by Alana Khan
I absorb his words, then nod slowly. “Yes, you have. I wish I wouldn’t have been too blind to notice. But I’ll be making love with you today.”
My knees press into the bed at his hips, my torso stands tall so I’m eye to eye with him in the dim light filtering through the covers. Grabbing his cheeks in my palms, I kiss him with everything I’ve got. I’ve talked to him with my gaze and my words, now I want to tell him the depth and breadth of my love with my body.
I kiss him hard, over and over, wanting to send him a message that I accept every inch of him. I’m trying to erase every mixed message I’ve ever sent him. I want him to know that every cell in my body, every thought in my head loves him just the way he is.
There’s nothing sexy about these kisses. I’m sending a message, writing a book.
His huge palms hold my shoulders, hanging on through my onslaught. Then, as abruptly as I started, I stop. And laugh.
“Got that, big guy? Full acceptance.”
“Message received. You promised the making of love. I’m ready for it.”
He brackets my cheeks in his palms, then leans in at a glacial pace, so slow I ache for his touch. His kiss is nothing like mine. Mine was fierce. His is sweet. The softest press of flesh to flesh that could still be considered touch.
“My Dahlia,” he whispers. “Can I call you mine?”
He’s still as a statue, his warm gaze piercing mine, as he awaits my answer. I nod.
“Say it, Dahl. I’ve longed to hear it for months. Say it.”
“I’m yours. You’re mine.” My heart gallops in my chest. My heart’s been as eager for this as Dax has been.
His hands sweep my dress off my shoulders, exposing my breasts. I’ve seen Dax in many moods, from teasing his comrades to fighting for his life in the arena. I’ve seen nothing like this before. Awe. He’s looking at me as if he’s seen nothing this beautiful in all his life.
“Fire and snow and the ocean. It’s how I think of you,” he breathes. “Your skin is so pale, your hair so bright. The only thing more compelling is the brilliant blue of your eyes. I’ve dreamed of you every night since the overthrow —every night I slept alone in my bed after knowing the joys of having you beside me in our cell.
“A madman holds our lives in his hands, but this is so much more powerful than him.”
“Tsk tsk,” Asher’s sarcastic, abrasive voice intrudes. “As much as I hate to interrupt you two, there’s work to be done. While you’ve been wasting your time talking about feelings,” Asher mocks, “I’ve been hard at work inventing new games to try. Let’s have some fun, shall we?”
The door crashes open and six armed guards barge in. I pull my dress straps up before they yank the covers off me and roust us off the bed and down the hall. They force us into a room that could double for a basketball court.
It’s got a slick wooden floor and metal walls on all sides. There’s a high ceiling with sturdy, glaring lights. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see there isn’t a rat or snake in sight, then my stomach clenches in fear as I realize Ashhole probably has something far more heinous in store for us.
He’s here, wearing form-fitting black slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a big smile. He looks maybe fifty.
“I’ve been congratulating myself all morning that I picked you two. This is the most fun I’ve had in centuries, maybe more.” He rubs his hands together with relish. “What luck to find a couple who care about each other so much. You’ve made my job so much easier.”
His smile evaporates and his face returns to its normal evil planes and angles.
“We’re going to have so much fun today. Well, let me correct myself —I’m going to have so much fun. We’ll play some games. I think you’ll find them amusing, especially you, Doll.” He emphasizes the word, enjoying appropriating Dax’s term of endearment. “Where the good part for me comes in is that the stakes will be high.
“I realized you’re almost too easy to frighten, Doll. So I’ve arranged this little party so that Dax gets to go for a ride on my little terror machine. Oh, by the way, what do you think?” He rests his chin on the backs of his hands like an ingénue, then swivels his head to both sides. “Looking younger already, don’t you think?”
“Mmmf,” is all Dax says.
“Let’s get this party started, shall we? Here’s a bucket of little white balls. They weigh practically nothing. You lift them with this drinking straw by sucking in and carry them to the other bucket ten fiertos away. No hands allowed. Fun, right?
“To make it more interesting, I’ve made this a timed event. You’ve got three minimas. For every ball you drop on the floor, Dax gets a ten-second shock. Each successive dropped ball increases the intensity of the shock. As you know, there are ten shock settings, after that, it becomes a kill collar.
“Sound fun so far? Oh, one more thing. You’ll keep going even after the time is up until every single ball is in the second container. During that time the shock will be continuous and will go up a notch if you drop more balls. Shall we begin?”
Motherfucker. That motherfucker somehow rummaged in my mind and watched a recent cruise I went on with Larry. This is the exact game we watched at one of those goofy shows where they give you shitty prizes and everybody laughs. This, however, will be no laughing matter.
“Step right up,” Asher commands, motioning to the full bucket like he’s a barker at a circus.
It’s hard to guess, I think there are twenty ping pong balls in the bucket. He hands me a straw and tells me to begin.
He may have seen what happened in my head, but the bastard had no idea what a ping pong ball is, so these balls seem twice as heavy as the regulation ones from Earth. I suck one up, attaching it to the end of the straw by creating a vacuum with my breath, then hurry to the other bucket and exhale.
I’m totally focused on doing this right. I don’t want to drop the balls or go over the time limit. The first two balls go well. And then I see something moving out of the corner of my eye. Black forms slither at the periphery of my vision.
Fucking snakes.
“Better hurry,” Asher chides.
I redouble my efforts. Snakes are gross, but none of them tried to bite me yesterday. I’ll ignore them and get this task done.
Five balls are in the second bucket when the snakes start writhing at my feet. I simply focus on my task and keep moving. I promise myself I’ll have time for a full-body shiver of revulsion after the ‘game’ is over.
Then one snake zigs when I zag and I step on it. It wriggles out from under my foot and strikes my right ankle. It burns like the fires of Hell and I drop the ball. I expect to hear Dax moan in pain, but I imagine he’s being quiet so he doesn’t distract me. Good, I have enough distractions.
No touching the balls. I need to find the ball in a mass of moving black snakes, then squat, my face inches from them, to suck up the ball.
Focus Dahlia, I order myself. Dax’s comfort and possibly his life depend on you.
I find the ball in a clot of snakes, dip my head down, pick it up and deposit it in the collection bucket.
The original bucket’s about half empty when I stumble and drop another ball. I’m not certain whether I slipped on a snake, or just made a misstep. My right foot is numb, which I thought was a good thing because the bite initially burned in agony. Maybe these are poisonous snakes and I was just lucky I didn’t get bitten yesterday.
I shut out the fact that Dax is receiving his second shock. Focusing only on my task, I find the ball and retrieve it, praying I don’t get bitten again.
I know I’m getting tired, but I could swear the balls are getting heavier. I have to suck in harder to pick the balls up with the straw, and it’s more difficult to keep the ball attached to the straw as I maneuver to the collection container.
There are three balls left when Asher gleefully calls, “Time.”
Dax grunts once, so softly I almost didn’t hear it over my pounding heart and the hissing snakes. The collar’s on a steady three and h
e’s got to be in agony.
Don’t lose focus, I order myself. Stay on task and get the job done. The last thing I need is to make this exercise take one second longer than it needs to be.
Fuck! I have no idea what happened, but I dropped another ball. Dax grunts again and it seems clear the collar’s up to four. The ball is sitting on a pile of wriggling snakes. My nostrils flare in revulsion, my stomach clenches in fear. I don’t know whether I’m more afraid for myself or Dax. I try not to think of how thrilled Ashhole must be.
Leaning down slowly, my straw in my mouth, I try to connect with the ball which is bobbling and moving as the snakes squirm. I make contact, suck the ball up and race to the bucket.
The last two balls pose no problems. When the final ball plops into the bucket, Asher cries, “Well done!” and I hear Dax grunt in relief.
I turn to look at Dax who’s in a chair with two guards at his side. His face is red and covered in sweat. He just withstood torture for long minutes.
“So fun. You two are the best. I had another game planned, but I think I’ll keep it for tonight. I’d like to draw this out. Oh,” he says as an afterthought, “you’d better take this.” He holds up a syringe.
I look down at my ankle and the skin two inches in every direction from the bite has already turned black and puffy. Dear God, they were poisonous snakes. I don’t think I could have gotten through this ordeal if I’d known that. And Ashhole forced poor Dax to watch, knowing I could have died.
“Now, Dahlia. If the Intergalactic Database is right, you have about,” he checks his computer pad, “one minima give or take before the venom reaches your heart and kills you.”
I grab the syringe and plunge it into my thigh. I sway for a moment, feeling weak in the knees. The only thing keeping me on my feet is knowing that if I fall to the ground I’ll be swallowed by a ball of wriggling black snakes.
“You’re so lucky none of those serpents bit your neck when you leaned down to retrieve those dropped balls. The anti-venom couldn’t have saved you if they bit anywhere near your carotid.” He’s smiling smugly.
“Right. Lucky,” I say dully, trying to keep myself upright.
“Dax, why don’t you carry the lucky lady back to her room?”
He stands with effort, his muscles tremoring like a horse after a race. He’s in no shape to walk, much less carry me to our room, but I clamp my lips shut and don’t protest when he follows orders.
I’m certain the guards are having a great time escorting us down the corridors as slowly as possible. When we get to our room, Dax collapses on the bed, me in his arms.
“Rest well,” Asher gloats through the overhead comm, “see you soon.”
Dax
I learned early in childhood not to do anything that would cause a shock. All you need is a few modicums on a setting of ‘one’ to learn to avoid punishment. No one has activated my shock collar in years.
I place my head on the pillow and try to get ahead of the pain. My muscles are quivering. Waves of burning energy pulse through me. I need to get a handle on this before that dracker comes back for the next round.
I breathe through a bout of nausea, brought on I assume, by the pain. As soon as that passes I open my eyes to inspect Dahlia. Her blue eyes are filled with tears. When she sees my eyes open, she brushes her knuckles across my cheek.
“I hurt you, Dax. I messed up and made him punish you.” She looks grief stricken.
With effort, I turn on my side and pull her closer. “I warned you. That’s what torturers do. They set you up with impossible tasks to make you believe the punishment the other person receives is your fault. He didn’t invent this. It’s a timeworn tradition. He feeds off this. Let’s not give him the satisfaction.
“It surprised me how well you handled all those snakes, Dahl. You did your best, right? And you paid the price.”
I force myself to sit up to examine her ankle. It’s black and puffy around the two small puncture wounds.
“This must have hurt.”
“Still does. Burns like fire. The anti-venom he gave me saved my life, but did nothing to ease the pain.”
I lie back down and snuggle her back to my front. “Can you sleep? We’ll need our strength for whatever he’s got in store for us next.”
~.~
“Wake up, wake up,” Asher’s singsong voice sounds cheerful. “You’ll like this next challenge. How’s the leg, Doll?”
Dahlia shakes her head to wake up, then sits.
“Hurry, hurry. Be dressed in the clothes provided in thirty minimas.”
The door flings open and four armed guards barge in, deposit clothes on the bed, and leave.
Half an houra later we’ve showered and dressed and Asher’s henchmen have escorted us to a different dining room than where we ate this morning. It’s even bigger and more opulent.
The table is thick, round glass ringed with what I assume is real gold. The chairs are sleek, curved glass. Asher is wearing a blood-red suit. He looks younger than he did this morning.
“Let’s eat, shall we? I’ve had my chef prepare a feast. Six courses, each accompanied by wine.”
Dahlia and I are wary, knowing something terrible is about to happen, but we have no idea what. Realizing my fear feeds him and being able to tamp it down are two different things.
Dahlia puts her hand over her wineglass before the servant can pour her wine. “I don’t drink,” she explains. Good idea. Best to keep our thoughts as clear as possible, but he’s already poured my glass to the brim.
“No spirits? I must insist you match the gladiator and me unce for unce in water.”
Dinner is endless as his servants bring out course after course of delicious food and wine. I’m a big male and can handle my liquor well, but after six full glasses of wine, I’m not at my sharpest. When I tell him I don’t want any more, he fingers his collar controller and lets me know it’s not an option.
“Trust me,” he says, “the slower you drink the harder this will be.” This makes him laugh far longer than the ‘joke’ merits.
“Excuse me,” Dahlia says as we wait for the dessert course, “where’s your restroom?”
“Restroom, that’s an interesting euphemism. What a quaint Earther saying. It’s seldom what we do there, isn’t it?”
Dahlia stands, places her napkin on her chair and waits for direction.
“Sit!” Asher thunders. “Now you’ve hurried my little game.”
Dahlia drops into her seat, her blue eyes round in her face.
“I had to do a great deal of research for your next challenge. Did you know the average humanoid bladder is full when it reaches sixteen to twenty-four unces? By my count, you’re only at twenty. Drink up and I’ll start the clock.”
“What? I…”
“I never thought you’d be the denser of the two, but Dahlia, you’re a gross disappointment.” He continues more slowly as if talking to a slow child, “You will finish your sixth glass of water and I will start the clock. I’m denying you restroom privileges for sixty minimas.
“To make it a bit more fun…” He snaps his fingers and four of his henchmen attach hooks to holes in the back and arms of the chair, which lifts about six-fiertos high. “To make it more fun, I had your dress woven out of fibers that turn from white to red when wet. There will be no hiding your shame when you wet yourself. And to increase the difficulty level you must drink one more glass of water at the thirty minima mark. Starting now.”
He turns to me and offers dessert. “Your punishment, Dahlia,” he says as he dithers over which pastry to choose, “is to be deprived of a delicious dessert and be ashamed when the inevitable ‘accident’ happens. Dax’s punishment will be to endure every moment of the remainder of the appointed hoara after your shameful display with his collar set on five.”
He digs into his delicacy, then motions to his minions. They use the pulleys to move Dahlia farther away so we can see the pain on her exquisite face.
As the minima
s tick by, tears well in Dahlia’s luminous blue eyes.
“Hold that thought, Doll, while your male and I use the facilities.” He chuckles.
I follow him, along with half the guards. While relieving myself I realize this is part of the game. I get to experience relief all the while knowing Dahlia is hanging from the rafters struggling.
When we return, I notice there’s an addition to the room —piped in noise of running water.
“Nice touch, don’t you think?” he asks, eyebrow cocked.
At the half-hoara mark, Dahlia’s lowered and given another glass of water.
“Spill one drop and you’ll be forced to drink two glasses instead of one.”
Her hand is trembling and I hope for both our sakes she doesn’t spill a drop. Every modicum that clicks by reminds me each moment she suffers spares me indescribable pain. It’s a terrible choice. Luckily it’s one I don’t have to make —it’s in her hands.