pussy and thighs. And then he
brought his tongue to my nub and expertly pursued it, fluidly
rolling in his lips, agitating it with his teeth, rapidly,
ceaselessly, callously, as my eyelids fluttered, my hands balled
into fists and my entire body stretched as taut as a bow, a deep
feral whine beginning to rise in my throat.

“Not tonight,” he hissed and my head fell
back in utter despair as he brought me to excruciating peaks,
holding me there, refusing to lessen his attention, as I repeatedly
fought against climax, my skin perspiring, my body heavily flushed,
my breathing weak and ragged.

It took all of my effort, all of my
training, all of my Jiikorian willpower superimposed by His will to
stop myself, my pulse racing, random colors swirling in my mind,
streaks of silver distorting my vision. And the effect was almost
orgasmic in itself as I panted, almost broken with exertion,
seemingly stuck on the plateau of release, but knowing that I would
never fall off if he did not wish it. He sometimes did not permit
me release for days or weeks. I was perpetually in need if he did
not allow it. Of course, I was like that anyway, with Him.

He finally kissed my quivering button and
stopped the torment. He was not always unmerciful.

He moved up higher on the bed and ran his
fingers lightly over the collar at my neck, tracing the exquisite,
white stones. “Such a good girl, pet,” he said. “Such a good, good
girl. Perhaps next time I will allow you release.”

“As you wish,” I said softly, knowing I
would only ever do so if he allowed it, and even if he never
allowed it again, his words were release enough for me.

He could not possibly have known it would be
our last time together before they came for me, before I more or
less went willingly away from Him. But for whatever reason, he
looked into my eyes and I saw something in their depths greater
than passion, more than lust, more than desire. I did not imagine
it, I am sure of it.

And then he kissed me deeply. So thoroughly
that I felt deluged by a firestorm of sexuality, pleasure and
desire, rising and falling beneath the tide of his kiss, lost to
his sweet possession of me, feeling the electricity of desire
exchanged between our mouths, lips and tongues, intoxicated by his
dominance and wanting to be drawn within it forever. When he broke
the kiss, I floated in a sea of unbounded pleasure, savoring the
flavor of Him.

He pulled me against him then and I knew he
would drift off to sleep while I lay in his arms. He would
sometimes stay the night after he had taken what pleasure he
desired from me. I knew this was not His usual custom from the
other girls.

I could not help but speak to him, so strong
were my feelings.

“I never imagined I would feel this way,” I
whispered into his chest.

“Shhhh,” he said, stroking my hair gently.
“Sleep now.”

I tried. But I was not yet ready.

“Do I please you?” I asked softly, hoping I
had not awakened him, hoping he would indulge my question.

He was silent for a few moments, his hand
moving over my arm, lightly caressing it, and then answered, “Yes.
More than I ever thought possible.”

I never knew whether he meant that I pleased
him more than he had expected me to or whether I pleased him more
than anyone else had. Most likely it was the former. But it was an
admission all the same, which he rarely made. No, thinking back, he
never made admissions. He gave me all manner of praise, but had
never gone beyond that.