White Silk & I Belong to You

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  “No, they will not free you, Silk. Likely, you’ll fare worse with a band of insurrectionists. They will rape you repeatedly until they tire of you. And once some solider decides that you could bring a good price, they’d sell you to a new owner who will not treat you as civilly as I do. You’ll be traded for guns to some military supplier—they’re the most ruthless masters. Trust me, Silk, and follow my lead.”

  “I’m sure I will, Sir.”

  “You can expect to be taken to the retreat some time in the next few days. As soon as it can be arranged. Don’t hesitate, and do your best to calm the others. Sometimes slaves get hysterical during this kind of threat. I know you’re more stable than my other properties.”

  I know he feels this way. I suppose because I’m more rational than the others are.

  I don’t sleep well for two nights, suspecting that every noise I hear will be someone coming to my room to take me away. On the third night, I hear some scuffling in the house below. (I’ve slept upstairs for nearly a year because Sir wants me close by.)

  I recall the train in Romania when I was taken, how a whoosh of excitement passed through my system just moments before my capture. I’m feeling the same way now, though it’s stronger this time, feral—perhaps because I understand what is about to happen. I don’t tremble when the door suddenly opens, and light pours from the hallway into my eyes. It hurts as though I’ve just been blinded by acid.

  “Monroe, it’s me,” a voice whispers, calling me a name I don’t remember. “You’re coming with me.” He clamps a hand over my mouth so I can’t speak.

  Broc. The man assumes I know him by his face, but I can’t see a thing. I know who he is by the feel of his mighty hand and the sound of his voice.

  Instinct makes me struggle. Broc is not the man that Sir would send for me. I’m sure of this. Is he the insurrectionist my master spoke of?

  “Easy now,” he orders urgently and with power. His fingers dig into my flesh like they would bread dough. Old feelings surface, faint hopes appear. Even the romance of the moment makes me think again and I finally calm—although this might be a dangerous move.

  “That’s better.”

  Swiftly—I feel as though my feet have hardly touched the ground—Colonel Broc pulls me from the house into an ink black night. I’m forced to the floor of a rattling Jeep, my head tucked to the dirty floor, my naked body shivering from the cold. A scratchy blanket is thrown over me and the Jeep drives off for a bumpy ride over war torn roads.

  Somewhere in the middle of the trip, I’m knocked out or drugged. I’m not sure which.

  When I awaken, I’m in the dark, in a bed, with arms around my body. Broc lies clothed next to me. There’s a blanket covering us both. When I awaken, he awakens, too.

  “Broc,” I whisper.

  “Yes,” he whispers back.

  “What have you done?”

  “Removed you from your owner’s house.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “I can’t say now.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Don’t be.”

  He kisses me with tenderness. I think this vile after what I’ve had confirmed by Sir about Broc’s lies. Regardless, I’m churning desirously against his flesh, my legs scissoring to allow his thigh between them. I press against his heft while feeling his cock pulse inside his pants.

  “No, no,” I whisper, trying to shake off my arousal.

  “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you, Monroe. I just need this.”

  Need what? I wonder, as his hands continue to massage me. When the heat of our bodies becomes unbearable, we start removing his clothes. I assist him with my fingers working fast to find his bare skin and press my nakedness against it. The past two years have fled in seconds, we’re back in the compound, in his bed, making love as we did before, only this time more desperately.

  Broc brings his lips to my breast and bites at a nipple, then nibbling the flesh, he moves on to the other nipple, which he catches in his teeth and bites until I groan in heated wonder. I’m gasping for air, breathless, as my body surges with desire for him.

  I turn around as my desire heightens, my face diving for his erection as the great thing steams with power. My tongue takes the surface, licking every square inch; then I draw it into my mouth and suckle the hardened muscle, clamping my jaw down tightly so that with every bob of my head, he is closer to cumming. Broc’s physical aroma wells up into my nostrils, where I breathe him in to me. I have not forgotten who he is to me, how he made me half-sane when I thought I would go crazy. And he’s rescuing me now? Or taking me for his own? I’m not sure I care either way.

  This is not love; I know that. But it is intense desire and longing. Perhaps, that’s all I need to survive.

  His pulse beats strongly inside my mouth. I want to drink him in. But before he can ejaculate, he pulls me up, my legs straddling his groin, the wetness of my pussy covering the needy shaft. We come together again, chest to chest, fixed and fused as though we are one person. The tension builds into a mighty roar, the spasming starts, not weakly, but in powerful sharp blasts. I clench, and so does he as he cums in me with my cunt tightening down on his organ to milk it dry.

  We are one sweaty mess afterwards. But I am smiling to myself. I hadn’t expected to feel such satisfaction again and here it is.

  “I’m going to stay with you now?” I ask.

  “For a time.”

  “How long?”

  “I can’t say and I don’t want you to ask,” he answers forcefully.

  “I hate these secrets,” I say despondently.

  “I know you do. But it’s better for you this way. Even if it’s only for a little while longer, Monroe, submit.”

  “I do that well.”

  “Sometimes,” he says with a sly smirk. “But the attitude becomes you. Practice it now.”

  We remain together as though we’re bound. He is the closest thing to home I’ve felt in so long, I can’t let him go; and Broc doesn’t seem to care that I cling to him. Maybe he needs me.

  We’re quiet for a long time until I finally ask, “Will we make love again?”

  “We’ll have sex, yes.”

  “You won’t call it love?”

  “The word love doesn’t impress me. It’s used too foolishly. And it certainly isn’t apropos for circumstances like this. Desperation is not love.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “I am right. I always am.”

  He’s telling me he doesn’t want to argue, so I keep quiet. Even so, I feel my blood stirring wildly for the first time in months—as though life was being born in me, something wild, savage and freeing. It’s the way I should feel.

  “The next time I use you, Monroe, I’m going to bind you,” he finally declares.

  “Bind me? Why?”

  “You like the restraint.” That’s all he says before he hops out of bed, leaving me alone inside the rumpled sheets.

  We are in a strange sort of hostel. I think it was an old hotel, rooms with baths lining a pale grime-colored corridor. We don’t speak to the other patrons in the worn down place. Broc treats me like his girlfriend not his slave when we’re in public. During my first two days, he locks me in the room, tells me not to make a peep, while he goes out doing whatever Broc does when he’s away. I don’t bother to guess since I take his advice not to pry. He returns in the late afternoon with food we mutually gobble until we’re stuffed. The second day, he brings me clothes so that I don’t have to wrap myself in old sheets. We’re at the waning end of summer when the air changes easily from sticky hot to miserably damp and chilled. My body only seems to be warm when I’m with him.

  “Sorry I couldn’t find you silk,” he says as he notes how I look in the long black skirt and a cranberry-colored embroidered blouse. The clothes are loose and baggy, which I’m unaccustomed to. “You look dowdy,” he says.

  “Not much you can do to change this,” I say looking down at the meager clothes.


  “I can make you go naked.”

  “But I’m so cold.”

  “Then dress like this when I’m gone. When I’m here, take off the skirt.”

  It seems like a good compromise.

  Without the skirt, he can see my legs and the way the hem of the blouse delicately brushes my bare pussy in the front and the bottom of my ass cheeks in the rear.

  The third day, when Broc returns, there is a cunning light in his brilliant blue eyes, and a touch of whimsy in his faint smile.

  “The proprietor has something I think you’ll like.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ll see it when we get there.”

  He makes me wear the skirt, then shuffles me out into the corridor and down the hall to a staircase at the back of the building. The staircase descends beneath the ground, into an earthy catacomb, which winds about for many yards until it breaks out into a room carved out of stone and dirt.

  “What is this?” I ask, as if I can’t recognize the signs before me.

  “A punishment dungeon for slaves.”

  “Here? You knew about this?”

  “Actually, no. But I asked our host if there was some place I could take you, where you could be bound and whipped. He was happy to lend me this space for a few coins in his pocket.”

  “And you plan to bind and whip me?”

  “Wouldn’t you feel miserable without it?”

  I can’t answer that. It’s been so long since I’ve not been bound for sex, and at the very least threatened with punishment. I don’t know what Broc wants from me now. Regardless of my millions of questions and the trickle of fear running through my anxious system, I’m turned on. It’s never been like this between us—just Broc and me alone with whips and bondage gear. There was always something hanging over us—or someone looking on. Video cameras, General Hanan’s overbearing presence, the threat of being sold. We seem very alone right now.

  There is a spanking bench in the stark room, as well as many ringbolts on the wall, which would be quite useful for what he needs. There is even an apparatus hanging from the ceiling that could be used to suspend a slave either right side up or upside down. I picture it all wondering what kind of bondage Broc wants for me. The restraints in my mind are already encircling my body: I feel ropes tighten around my breasts, a collar around my throat and cords cutting into my crotch.

  That is just fantasy, however. Broc has his own imagination and his own schemes.

  First, he tethers my ankles and wrists with rope, quickly executing the bondage in a way that doesn’t cut my skin, but holds me extremely tight. This is a talent of his that is new to me; though I imagine he’s learned many things as a sexual terrorist—even some since we were last together. Pushing the bench to the side of the room, he places me in the center, and then fastens my feet to bolts that are embedded in the dirt floor. Finally, he draws my arms above me and wide apart, each wrist skillfully tied to the far end of a metal rod.

  I close my eyes instinctively. I don’t want to see what’s next, or second guess. I just want the feelings to unfold. Right now, my body is exhilarated with fear. I can sense sweat trickling from my brow, while the perspiration beneath my breasts chills my body when a draft of air hits my skin.

  Broc’s hands begin the journey, sliding over me slowly, as if they might ease my trepidation. But he gives me little time to relax into their tenderness. Stepping back, his feet shuffle for several seconds, then I hear the crack of a whip, the swish of a lash, and finally, the two implements alternating back and forth from bite to crack, to snap. Heavy swaths of stinging pain hit my body as each descends.

  I moan from deep inside my gut; but the exhilaration has not ceased. It moves on with each strike of an implement. More than just the pain and pleasure, I feel Broc inside each stroke, with his essence pouring out on me, grabbing hold of my body and giving it the oblivion its been trained to love. He is right about me seeking these dark depths. Each moment I relish as the very best ever, only to have it replaced by another. I’m soon delirious, my body starting to writhe as the orgasm sweeps me away.

  Broc stops for a time to run his hands over my welted skin. The heat climbs. He’s at my crotch with fingers grinding into my anal cleft. He finds the juices at my pussy and spreads them to my anus where several fingers are inserted into the taut rosebud. My heat takes another turn, and I think I’m about to cum. But he backs away and starts again with the whips, more force and speed this time, deliberately taking me beyond the feel of pleasure. I’m screaming for him to stop, and he soon backs down only to tease my ass and genitals again. I have the end in sight—about to break free, sure that I can read his mind.

  But he stops without warning and circles my body.

  I feel him standing before my closed eyes, staring at my face, where the grimaces have died away and even the look of disappointment has disappeared. I wait wonderingly, while he stares.

  Just as I’m about to open my eyes—because I believe that’s what he’s waiting for—I feel him closer still, inside my watchful aura. His breath tickles my neck. His hand accidentally grazes my thigh. His lips come to my ear, his tongue to the outer rim and he licks gently, blowing his breath in a heated whisper. Quietly, so I can hardly hear. “I’m going to mark your breasts, Michelle, your belly and your cunt.” Ever so tenderly, his hand rubs the brand he pressed into my pubic mounds three years ago. My labia are sticky with my nectar. He takes some from my snatch and presents it to my mouth. “Don’t let your fear get in your way,” he says.

  I do tremble. My fear is rife. I know I’ll scream as he whips my delicate front side, and yet, I’m surprised to find an exquisite exhilaration present in each stroke of the crop he uses on my breasts. He beats them thoroughly. They sting, but not so much that I can’t stand the pain. Desire pours from me again, my orgasm starting where it left off. Even when he meanly takes his fingers and twists my nipples, the agony is not unbearable. Just more sensation.

  Broc uses a many taloned whip to flail my crotch. With dozens of blows, he rains fire on the agitated skin. I’m ecstatic, pressing my pussy toward him for more, feeling the ends of myself begin to fray; and a bright burst of glory suddenly shake every limb and my clenching crotch. It goes on for some time, with the sensation descending even deeper when Broc finger-fucks my hungering hole.

  I hang limply. Still bound. My body starts to twitch.

  I don’t know where Broc is, but I sense him near; and soon he’s right before my face as he was before. His hand is on my cheek, so I open my eyes, seeing his eyes shining with a benevolence I would never expect from a man of such violence.

  “We’re cut from the same cloth, Monroe.”

  I guess we are.

  As Broc unties me, I’m so limp that I can hardly stand. But I won’t need much strength for what I’ll do next.

  Broc puts me on the bench, where my belly rests on a flat wooden board, where my rope-bound hands and ankles can be tied to the forward and rear struts. My ass is free for him to abuse.

  The rape is quick. His shaft is swiftly buried in my ass. It takes little coaxing to submit to this. I suppose my body and mind were already there, waiting for him, ready to have him become a piece of me and leave a piece of himself for a few short minutes. It’s over when, grunting like a rutting animal, he deposits his seed in the darkness of my channel.

  When he withdraws, I believe that I’ve had it all.

  I stay with Broc for two more days in the crude hostel. No one asks us questions, or pays much attention to why we are there. When we have sex every night, I begin to wonder if this will go on forever. Maybe I want it to. But I sense the end is near. I feel that more as each day passes, though I don’t have permission to ask this lover what comes next.

  On the sixth day, we awaken with a bright sun beaming through the lone window in the room. We make love, kissing and holding each other with our ravenous needs building to a wild crescendo.

  Afterwards, Broc orders me to clean up and dr
ess. I know we are on the move again and my heart feels heavy. Just a half-hour after my climax, I’m hustled brusquely into the Colonel’s Jeep and driven away. When we reach our destination, it’s midday. We’re in a lonely expanse of empty territory. I have no clue where; though I assume that we’re still on the fringes of Eastern Europe. There’s a car waiting for me. Broc pulls me from the Jeep and thrusts me quickly into the other vehicle.

  “I won’t be seeing you again,” he says, rather blankly.

  “Why?”

  “You have other things to do.”

  “You’re freeing me?”

  “I hope so.”

  I don’t know what to believe. “Why are you doing this?”

  “You need your freedom, Monroe. Like I need mine. I’m sorry I couldn’t have given it to you sooner.”

  “Then you did care?”

  “What makes you think otherwise?” he looks incredulous. “Sometimes love comes to us in unusual packages. You’ve been mine to accept. I won’t forget you.”

  “But…” I remember the tales of the brothel Sir told me.

  “But what?”

  I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter.” I smile. Suddenly I have no need for him to explain anything.

  “It’s been a long time since you’ve been in charge of your life, Michelle,” he speaks tenderly for one last warning, just as he’s about to close the car door. “Get your wits about you. You’re no longer a slave. Think like a woman. Better yet, think as a man until you’re safe at home.”

  His will be the best love I’ve ever lost.

  My nightmare died that day, but not the memory.

  When Daniel Broc pushed me into the dilapidated Citron five miles from freedom, half of me wanted to remain with him, half of me—a very fragile, frightened half of me—wanted what lay ahead.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Yeeeeeeeeeeawwwwww!”

  A bloodcurdling scream rips the air. I awaken with Kovac’s arms around my shoulders, my face pressed to his chest. He smells of sweat and sex, still.

  “It’s okay, Shelly,” he says in a voice that comforts and controls me. I relax easily remembering where I am. It’s been several months since I had such a frightening flashback of that night on the train. After all this time, I know now—as soon as the dream departs and I’m in Kovac’s care—that everything is all right.