A/N: Okay. This is the chapter when the naughty stuff starts. Definite mature rating. Some kink. Only consenting adults, though, and nobody gets hurt. Not as graphic as two other stories currently in the Mature section of the Fantastic Four. If you are nervous, please do not read on.
Regardless of how it may seem, I actually had nothing against Reed Richards personally, other than that he was a superhero. Becoming one seems to do something to the brain; hence his blind spot regarding what became of his inventions once they left his hands. By all accounts, other than Doom's, he was a fine man, a loving husband, and a good father. I knew no ill of him.
Yet I had ruthlessly hunted out the secret which would destroy him in a way that nothing else could, which would mean the end of the Fantastic Four, perhaps the destruction of his marriage and family— for the legal battles that would ensue meant interminable lawsuits, endless stress, and, ultimately, bankruptcy. Above all else, being a high-profile superhero was expensive. Peter Parker, who I knew to be Spiderman, could manage with only a colorful suit, but more usually, the cost of heroics was several hundred thousand a year, not counting living expenses or insurance.
Exposing Richards was only the beginning, however. My life took off from there…
I returned to my hotel only to pick up my suitcases, which had in them only things I needed or valued enough to retain: a few clothes, a photo album, my favorite books. Then I returned to the Latverian embassy—and consequently vanished off the face off the earth. I had no passport. I didn't need one. Doctor Doom would never stoop to traveling on a commercial flight, and when he returned to Latveria, I went along.
Within days of my arrival, I had a new name, the name I currently use, a new identity, complete with background, lodgings in Castle Doom—a very small suite, just a bedroom and bath—and a job. I was to read, just as I had done when I discovered what Winfield-Merton was doing with Reed Richards' inventions, and come up with further insights.
The problem was that insight cannot be commanded or forced. It happens when it will. Within two weeks, it was clear to me that if I didn't have a more structured schedule, I was going to spend four or five hours a day playing solitaire. I needed to do something productive during the day, and read on my own time. The insights would follow.
I explained that to Doom, who assigned me to help look after the influx of refugees from Serbia, which I did for six months, until I realized why Stark International was going to go bankrupt very suddenly in five years. Compiling all my sources and writing it up took fifty-five days, after which I was sent to work with the outreach educational program intended to help Romany children learn to read—a significant problem, as the illiteracy rate among Gypsies is greater than sixty percent. Then I became interested in the drop in the Atlantisean birthrate…
Of late, I'd been made a diplomatic aide. Doom selected my assignments, seemingly at random. Sometimes all I had to do was be part of his entourage, following him around Latveria, or around the globe.
And then there was my private agenda…
But my life was to change again. Three years after I entered the service of Doom—.
I was reading in the library when I heard him approach. It was, of course, Victor Von Doom, the ruler of Latveria, my employer—although perhaps it would be more accurate to say he was my liege lord. The library was his own private library, and I had his permission to use it at any time, so I did not start guiltily when he appeared; I merely rose, and gave him an informal bow of respect.
"My lord." I greeted him. All would-be world conquerors require an array of henchmen, lackeys, and aides; Victor Von Doom is no exception. I am one of many. Thus far I have avoided being blamed for something that went wrong with one of his plans. (My liege lord believes that he makes no mistakes and needs no advice.)
"Good evening, Joviana. Please, sit." There is no other voice like his in the world—deep, resonant, commanding. "What are you reading?"
"Recherche Le Temps Perdu." I show him the cover.
"Again? How many times does this make?" he asked.
"Five—but only the second in French." I answered.
"And it never palls on you." It is a statement, not a question, and there is a note of approval in his voice.
"Never." I smile.
He turned to a bookshelf, and ran the fingers of one hand, encased in its metal gauntlet, over the bindings. I can count the number of times I have seen him without gloves on the fingers of one hand. I have never seen his face.
He wears a shell of steely armor whenever he is around another human being—not the medieval armor one might suppose, but an incredibly sophisticated product of the most advanced technology possible. It is of his own devising. There are computer systems built into it, life support, anything and everything. It is amazing. Over it, he wears an olive green cloak with a hood—and a mask. He always wears the mask.
His face was destroyed years ago, in an explosion.
He would be one of the handsomest men in the world, were it not for that.
I turned back to Proust. Doom continued to search the shelves idly. Presently, he remarked, "Joviana, you have been in my employ for nearly three years now. You were twenty-two then, were you not?"
"Yes. I'm twenty-five now." I agreed.
"You have served me loyally and well." I had actually saved his life about a year before. I had to do it the hard way—by dying. Doctor Doom is a master of the occult as well as a scientist and a ruler, and he brought me back. (That sort of thing happens far oftener than anyone would suppose.)
"Thank you, my lord." I replied, wondering what this was leading up to. Doctor Doom is not in the habit of merely firing people; those who feel his displeasure are lucky to leave his employ alive. In my mind, I quickly ran over anything I might have said or done, any way in which I might have failed him or angered him. I couldn't think of any.
He doesn't need much of a reason. He might not have liked the way I spoke to a diplomat, or the seating arrangement I drew up for a conference.
I added, as smoothly as I could, "Whatever my merits as a servitor, I can only strive to live up to your expectations as a leader."
"You are one of the very few who approaches that. Tell me, would you care to gain a greater measure of my trust and gratitude?"
It sounded as if this was going to be dangerous. But I answered, "My lord, I am yours to command. If it lies within my power to perform it, you have only to say what I should do."
"It may lie within your power." he said, thoughtfully. "Will you trust me?" and with that question, he extended his hand to me.
"Yes." I said. I knew my own worth; I knew I was valuable and useful. I have few, if any illusions concerning my master. I stood up, and took his hand.
He led me up the spiraling stairs to the upper level of the library, and up another level from there, into an area of the castle where I had never been before—his private study. I was being granted entry to his living quarters.
Had it been any other man, I would have suspected his motives. But not my dour, brooding employer. Not Doctor Doom, who had spent over a decade sealed inside his metal skin, away from any human touch.
"Sit there." He indicated a chaise lounge, made without a higher side, something like a more elegant version of a psychiatrist's couch. A light cashmere throw was draped over it. I sat. "Put your feet up," he suggested—or commanded—pleasantly.
I shed my slippers on the carpet, and did so. As he crossed the room, I took the opportunity to look around. It was a handsomely appointed, masculine room, paneled in a dark wood and furnished with a mix of antiques and the best modern furniture. The predominant color of the carpets, upholstery, and such, was green.
Had it been any other man, I would have anticipated what came next—not exactly as it happened, perhaps, but something of the kind. He strode back across the room, took my right hand, snapped a restraint around my wrist, knelt, and swiftly, efficiently, closed the other half to a leg of the chaise.
I jumped, shocked. "What—wait?"
He caught my other hand, held my wrist firmly, and told me, softly, "Say 'no', and I remove the cuffs. Say 'no', and you may go back downstairs, back to your suite, back to your duties, unharmed. It is as simple as that. I give you my word it shall be as if this never happened. But—say 'yes', and you will not suffer for it, I promise. You will only rise higher in my esteem."
I sat frozen for a long moment, searching his eyes. His armor is powered to give him the strength to move tons, if need be. He could undoubtedly compel or force me into anything he chose—but his word or promise, I knew, once given, was more binding to him than any law.
I considered asking if the shackle was necessary, but I rejected the idea. Obviously, it was.
Just because something was not anticipated does not mean it is unwelcome.
I relaxed, and let him do what he would with my arm. He exhaled, "Ahhhh," a pleased sigh, and chained my other wrist to the leg on that side of the chaise. I couldn't move my arms more than fifteen centimeters in any direction.
I couldn't really stay sitting up in that position—I was compelled to lie back against the curve of the chaise, my arms hanging down, exquisitely aware of how my back was arched, of how my breasts thrust upward, of how very vulnerable I was…
"And—this." He slipped a sleep mask with an elastic strap over my eyes. The cool silk kissed my eyelids as I heard a faint clanking sound. "Now," he stated, as I heard his voice come nearer to my ear. "You will continue to show me the unfailing respect and deference, the obedience of which I know you are capable. Ordinarily, I welcome your questions and observations, but under these circumstances, you will not speak unless I ask you a question, and then you will answer me truthfully. Do you understand?"
"Yes, my lord." My mouth had gone dry. I had consented to this. I had consented…
Then his hand, his naked hand, without its cold metal gauntlet, that hand which had clasped mine, skin to skin, only once before—and that when I had saved his life! That hand touched my face. The back of it stroked down my cheek, turned, curled, and cupped my chin. He began to run his thumb over my lips, caressing them, and around the flesh at the corners of my mouth. I never knew how sensitive that area was, until, with a touch as light and gentle as a butterfly landing on a flower, he explored it, millimeter by millimeter, in total silence.
It was more thrilling than any kiss I had ever received from a mouth. My breath caught in my throat, and below my navel, that sensation of fullness, heaviness, the swelling of arousal, began.
He spoke. "For nearly three years, you have been at hand—never very far away, always in the corner of my mind, if not in the corner of my eye, and for nearly three years, this has been building in me, and all toward you."
His hand left my face, and I almost moaned at its loss. He began to tug at the bottom of my blouse.
I was wearing the clothes I often do on summer evenings—a tank top and gauze trousers with a drawstring. After a day spent in the serious attire Lord Doom considered appropriate for an aide, I liked comfort, and I had no one to entice—. At least, I had thought I had no one to entice…
Cool metal kissed my skin, and I heard a light hiss as he sliced the fabric from waist to neck, then cut through the shoulders and slipped it off me, discarding it somewhere.
The air played over my naked skin, raising goose bumps and causing my nipples to pucker, as he continued. "I would not touch most of the people in this world with so much as the tip of my little finger—including some who are purer and more beautiful than you—but it is you who draws me," he mused.
As if to prove his point, his hand, large, solid, and very warm, descended on my left breast, where he toyed with the nipple, pinching it and tugging on it. He was not hurting me, oh no. Then his other hand joined with my other breast.
Some strange alchemical change had occurred in me, I was exuding oil, which gathered and pooled between my legs, a volatile oil, which wanted only a spark—and I had to stifle a little sound of protest when his hands left my breasts. They slid to my waist, where he untied my pants and slid them down my legs and off, continuing to speak as he did so.
"You have come to obsess me. You know, of course, that you are monitored at all times, in all places—but you do not know that I review everything and all that concerns you. I know your preferences—I know your habits. I know, for example, that you like to read erotic fiction at night, and that when you do, your heart beat quickens, your breath comes faster, your blood pounds more strongly through your veins, your brain activity flares up," he said, hooking his fingers into my panties, and drawing them off, "building, accelerating until a there is great burst—and I can guess what you have been doing. Something like—this."
His hand touched my belly, skimmed lightly downward, until his fingers dipped—. He began to stroke. I did gasp—I had to. "Is this what you do?" he asked.
"Yes." I managed, and added, "I had no idea that—that body telemetry could be measured so precisely from a distance. Or that you had taken such an interest in me, my—Lord!" The last was more like a squeal— and completely involuntary, at that. He had slipped a finger deep inside me
"That is a more complete answer than was truly called for, but I will let that pass this once. You are passionate— for you often do this, two, three, even more times a night, until you sleep, just in order to get to sleep," he continued, as he sought out my recesses with that finger. "I know more than that about you. I also know that as of seven weeks ago, at your last physical, you were still a virgin—and I perceive," he said, as he slipped another finger in me and made me wince—"you are one still. Has there really been no one? Neither man nor woman? I would scarcely believe it—except that I know where you are at all times, I know who you meet, and where."
"No one." I replied, as I adjusted to the burning sensation, the stretching and pulling. "Nothing even approaching this." My voice was uneven, unsteady. I arched my head back.
His voice dropped. "Do you have any idea what it does to me—knowing what you are doing, only a few floors and rooms away—smoldering, untouched by any hand save your own? Unsatisfied and aching? And knowing that any day, any night, any hour, you might find someone—someone else to relieve you of the burden of your virginity? For it is a burden to you, isn't it?"
"Yes. I didn't know. I don't know." I was climbing, yes, I was, despite the discomfort, I was getting close…
"It is a torment such as I have not known since I was sixteen. It is actual physical agony. But I am nothing if not generous." He abruptly stopped what he was doing, and I moaned in bereavement.
His voice took on that sardonic tone which infuriated costumed adventurers all over the world. "I am prepared, not only to forgive you—but to alleviate your sufferings—to give you what you need and want so desperately, and take what you want to be rid of—and I will. But you must meet my conditions." He paused.
"What are they, my lord?" I asked, finally.
"I don't recall asking a question. I will indulge you, and answer anyway. If I am to do this for you, there must be no one else. Not even yourself. You are to save your desires for me, and bring them to me. No matter how long it may be—no matter how great your needs. Do you understand, and agree?" His hand rested on my inner thigh.
"Yes." I would have agreed to a lot more than that, at that moment. "I understand. I agree."
"I am glad of that. I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave you for a few minutes now, my dear. But I will continue where I left off."
With that he left the room, leaving me on the point of boiling over, shackled so that I could not possibly allay my own agony, even had I meant to break our agreement so soon.
TBC…
A/N: I got an e-mail recently (not from this website) that said that answering reviews in a chapter is now prohibited. I don't know if that's true. I'm worried, so I won't put any shout-outs until I hear where/when/ what/ why. I do appreciate your reviews, however, and I hope you'll leave them anyway.
That having been said, I do intend to delve into Doom's Romany background—not in the way that gypsies are usually portrayed, but as they truly are today—a people left behind by an increasingly high-tech world, living in poverty, ignorance, and illiteracy.
I also intend to ignore the events of the Unthinkable story arc, which I absolutely hate and despise.