by Selena Kitt
"I'm sorry." It was barely above a whisper but she meant it. Her face was ablaze with the mortification of actually climaxing at the hands of a militia sergeant—and in front of an audience, no less, if he was telling the truth about that. She didn't even know what he looked like.
He chuckled. "Oh, baby, if you think you're sorry now, you don't even know the meaning of the word. Yet. But believe me, you will."
* * *
Blaze Fielding couldn't remember the last time his dick had been so hard—or that he'd felt so conflicted.
Part of him was furious that she'd one-upped him without permission, and in front of his men, to boot. He could just picture Gord and those other bastards leering and jeering behind the mirror; commenting on the way he couldn't even control a slip of a girl. Still, it wasn't too late. He could still brazen his way out of that one.
The other part of him wasn't so easily managed. He'd had a lot of time to learn to control his emotions; to hide his disgust at what the Saxian party did to his people—at what he, at times, was forced to do in their name. He'd managed to conceal his fear, his loathing, his shame, behind a mask of feigned indifference. It was extraordinary what a man was capable of when he had no choice. When life itself was at stake. But it wasn't his own life Blaze cared about.
Sandrine.
The only child of his sister; his last living relative. The meteor had wiped out his parents and he and his sister had been captured by the Saxian party, taken to an orphanage and 'cared' for until they came of an age to be useful. At thirteen, they had begun to train Blaze; he'd been forced to join the militia and had quickly risen in rank. Military training was the only thing he knew.
But his sister Maya hadn't been so lucky. An exceptionally pretty girl, she had soon been earmarked by one of the Saxian officials and married off to his son the moment she turned eighteen. Within a year, Maya was pregnant, within two years—
"Are you still there?" the woman on his table whispered, fearfully.
Blaze forced his thoughts to return to the present. "Yes."
"What—" she croaked, cleared her throat and continued. "What are you going to do to me now?"
He gazed down at her; taking in the pale, satiny skin, the rose-tipped nipples, the graceful curve of her hollow belly and the juice still glistening between her plump pussy lips.
His dick was so hard it was throbbing. No-one would question it if he took her, right then and there… used that sopping wet, tight little hole for his own pleasure. As a prisoner of the Saxian party, this woman had no rights. Blaze could do with her whatever he liked.
It was almost a shame he had some morals left.
"I'm going to punish you," he said gruffly. "You disobeyed me. You came right here on this table, like a wanton little girl, even after I expressly forbade it."
Her mouth rounded. "I-I couldn't help it. You… your finger—"
He leaned down and she started when she heard his voice suddenly so close to her ear. "Are you saying it was my fault? That I made you come on purpose?"
"I—no, I… I'm not—"
Blaze chuckled. "Oh, don't get so upset, sweetheart. Matter of fact, you're right. There is a purpose behind everything I do. And now that you've indulged me by climaxing so helplessly, I have the best excuse to torment you some more. Perhaps a good dose of our prison strap will entice you to start talking."
It was as though a shutter had closed over her face; he could literally see the split-second in which she shut herself down. "It won't," she said tonelessly. "No matter what you do."
Blaze took a deep breath. "We'll just see about that."
Chapter Three
The girl was writhing in her bonds and he could clearly see the sheen of perspiration on her pale skin. She was in agony, he knew that. She also possessed a sheer determination, an iron will, of which he was absolutely in awe.
If only Maya had had that kind of strength. She might still be alive today.
It still haunted Blaze's dreams; the sight of his sister lying on the gurney, her face so translucent he could see the blue veins beneath her skin. She'd been so fucking beautiful. And that had meant her death. The officer she'd been married off to had been a brutal sonofabitch; not even having the decency to be more gentle with Maya once they'd discovered she was pregnant. Just before she came to full term, the fucker had shoved her down the stairs. They'd been able to save the baby, but not Maya.
Blaze clenched his fist at the memory.
"I'm so sorry," Maya had croaked, her hand limp in his as she drew her last breaths. "The… the baby?"
"A daughter," Blaze had whispered. "A beautiful little girl. Please, Maya. Please don't go. She needs you. She needs her Momma."
"Sandrine," Maya said. "I want her to be called Sandrine."
"It's a lovely name."
"Grant. Please don't let Grant—"
At the mention of her husband's name, a white-hot fury rose up inside Blaze; so intense he was trembling. "He won't ever come near her. I promise you that. I'll protect her with my life."
Maya had given a last, sweet smile, and died.
Beside himself with rage, giving no thought whatsoever to the consequences, Blaze had gone to find Grant—and snapped the fucker's neck.
To his absolute astonishment, he hadn't been executed instantly. Instead, mindful of his military experience, prowess and competence, taking into account the investment they'd made in his years of training, and considering he was worth more to them alive, the Saxian officials had allowed him to live, provided he took command of one of their most important bases; right on the border between Saxo and Vraya. But to ensure his compliance, they had taken baby Sandrine.
"We'll send you regular photos to prove she's alive and well," his chief had said, his cruel little mouth set in a tight line. "But I promise you, Fielding, you even think about disobeying an order, doing anything that is not in Saxian interests, or trying to find her, and you can expect to start receiving parts of your niece in the mail. Are we clear?"
Blaze shook his head slightly to clear his mind and focused his attention back on the writhing form on the interrogation table. The girl—he still didn't know her fucking name, he thought with a wry smile—had been given a little soup and some water, which she'd practically inhaled, allowed to use the facilities (under his careful watch) and then strapped back onto the table.
"I thought you were going to punish me?" she'd said as he'd fastened the last strap around her ankle.
"I believe in second chances," Blaze had replied, evenly. "You have until tomorrow to think about whether or not you want to start cooperating. If you decide you do want to talk, I might reconsider whether or not you will be bent over, naked, and strapped on the buttocks until I decide you've had enough. Perhaps."
He'd expected her to beg, to plead, even perhaps to scoff at him, but instead she did something surprising. She laughed.
"What's so funny?"
"It just occurred to me… you've been watching me for hours, seen me completely naked, splayed open, brought me to orgasm, fed me—you've seen me pee, for fuck's sake—and I don't even know what your face looks like! Doesn't that strike you as being a little bit unfair?"
"Is that a very creative way of asking me to remove your blindfold?"
She'd given a little shrug. "Depends what you look like."
Blaze had been unable to suppress a smile at her wit even in the face of such duress. "You have a lot of sass, I'll give you that. What do you do for a job?"
"Oh, Sergeant Fielding, you'll have to try harder than that to get anything out of me," she'd said. If he hadn't known better, he'd almost have thought she was flirting with him.
"Don't I know it," he'd quipped wryly, and she actually let out a breathy little chuckle.
"You're fascinating," Blaze said, and meant it.
She shrugged again. "Not really. Just desperate."
Then, remembering where they were, he allowed his voice to take on a more cool tone. "Very well. We're about t
o turn out the lights anyway. Might as well remove your blindfold."
"Thank you," she'd said, as graciously as if he were offering her a napkin at dinner.
Tugging the cloth away from her face, Blaze met her gaze and his breath caught in his throat. Huge, thickly lashed and a deep, shimmering green, her eyes dominated her face and were, quite simply, stunning.
Unabashed, she stared back, her expression partly defiant and vaguely mocking. "I assume this is where I'll be spending the night?" she said.
Fighting to regain his composure, Blaze cleared his throat. "It is."
"I wasn't expecting a five-star establishment, but I don't suppose I could get a blanket? It's pretty cold in here."
They were no longer being watched; the men having clocked off in the meantime, but Blaze still felt a surge of irritation at the way she suddenly seemed to have gained the upper hand. Making demands, making jokes; as though she wasn't taking him or the danger she was in seriously. "No blanket," he said coolly, making a mental note to surreptitiously turn up the thermostat later. "But you do get the five-star treatment."
He was gratified at the flicker of fear which interrupted her otherwise unwavering gaze.
"Oh, really?" she said, though he didn't miss the slight catch in her voice.
"Really. One of the ladies who come regularly to service my men left this behind," he said, going to a drawer and removing a vibrating egg. "Ever seen one before?"
"Your men," she scoffed. "And I suppose you don't ever avail yourself of their 'services?'"
"No," he said curtly. Had Maya not been quite so pretty, she might well have ended up becoming one of those poor wretches who were forced to 'entertain' the militia when they were off-duty. Blaze never had been able to bring himself to take advantage of them; no matter how great his need.
"I don't believe you."
"I don't care." He held the black rubber bullet to her lips. "You think you're wet enough, or do you want to moisten this a little?"
A deep hue of pink glowed in her cheeks. "Is it clean?"
"Of course."
She hesitated, a shadow flitting across her exquisite features. "Is it… where is it going?"
"Your cunt." He didn't miss her obvious relief; making a mental note of that for later.
"I'm not licking it." She put her head back and stared pointedly at the ceiling, as though she were preparing for a gynecological exam.
In a way, Blaze supposed she was.
Still admiring her spunk, he suppressed a sudden inexplicable urge to kiss her and set about inserting the bullet, carefully but firmly spreading her plump labia and wiggling the rubber egg until it was seated far enough in to be pressing cruelly against her g-spot.
"This has a remote control," he said calmly. "Want me to show you?"
She lifted her head and peered at him from between her spread thighs, a disbelieving look on her face. "It's really up to me?"
"Just this once."
"Then no, thank you," she said primly and had returned her gaze to the ceiling.
Without another word, Blaze had turned and left the interrogation cell, flicking off the lights and clicking the door shut behind him.
That had been two hours ago. Now he was standing behind the two-way mirror, watching his captive writhe and gasp with sexual frustration.
Truth be told, he hadn't intended to torment her for so long, but a part of him—the dark, primal part of him he'd never been able to indulge—was enjoying it. There was something about the control which turned him on; the way she was completely at his mercy, and of course the breathtaking sight of her on that table. He could grant her mercy or test her endurance… and she had that in spades. He'd never seen anything like it. She was also supremely sensual; capable of experiencing absolute pleasure in the most extreme and humiliating circumstances.
A part of him wondered whether she could be that elusive creature he'd spent his life searching for… a real masochist. He was unable to forget the way she'd climaxed into his hand at the very pinnacle of her humiliation; when he'd told her they were being watched, when he'd reinforced how helpless she was to control what was happening to her.
Or maybe she was just braver than anyone he'd ever met.
One thing was for sure, he'd never met another woman like her. Saxian women were meek and quiet; bullied and terrified into submission. Most of them wouldn't even venture out of the house after dark, let alone put themselves into a situation where they could be captured, tortured or killed.
He allowed himself a wry grin as he wondered what she was thinking as she lay there, leaking, that egg buzzing to life inside her tight cunt until she was desperate—and then clicking back off.
One thing he was sure of: she had no idea he was tormenting himself at least as much as he was doing her. He'd been painfully hard pretty much since the first moment his men dragged her out of the holding cell.
She had disobeyed him by cumming without his permission but she'd also shown a huge amount of courage ever since they'd captured her, and although his dark side was sorely tempted to spend all night flicking that button on his remote on and off, Blaze figured she had earned some sleep. And he certainly needed some.
Twisting the dial all the way to 'off', he took one last look at her through the glass. "Good night," he whispered. "I hope you get some sleep."
* * *
Lena was ready to scream. She'd been mentally prepared for anything—anything but this constant, torturous state of aching arousal and blatant humiliation.
She was also bitterly regretting having asked to have her blindfold removed. She'd hoped that the sight of her tormentor would help; that seeing the gargoyle who held her very life in his hands might go some way towards tempering the helpless lust he was inducing purely by the tone in his voice.
She couldn't have been more wrong.
The man—Blaze—was attractive. No, more than that, he was gorgeous. At first she'd been unaccustomed to the light and had been able to make out nothing more than his silhouette; a broad-shouldered man in a dark green militia uniform… but then, like a Polaroid developing, she was able to take in more and more detail.
The perfect shape of his closely shaved head.
The thick, dark brows, one of which was bisected by a neat scar, the classic but slightly broken Greek nose, the wide, mocking mouth. The glittering onyx eyes.
And then, when he'd grinned, a dimple in his left cheek.
What the fuck kind of torturer has a dimple?
Lena's breath had caught in her throat and she'd almost asked him to put the blindfold back on when she realized that this man had seen, examined and watched every last inch of her—and, worse, that she was still lying naked and spread-eagled on a table in front of him as he looked down at her with an odd expression in his eyes.
Greg had never warned her about that eventuality.
And now she was still on that fucking table and Blaze was still watching her—albeit from the next room. Not that that made much of a difference; it was almost as though she could sense his presence. She could certainly feel every single excruciating tingle that bullet deep inside her pussy was shooting through her core. Every time she came close to calling out, to begging him to stop, it shut off… only to resume its infernal humming again a short while later.
He wasn't really going to do this all night, was he?
A part of Lena was amazed that she could still maintain something resembling a sense of humor throughout this ordeal. She'd been appalled to find herself practically flirting with the man at one point. Usually, the opposite sex ranked pretty low on her list of things to care about; somewhere between shoes and nail polish.
In Saxo, a girl learned to have other priorities. Food. Shelter. A job. If you were over eighteen and able-bodied, you had to work. Otherwise you were 'assigned' to a 'facility'. In truth, no-one knew for sure what happened to those who were unemployed for a month or more… you had to be useful to the government, otherwise you disappeared. It was that simpl
e.
Lena had been lucky; she'd managed to get a job working at a local school as soon as she'd finished her own education. Her childhood love of books had led to a broad skillset and, as the curriculum consisted mostly of propaganda for the Saxian party and the most basic levels of reading and arithmetic, she'd been deemed qualified enough to take up teaching.
Later, when she'd joined the Resistance, she'd offered to quit her job so as to have more time to devote to the cause, but Gregory had warned her against it. "You need a cover story," he'd said. "You need to keep the official job; work for us in the evenings."
It made sense; there was no point in working for the Resistance for a month and then being taken away by the government for 'failure to comply'.
Lena gasped as the bullet began to vibrate once more, interrupting her thoughts. She was tempted to scream; to tell the man behind the mirror just exactly what she thought of his method of interrogation, but she bit her tongue. After all, he had been comparatively kind.
She still had all her limbs, even her fingernails, and she hadn't been raped. He'd denied her a blanket but she'd been given some food and water and, not counting the sensual ache, he hadn't hurt her.
Yet.
Bent over and strapped…
But would he really do that? Maybe he'd get someone else to do it. Lena had never even been spanked as a kid, but she was no stranger to physical pain. She was already determined not to talk—no matter what they did to her—so she supposed she might as well accept the fact that they would turn to that method sooner or later.
She could only pray she'd have the strength to take it—be it a strapping or something else—with dignity. And God knows, it might even make a nice change from this infuriating sexual torture, she thought wryly as the vibrator stopped humming for the umpteenth time.
Lena waited for it to start up again. It was hard to keep track of time with nothing but her own breathing to guide her; and she had no idea whether it had been minutes or hours since Blaze had left her alone. There were no windows in the room.
She closed her eyes and tried to relax; tried to ignore the residual throbbing between her legs. Perhaps he'd taken pity on her and was allowing her to get some rest. After all, he only seemed to be a few years older than she, and there had been a strange look in his eyes when she'd first met his gaze; a flicker of something. Pity? Perhaps.