By My Side ... (A Valentine's Day Story) (11 page)

But she could not let herself
sink into the hypnotising power of the moving flames, not knowing
what kind of punishment he was planning for her. And there would be
punishment. She had disobeyed. He had no choice but to punish her.
It was an integral part of why the use of submission was considered
an aid to the bonding of an ErGer. The natural shock of an adult
being forced that far under the control of another, allowing
another person the right to correct, to hurt, broke down the walls
of emotional and social independence erected over years. It opened
one person to another, an artificial measure for what an ErGer bond
established naturally. So she was aware of his every move, every
breath, terrified of what he would choose to do.

"The fire. See it." He reminded
her gently. But she could not. He sighed, even the light touch of
his breath on her skin making her jerk in fear, so tense was
she.

"Relax, little one. There will
not be any punishment."

"But..." Why could she not shut
up, not take what he was offering and be happy with it. Did she
have to provoke him? Elena bit her lip, holding in the rest of the
sentence. He sighed again, deeper this time, a hint of
long-suffering patience colouring the sound.

"Elena, you were startled and
could not help your reaction. I trapped you. I will not punish you
for your instincts reacting to years of conditioning."

She still could not relax, her
mind desperately scrabbling for comprehension. All he did, all he
said, went against everything she had ever learnt, whilst still
fitting the framework of action which had surrounded her all
through her life. He should punish her. He had the right. It would
be a good way of forcing her compliance, of breaking those shields
keeping him from binding her with pain and degradation.

"Tell me what you are
thinking?"

It was a definite command, his
voice testament to his unwillingness to let her stew in her own
mind.

"I don't understand why you did
it, if not to have a reason to punish me."

Her eyes had found him again
over her shoulder and she saw the flash of anger heating his eyes.
Then he shut the emotions down, as if he had a valve he could
simply tighten. His voice was calm when he tried to explain:

"You seem to have little to no
comprehension of your own mental and physical tension, the constant
state of alertness you live in. When at rest, you are not relaxed.
I made you jump to shake you from that state of nervous
anticipation, to break that spell and give you a chance to settle
down."

She knew he was right about her
state of constant readiness -- but she was not sure she liked the
fact he had seen it, where no one else had ever cared. And she was
even less certain she knew what to do with his statement. How did
he expect her to relax in the face of what was to come? He gave her
no chance to ask anything else, his hand guiding her head back
towards the fire. And this time, confused and lost as she was, the
flames caught her.

Elena fell into the interwoven
reds and oranges of the flickering light. She knew what he was
doing, knew he was blindfolding her in a unique way. She doubted
his way would be any more successful than the many times her sight
had been taken in the more conventional manner. Lack of sight was
supposed to frighten her, to heighten her vulnerability and deliver
her into the mercy of her partner so that her mental defences were
undermined by anticipation, trepidation and sensation. As her eyes
fell into the licking flames her lips stretched ruefully -- the
only thing she anticipated by now was failure. When she felt his
mouth at her shoulder this time, she controlled the instinctual
jerk of her muscles.

"Tell me what you feel, from
your toes to the crown of your busy little head." It was a
whispered command, spoken against her skin, his breath travelling
over her in the wake of his voice, her skin tightening,
sensitising, becoming aware of him on a sensual level. She could
not suppress the shiver trembling through her bones.

With a halting voice she tried
to comply, caught in the moment, in the request.

"I can feel the cold floor
under my toes..."

"Is it cold?"

His question halted her
description, made her hesitate and consider how she really felt.
Her toes were cold, ice cold ... but the cold did not come from the
floor. She was kneeling on a pelt, sheep if she was any judge, her
toes buried among the soft strands of fur. It felt soft like cotton
wool, and warm, the heat from the fire having drenched it with
energy long before Elena had come to kneel there. It lay against
her cold skin in a warm caress of fabric. The ice of her toes
slowly giving way to the realisation of warmth, her muscles
relaxing first in her toes, then along the high arches of her feet,
the strained pain of her ankles. It called to her and she let her
feet slide fully into the soft temptation, flattening against the
warmth of the floor. The soft fleece moulded to her cold toes,
caressed the high arches of her feet, soft as down. She sighed, her
muscles giving up their rigid tension. But her mind had not
forgotten he has asked her a question.

"No, it's my feet. They were
cold." A dreamy quality had entered her voice, as if only part of
her mind was on the words whilst the rest was caught in the lure of
the sensations battering her resistance.

"And now? Are they warmer?"

"Hmm." The noise she made was
affirmative and distracted, her vision filled with the dancing red
of the fire whilst all her attention centred on the languid spread
of relaxed warmth along her legs. She felt him move closer, his
chest warming her back, the heat of the fire bathing her front. It
caught under the fine hair along her arms, smoothing her skin,
calming her mind. Again, his breath whispered over her shoulder as
he spoke.

"Go on, Lena. What do you feel?
Are your legs cold too?"

She felt the rumble of his
words through her back, trembling against her spine, melting it. It
was so easy to let herself lean into the solid presence of his body
behind her. To let him take her weight. A heavy band of warm velvet
slid around her waist, pulling her more firmly against that warm
wall. It was easy to answer now, her mind drifting in the
sensations.

"No, they're not. They burn. A
little."

And it was true, there was a
strange burn along her shins, the tense coldness giving way to the
awareness of her smooth skin. The shaving blade she had requested
before her bath had left her legs smooth, but sensitive, and the
gentle scrape of fibres irritated, just a little. She could feel
each little strand of fleece against her skin not unlike little
pinpricks. The sensation was not painful, or even uncomfortable,
only there, dancing over her skin.

"Burn?" She thought she heard a
smile in the question.

"Yes."

"Do you like it?" Dark
temptation.

"Yes." Did she say it aloud?
Did she have to?

The warm weight of his hands
stroked down her arms. Slowly, deliberately, every inch of her skin
becoming aware of his touch, the scrape of his calluses, the
softness of his palms. The strength of his fingers spanned her
wrists, reminded her without words of her position in his power.
She could feel the prick of his claws -- and then the slow slide of
them retracting under his skin, leaving only the soft touch of his
fingers. He stroked along her hands, let her feel the calluses and
strength in his palms, then slipped his fingers into hers, let
their hands entwine. She felt surrounded, captured and held, his
body supporting, enveloping hers, his scent invading her with every
breath. She was sensation without thought. The words left her mouth
without volition.

His teeth returned to the side
of her neck. A sharp sting, lingering until laved by his tongue in
lazy movements. She leant into his touch.

"Tell me." His words wrapped
around her mind, stealing her ability to rationalise on even the
most basic level. "How do my hands feel on you?"

"I am warm and still your skin
is warmer against mine."

Their entwined hands rested on
her thighs, the heat of his skin penetrating hers. She wanted to
look down. Somewhere in the muddled recesses of her mind she
wondered how the paleness of his white skin would contrast against
her human flesh. But her vision was filled with flames, their
dancing mesmerism blinding her to all but his touch. The heat, his
hold, her lack blindness, made everything she felt so much more
overwhelming.

"How does it feel, to be held
like this?" Gentle seduction in his melodious voice. She turned her
head, rubbed her cheek against his shoulder like a cat begging for
touch. The body she leant against shook with deep chuckles.

"Safe." And after a moment's
hesitation she added. "Calm."

She flexed her fingers, not to
dislodge their entangled hands but to feel them, to clear her mind
to it. There was a sensual delight in the feeling of his hold
tightening, in feeling the scrape of his fingers over her thighs as
they curled around her hand.

"I see you want to play."

Danger in his voice, just
enough to tantalise her, to wake her trepidation, to threaten her
newly acquired calm. It should have frightened her. Should have
been a warning. Instead, she let her head drop back onto his
shoulder, leaning into his strength. Her eyes fell closed, the
flames dancing against her eyelids, just as they danced inside her
body. There was no reprimand for her inability to hold onto his
order to look into the flames, just a dark satisfied hum against
her skin.

His fingers, still entwined
with hers, stroked along her thighs to the sensitive skin on the
inside of her knees -- and then, with gentle pressure, their
interlinked hands stroked further up.

"How does that feel?"

There was something illicit,
something decadent about the feeling of her own hands opening her
thighs to the flames, to him. Her body, in the normal course of
bonding attempts struggling for arousal, had dampened further, the
folds of her sex tightened under exposure to the colder air of the
room. Her blood surged. She had never been so aware of her own
body's reactions, the changes arousal wrought on it. Her breasts
felt swollen and heavy, warm, strangely stretched, yearning for
stimulation with a painful intensity. There seemed to be a strand
of languid pleasure swirling along her veins, tightening in her
womb, the folds of her sex swelling, exposing her more and more.
She wanted to be touched, wanted to touch, and her inability to do
so, not his hands holding her, but something deeper, something in
her own mind, kept her suspended in a state of gentle need.

"Beautiful." There was near
reverence in the tone of his voice.

It jarred her, threw ripples
along the passion-heated pool of her mind. It was a lie. She was
not beautiful; she was barely useful. It was enough of a reminder
to break the strands of sensation woven around her and bring her
mind back to the present.

Her lids lifted and her eyes
found the dancing shapes of the flames again, their hues of red and
orange throwing a warning against the walls. She felt her muscles
tense in slow increments. Before she could give into the temptation
to put some small distance between them, his hands lifted her own
to twine around his thick neck. It bowed her upper body, exposed
and lifted her breasts in a position that felt vulnerable, almost
obscene. She did not like it.

"Keep your hands around my
neck, Elena."

His voice was a warning, an
admonition to remain as his own hands abandoned hers to caress
along her arms, her sides to her waist. And though his voice held
no threat, it had lost the languid gentleness of only moments
before. Within the span of a millisecond the atmosphere had changed
from relaxed heat to tense anticipation, and not in a good way.
Coils of fear, of dejected expectations, wound in her stomach in an
acidic helix of rising tension.

His hands, still warm and sure,
rested against the dip of her waist, his fingers meeting over the
gentle curve of her stomach as if he could feel her discomfort.
They were warm, their touch soft, muted and without insistence.
Still she could not think of it as anything but a silent demand to
give him what he wanted. Just as every touch in her life had always
been. Confusion rose. What did he want? She had gotten lost in her
own body, had forgotten to catalogue and learn the instructions he
gave her. There was no list in her mind. She always had a list.
That was what made her so good at this game of Dominance and
submission. She needed to get her mind together, work on a
strategy. She jumped when his thumbs painted a caressing half
circle over her skin.

"What is it, little one?" He
whispered.

"Nothing." Automatic
denial.

His fingers kept up their
gentle pattern, the warmth of his touch soaking into her skin. It
did not reach her soul. She felt the whisper of his kiss on her
temple.

"So beautiful."

His tone had turned deliberate,
testing. And just as before, the lie made her tense. She turned her
head away from him, away from the flames to face the dark shadows
of the room. She did not want him to see her anymore.

"Elena, why does it hurt you
when I call you beautiful?"

"It does not."

It was a lie and therefore
another failure. She had promised to tell him the truth and would
not, could not, be pathetic enough to tell him that nothing would
work, would give him what he wanted. He would not be able to break
her shields and bond to her. Not with empty compliments, not with
gentleness or warmth. She had failed to live up to the potential of
her genetics ever day of her adult life. The only reason why he
wanted her, why he looked at her with desire was based on a lie. He
saw her as his future, a future for his people and the chance was
too high, too probable that she would only be a burden to them all.
Again. In the end, she would be unable to bond and his admiration
would wane. He would begin to see her as the defective specimen she
was. Then there would be pity -- and eventually anger.