by Sophie Sin
Mr. Huge’s cum filled her stomach uncomfortably and she felt deliciously full.
He closed his eyes, completely spent, with his penis slowly deflating on his lap.
She took one look at it and then gave it a single stroke before pulling her skirt down from her hips and walking out the door, dripping with their juices forming a puddle inside her wet and sticky black panties.
She left the building and walked down the street, remodeling her memory to remove his annoying persistent smiling satisfied face from her mind and turning it into a howling face of terror as she visualized him begging her on his knees for her forgiveness – as she felt all men should, even if they hadn’t done anything wrong (yet).
She committed those moments to memory with a cheerful grin and knew that she had improved the man and created an appropriate partner for however many woman decided to use them as they willed.
She felt a satisfaction that the punishment had gone well and was happy in her job. She has shown through hardcore sex that even the powerful could crumble in the face of her mighty pussy.
She turned a corner, dripping, wet and dirty: Minny was at peace with the world – for once.
A Token Of Respect: To Fall In Love With Your Captor
*****
I never thought to be a bargaining chip to buy this man's support. Never in a million years. But, I am. I am and all I can do is make the best of it. My people, my father and my older brothers are relying on me.
My first impression of him as we have never meet before is that he is a tower among towers. He's sturdy six foot frame looms over my smaller, more petite one – as if a snow topped mountain to green fresh hill. The man's eyes are green and bright as jade. They inspect me with a control that is unwavering. I admire what they are set in. His features are strong, masculine and there is a small scar to the left of his right eye that adorns him well. If he weren't my captor, I would find him attractive.
There is silence in the room that is only broken by the occasional sounds of servants coming and going in the hallways beyond. During that time, we take stock of each other. I wonder in that moment if I have made a mistake in taking this role. This man seems unmovable. Is he really as unfeeling as he seems?
Eventually he makes a dismissive gesture. To my left and right his men, who are of similar height, to him, step two feet to the left and right with parade timing. Their crisp war suits clank in the small entrance hallway we are standing in. One of them adjusts his curved sword and falls to one knee, his head bowed, his face strained.
“The Woo Princess has been secured, sire. It was as you suggested.”
The Lord of The Lee Province nods his head in silence. Still, he does not speak. There is no welcome on his lips, nor suggestion that my presence is to be welcomed. Nothing.
My escort clears his throat. He looks uncomfortably to me and then to his employer. “Sire, if you are unpleased, would you have me take her head?”
I stand short and surrounded; enclosed in walls of man: Impenetrable walls of solid muscular flesh; the suggestion of my death just off the lips of the guard.
Still, he does not waver, even though I do.
No sign exists in the green rocks of his eyes. No mercy. No hope.
“Princess.” His Chinese is accented. I do not like it, so I return in his native tongue which I learned from the foreign immigrants in my father's region.
I bow deeply and ask, “Lord, am I not a suitable gift?”
The man known as the White Dragon, Thomas Klien, ruffles his coat sleeves briefly and brings one fist into the other open hand. There is consideration in his eyes. He wonders if I am afraid perhaps and he would be right to wonder. I am certain of my outward composure, but I know my inward one to be in disarray.
It is not that he is feared among all that live in our homeland or that he has command of the emperor's rifle legion – and all of their devastating power – but that he, the man, is terrifying. Fearless in battle, a myth among myths, the great White Dragon that consumes all that it touches. To me he is like stone. I ask if he feels fear of me and all that I stand for and I know he does not. The White Dragon fears no one, devil, man or hostage.
He scratches his nose and looks me over – a slow thing of the eyes that moves from my dainty green curve tipped shoes to the neckline of the tight closed coat I wear in the way of my people.
“For now you are.”
To my surprise he doesn't say more. The man turns on his heel at his ease and leaves the room without another word.
“For now...” Does that mean that my father's province will not receive his support? Does that mean our people will be beaten and taken and colored with the red of their heart's blood? Does that mean that the White Dragon will consume my lands, my father's position and, least of all, myself?
I fear to think what might be on his mind. That terrifies me more than any stone hard set of eyes could ever do.
*****
It is mid-morning when I awake to the chirping of a small bird on the ledge of my window sill. It is a pleasant sound and one that stirs images of home, of my people hard at work in the green fields of rice at this time, of the sights and smells of the family bakeries preparing food for those that cannot lift limb to work or are too poor or two young to find their own. It is a gorgeous sound broken by one thing: His green eyes on me.
Lord Thomas Klien, the White Dragon, installed controller of the powerful Lee Province, is leaned casually to his side in a great cane chair in the corner that bends and crackles as he shifts forward from the hips to watch me more closely.
“Lord?” I attempt from behind the thin blanket that is my only garment.
The man's eyes twinkle slightly – only for a moment, no more.
“You speak my language well,” he says with the utmost calm, given the situation, before standing and strolling out the door with what I'm coming to understand is his typical way of dealing with things.
I blink several times. Is that all he wanted to say? That I speak his language well?
My head is still hazy from sleep. I rub a hand over my face, feeling the light sleep sweat on my skin and the cool breeze coming through the window where I realize a small bird in a little white cage sits on the window sill.
“A message?” I wonder out loud.
I glance to the door of my accommodations in the guest ward then back to the bird. How long was he here watching me? And what was his purpose? Surely the lord of such a big province has better things to do than watch his hostage sleep?
A servant hustling through the door with a large green kettle of tea and two cups disturbs my thoughts. I roll up to the side of my bed and take his offer of fresh tea. He is a very old man and his hand shakes more than is needed when he hands me a note from his pocket.
As I sip on my morning tea, I open it and read it several times over as it is in his language and his handwriting curls in a way that makes the words difficult to decipher.
“The garden at noon.”
Such a short message, but so much meaning given. You see, in Lee the executioner's block is in the center of the White Dragon's rose garden. Blood red foreign roses and death at noon.
I let the note slip to the floor from my numb fingers. Will today be the day that I die?
A cool wind flutters the green shirt and pants that are the most formal that I have bought with me. They are crisp and uncomfortable against my skin, but my thought is that if I'm going to die here then I'm going to die in my finest. I'm sure that in the days that follow I will not be the last in my family to think the same.
I find him alone.
Tall, quiet, brooding, I am beginning to understand him. It is of his nature to be this way. Solitude surrounds him with an air that cannot be broken by man, beast, angel, devil or even woman. He reminds me of my third oldest brother, but by a significant magnitude more regal.
“You have come,” he says without turning to look from the blood red roses organized in a neat patch in front of him.
> I step up beside him to admire the flowers. They are foreign to me, but I don't half mind them. Their strange curled shape reminds me of his handwriting. It is as if the flowers are a visual expression of his words on paper – those same ones that summoned me here.
“Do you fear death, princess?”
“Not so much as other things.”
His eyes meet mine then return to the flower bed.
“I fear death very much,” he admits quietly.
It's an open statement and one of great honesty. Few men would admit to such in this country. That he says it without the terror that men hold for their end makes it even more impressive.
“Why?” I hesitantly ask after the silence becomes too long and with nothing else coming to mind.
“Because there is much left undone. I have not secured this land as I was asked by your emperor and by my own king who sent me here.”
The White Dragon holds another ruler? That is a surprise. I wish to ask more, but he continues before I can.
“Do you know what it is that I have failed in so miserably that my own men take pity on me?” His eyes meet mine. He waits.
I shuffle slightly to the left and try to think of what it might be. His military accomplishments make him one of the most feared in the entire country. What could possibly be lacking? His people are strong and thriving. The province produces more than it's quota of rice each year. For any other this would be a golden time of great bounty, but for him there is a failing? One so deep that the men talk of it? What could it be?
My silence is interrupted as a lack of answer.
He nods his head and stands up more straightly – a resolution in his eyes that makes me think now is the time of my beheading.
“You will come to my chambers when the sun hits the hills to the west.” Suddenly he is front of me, intoxicatingly close, intimate, those eyes burning with passions such that they would scorch a woman from the lands – the White Dragon with his eyes on mine. “Tonight I will test you.”
I gulp. He leaves.
It is a short turn of the sun in the sky before the flush on my face recedes and my normal coloring returns. I have been painted red by the man, it would seem, but not in death but instead in life.
*****
At the appointed time I come to his chambers. They are wide beyond belief and a number of guards watch from their posts as I walk among them: A terrified young woman of 25 years in nothing but her most formal coat and pants – hardly enough covering with how the men's eyes follow me to where I will no doubt be defiled.
I stop at the door and run my finger down the center line of the two large expanses of wood. They are crisp and warm in the evening's dying heat. Inside this room stands fate. I already know that he will take me. It will be painful. I do not think I will resist, but I might. The White Dragon will feed upon me in his hunger and I will be consumed in his lustful abandon. It will be the end for me, but perhaps there is hope for my family. If I was to become his toy then they might not be treated too badly.
Knocking twice, I open the door, let myself in and stand waiting in the large bedroom beyond.
In the center of the room he is standing. The man is wearing the same clothing as this morning: A black coat and black pants with blazing white shoes. His bedroom smells of flowers. There are rose petals scattered in vases around the room. I wonder how many criminals condemned to their end have smelt that very same scent.
I sink to my knees and drop my head to the stone floor.
“I have come as requested.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the man come out of whatever thoughts he is having with a jerk of his shoulders. He turns, walks to me and bends down.
“You do not need to bow, princess.”
His fingers touch the base of my chin and draw my head up so that I am looking into his eyes.
“Did you figure out what it is that I have missed my entire life and what the men talk in sad tones of when they think I don't hear?”
I shake my head. I thought all day. There is nothing that a man like this needs. Nothing at all.
He smiles. It's the first time I have seen it and the experience is much like watching the sun suddenly coming back over the edge of the wide plane his home is set on. In the background the scent of the roses dims in my nostrils as the warmth of his expression burns me to a crisp.
“I lack something special. Something different from anything I can find elsewhere.”
“What is it?” I breath, caught up in this new side of him.
“A woman. One that understands my ways – the ways of my people – and does not look down on them as barbaric.”
So that is it. He doesn't look the sort to lack women in his life.
“Princess, you come from the Woo, so you must understand. Does your father treat his foreign subjects differently because of their skin?”
I am almost offended by the question. “He does not.”
“And your people? Do they accept those of different races into their own?”
“It is our way,” I say with a nod. “We have long held many foreign workers in our fields. I, myself, am even very distantly related to a foreigner. My much removed grandmother was from The Great North.”
“As I heard,” he notes with that magnetic smile of his never leaving his lips.
His fingers brush the strands of black hair that have come down over my face aside.
“Princess.”
“Yes?” I can't take my eyes off him.
“I did not ask you here to use. Your father is a good man and I do not take advantage of those wise and true in their leadership.” His eyes are like fire on mine. Never has a man looked at me like this. It scorches my soul as it moves my heart.
“I would like you as my wife. I have already decided on this.”
So that is his game...
“And if I don't then my father and our people will suffer?”
He laughs. It is equally as rich and quite startling.
“Of course not. Did you not hear my thoughts just now.”
I look away. “Yet, I had to ask, did I not?”
“It was wise,” he admits. “I would expect nothing less.”
It is before me. The solution to so many problems, but as he bought me to his home to test, it would seem, I must too test him.
“When did you decide?”
I stare at him. I will not accept a lie.
“It was the bird,” he relents. “You let it go.”
It is true. I could not stand seeing it in the cage like that.
“And in that you showed your desire to always remain free. I would not have a weak woman as my wife, but a tiger of ferocity untamable.”
He leans down and comes nose to nose to me. I do not move away. It is not in me to want to.
“And you are cute when you sleep.”
His lips touch mine and I cannot hold myself from returning the kind of kiss that bursts with the fruits of lust and pleasure. I am not unknown to the ways of men and have indulged when father was not there to see in the acts of a young woman with a timid man, but the way that he kisses me is like the release one feels on a hot day in the fields after pouring cool water from a nearby waterfall over their head to cool themselves.
For time untold, our lips work over and over each others. The rose scent has lost it's meaning and potency at last and I find it sits on his skin, particularly around the neck, in a way that sends shivers of arousal through my entire body.
As it ends I press myself to his firm body and hold tight – not ever wanting to let go with the explosion of confusing but welcome feelings that I face.
“There is one last test,” he murmurs with masculine seduction in his voice, “and that is one that can only be passed in my bed.”
Such a man! Does he dare test me? If that is the case then I will show him that the woman of the Woo are no lame rabbits only interested in mating, but tigresses who can hunt on their own.
I grab his shirt and push hi
m backwards with all the force I can muster. He is strong and resistant, but indulgent and allowing as his feet skid over the stone floor and he, his warm flesh exposed as I tear at his shirt, lands firmly on the bed, which creaks under his weight.
From there I am quick to leap upon him and sit on his lap like one does their own throne.
“Is this the size of the manhood of the White Dragon?” I ask roughly, my hips jerking back and forward against his rather impressive hardness. “Is this what you use to torture those females that dare oppose you?”
He looks deep into my eyes and I know finally that we are of like mind. This man understands my needs.
The man grabs at my hair and yanks it back, running his fat tongue in a warm line of saliva up the front of my neck, and growls wildly at me in his language with words too filthy for a woman such as I to know.
His hips work upwards and I gasp – only for a moment before I regain my composure – at his hugeness.
“Such a tiger,” he worships as his lips suckle the sides of my neck. “You are as strong as I hoped.”
He thinks this is all?
Quite intentfully, I reach out and tear his black coat straight down the middle. The buttons pop away and his thick, muscular chest is revealed. There are more scars here, but that is appropriate for a man. A man without scars is one that does not know how to work.
My finger nails claw into his chest – they bite at it and leave red trails of color on his browned skin.
“Woman!” he growls, grabbing up my arms and holding them tight to my sides. “You are too wild.”
I am. I bite at him and catch him on the neck. A little blood comes.
“I see I'll have to train you.”
Like nothing more than flipping over a blanket, he throws me around and tears my pants from my body. What waits is wet and full of desire for him.