The Alien's Captive

by Ava Sinclair

  He’d removed the leash from the thin silver collar she wore, but now as he snapped it back on, she noticed that General Bron’s touch was rough. She could feel his power, his irritation. And those two things combined made Phaedra feel very small.

  Think! Her mind screamed the word. There has to be some way out of this! But she knew there was not. If she ran, it would be useless since she couldn’t breathe the air.

  You can fight back. Resist. But she’d already been spanked nearly raw for passively resisting. If she actively struck him, what would he do?

  Phaedra dropped her hand to her thigh and pinched, childishly praying as she did that this was all just a dream and that she’d wake up. But there was no escape from her reality, and as the pod pulled up and locked onto the entrance of Bron’s huge edifice, she knew whatever he had planned could not be avoided.

  As they entered, even Jollin seemed to know his master was in no mood to be disturbed. He all but melted into the background as the general walked in with his pet reluctantly in tow. Phaedra did not ask where he was taking her, but knew it was not to her quarters. And she did not have to ask moments later where she was. There was no mistaking Bron’s private bedchamber. The furnishings were all Traoian—heavy, imposing, with lots of odd carvings and fabrics in colors that did not exist on Earth’s spectrum.

  His bed was huge and high, and before she knew it, General Bron was picking her up and depositing Phaedra on top. She rose up on all fours, backing away from him to the edge, but did not go any further; it was quite a drop.

  She looked back, her eyes big and fearful. And she knew she must present the very image of an owned thing, crouched there as she was on all fours with her breasts exposed and her ass barely covered by the short, sheer skirt. She was bare underneath, save for the little gold cap covering her clit. As she watched, Bron shed his thin metal breastplate. His chest was bare and broad as he stood there only in his tight trousers, his cock visibly straining.

  He grabbed the leash, jerking her forward so that she was splayed on the mattress. Then he joined her there, saying nothing as he held her down while his fingers undid the straps of the harness. Phaedra was naked when he flipped her over onto her back and deftly snapped two cuffs onto her slim wrists. He attached the cuffs to a short leash on a swivel mount attached to the headboard. Only then did he remove the leash. For a moment, he stared down at her, saying nothing. When he finally spoke, his voice was deep, hard.

  “Today,” he said, “I teach you control.”

  Her heart was pounding. What did he mean? He was completely silent as he loomed over her, but then a finger dropped to her collarbone and trailed lightly down her skin, and something in so light a touch from so huge a man caused a shudder to run through Phaedra’s small body. When that finger reached her breast, the tip of it circled the areola, sending tiny goosebumps of flesh on her skin and causing her nipple to harden almost painfully.

  She could feel the wetness starting to form between her legs as his finger now circled the other nipple. Phaedra scrunched her eyes shut tight and squeezed her thighs together, as if that could stop the throbbing of her pussy. When she opened her eyes, she could see Bron looking down at those clamped thighs, and when he dragged his gaze up to hers, she could tell he knew her body was already betraying her. The corner of his mouth was curved up in a knowing smirk, and at that moment Phaedra’s anger flared.

  “No!” She began to pull against the restraints, to kick her legs, to arch away from Bron while calling him every vile name she could think of. And he—the beast!—was perfectly calm as he raised her legs high and held them as he began to spank her with hard, heavy blows.

  “Owwww!” Her first spanking had been over his lap. This was worse somehow; now on her back, she could see him restraining her legs, could see the sternness on his handsome features as he punished her bottom with a wide, open hand. Her protests and profanities turned to sobs and pleas as that hard hand fell and fell and fell. He did not spank her quickly, but methodically, carefully timing the blows and letting her whimper in expectation of each one. He was suspending her in a full state of helplessness, forcing her to connect with it.

  Where the other spanking had been corrective, this one sent a message: I have all the time in the world to spank your bottom. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.

  The burn of the spanks went subdermal. Her bottom felt as if it were throbbing. Each spank echoed through the room. When Phaedra looked back in one frantic, pain-filled moment, she could see Bron staring between her kicking legs. This made her wail even louder, for she knew what he saw—an exposed pussy glistening wet with need.

  “Please!” Her voice was hoarse now, and she could barely expel the word. Bron was rubbing her sore bottom, his hand inflaming the burning surface with each pass. For good measure, he squeezed a punished cheek before wordlessly letting her legs down. Her bottom was so tender that Phaedra arched away from the bed, but when Bron placed a hand on her pelvis, his expression was so serious that she dropped her pulsing haunches to the mattress, tears of defeat leaking from her eyes.

  “Again.” It was a single word that marked Bron’s intention of resuming his lesson, as if the spanking were merely a trivial interruption. His finger went back to her nipples, circling one and then the other. And despite the discomfort in her bottom, Phaedra’s pussy once again clenched hungrily. She did not shut her legs this time; there was, she decided, no use trying to hide what he could so easily reveal.

  The finger moved between her breasts, trailing down and down and down past her navel to the crest of her Venus mound to the top of the deep cleft of her pussy. He ordered her to spread her legs wide, and after weighing the cost of disobedience, Phaedra obeyed, focusing on the ornate tiles of the high ceilings for want of distraction.

  But there was no distraction great enough to draw her attention away from what he did next. Bron parted Phaedra’s labia with two large fingers and touched the little gold shield that covered her clitoris. It all but melted away under his finger, and when the air hit that little nub of flesh, she felt it pulse and swell and throb.

  “You’ve drugged me.” She looked at him accusingly, unwilling to admit that her arousal was a natural reaction, given her situation.

  “I’ve no need to drug a female.”

  “You’ve drugged me.” Phaedra’s tone was insistent, angry. “Why are you making me act like this?” She moved her hips, desperate to dislodge the finger that was now moving on that sensitive little pearl in maddening circles.

  He laughed. “Oh, little human. You seek to keep your dignity by denying the truth. You need no drugging. You are under the sway of your own natural desires. You cannot control your passion, whether it be the desires of your body or your urge to unleash your tongue when you should remain silent.” He paused as his finger moved up and down, and Phaedra moaned. “You must learn to curb your passions.”

  His large finger slipped into her then, the size of it thrilling her in spite of herself. Phaedra tried to stop her hips from rocking onto the probing digit, but could not. Even as she dug her nails into her palms in one last effort to deny the building pleasure, she felt herself soaring under his touch.

  “Stop!” His voice filled the room, and Phaedra’s body jolted.

  “What?”

  “Do not release.”

  She was panting, the rhythmic clenching of her pussy so intense… she was so close. She threw her head back onto the bed. “I have to!”

  He removed his hand and was suddenly looming over her, his face fierce, the face of a warrior. “I said no.”

  She quailed beneath him and felt the building pleasure recede. For a moment she wanted to cry, and then she did cry. All the fear, the humiliation, all the forced subservience and he was denying her this one moment of pleasure?

  He brushed away a tear. “There will be other chances,” he said. “But you must learn to obey, little Phaedra. Until you learn to control yourself, you will only take release when I allow it.�
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  He raised himself up, and Phaedra looked away, relieved that at least the lesson was over. But to her horror, she realized it was not. The leonine head of her master was now working itself between her legs, even as she tried to draw her pussy away from the seeking mouth that found and captured it.

  Phaedra’s body jolted as she found herself helpless once again to a man whose tongue was as adept as his fingers. The tip of it alternately flicked and swirled around her clit. The stubble of his chin was rough where it grazed her thighs. His hands were under her, squeezing her tender bottom in time with the pulsing of her pussy.

  “Mmmm…” he murmured against her, and she felt a surge of pleasure, but again, just as she crested, he denied her, leaving her once again in tears.

  “Why?” She was sobbing, the ache in her lower regions verging on painful. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I told you,” he said. “You lack control. You must learn to control yourself.” He paused. “What do you want?”

  She thought of a hundred things: home, freedom, her old life, blue sky, daylight, one moon… but those were all unattainable. There was only one thing she could achieve, if he would only let her. She looked at him. “I want release,” she said.

  Bron unsnapped her cuffs and then sat back on his heels. “Then I will give it to you, but you may take it only when I command you. Otherwise, I will deny you for a hundred nights as I’ve done on this one.”

  Was he serious? She couldn’t be sure. But the notion of one more night like this was too much to fathom. So she nodded.

  “Spread your legs,” he said. Now she obeyed willingly, not caring that she was compliant and exposed. “Touch yourself.”

  She stared at him from between her knees. He wanted her to do it? To masturbate in front of him? She flushed. Years earlier, she’d had a boyfriend who’d begged her to touch herself while he watched. She’d dumped him. Phaedra was no prude, but saw no appeal in bringing herself off in front of someone else.

  “I can’t with you watching,” she said.

  But Bron was unmoved. “Soon you will touch yourself with hundreds watching. And then, as now, you will release at your own touch.”

  “I can’t,” she said, tears beginning anew.

  “You will,” he said. “Because I own you, little human. I own every inch of you, so I own the pussy and the hands that touch it. Your hands are as my hands when I direct them. Put your fingers on your hungry little pearl.”

  Your hands are as my hands. Phaedra slid her fingers between her legs, and with Bron watching, began to do as he directed. She spread her labia as he ordered, with two fingers on each silken nether lip, and used her other hand to stroke up and down on her clit with just the prescribed pressure. With every few strokes he had her push her fingers inside, where she encountered slick heat. He was staring so intently, his huge cock lengthening, and as her hands followed his words she felt her pleasure building again.

  “I want to come!”

  “Not yet,” he said, and ordered her to breathe to focus on riding her wave, on controlling it, on controlling her pleasure.

  “Good, little one, good,” he said when she felt the wave subside and then return with a vengeance when he commanded her to press her pearl with the pad of her fingers, to drive her hips into them.

  “You’re so close,” he said. “So close. Hold. Hold… now!”

  Never before had an orgasm been so cathartic. Phaedra felt as if she were exploding, and when she looked at Bron, his eyes were locked on hers as if he were inside her, and she felt a connection so strong it scared her. Her hips were bucking into her own hand.

  Bron moved over her, his muscular arms framing her. He smiled as he looked down into her flushed face. “Very good, my pet. See, you can control yourself. Even in captivity, you have more control than you know.”

  Her eyes widened. She’d thought him cruel, but now she realized that his lesson had not been an exercise in humiliation, but in empowerment.

  “Your submission to me is a gift,” he said. “Even here. And what’s more, it is an art, a skill. Do you understand?” She nodded, fascinated as he continued.

  “I could have handed you over for training. But they would have only broken you. What I break, my sweet one, I rebuild.” He sank back on his heels, taking her hand. “You did well. I am proud. Very soon, when you scream your release, it will be with my sword inside your sheath.”

  Phaedra looked down. His cock, so human except for its phenomenal girth and length, was pointed at her, as if seeking the promised warmth of her pussy. She felt the familiar twinge begin again, but—to her surprise—restrained it.

  “Would you like that?” he asked, noting her gaze.

  She did not answer. She did not have to. Phaedra knew her look of longing said it all.

  Chapter Eight

  Control.

  Bron was pleased that he’d taught Phaedra some mastery of herself. But he knew she’d never know how close he’d come to losing his own when he’d been face-deep between her legs, his tongue swirling through her intoxicating nectar.

  It had taken every fiber of his resolve not to rise up, lift her hips, and sink himself to the hilt in her hot little chamber.

  Never had a female driven him so mad. Nor had one intrigued him so.

  He’d been furious when she’d spoken out in front of Senator Primus. He immediately recognized the damage, even if she didn’t. It had been several hours since he’d pulled her from the training chamber, but Bron knew the story of the outspoken general’s pet had been recounted a hundred times by now, and likely embellished. Turning on the InfoBoards only confirmed his suspicions.

  Daily broadcasts on the elite and their human pets had been a boon for the political class, who kept viewers engaged with the novelty of these beautiful alien slaves. Traoians were hungry for any information on the training and showing of humans, which were often pitted against one another for the amusement of the elite. Today’s training update showed a shot of Bron and Phaedra, followed by an interview with Senator Primus, who pretended to be sympathetic as he embellished on what had happened.

  “I was surprised,” he said. “And concerned. General Bron is a leader of men, yet he could not handle an Earth pet who railed at me and then turned on him. It was as if he was afraid of her…” He looked down at his own pet, who dropped her eyes and wrapped her arms around his leg. “It seems these creatures instinctively know when a male is fit to lead… and when one isn’t.”

  Bron switched off the board and sighed, running his hand through his short black hair. Phaedra was still sleeping in his bed, where she’d been since he’d ordered her to nap. After a moment, he stood and walked over to the window, gazing out at the plains of Krimea and the mountains beyond.

  He’d been a young soldier when he’d fought his first battle, had made his first kill before he’d comprehended the impact of war or even what he was fighting for. Age and experience had sobered the bloodlust ingrained into young fighting Traoians. By the time he’d become general, Bron was determine to balance the fighting instinct of his troops with an appreciation for the cost of war. It was no game, and power seized through force, he had observed, often became too top heavy to sustain.

  It was a message lost on politicians like Senator Primus, who had promoted a war culture on Trao X39 even though his time of military service had long passed.

  At first, the senate’s arguments for expanding its reach had been sound.

  Other civilizations in the galaxy, Primus and others had argued, were warring among themselves. Without Traoian intervention, they’d destroy each other and the resources the Traoians needed in trade. Trao X39’s powerful military could police these disputes, help establish peaceful governments and the Traoians would benefit from this arrangement by availing themselves of resources handed over by whatever side they had backed.

  But the regional galactic intervention soon expanded. Conquered civilizations like the Savusians were encouraged to continue their slav
e trade with the cooperation of Trao X39, and soon live cargo was among the resources the Traoians were importing. But still, the leaders wanted more.

  General Bron and other leaders stepped forward, unnerved by the increased risk to troops being sent to more distant planets. He especially objected to the taking of slaves, most of whom were sent to other conquered planets to help mine the resources or—in some cases—pressed into service for the new elite ruling class the Traoians established there.

  It had been the Krillinian Wars that had tipped the scale for Bron. The senators had voted for war, but it was unlike any other campaign. The Krillinians were savage, and the Traoians had to call in troops they’d trained on other conquered planets.

  It was on the red sands of Krillinian that Bron had nearly lost his life. Long talks with the doctor who saved him gave him a better understanding of the deep galactic resentment the Traoians were garnering. They were making enemies, and Bron knew that even their forced alliances were tenuous. The endless campaigns were costly; the average Traoian was finding life to be harder while the ruling class seemed to prosper. Even technology, like the time portal to Earth—one of several planets they’d been able to travel to using this technique—was being exploited to procure novelty slaves for the ruling class. When Bron argued that the direct procurement of Earth slaves would make the Traoians no better than Savusians, the leaders argued that he was wrong, since it was through trade rather than abduction.

  As the military continued to be stretched thin, the rift grew. The concerned minority realized they’d never halt the tide of war by an increasingly arrogant ruling class without a candidate who could speak to the dangers of military expansion.

  General Augustus Bron had all the qualifications. Educated, handsome, and respected as a military leader, he was a dream candidate for the opposition—a hero sacrificing his officer status to save his nation as a senator.

  Then the human pets arrived, and became a distraction timed for the ruling party’s convenience. The elite snatched them up, paraded them about, and made them available to the press. Attention was fixated on these exotic status symbols, with males who acquired them gaining instant admiration from their peers.