Title: Into the Fray, Unflinching
Author: gldngr7
Rating: Explicit
Began: April 21, 2017
Chapters: ?
Feedback: Encouragement and constructive criticisms are always welcome. Flames are destroyed with my freeze breath.
Author's Notes: Please be aware that this story is heavily BDSM so read responsibly. If you're not into D/s kink then back out of this story right now.
Chapter 14/?
Prince or not, after a game he always supervises the care and feeding of Pax, his garat, especially a game in which his team is effectively trounced by their biggest rival. His fault mostly, because his mind couldn't banish a certain leggy Kryptonian with golden locks, unforgettable breasts and the tightest, wettest—
"Chambers, Highness?" the voice of his team goalie interrupts his thoughts. After each win, his team would celebrate victory in the main hall of the palace where drinks would flow with abandon and sexual partners would offer their services with alacrity. In defeat, the six members of his team would retire to his chambers to soak in his heated pool, review their mistakes on the holo-viz, and fog their minds with ojym weed.
But his mind isn't thinking about ojym weed. Instead, his thoughts are headed directly south, blood rushing to his crotch causing the pants of his kit to tighten. A garata victory always makes him want to celebrate with sex – joyous, free-spirited sex – but a defeat just makes him want to fuck. To take all of his frustrations and thoughts of failure and rut and rut, ejecting it all from his cock until his legs are weak and that organ is well and truly subjugated. It would, no doubt, take several attempts – even without the Callus Band. His genetic 'enhancements' are sometimes more of a burden and chore than the gift Father seems to consider them. Except that…with the Kryptonian…it never feels like drudgery.
"Your Highness?" the voice intrudes again.
Mon-El glances up at the worried face of Declyn Fors, his left wingback, attempting to redirect his thoughts. "You were saying?"
"Chambers…as usual?" Fors asks again, a sparkle in his eyes that defies the fact their team was just creamed by their biggest competition. Final score: 18 to 2. A humiliation that rankles deep in Mon-El's gut; one that needs exorcising between the legs of his whimpering, begging senya. An act to which his cock already looks forward.
Declyn Fors is on the bright side of twenty, still a young man by all accounts, and not all that good at schooling his face, or his thoughts for that matter. "Why do I get the feeling you're more anxious than usual to watch game vids, Fors?"
"We've all heard the stories, sire," Fors shrugs, a smirk spreading across his face.
"And you were hoping to get a look at her," Mon-El infers. "Why not just watch the chancel vids like everyone else?"
"It's not the same," Ven Revik pipes up. Elbowing his younger teammate in the ribs, he laughs. "He's still hurt that he wasn't invited, sire."
"C'mon!" Fors counters, incredulous glances at this friend and prince, "A Kryptonian whore?" The challenge in his eyes are like hard chips of flint boring into Mon-El. "It's hard to credit, to be honest. Kryptonians are so…prudish."
"Not to mention cold," Revnik adds.
"It seems impossible to think there's a female among them that can work up the honey to get a man's dick wet. Seems more effort than it's worth. Some things have to be seen in person to be believed…."
Before he can defend his more-than-eager senya, Pax sticks her scaly, yellow head through the bars of her pen, snorting nostrils looking for a treat among the pockets of Mon-El's leather kit. Withdrawing a handful of vegetant cubes in his cupped hand, he waves them under her seeking nose. Gently, her forked tongue snakes out to swipe all three cubes from his palm, leaving hardly a trace of saliva. "Soft mouth," he praises, running a hand along the grain of her long scaly neck. "There's a good girl."
Naturally, his mind returns to the Kryptonian at the mention of 'good girl', wondering if she has yet awakened and if she awaits his pleasure as she is meant to. He slept a full sixteen hours after losing consciousness in the chancel, but then woke, disturbingly ready to take her again, cock hard and aching for her sweet cunt, as though remembering its adventures from the day before. After assigning his sleeping senya a handmaiden, he asked after her well-being on an hourly basis, until he began to feel like an idiot and threw himself into other pursuits to take his mind off of her. A scheme that has shown limited success thus far.
The same lack of focus that sent him flying over Pax's neck and into the dirt three times during the game, gifted him with ample time to brood, and if brooding is good for one thing…it's good for planning. Two days without touching her, without even so much as laying eyes upon her, has offered Mon-El enough distance to concoct a new plan that is certain send his Kryptonian senya back where she belongs of, her own free will.
As much as it sickens him, Mon-El's plot requires him to take a page from his father's book; to play the cad to the fullest; unfeeling and dastardly to the highest extreme of which he is capable. First, and the most pivotal part of his plan is to lock down the softer emotions she plants within him with her enormous comet-blue eyes, the adorable way her brow crinkles, or how her voice trembles when he's rutting between her thighs, her hips rising to greet his as she writhes beneath him. Just as he promised her in the chancel, he must remind her as often as possible that she is simply there to spread her legs, nothing more. He will show her the folly of expecting or wanting anything more from him than the emotionally detached, physically domineering and morally bankrupt master he plans to be.
Second, he must present her with the kind of man she truly deserves; a man of good breeding and parentage, and an even better heart, despite the damage it's faced. A heart that stays open and sees the beauty in even the darkest of sunsets. He must show her the heart of his own darkness by turning on the light.
For this purpose, Ral is ideal.
Having clearly grown attached to his beautiful Kryptonian senya, Mon-El has no doubt his bond-brother would jump at the opportunity to take her to his bed. His green eyes hunger with every look – not to take, but to give – and when Kara took him into her mouth in the chancel, it was clear to any with eyes that Ral was lost to her. His charm will win him a place between her thighs, of that Mon-El is certain, but it's his easy-going manner and care for those around him which will steal her heart. If she has half the mind he credits to her, she will escape this place before she can fall too deeply for a man who is little more than a shadow, no matter how real he seems.
Perhaps this will send her running without him ever having to reveal his secrets to her. If he's lucky he'll never have to see the inevitable disgust on her face when she learns the truth about what Father made of him.
"Recent changes in my lifestyle should have no bearing on our usual routine," he decides. The prince turns to a young servant boy, a runner, and provides him with instructions. "Tell the kitchens to have my usual post-game refreshments delivered to my chambers."
"Yes, Your Highness." With a nod, the young boy darts away.
Declyn smiles gleefully, his eyes smoldering with something dark. "If my eyes don't deceive," he says, his amber eyes darting down to the prince's crotch, "you're already chomping at the bit."
Ignoring the twinge of uncertainly in his gut, and the sudden lurch of something he can't identify, Mon-El tells himself that there's no time like the present to put his two-pronged plan to action. "Yes," he tells Declyn, "it's time my little Kryptonian began earning her keep."
Waiting just a few moments for the other five members of their team to finish penning and feeding their garats, Mon-El stalks out of the stables, his leathers growing tighter by the moment. His stretched penile skin, delayed from healing by regular erections that have not allowed him the full three days recovery after use of the Callus Band, assures his cock will still grow to abnormally enormous size. Should he continue to maintain regular erections without adhering to the healing period, it may remain monstrous and ultra-sensitive, the skin so thin the veins threaten to burst through. It is an agony, but one he can live with.
Kara finds a device called a Quantex, a clear pad with touch screen capability, the direction in which smart tablets are heading in the near future, she thinks. The device contains a thousand libraries worth of books and videos, as well as a connection to the Daxcess, where she stumbles upon a treasure trove of sexual and sensual information, including a link to the live feed and recorded footage from cameras in the chancel. She wonders how many people witnessed her performance the other evening, the way she's now witnessing a nubile girl's plentiful breasts bounce as her female Adept, bearing an impressive strap-on, rides her from behind.
Kara slips her fingers between the already wet seam of her hungry clutch, finding her clit like a heat-seeking missile. Her breath quickens as she flicks the bud, swollen from the leather straps she pushes aside. The muscles of her inner walls clamp down on her recuperative beads, her lower abdominals crunching delicately as her climax grows near.
Just as the dam threatens to overflow and bring her long-awaited pleasure, Kara hears the hiss of the chamber's entrance sliding open and multiple, rowdy voices enter the room. Throwing the Quantex down on her bed, she scrambles out of her alcove to peer over the balcony, watching as her master and five excited cohorts enter the cavernous room, stripping off what appears to be garata uniforms. Immediately drawn first to Mon-El, Kara's eyes then scan the group for Ral and when she doesn't find him, her heart drops with disappointment.
She's unaware of taking the stairs, until she's dropping to her knees before her master, and placing her hands on the floor at his feet.
Stupidly, he supposes, he stalked the long distance from the stables to his chambers imagining her already on the bed, legs spread in waiting, and so when he enters the room and finds that not so, it irrationally stokes his ire. Glancing up at the balcony where the senya quarters are located, he finds her gazing down upon him, already moving along the railing to the staircase as though drawn to him by invisible wire.
Handmaiden Val knows her business, of that he is certain, because the servant girl who invaded his thoughts the last few days has been replaced with the picture of perfection, a vartine made flesh. Lids darkened to make the blue of her eyes seem more celestial, pink lips that make his heart race in his chest, and volumes of hair every strand in place. The girl in a servant's uniform had seemed like a whore in disguise, her face unpainted, but there's something incongruously innocent about the senya in a harness and tear away dress, and pink lips like a little girl playing dress up.
He wants to ruin her. To see how long it takes to erase that innocence completely and say that he owns it now. That it's his to take. He wants to smudge that sparkling gloss beyond repair, turn that hair into a sweaty mess again, and make her come so hard that wet kohl streaks down her face.
She drops to her knees before him and places her hands, palm down, at his feet. "Master," she greets softly, her voice achingly submissive. He can't remember his cock ever being this hard, though it must have been mere days ago now.
His men observe her every move as they tear off their kits, throwing boots haphazardly about the room, eyes glued to his concubine paying homage as they dispense with their clothing, taking it all the way down to the skin. Yels'en, Revnik, and Wals head straight into the pool, sinking into its warmth with matching sighs of relief. Revnik works the hot water into his nearly bald scalp, while Yels'en sinks all the way under and then emerges, casting off water from his dirty-blonde hair with a flip of his head. Fors and Robis, sans any clothing, head for the sitting area to light a pipe with ojym.
Like his men, the prince tears off his muddy boots and tosses them aside for later retrieval as he scans every last inch of the Kryptonian like she's a sight for sore eyes. Unsnapping the leather jacket of his kit, he notices something on one of her hands – a glisten of moisture on the tips of her index and middle fingers. Reaching down, he grabs her by her wrist cuff and hauls her hand up to his nose, where he takes a long, telling sniff, discovering exactly what he expected to find.
"Have you been touching yourself, Pet?" he interrogates, immediately putting her on the defensive. "Have you been trying to come without my permission? To commit an act of self-release?"
She avoids his aggressively searching eyes, turning her head away. It shouldn't count. She'd hardly been aware she was doing it, it all happened so naturally.
"What do you have to say for yourself, Pet? Hmm?" Grabbing her chin with rough fingers, he forces her face to turn, her sorrowful eyes to meet his hardened chips of grey.
"I'm sorry, Master—"
"Sorry? Is that all?"
"It's just I missed you so much and you've been gone all day—"
"I have not come all day," he admits, grimacing as he catches himself giving too much away. "So…why should you be given such honor?" Tomorrow, just to know that he still could, he will schedule a session with an Adept or two and seek his release elsewhere. Perhaps with Heron, if he's available. Scratch that. Heron can cancel his whole day. "Who do you think you are?" the prince demands, standing to tower over her aggressively, commanding the attention of everyone in the room.
Wetness gushes between her thighs in response to the authoritative tone of his voice and his dominant stance, so Kara decides to answer his question by reminding him what they both need to know at the moment. "I am Kara Zor-El," her voice crescendos with each word. "Mon-El of Daxam is my master. I am your Kryptonian whore."
Mon-El hears a snort of laughter from behind him, Declyn Fors already feeling the buzz from his ojym. "You know what they say," he slurs. "Kryptonians prefer to take their pleasure in private, by themselves…while they sing the Kryptonian anthem." He throws his head back and laughs like it's the funniest joke he's ever heard.
Kara grits her teeth at the insult, disliking this friend of Mon-El's on sight, with his shoulder-length jet black hair, crooked nose, and his assumptions about all things Kryptonian. In one casually slung insult, this idiot has called her people both puritanical and selfish. Seething inside, she doubts he's ever even met a Kryptonian before her.
"Declyn over here didn't believe I'd found a Kryptonian whore…that such a wonder doesn't exist in nature," Mon-El taunts, feeding the anger he sees growing in her eyes, just to see how it will manifest when she finally gives in to it. He gambles that it will work out to his advantage. "He says that you're probably so prudish you can't work up enough honey to get my dick wet. Isn't that what you said?" he turns to ask the younger man.
"That's what I said," he calls, the challenge clear despite the slight slur.
Unable to abide that smug smile on that too-handsome-for-its-own-good face any longer, and desperate to wipe it from existence, Kara reaches her boiling point and grabs the prince by this leather pants. "I can show him, Master," she says, as though struck with inspiration.
Mon-El feels the anger coming off her in waves – his stubborn princess. He shakes away the inappropriately tender thought, gritting his teeth and fisting his hands, angry at himself for letting it slip through and angrier at her for being so utterly, inescapably perfect. "All right," he sighs, donning a façade of boredom and ennui. "Sit on the edge of the bed," he instructs, vaguely waving a hand in the direction of the bed, "and spread your legs."
Kara rises to her feet, and as she moves toward the bed, tenacity intact, she feels the diaphanous material of her dress melt away as the prince grabs for it. Meeting Declyn's raised eyebrows, Mon-El holds the dress up and releases it, letting it float gently to the tiled floor.
Now wearing nothing but the harness and her hook, Kara climbs up on the bed in an almost dignified manner, settling herself like a queen, hands as graceful as a ballerina's. Leaning back on her hands, she feels the ball of the anal hook press deeper into her and she wants to roll into it, to feel it move more deeply inside. Her thighs are already wet with her juices, so when she slowly opens her legs to reveal the glistening moisture, her eyes affix upon the prince's insolent friend, daring him to insult her, or her kind, some more.
She's too stunning, too eager to be believed, and Mon-El must take measures to protect his heart from the way this Kryptonian bangs at it like she's trying to knock its door down. Boredom – it's a common defense mechanism he learned to employ as a teen. Show too much interest in something and someone, usually Father, will covet it for themselves. But boredom is treated like a disease that's catching, and its subjects are usually viewed as tainted.
The sight of her arrogance, her chin set hard, makes Mon-El want to cheer, almost as much as it makes him want to fuck her. Since the former doesn't fit with the spirit of his plan to drive her away, he opts for the latter. He schools his features and manner with rigid, meticulously learned control. Rolling his eyes, he sighs deeply while picking mud from beneath his fingernails, before unsnapping the closures of his leather jacket as though he's simply planning a wardrobe change. Employing techniques long used on Father and members of the Council of Traders, he moves as though unfocused and easily distracted, despite the bulge in his pants urging him to stalk her like she's a vartine calling him to his welcomed death.
As far as she will ever know, she's just another lay – in a long line of lays, waiting for his attention. His jacket falls to the floor with a heavy thud as he lazily tugs the tail of his purple linen shirt from the waistband of his leathers as he moseys over to the bed.
A sparkle of silver dangling from between her legs catches his eye as he notices the chain connected to her recuperative beads. Pressing one knee to spread her wider, the prince grasps the chain and tugs gently, feeling the resistance of her muscles as she actively tries to hold them inside. Sucking her lower lip into her mouth, her eyes twinkling with mischief, he offers his most apathetic expression, eyebrows static, eyelids blinking slowly, dully. Her reaction is instantaneous, blue eyes shuttering, aiming downwards, her beginnings of a smile, aborted. With a rougher tug, he pulls the device free, and as though he's stolen the air from her lungs, her mouth opens with a breathless gasp. Causing further surprise, Mon-El fills that open mouth with the slick balls.
"Suck them." Issuing the command in a voice suggesting he's spared not a single thought to the notion, he lazily holds the chain as she sucks the tangy cream from the metal surface. He unwinds the chains from his finger, leaving the device in her mouth, her cheeks bulging like a woodland creature gathering nuts. "Touching yourself without my permission is forbidden, Kryptonian," he announces, not an ounce of tease in his voice. Looping his fingers around the harness straps at her hips, he yanks her to the very edge of the bed. "This behavior needs to be quelled," he decides, carefully keeping any hint of passionate resolve from seeping into his tone.
"Mmmmeeeee," she whines, finding it difficult to breathe around the beads.
His hand on her chest, he shoves her upper body down to bed. "Lift your legs and grab behind your knees."
Though her master instructs her with no more interest or ardor than did Brana before providing her exam, Kara follows his command, but goes one step further. Knowing that it's unlikely she'll be able to hold her legs closed once he begins quelling her, she tucks her elbows behind her knees and then cocks her hands back to grab her heels, the stretch feeling incredible to her still-sore hamstrings. Dropping her head back onto the mattress, she closes her eyes and waits for the first blow. She doesn't have long to wait.
Having caught her in an act of defiance in front of his men, her misbehavior cannot go unanswered. This is a lesson she should have learned in the chancel, but it seems to have gone over her head. Her glistening pussy on full display for him and the rest of the team, the prince pulls his hand back and lets it fly, popping her clit with a resounding slap.
"Mmmmeeeeeep!" she squeals and her entire body spasms in response to the punishment, her arms pulling back against her fighting legs.
"You gave this pussy to me, fair and square, because you wanted to be my whore," he admonishes. "You practically had to beg me to make you my whore." Smack!
"Mmmmeeeeee!" The pain is pleasure, streaking through her body and leaving pinpricks of sensation everywhere beneath her skin, rising faster than her brain can process it and lighting her up inside like a billion filaments smaller than the eye can see.
"You think you can take it back now?" Smack!
"Nnnnnnnmmmmmmm!" she moans, afraid that she's going to come, but she concentrates on holding her legs apart.
"You're free to leave anytime you like…you know what to do. But until you do, this pussy is mine. To do with as I please, to use as I please, to dispose of…as I please." Slap! "If my desire is to tie your legs to these bed posts and cheer as you're pile-driven by every man in this room, then you would have two choices, Pet: to cry mercy and leave, or thank them for the cum they provide," he declares, not even a sliver of possessive interest in the dangerous and shocking pronouncement. "Every single orgasm is a gift I bestow." Slap! Reaching down, he grips the chain and draws the beads from her mouth, tossing them aside, and allowing her to speak. His sticky fingers fumble for the ties that hold his pants together, as he determines the time has come for the next phase of her punishment. "Do you understand me, Kryptonian?"
"Yes, Master," she replies with a heaving gulp, her eyes squeezed closed.
"Say it," he charges without bite, simply the dull tone of someone who'd rather be doing something else with someone else.
"My pussy is yours. Every orgasm is a gift you bestow," she complies, a lump the size of walnut growing in her throat. Despite his words, the indifference in her master's tone – his apathy – is like a hot knife slicing into her heart, cutting straight to all her insecurities. The worst of it is that he doesn't even attempt to feign interest, as is she's not important enough to him to warrant the effort.
When he unties the crotch of his very restrictive pants, his stiff cock, which doesn't understand the rules to the game he plays, bursts forth before he can completely loosen the strings, droplets of pre-ejaculate already pushing out of the tiny slit in the center of its head. He's forced to push the waistband down two inches to liberate the huge member completely. Praying to whatever gods might be willing to listen, Mon-El hopes he doesn't come the moment he's inside of her wet heat. Without the Callus Band, reaching climax is markedly easier, and he's thought of little else the last two days but feeling the death grip of her pussy around him again.
"I think you need further punishment," the prince decides, stroking his cock in anticipation of her waiting heat. "As a reminder."
"Yes, Master," she agrees. His punishment is something, at least, because perhaps she heard some small amount of eagerness in his declaration. As long as he continues to correct her mistakes, it indicates that he must still have some small amount of interest in her. She must welcome his punishments in hopes that they will keep him connected to her. "I deserve to be punished."
Without further preamble, or teasing, or even the slightest warning, Mon-El lines up his stiff, thick rod, and with the other hand holding her down, he stuffs it into her tight, greedy hole. He doesn't go in easy, and her entire body reacts like a bomb has gone off inside, her eyes springing open, her head lifting from the bed to watch as his long, thick meat pushes against the resistance of her passage. Her eyes widen, pupils blown with one look, clearly not expecting him to be this massive again.
Kara opens her mouth to cry out to Rao, but no words come out, only a series of harsh breaths that sound as though she's on the cusp of hyperventilating.
Knowing that their night in the chancel stretched her passage, leaving her raw and tender from his rough use, the prince grasps the center of her harness for leverage, and goes in slow, enjoying every last second of her slick, swollen pussy's resistance.
She's so tight and he's so big and…oh…the height of the mattress is just right for being fucked and she's being stretched so wide again she feels like she's going to burn up inside, but it hurts so…so good. "Yeah," she whines, pushing back harder with her elbows so that her legs stay crushed to her chest. "Yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah," she whimpers, licking lips she hadn't realized were dry. "Feels so good when you go deep."
"I'll make you feel it deep," he promises, a note of foreboding, a dark vow which sounds better to her than the nothingness. Leaning into her, he places his hand on the mattress beside her waist and tilts his head to look down to where their bodies merge. Slowly pulling out until just the head of his cock is still inside, he slams the remaining inches back in, putting his body weight behind it.
"Fuck!" she cries, her eyes searching for his before sucking her lower lip into her mouth. "Yeah," she wails, blue eyes shining up at him…begging. "Punish me, Master. I need to be punished so hard."
Despite the filthy implications of her pleas, the prince catches sight of an incongruous child-like innocence in her eyes, and it only makes him want to demolish it. Over and over, with measured strokes, he retreats and drives back in deep, his pelvis smacking her pubis with dull bone-grinding thuds. Her only response to the deliberate thrusts are sharp high-pitched whines that hit the air and dissipate immediately. Soon, her hot channel answers his unrepentant, deep strokes with a promising flutter within. "Fuck…oh fuck, Master!" she whinges, her eyes rolling back as flush spreads across her chest.
Mon-El whips his cock out of her and wraps his hand around the slippery tool, siding it up and down the shaft while gripping it tight with purpose. Desperate to come for two days now, it takes only a few pumps before he feels the electrical discharge building at the base of his spine, the tendrils traveling to his balls, causing them to contract tightly between his thighs.
"No," she begs, her own climax slipping out of easy retrieval. She could have had him – thought she had him back for a few moments. Shamelessly, she pleads, tears gathering in her eyes at the thought missing out on the warm gush that fills her with such ecstasy. "Please, Master no, no, no…."
"Your orgasms are mine," he grates out, forcing the words out past the pain and the pleasure of it. It's not as good, not as satisfying as coming inside of her – breeding her – but satisfaction and the prince are rivals of old, and he is accustomed to the numbness of imperfect pleasures. But it's important that he doesn't allow her to know that, and so he plays up the pleasure of coming without her help, closing his eyes to better fake the bliss. "Aaagghh…and so is my cum. To do with as I please. You said so yourself…hhhmmmm, yeah," he groans as he pumps his fist harder, forcing a twisted smile. "You forgot…mmmmfuck….who you belong to."
"I'm sorry," she weeps, tears spilling from her eyes leaving black tracks of kohl. "I'll do better, Master…please…I'll do better."
"This is…the only way you'll…learn." Mon-El groans as finally his abdominals and ass seize, working together to eject a strong stream of his seed, arcing out of his slit and spraying her from belly button to sternum. "Yeah, yeah...oh yeah, fuck that's good," he lies. Another jet of spunk spews forth with a slightly smaller arc on it. "Oh…yeah," he grunts, his voice quaking, his pumping fist speeding as he feels one more imminent release in the offing.
Ashamed of her failure, she turns her head away as the last stream of wasted cum strikes her navel, pooling quickly in the indent. She can't bring herself to look at him, shutting herself off completely from the bliss of release he doesn't wish to share with her.
"Maybe next time you think of taking what's mine, you'll remember this," he says, his breath still coming hard and fast, as his dick shrinks back to its flaccid size. "And don't think I won't know, Pet. Your forehead crinkles when you lie," he threatens, unsure from whence that information sprung. "Are you going to be naughty again?"
Gaining control over her tears, the pain of his rejection, she replies in a near whisper, "No, Master. I want to be your good girl."
"Who owns your pussy?"
"You do, Master," she sniffles.
There's something satisfying about breaking her like this, a sliver of hope that it's the beginning of this torturous end. He leaves her like that on the bed, covered in copious amounts of his spunk, promising that if she keeps her legs in the air, and if she's good, she may yet get what she wants, what she aches for. Letter perfect, she waits, only her feet flagging in determination.
"See?" she hears him say to their observers as he walks away from her. "Plenty of honey to get my dick wet. Even more if I let her come. Did you ever think you'd hear a Kryptonian beg for it like that?"
Flat on her back, Kara listens to the ruckus that six game-hyped men can make as they splash around in the pool, imbibe alcohol, and toke something called ojym weed. It could be hours or fifteen minutes, she waits, digging deep for her patience, her legs growing weary. Catching site of Brana, who's observed it all from the balcony above, Kara offers her a meager smile that tries to be happy but fails – like the rest of her.
Turning her head, she sees the dark-haired, dark-eyed friend of her master's staring at her though half-lidded eyes filled with covetous want, his eyes gleaming in the light like volcanic glass. A shiver races down her spine, but she refuses to lower her legs. Four times, Mon-El walks into her view and each time he sports an erection in need of service, but he continues to reject what waits for him.
Just when she's about to give up, to crawl off the bed and slink away to her hidey-hole, convinced that he won't even notice, he returns to her at last. Hope sprouts in her chest causing her heart to race and her face to flush. But he dashes her hopes right away, apparently not finished punishing her for her misguided actions. He tosses a towel over her face, obscuring her vision and turning everything dark.
"I'm still so angry I can't even look at you," he tells her, his dull tone belying his words. He lies, of course; his inability to look at her having nothing to do with anger at her past actions. Walking away from her, he promised himself he would leave her there, stewing in her punishment, ignored by him as he plays the bored, disinterested prince with a concubine whose name he can hardly be bothered to learn. He even instructed his men to pay her no heed, as difficult as it may be, and for the most part, they seemed to be largely successful. But he was not.
Why does she tempt him so deeply? How does she draw him in so expertly without a hint of guile or practiced seduction? Just pure, undisguised…want.
And not more than a handful of minutes passes before he convinces himself that she must be taken again; ruthlessly, methodically and completely without passion. He will fuck her, he decides, but he will not connect with her. He will simply use her for the glistening sanctuary she obediently displays and most importantly, he resolves not to ponder the paradise he finds when he's deep inside of her. Thinking about turning her on her stomach, he negates the idea, because he likes to watch her breasts bounce when he's aggressive.
Leaning over her, Mon-El grasps brutishly at one of her shoulders as he lines himself up with her entrance, wasting not a moment before pushing into her with a manly grunt. Thrusting at the same punishing pace she appreciated earlier, he listens to her string unintelligible syllables of pleasure together underneath the towel. She's so tight and hot, and getting wetter with each enthusiastic stroke. Using his thumb, he tortures her swollen clit with a few well-timed flicks that have her back arching like she's a living work of art, but when her pussy flutters around him he stills inside of her, offering no friction, no stimulation, and waits until her breathing normalizes.
"I'm going to come inside you this time," he informs her coolly, "because you waited patiently and obediently. But you don't get to come. That's for gracious whores who understand the gifts are for receiving…not taking."
"Yes, Master," her dejected, defeated voice drifts through the towel. Her entire body, it seems, melts into the mattress, as though deciding it's no longer worth the effort to participate.
He fucks her in earnest then, grabbing her heels and pressing them farther back until her toes touch the mattress. Like a rusty hinge, she squeaks at the way he stretches her body, both inside and out, as he drives into her. His guests chant jubilantly in time to his thrusts, encouraging his rough use of her. It takes only a few minutes before he's stiffening over her, his entire body clenching as though weathering a lightning strike, a deep groan wracking his chest. When at first he climaxes, her womb has the satisfaction of drinking in his cum, feeling its warmth coat her insides. At least there's that, Kara tells herself, while attempting to ignore her ever-growing lack of fulfillment and the paralyzing fear that Mon-El grows weary of her. But by the time she hears the primal grunt and sigh of completion following the final sharp thrust that accompanies his last hot spurt of seed, she feels dirty, like an utter failure who can't keep her master properly contented.
Quickly growing limp, he pulls out of her as the high of his climax dissipates, steadfastly ignoring the increasing hollowness in his chest that expands with the distance he cultivates between them. He can hear her sniffling under the towel, see her the light terry flutter as her breath comes quickly, her chest rising up and down.
Most Daxamites her age project a blasé quality when it comes to sex, having already moved on to their twentieth or thirtieth partner by now, but not his senya. She hungers for every encounter, hoping to see what's next, as one does when the banquet is still fresh. Despite her apparent tardiness in blooming (expected for a Kryptonian), she is clearly a creature of enormous, perhaps limitless, sexual energies who thrives, if not depends, on release. By denying her orgasm, he's depriving her of something intrinsic to the health and well-being of both her mind and her body, effectively starving her into defeat.
Hundreds of women he's pleasured since taking his first at fifteen, and though he did his duty by each of them, giving them their pleasure, he's never felt driven to spoil them with orgasms. To watch them come time and time again, bringing them closer to the celestial fields of Val-Or. He never promises them more than he's willing to give, prides himself in the pleasure he brings, and he never spills himself anywhere but inside them, unlike how he left the opaline strings of his cum splashed on the Kryptonian's skin. But with her it's entirely different somehow, the act of owning her, mastering her. No less addicted to her climaxes than she, Mon-El doubts his ability to withhold from her for long.
Fucking has never felt as unsatisfying as it did today because he didn't give her what she needs. So much like a hollowness that he can't shake.
She releases her knees, her legs falling listlessly over the end of the bed. As though finding the sight uninviting, he closes her legs and steps away from her, leaving the towel covering her face. Mon-El knows the guilt churning in his gut over the way he treats her will stay with him until he fades from this place, but he tells himself it's better this way. So, as he walks away from the bed – from her – he tries not to hear the way her breath catches in her chest every time she breathes. He tells himself that she doesn't look like a broken doll lying there on the bed and tries to ignore the way, a moment later, she curls up into a ball, practically fading into the plush covers of the massive bed.
His teammates are lounging around the pipes, puffing the sweet smoke of ojym weed and settling down after their raucous turn at watching him use his senya, just as they'd hoped to see when they followed him to his chambers. Though boisterous and rowdy, they are little fazed by the proceedings having seen it all before in one form or another, but something about their presence reminds him of his task, and the necessity of it. They keep him honest, keep him from falling into this whirlpool of emotion that threatens to swallow him whole whenever he's near her. He thinks that it would be best to never be alone when he fucks her, so that he doesn't slip irretrievably into the maelstrom of confusing emotions he experiences when he's around the Kryptonian. Accustomed to shutting down whatever emotions he can, and hiding those that he can't, Mon-El is unused to the swirling turbulence inside his chest and hasn't the first clue how to cope with it.
Casting one last glimpse at her, Mon-El wonders why he doesn't just follow through on his threat. Why doesn't he just tie her down and give her to them, like throwing a slab of fresh meat in a pen of dozen hungry garats? It is, after all, something Father wouldn't think twice about doing, and has done in the past once he grows weary of his senyas.
But something inside, something foreign and unknown, like an exotic beast that hibernates beneath his heart, stirs enough from time to time to keep him from turning into Father. It awakens now, at the worst possible time, despite efforts to coax it back to its slumber. He tells himself that he refrains from that course because at this rate it's likely to backfire and she'll only take to it, like every other sexual playground to which she's been introduced. The truth, however, as the foreign beast roars, is that such an act could damage her in ways so deep she would carry them to the outside, like an unseen scar. Though Father would only leap upon this opportunity to make himself painfully indelible in this way, Mon-El sees a line that must be drawn.
Like a seed he regrets planting, there exists also the fear that she'll do it just for him, because he wills it. Such a concept, if true, can only mean one inconceivable thing; that she loves him. His gut fills with sorrow for her, if that is the case. Love is a concept as foreign as the beast in his chest, one he only learned of second-hand in the barely remembered stories Ral would tell of his parents and of the series of letters they found as boys, missives long ago passed between the lovers Gata and Trel. Mon-El's learned enough to know that love is destructive; turning the heart into a wasteland, and it's something with which he wants no part.
Why would she choose a wastrel like himself, when it's clear every man (and many of the women of his acquaintance) covet her pleasure the moment they clap eyes on her, just as he did?
It's all too much to think, to let in, so he does what he usually does when he can't – or doesn't want to – cope. He picks up the hose of the zuqqa pipe, places the mouthpiece against his lips and sucks in a deep breath, letting the soothing smoke fill his lungs. It takes mere seconds for a buzz to spread, making his fingers tingle and his eyes droop, the post-coital malaise pushing him to his high after only one puff, instead of his usual three. Dropping naked onto an overstuffed pillow next to his teammates, Mon-El lets the high overtake him, closing his eyes and drifting off.
When it's clear that he's gone, and she can hear his mumbling voice over by the pipes, Kara draws her knees to her chest and rolls to her side, curling into fetal position. She wishes to escape, to fly far away and feel the wind on her face but will settle for withdrawing to her alcove and pulling her curtain closed. Instead she curls into a ball, as tightly as her constraints allow and the towel over head, because her master has not given her leave to depart.
Picking at the coverlet under her fingers, Kara works to bring her emotions under control. Mon-El must have had hundreds of sexual partners, so it's no wonder that he would grow bored with her in this environment – especially without the powers that make them…her…special. No matter what sexy harness he demands she wear, nor how beautiful a motherly handmaiden claims she is, his indifference reminds her that, deep down, she's still just plain Kara Danvers.
Plain Kara Danvers, with her kindergarten teacher wardrobe, and the rampant insecurity about becoming a reporter that she works so hard to hide, about having a real boyfriend…and about being a mentor. Plain Kara Danvers who, despite her best efforts at flirtation, couldn't get James Olsen to choose her. Perhaps if she'd been more like the stunning Lucy Lane, looked more like the stunning Lucy Lane…commanded his attention more like the stunning Lucy Lane – perhaps it might have taken him a few moments, instead of six months for him to decide she was worth the effort.
And now Mon-El, Prince of Daxam, sees her as hardly worth the effort. Just like James did.
She misses her sister, a pang deep in her chest reminds her, as if she might have forgotten. Alex would know what to say right now, if she could understand any of this. She would hug Kara tightly and say something wise and probably profound that would make her feel better or at least keep her form losing hope – something Kara could really use right now.
Except to wonder what might be going on in the outside world, and if Alex and the rest of her family are frantic with worry, Kara has gone out of her way to not think of Alex. Because if she did, she might have to wonder what Alex would think of all this, think of what Kara has become in this place. Of who Kara is…and maybe always was. Would she think her super powered sister weak for liking the way it feels to have a collar around her neck, or to have her breasts manhandled until they bruise a rainbow of colors? Would she turn away in mortification to know that her little sister is an exhibitionist who enjoys the way it feels when an audience watches her give and receive pleasure for entertainment? Could Alex empathize with the feeling of completeness Kara feels when Mon-El comes inside of her?
From the day Kara crashed into Alex's life, she's never kept any part of herself secret from her big sister – it's an aspect of their relationship that's placed an enormous amount of stress on Alex – guided her to make choices she might not have otherwise made. Put parts of her life in stasis. Kara wonders if knowing this part of Kara would only add to the pile.
But none of that stops her from aching to see her sister, to feel Alex's arms around her. Kara's eyes well with tears again at the thought of Alex as she tries to imagine what words of wisdom her sister might off if she had all the facts and if she knew Mon-El as well as Kara does. Alex might remind her that Mon-El has a strong sense of self-deprecation, if not loathing, and that it's easier to wallow in that than accept that other people might see something more in him.
"Don't give up, Kara. The best things are worth fighting for," she can hear Alex's voice say. "You can reach him. You just have to find the right trigger."
His mind had let a few memories from the outside slip through, but from all indications, found a way to shut down that avenue, the way a Hazmat lockdown quarantines harmful bacteria and viruses. Kara can't depend on his memories of their life together to bring back his feelings for her. She must rely on the here and now – have faith in her belief that they're made for one another, and that Rao expended much effort in bringing them together at the right moment; across time, across stars, beyond prejudice, and through adversity.
"Rao in Celestia," she prays, her words a shaky whisper on dry lips. "Give me the strength to reach him. Guide my actions. Make my thoughts Yours and use his words and actions as stepping stones to build a path home. My faith I place in you, my heart in Your hands."
A peace settles over her, infusing her bones and muscles with a warmth that carries her into a deep sleep on her master's bed.