Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
“Taisha?” My name on his lips sounds so good. No being has ever said my name like that. Like it’s something more than a barcode.
I breathe out and make a small sound, and this time it’s he who leans in, like he’s captivated. As if he can’t resist. The purple in his eyes is deeper now, darker. Mysterious. I can’t look away. Any second now, I swear it, he’s going to put his lips to mine. Stars, it makes no sense; it’s not possible, but I feel in my bones this being wants me as badly as I want his touch.
“But I am telling the truth—”
“And that was it.” He steps back. He sounds almost disappointed as he hoists me into his arms. “Your last chance.”
He carries me across the prisoner cell. “The pack on your arm is flashing green, which means you have no internal injuries.” He deposits me on a bench across the bay, “And that means that I can spank you as hard and as long as I require.”
Spank? I only have a vague idea what that means. I’ve heard the word, but it’s not a punishment I’m familiar with. I don’t see a shock stick on him.
He regards me with a regal gaze. My eyes widen as he rolls up the sleeve of his flight jacket, flexes his hands, the way the powerful corded muscles on his arms moves smoothly. “A few minutes ago, you begged me for asylum and said you’d do anything. I. Want.”
“I—”
“And what I want,” he adds conversationally, as if we were chatting about the weather, “Is for you to submit to your punishment. And then to tell me the truth about what I ask.”
This male moves like lightning. One second, he’s standing in front of me. The next, he’s seated on the bench and I’m over his lap, my belly pushing into those hard thighs I was eyeing just a few minutes earlier.
“No. Stop.” I kick just once in frustration at the leathery covering of the hoverseat. “You don’t need to. I told you—”
“Lies, unfortunately.” He places one hand on the small of my back and presses me into his lap. “But I think that after a spanking that will change. It works quite well on human females, I’m told.”
“I don’t know this punishment. The Ocretions—”
“Are beasts,” he snarls, his hand pressing harder. He releases it immediately and strokes me, as if apologizing. “Evil.” He softens his voice. “They use torture and fear. This is not the same.” He glides his hand over the small of my back and I relax. Fight the urge to push my hips up toward his palm, because that would be ridiculous. He’s threatening to punish me, so why on Mother Earth would I even...
“It certainly sounds the same,” I snap, although it’s not true. Punishment at this male’s hands feels vastly different. Is it because our species are more compatible? My attraction to him makes subjugation more palatable?
More frightened of my own reaction than of what’s going to happen, I use my cuffed hands to hit his shin—which, I can’t help but notice, is extremely hard. Taut. I hit it again, and try to do it slowly, so my fingertips can slide around to his calf, contact his body and linger just a second longer than necessary for someone trying to do damage.
“That is going to cost you,” he warns me, but his hand on my back is soft and loose. Still stroking. It’s hard to believe that a touch so soft is compatible with a real punishment.
A second later I change my mind entirely.
“Ow!” Without warning, he brings his palm down across both of my upturned buttocks, and the burn is immediate. “Stop, please!” I twist, and he pulls me back into place.
It’s just a slap. I know that. It won’t cause me any harm. Not like a shock stick. Or a real beating. Or starvation. Still, it hurts. And it’s embarrassing.
He does it again. “When a Zandian punishes you, you do not get to ask him to stop.”
“Stop,” I hear myself repeat. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s like I want more of his punishment.
It’s insanity—back on Romon-3, my behavior would get a human shocked severely. Starved and put in isolation for weeks. But somehow I know instinctively that he’s not going to hurt me. And part of me, a part that makes me feel half excited, half ashamed, thinks that maybe he even likes this kind of reaction.
Why I would like it, as well, is not clear.
But I do.
At least, for now. Because although the spanks are hard, and set my bottom on fire, each slap presses my belly into his thighs, against his body. I feel his muscles working under my skin, and I hear him breathing. And that tingly feeling grows inside my body, making me want more contact with him.