By My Side ... (A Valentine's Day Story)

by Christine Blackthorn

  "I could have." He agreed. "But then you would not be getting used to my touch."

  His lips might be curved in a small smile but there was no doubt that this was a warning, or rather a declaration of intent. He would enter her mind, would assure himself of her well-being, her state of mind, when he felt the need to do so, whenever he felt the need to do so -- and he would not accept any opposition. He held her gaze one more moment, imprinting his will on her, then he reached for a cloth. He poured a little of the water onto it, soaking it through.

  His touch was gentle as he ran the fabric over her body, the water warmed by its proximity to the rekindled fire. It was not erotic, not sexual, it was the touch of a lover caring for his partner. Still she winced, the pressure of his hand enough to rekindle the pain in her abused tissue. His eyes held no pity, only resurfacing heat. He spread her legs, stroking the cloth over her inner thigh before pressing it to the over-sensitised skin of her swollen folds. Stinging pain followed by the tease of water drops running past her clitoris, the entrance to her sheath, her anus, almost brought her shoulders off the bed. He held her still with nothing more than his eyes.

  "Mine. I love the fact that your flesh is sore from my touch, that tomorrow you will feel reminded of my possession with every move you make. I love that I will be hard every time I see you wince, every time you have to move with careful deliberation."

  It robbed her of her power of speech, stunning her not so much with the rampant possessiveness of the sentiment -- but with her own reaction. Her tired and depleted body had tightened, heated under the words, moisture already seeping from her core again.

  The shock, and the discomfort, kept her quiet as he moved through the room, tidying away the water and cloth, banking the fire. He slipped under the heavy blankets with her, rearranging her on her side without asking for her preference, his arm pulling her into the protection of his large frame. The room was dark and cozy, the bed a warm nest. She felt his deep breath against the crown of her head, felt her limbs softening against him, her body relaxing into him.

  Her unfocused gaze swept the room one more time, came to rest on a dark shape on the floor. It looked so innocuous there, the long strands of leather fanning out from the top of the grip in a jumbled half circle. It had been innocuous, in the end, the violence coming more from her mind than the strength of his strikes. She knew he could have easily left her back in bloody tatters -- instead a warm, burning sensation of liquid softness lay under the skin of her back, wrapped around her memory.

  "What is it, sweetheart?"

  She must have made a sound, given away her thoughts in some way. She turned her head to meet his gaze as he leant over her. But he was not looking at her, he had noticed what her mind had been dwelling on.

  "I am asking myself if it was reward or punishment."

  That drew his attention back to her and she saw the quick glow of his teeth in the dark room as he smiled. Then he kissed her, on her brow, on her eyelids and finally, softly, on her mouth.

  "You are a very smart woman, Lena. Let me know when you have figured it out."

  Her mind was still circling those thoughts in a lazy manner when her eyes closed under the heavy weight of sleep.

  Endings?

  It was three days later. Elena found herself sitting on the side of that same bed, the strands of the flogger running though her fingers in a rhythmic pattern. Her mind was thoughtful, heavy with a strange melancholia. She had barely seen Reschkar since the night they bonded. The next morning had come with one emergency after another -- frozen well, an avalanche burying one of the food stores and damaging the gates. His days had been filled with emergencies far from her, though she had spent each night in his arms, his body too tired to move more than the paces it took him to cross the room and pull her close.

  She herself had spent those days among the orcs, helping where she could, trying to find her own footing. Her respect for these people desperately trying to overcome their own histories of abuse and subjugation, to make a new life, to form a culture of their own, was boundless. Where ever she went she met determination and hope -- a hope she quickly realised was linked to her presence among them.

  There were fights and disagreements, as would be found in every group of such disparate people. She saw these outbreaks of aggression from afar, saw flaring annoyance and even outright brawls, saw the aftermath of nightmares on children's faces, the marks of violence long since healed on bodies -- but only ever from a distance. She moved in a charmed bubble, a treasured pet, isolated from anything bad by all and sundry. Where ever she went there were smiles and shy touches, food they all needed to ration for the winter, offered to her when one of the very young or very old could use it so much better. It was driving her insane.

  And then there was the bond. What had felt so strong and steady that night, now seemed to thin out a little more with every second. For that one night she had thought she had finally fulfilled her genetic destiny, had bonded to Reschkar, had become an ErGer in more than name only. But with every passing hour since then, with the slow degradation of that bond, her fear of her own inadequacy had reasserted itself. Whatever was wrong with her had allowed for a semblance of a bond, but she could not even do that right. It was fading. Another day and it would be gone again. She suspected Reschkar had simply been too tired to notice.

  Today, she had stayed in the room, hiding from their expectations, hiding from their belief in her, hiding from herself. Her hands played with the flogger, the broad strands of soft leather trickling through her fingers. At least one mystery she had been able to solve.

  She heard him come in, felt the way the room changed with him in it, as if he wrapped reality around him. He made little sound as he moved across the room, did not speak until the bed moved under his weight. She felt him on the bed behind her, knew his large body framed hers. But he did not touch her.

  "So, what is the answer? What was the flogger in my hands that night - reward or punishment?"

  She knew he was referring to the flogger in her hands and to their conversation that night. She was almost too tired, too dejected to answer, only the ingrained need to respond to the demands of a Lord with respectful politeness moving her to speak.

  "It wasn't punishment."

  "No."

  Calm, collected. His breath stroking over the sensitive side of her neck with each exhalation - but still he did not touch her. And suddenly she needed to know.

  "Why not?"

  "You did not need it."

  "I deserved it." She was surprised by the harsh anger in her own words. His answer was slow in coming.

  "For the lie, you did deserve it and you did receive your punishment for that." A sharp pain bloomed on her back as he rested his palm against the one place she still was sore. "Nothing else you did deserved punishment."

  "I disobeyed you."

  "Yes, but because you could not help it. I do not punish a woman for something she could not control."

  She did not know what do say, did not understand his reasoning, did not want to. She just wanted to be left alone in her little corner of misery, wanted to sit here and allow it to take over. Was that too much to ask? A few hours of alone time before it all came crashing down around her.

  "A tool, alright? It was a tool. Nothing more, nothing less."

  There, he had the answer to his question. The flogger had been neither punishment nor reward, it had been a tool. Now he could go and leave her be. There were paths to clear, food storage to dig out, people to protect -- he did not need to sit here with her. So, why did he not leave?

  Elena waited for him to say something, to either comment or ask for clarification but he remained silent. His silence was a more effective incentive than any encouragement to speak could have been. It drew at her, filled the room and scraped at her. To break it, to fill the silence, she continued.

  "It was neither punishment, nor reward. It was a tool to open my mind to you."

  She did not need to hear his
assent, did not need him to confirm her assessment, she knew it was the truth. A single tear fell from her eye, burned a path down her cheek. She was glad he could not see it.

  "It did not work."

  It was better to tell him now if he had not realised it yet under the pressure of all the demands which had filled all his waking hours. She preferred being the one to say it anyway, not to wait for him to bring it up.

  Now he touched her, his large hands stroking along her arms, spanning her wrists, stilling the restless movements. He replaced her fingers with his around the tool in her hands.

  "What do you mean, little one?"

  She wanted to lean into him, wanted to turn her head so that she could smell him, taste his breath on her lips as he whispered the words against her cheek. She could not, not when she had to tell him what would destroy all his hopes, all their hopes. No expression coloured her tone when she spoke, all emotion carefully locked into the vault of her being.

  "The bond is almost gone."

  She felt him start, felt his muscles tense, his body hardening behind her, rigid and alert in his shock. Silence reigned for long moments. Then he said:

  "Look at me, Elena."

  She could not, did not want to see the disillusionment, the hardness there. Silently she shook her head.

  "Elena."

  It was a warning. Slowly, reluctantly, she turned to him, still avoiding his gaze.

  "I am sorry." Her whisper was barely audible to even her own ears. A finger under her chin forced her to meet his eyes, the yellow gaze calm. She repeated: "I am sorry. I am broken."

  Laughter filled the room, loud and free. It took her a moment to grasp that it was him laughing. Misery changed to shock, then to hot anger in her. As quick as the laughter had risen in him it seemed to make place for pity. She hated pity. She would face what would come, would face her own death, but she would do so with a straight back and her pride intact. She had come here with open eyes, knowing it would most likely come to that. She did not deserve his pity.

  Before outrage could find its expression, before she had done more than begin to rise from the bed, his arm snaked out and took hold of her, pulling her back. Her impact on the bed was hard, surprisingly so for such a soft surface, and it knocked the breath from her lungs. Before she could move, or even regain sufficient oxygen, he was over her, his knees bracketing her hips, his weight holding her in place. Instinctively her hands had come up to ward him off -- but any resistance was futile under the pressure of his body on her.

  His lips covered hers, forced them open and plundered, invading with taste, teeth and tongue. He only let off, gentled to a leisurely play, when she yielded all to him, her arms circling his neck, her mouth savouring his touch, his taste. Her lips felt swollen and bruised as he lifted his head. The smile still played on his lips, but his eyes now held a deep seriousness.

  "You, Elena Garibaldi, are exactly as you should be. You are exactly who I need. You are perfect and complete."

  He pushed the words at her as if he wanted to imprint them on her mind, as if he needed her to realise that there was no doubt of their veracity in him. Hearing them, hearing the way he spoke them left her in no uncertainty of that. She tried to explain.

  "But..."

  It is impossible to speak when the words are being stolen by the rampaging power of a kiss. Only when she was breathless again did he let her resurface.

  "No, Lena. There is nothing wrong with you. I am the reason why the bond is waning."

  The words froze her mind, the idea never having occurred to her. So he took the opportunity to explain.

  "I am not a territory lord in the traditional sense, I do not hold a bridge to the Summerlands. I have no link to any Elven court, small or large. An ErGer bond is established with a territory Lord, with someone who has sufficient strength and grounding to anchor the ErGer to him -- but it is fixed into place and held through the blood link to the Elven courts a territory Lord would normally hold. Without that, our bond will not be permanent, at least not anytime soon."

  She was not sure if she could assemble the information into a coherent whole in her mind. Her expression must have warned him of her difficulties. With deliberate care he framed her face with his large hands, held her still under his gaze, and repeated.

  "Everything is as it should be."

  "But ..." She did not know what to say, what to ask. It was hard to step away from her deep despair. It was even harder not to resent the amusement in his yellow eyes as he looked down on her.

  "I have spoken to some with knowledge about mental bonds and the suggestions seems to be that there is the possibility that the ErGer bond might harden, become permanent, with practice and constant use." Amusement turned to wicked teasing as he bent to her, his next words spoken against her mouth:

  "I cannot say that I mind."

  His teeth found her lower lip, nipped at it. Heat ignited in her body, her nipples already hard enough to scrape painfully against her blouse. She moaned into his kiss.

  "There are other tools to try, other ways to practice the bonding. I am sure, if we work diligently on it, we might become quite proficient at it."

  The whisper against her skin made her shiver all over.

  "I will teach you to submit to me, to the bond." A dark promise, and one which pricked her pride.

  "I know how to submit."

  Why could she taste his smile on her lips?

  "No, sweetheart, you know the rules of a game called submission. And you are good at those rules, only as long as they do not reach into what is your core. You know the shape, but not the substance." A hard kiss silenced her protest. "I will enjoy teaching you, will love to make the game reality, a necessity, for you."

  His yellow eyes brimmed with pleasure, with the anticipation, with power. On some level she knew he was right. It had always been a game to her, a competition. It would not be with him.

  "I might fail."

  Her biggest fear, the quiet certainty in her heart. He shook his head, a smile tugging at his corners.

  "No, little one. You are mine. Mine to do with as I please -- it is all that matters, all there is. You cannot fail to simply be yourself."

  But it was not that easy to switch off her mind, to put aside all. Even if the bond could be re-established there were other worries. What place would she have here among these people? Would she ever be able to make them see her as anything other than a cosseted pet or would she slowly atrophy under their adoration and love? Would she have to worry every few days if he would manage to strengthen the waning bond?

  He sank his teeth into her shoulder, the bite just short of drawing blood. She cried out in surprise and pain. It was a reprimand, a clear punishment and as he lifted his head the passion in his heavy-lidded eyes said more than words would have that he had enjoyed it.

  "That mind of yours, clever as it is and as much as I admire it, will have to quiet when I want it to -- or I will have to ensure your attention remains on me in another way."

  Anticipation and a little bit of fear coiled in her stomach. The predator under the surface of this man was not something wise to ignore or forget.

  Though before he could bring action to his words the door blew open, the heavy wood hitting the door behind it with unrelenting force. Something splintered but she had no time to wonder what it had been before the heavily panting youngster leaning against the door frame, blood running in large drops from a scratch on his forehead, said in a tone bordering on hysteria:

  "Sir, there are vampires braking down the gates."

  She let her head fall back to the bed with a sigh. An emergency. Another one. Alright, deal with invasion now, self-doubt had to wait until later!

  ...... To Be Continued! There will be Dwarves. And Elves. And some vampires -- of course.

  About the Author,

  If you have come this far then you have at least like my friends enough to follow their stories to the end. My characters are exactly that, friends. I see them
in the corner of my eyes when I go out to the market, they run alongside when I am in the gym. They have always been there -- and I love to share them now. In a way, each of my characters also belong to one of my friends. As children I started telling them stories and never quite stopped.

  Stories are my life, in a way. I am an academic and most of my life is concerned with finding the little pieces, the clues, that make up the big story, the story we all live but are too intimate with to see it as such. I study the way we live, the way we interact, the way we are and the way we want to be. Surprisingly, that leaves me more naive and ideological than you might think. And as I am not allowed to let my imagination come out in my work, I give it space here.

  Aside from a love for learning, my haphazard parents have left me with speaking seven languages, a love for embroidery and a fascination with debates. Don't ask. My husband has added a fascination with pointed objects. I met him at my first fencing lesson (yes, the one with the swords) and told me it was physical chess. I have never been able to sit still long enough for a game of chess -- so it is fortunate for our relationship that the physical version includes a lot more movement. It is fortunate for me that he is laid back to the extreme and therefore able to put up with my constant shenanigans. And even more fortunate for my stories that he knows how to cook.

  When I don't fall in love with my characters, I write a blog on erotica and feminism -- come talk to me:

  www.christineblackthorn.eu

  Or email me at: christine@christineblackthorn.eu

  Read on for an excerpt from

  A Variety of Chains

  Coming Summer 2014

  A Variety of Chains

  Need

  She pulled her green cotton T-shirt, still wet and clinging unpleasantly to her cold skin, over her head without hesitation, only pausing for a second when she realised there was nowhere to put it. She was not used to being careless with her clothes, as money was precious and her almost 6 foot 2 inches made it hard to replace clothing. But then she tossed her shirt on the floor; she might not need it again after tonight.