The Choosing

by Darcy Sweet

  “Wanton,” she murmured with an enigmatic smile.

  I hated her even as my body pleaded for her touch. I hated the need I so desperately craved and the control that had been taken from me.

  I did not beg, but I cried—whimpered like an animal in pain as I offered her my swollen sex to use. Abuse. I turned my head away so I could not see her knowing gaze as she brought her hand down to slap at my wet mound. Water sprayed up as her palm met my sex with sharp, painful, satisfying hits.

  My thighs trembled with the effort of arching up to meet her hand. I pushed up on my feet, the edge of the tub digging into my straining neck as I levered my body out of the water. Closer to the slapping hand.

  The slaps rained down, hard, hurting, fulfilling the need the gentle stroking hand had started. My thighs seized as the orgasm hit. My body jerked rigid as the waves of painful pleasure consumed me, until I was nothing but the pulse of cum that jetted from my sex.

  Spent and ashamed I sank into the water, letting my head fall back into the cooling liquid. I heard Hatha speaking but I did not raise my head, staying under the water until finally the burn of my lungs made me rise. As my eyes broke the surface I saw her. She stood before me, offering me a towel. I had once thought myself the master of calm façade, but I had met my match in Hatha. She showed nothing of what we had just done. Of what she had just done to me. The only evidence lay in her slightly damp bodice. She stood like a submissive servant despite the way she had just mastered me with her hand.

  Coming quietly behind me she lay the soft towel across my shoulders and then placed her hands under my arms. She lifted me with ease. I could have struggled in protest, I wanted to, but my body was too spent to cooperate with my protesting pride. I came to my feet and allowed her to dress me. Bowing my head I offered her my arms, like a compliant infant, which she easily threaded into the sleeves of the light blue gown. Over the gown she strapped me into yet another tight corset. This one a dark blue. It pushed my breasts up until they plumped obscenely over the top. I did not protest as she pushed and pulled to create maximum cleavage, even though the sight of the heaving flesh filled me with disgust.

  She sat me down with a push to my shoulder. She brushed my hair, pulling it into a tight band and then weaving it into a long plait that she curled and pinned on my head.

  I did nothing. Said nothing. Hating myself the whole time.

  As soon as she left I released my hair, ripping it free of the tight band. Pins sprayed, hitting the floor in a shower of sound. I paced. Striding back and forth until I felt I might explode. My chest fired with unspent fury.

  I had to do something.

  I opened the door to see the same two guards that had shadowed me since Roth’s departure. I glared, they bowed and refused to meet my eyes.

  “Stay where you are,” I ordered, replicating the memory of my cousin Bandar’s snapping commands.

  I strode off down the corridor. Their footfalls sounding heavily behind me. I picked up the pace, glancing over my shoulder to see them do the same. I ran. My light clothes and slender form escaped them with surprising ease. Weighed down by their heavy armor and weaponry they struggled to keep up with me. I darted through the corridors. Not sure where I was going. Anywhere. Just away. Away from them. From Hatha.

  The Palace was a labyrinth of corridors and with no purpose I just took the first I saw. Up stairs. Down stairs. Left then right, then left again I ran until my lungs burned with the effort. It felt good to hurt with something other than the constant missing of him.

  I rested against a wall, panting with my cheek pressed to the cool stone. Voices came from behind, they didn’t sound like the guard but still I did not want to be caught by anyone. I went from door to door, testing each handle until I found one unlocked. I fell inside the door, closing it fast and resting my forehead against the wood. I turned, fell back and deliberately let my head hit the wood with a thunk.

  What now?

  As I closed my eyes and pondered the thought I heard soft laughter. I jerked upright and opened my eyes.

  “You escaped.”

  At the window seat was a man. Long blonde hair moved in the breeze of the open window. My hair was blonde, but nowhere near the shade of this stunning man. He stood and my mouth fell open. Framed by the soft light of the window he seemed almost ethereal. A vision. He was tall, broad shouldered, lean rather than big and oh so beautiful. As he stepped closer I realized he was silver haired rather than blonde.

  Transfixed by the hair my hand moved without conscious thought. Just before I touched him I realized what I was doing and withdrew it with a jerk.

  “You can touch me,” he murmured. A voice like Roth’s, dark and sweet, like rich bitter chocolate. His big hand encircled my wrist, drawing my hand back up to his hair.

  “Please,” he said and removed his hand as if to give me the choice. That and his gentle plea made my decision. I splayed my fingers and drew them through the soft strands. Silken silver draped over my forearm as I brushed my hand through his long hair. I shivered in delight at the feeling.

  He sighed, a slight sound of pure pleasure than made me look from his beautiful hair to his face. His eyes were closed, his lashes lay deep silver on his face. I wanted to touch them too. I released his hair and stroked my fingers across his cheek. He did not move, allowing me free access to his face with a trust that was intoxicating. I ran a thumb across the sharp edge of the cheek bone before bringing it up to smooth down his closed eye and across the silken lashes.

  He sighed again. The sound shot through me in a flash of heat.

  “You smell just as I knew you would. Incredible.” He breathed in deep and leaned in closer.

  “You know who I am?” I asked, surprised.

  His eyes flashed open. Smoky blue irises circled in silver. “Of course. Roth’s Chosen, Roth’s prisoner.”

  Anger coursed quick and violent through me that he would dare criticize my Dark Prince. “Prisoner? I am here! Am I not?”

  He did not laugh but amusement shone in his eyes. “Ahh, but to get here you escaped your guard. Did you not?”

  I did not answer him, instead asking curtly, “Who are you?”

  He stepped back and swept into an elegant bow. “I am your friend Mistress Talia.”

  “My friends have names,” I said, still angry at him for calling me Roth’s prisoner.

  “Do you wish to know my name Mistress Talia? If you demand it, know that it comes at great cost.”

  “Cost?”

  “The wrath of the Dark Prince.”

  “Roth does not want me to know you?” My tone softened as curiosity overcame anger.

  He stepped forward again, sandwiching me to the door without contact. The heat of his body seemed to pulse over my skin, leaving me yearning for his touch. “Do you think perhaps, Mistress Talia, that your Roth does not wish you to know not just me but anyone?”

  I opened my mouth to protest but no words came.

  “He keeps you locked in the tower does he not?”

  “He is my Master,” I whispered.

  “I doubt you have any Master.”

  He brought his head down; his silken hair fell over my exposed cleavage. His mouth came close to the curve of my neck, at my pulse, but did not touch. I bowed my back, offering him my neck as I had Roth. I wanted him to bite me, pierce my skin, let my blood flow hot.

  He did nothing other than breathe on my skin. The bite I craved did not come. I looked up at him and saw eyes shining black.

  He was a Dark Master.

  His teeth had extended. He was old enough to bite, but not as old as Roth. I shivered, goose pimples shot across my skin. He raised a hand to run a tip across the sensitive bumps.

  From behind the door came rough shouts and loud footsteps.

  “They search for you now Mistress Talia. You should go.” He pressed into my hand folded foolscap. I looked down.

  “Read it later,” he said as he stepped back.

  I pressed the folded
paper between my skin and the tight corset. He watched the movement with hungry eyes.

  “Go,” he said, his voice rough and low.

  I brought my hand to the handle of the door, started to turn it and paused. I looked over my shoulder. He’d gone back to sit at the window. “Will I see you again?” I called softly.

  He smiled, “I hope so Mistress.”

  I opened the door and almost fell straight into the arms of my angry guard. I did not flinch from the guardsman’s fury. Instead, with haughty intent, I commanded him to return me to my suite. As I followed the guard through winding corridors back to my chambers I realized I still did not know the Silver Master’s name.

  I waited for some time before I fished the paper from my corset. I did not know if they would take it from me but I felt that my guard and Hatha should not know what had happened.

  The foolscap was half covered in a long line of ink drawings. Symbols. Some seemed to be flowers or vines, others like an ancient language.

  Looping writing ran along the line of ink figures. It said, “Paint this on your left forearm. Copy the symbols exactly. Practice before marking your skin. They must match. You will be able to freely move about the Palace with this marking. Find the library, seek the key. You will find your answers.”

  Answers. Yes, I wanted answers.

  * * * *

  It was two days before I tried the symbols. Two more days before I had perfected them enough to attempt them on my skin. Hatha had given me the ink and paper without complaint or questions. I had feared asking. I told her that I wanted to write to my sister. At her easy answer I wondered if my fear came not of any truth but only because of the honeyed words of the Silver Master. Fear of his agenda made me uncertain of trying the symbols. In the end curiosity and boredom won over fear. I needed to do something other than wait for Roth. The more I waited the more I yearned. Hatha’s daily bathing torture was wearing on my very soul. I both craved and feared her hand upon my sex. The orgasms that came with her vicious slaps were mere shadows of my time with Roth. I needed more. With each passing hour in the tower away from my Master I felt more prisoner than Chosen.

  I painted the symbols down my forearm after Hatha had finished my morning bath and departed. I knew I would not see her again until the afternoon. If I was going to explore the time had to be now.

  At the first symbol my skin began to tingle. By the time I had finished my sex was wet and my nipples had beaded into tight aching points. I did not question the power of what I had written on my arm, I felt it throb through my body, but I did wonder how it was to allow me to leave the room.

  I opened the door to see my guard snap to attention. I stepped out into the corridor to hear their steady footfalls follow. So much for allowing me to leave, I thought with a sorrowful sigh. I turned back to the guards, “Please,” I said, “Return to your posts and leave me be.”

  To my surprise they did. They turned on their heels and marched back into place at my door. I stood open mouthed. Were they under my command? Under the command of the symbols?

  I needed to know. On unsure feet I stepped back to stand before them. “Put your hands on your heads,” I said, issuing the first command that came to mind.

  Both guards dropped their weapons and placed their hands on their heads. “Jump,” I said and watched in open mouthed wonder as they did, their armor clanging as their feet hit the ground.

  “As you were,” I ordered and they retrieved their weapons and stood to attention. “You will stay here until I say otherwise. You will tell anyone who comes that Talia Chosen is sleeping and does not wish to be disturbed. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mistress Chosen,” they chanted in unison.

  I turned away and walked down the hall, looking back twice before I turned the corner, each time half expecting the guard to come running after me. They didn’t and the sense of freedom that overwhelmed me made me forget the purpose for my outing. The library. I didn’t know how to get there.

  I walked the halls for some time, trying open doors to no luck. Empty chambers seemed to abound. I came across a chamber maid in one room. She looked up at me in shock. She squealed and placed a hand across her mouth.

  “Do not fear,” I said.

  “Yes Mistress,” she said in a dull monotone.

  “You will take me to the library. You will return here to your work and forget that you saw me.”

  “Yes Mistress.”

  The young chambermaid walked at a break neck pace. I had to half run to keep up with her. By the time she left me at the library door I was panting. I opened the heavy wooden door halfway and peered inside. Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined the walls. An elderly man looked up in shock as I entered. His face, lined deep, had been well weathered by time. His head had one tuft of grey hair, it stood up as if it had been planted. He was seated at a grand desk, surrounded by dusty tomes. He appeared to be transcribing something, he had a quill in his ink smeared hand. “You should not be here Mistress Chosen,” he spluttered.

  I raised a hand to stop him, “You do not see me. You will walk now to the books that tell of secrets of The Chosen. You will return to your work and forget that you saw me.”

  He got up from his desk and started off down the back of the room. He moved fast, the little sapling of grey hair wobbling from side to side as he walked. I followed him through three archways and then turned into what appeared to be a dead end alcove. He looked behind straight through me and then left and right. He reached up to the third shelf and pulled on a black book. The shelf turned with a grinding of gears and opened as if a door. He went inside and I followed. The room was lamp lit; it had no windows and no door. I was concerned for a moment how I would exit, experiencing a moment of panic that I might become trapped when the elderly man turned, pulled on the lamp nearest the shelf through which we entered and it opened again. He left. To return to his desk no doubt to forget he had seen me. I looked down at the symbols on my arm, slick black on pale skin and marveled once more at their mysterious power.

  I turned, spun in a circle and took in the room I had sought. Now what?

  I was frowning, wondering how I was to find anything in the dusty piles of books and packed shelves when I heard a familiar chuckle. He was here. I turned to the sound and saw him seated on a leather wingback chair in a darkened corner. I couldn’t see his face but the silver glow of his hair made it obvious who it was.

  I moved towards him, keeping my arm bent, the symbols facing him like some kind of shield. “You will tell me your name,” I commanded when I stood before him.

  He laughed again. “Will I now?” he murmured, reaching forward and wrapping an arm behind my knees. He pulled me off balance and into his lap. I fell easily, my rump landing on his powerful thighs. He held me firm at my waist, his big hands spread wide at my hips.

  “The symbols do not work on you,” I said quite obviously.

  “But they do on humans,” he replied as he reached up and tucked an errant lock of curling hair behind my ear, “Which answers some of my questions about you.”

  “What questions.”

  “You are more than you seem.”

  “I am not,” I whispered, afraid what he said was true. He tucked his large hand behind my head and guided it down to rest on his shoulder. I should have resisted but instead I found myself sinking into his chest, desperate for the comfort he offered even as I remained uncertain of his motives. The moment of peace nestled on his chest was exactly what I needed.

  How did he know?

  “Can all Chosen command with these symbols?’ I asked my mouth moving against the warmth of his chest.

  “No,” his answer rumbled against my ear.

  I sat up, meeting his silver blue stare. “What am I?” I asked.

  “More than Chosen,” he answered cryptically.

  “Does Roth know?”

  “Yes.”

  His hand reached up again, this time pulling my hair back to expose my neck. He stared hungrily at t
he frightened pulse in my neck. His eyes slid into black and I knew he wanted me, wanted my blood. Even as I was frightened, even as I feared his bite I wanted it too. I tilted my head and stroked a finger across the beating pulse he watched.

  “You want me,” I said.

  “Yes,” he answered, the hunger obvious in his rasp.

  “You want to taste me.”

  “Bite,” he said, “Suck. Consume.”

  Each word pulsed heat in my sex as if he stroked my very center.

  “Is that different to taste?” I asked.

  He nodded. His hands had moved from my body to grip the arms of the chair. He lacked control. I knew I tempted him but I could not stop. I did not want to stop until I felt the skin break at his fangs and his mouth suck on my vein.

  “Do it,” I said, leaning forward and offering him my neck, “Take me.”

  “You know not what you ask,” he said through clenched teeth. I could see his fangs. They extended over his lip, the grinding pressure had made a cut, a sliver of blood stained his mouth.

  I wanted to taste it. I leaned in, brought my tongue to the red stain of blood and lapped his mouth clean. He growled. An inhuman sound. His mouth opened wide and for a moment I thought he meant to take me but he did not. Instead he pushed me from his lap to the floor.

  “Don’t,” he said as I moved to stand.

  I stayed at his feet. The bulge of his desire just above my eyes. I came up on my knees to see him better. The laces of his breeches strained from the erection contained. I wanted it. I wanted him. To be pierced by his cock, his fangs. Taken. He saw where my eyes had fixed and growled again.