Riot

by Tillie Cole

  And I did. Needing his release, I let his harsh grip guide me until my eyes closed and my head snapped back, embracing the rapture. Body stiffening, I cried out a long loud moan, digging my nails into the flesh on Master’s chest as he stilled beneath me, roaring out his own pleasure. As his seed filled me, it soothed the heat within my channel. My skin tingled as I remained poised over his hips, slowly rocking back and forth as Master’s length jerked inside me.

  I didn’t know how much time had passed, but as my breathing slowed to calm, I lowered my head and fluttered open my eyes. I was met with a dark, satisfied gaze. A gaze that watched my every move, a predator, a true Master of the pit.

  A cold sensation began creeping up my spine and continued spreading all over my body, as I remained transfixed by his stare. As the insatiable need to be taken ebbed, the reality of this moment hit me hard. This was Master. The male who controlled all fates in the pit. The person who decided whether we lived or died.

  And I had been selected to please him.

  Real, true fear settled in my heart.

  “My delicate pretty petal,” Master purred, voice low. His fingertips drifted off my hips and brushed along my stomach until they dropped to my core. He ran his fingers through my wetness, and as they did, his hips raised, tearing another moan from my mouth.

  “You like that, petal?” he asked. I drew in a deep breath, but before I could speak, he bit out, “Answer me!”

  My eyes opened as I flinched at the aggression in his voice. “Yes, Master,” I replied quickly. “I like that, Master.”

  My words were a balm to Master, and he relaxed back on the bed. Glancing down at my hands on his chest, I paled when I saw nail marks on his skin, blood gathering underneath. I snatched my hands back and watched, in trepidation, as Master glanced down at the blood. My heart pounded in terror at what he might do next. But to my surprise, a wide, happy smile spread on his lips, and his eyes grew leaden with desire.

  I swallowed down my trepidation when Master’s hand rubbed over the small speckles of blood. Then to my surprise, he raised his finger to his lips and sucked the blood off the tip. When he lowered his finger, he looked at me and said, “I knew you were born to be mine.” His hands landed on my waist and dragged along my skin until they cupped my breasts, palming the soft flesh. My nostrils flared as his touch reignited my desire, and my hips began to rock back and forth. “I knew when I watched you on those cameras, when you were with my bitch of a sister, that you were who I’d been waiting for. That the other High Monas couldn’t hold a candle to you.”

  Master’s length began to harden within me again, and he softly thrust his hips, increasing my pleasure. I moaned, and Master groaned in reply.

  I worked my hips faster still, until I started to search for release. Master’s hands tightened on my breasts, and I cried out as his grip bordered on pain. “That’s it, petal,” he murmured, “take me hard as you feel this pain.” Pleasure overriding the pain he gave, pressure built at my core and tingles spread over my skin as I chased the pleasure coming over the horizon.

  Master groaned and began to slam into me with vigor. As he did so, it wasn’t long before I fell over the precipice and burst apart with light. I fell forward, slumping onto Master’s chest as he thrust into me three more times and spilled his seed within me, extinguishing the embers of desire that the shot of the new drug had ignited. Master’s arms wrapped around me, but I could tell it wasn’t in affection but possession. His grip was unyielding, his arms a cage of flesh and bone. He held me close, my eyes squeezing shut at the hum of fear that still buzzed under the surface of my skin. Now that the effects of the drug had faded, with its false desire muted and still, I had no idea what to do next.

  My memories were silent, but I was sure I’d never been with a male drug-free before. I simply had no idea how to act.

  Master’s fingertips traced lazy circles on my back. I breathed slowly, trying to stifle a cry. “Do you know why I call you petal, 152?” he asked softly, a gentler, more affectionate side appearing at the forefront of his personality.

  “No, Master,” I replied timidly.

  Master’s hand ran up to my hair and combed through the dark tresses. His hand stilled. He turned his head toward my face to answer, “Because just like a petal, you can be easily destroyed. But while intact you are so very beautiful to admire.”

  Although spoken tenderly, the weight of his words hung like a dagger over my head. Master continued stroking my hair like he hadn’t issued a threat, a threat I knew was just as every bit a promise.

  “Yes, Master,” I answered weakly. Master sighed happily in response.

  He turned his face to mine and began peppering kisses up and down my cheek. “You smell and taste so good, petal,” he murmured.

  I closed my eyes and let him do as he pleased. But I realized, as I lay in his arms, that I did not like his touch. Although this male was handsome, there lurked a cruel monster beneath. If I was the petal of a flower, then he was most certainly the thorn.

  “Come,” said Master finally, after minutes of running his hands over my body. As his now flaccid length was withdrawn from my body, I rolled to the side and allowed him to rise. As he stood up from the bed, he pointed to something in the dark side of the room. A door then opened and the chiri from before entered the room. A guard had let her in. A guard who, I quickly realized, had watched Master take me.

  The Night Wraiths, a faint echo in my head stated. The thought fled as someone took hold of my elbow and guided me to a sectioned-off room. When I looked down, I saw the person’s nape; the identity tattoo read 000. The chiri.

  “Come, miss,” she urged, and pulled me into what appeared to be a bathroom, a gold gilded opulent bathroom. A toilet, basin, and extra tub filled the vast space on one side. On the other was a plush seating area.

  The chiri pulled me toward the tub. Wetting a cloth, she began to wipe away Master’s seed from my thighs and core. I stared at the stone wall before me, dazed, fighting the fuzziness that still occupied my mind.

  After the chiri dried my thighs with a soft towel, she led me to the seating area and guided me down to a seat. She made quick work of opening a large set of double doors. I looked up to see rows and rows of dresses, beautiful vibrantly colored dresses.

  The chiri pulled another out and I stood as she clothed me. As I looked down at this dress, I saw it was a deep green. I idly thought how beautiful this color was. I frowned, wondering if I had ever noticed the color of anything before. Currently, the images in my head were revealed only in gray scale. As I scanned this room, I realized that life here was lived in color, yet it did not hold within it any form of beauty the vibrant colors should bring.

  The chiri backed away two steps and nodded her head. “You look beautiful, miss. Master will be pleased.”

  On hearing the chiri’s words, I stared at her. Her head was downcast. I could see a blush on her neck, creeping to her face. Stepping forward, I placed my hand on her shoulder. She tensed. “You don’t need to bow your head to me, chiri.”

  But the chiri didn’t raise her head. Instead she replied, “I’m a chiri, miss. We are below everyone. Master commands it to be so.” She paused, then added, “And you are High Mona, miss. You are elevated in status. From whatever that was. This is who you are now. There’s no going back once Master commands it.”

  My hand fell from her shoulder, and once it did, the chiri scuttled out of the room, waiting in the doorway for me to follow. Knowing that I had no other choice, I followed. We entered the room where Master was waiting. As soon as he saw me, his eyes flared and his lips tightened as though he was fighting for breath.

  Once again he was dressed impeccably in his suit, not a hair out of place. Master held out his hand. Forcing my feet to move, I walked to where he stood, placing my palm against his. Lifting my hand to his mouth, he placed a kiss on the back of my hand and pulled me beside him, linking his arm through mine.

  Turning us to the only door in the r
oom, he paused, looked at me, and declared, “You look beautiful, 152. Like a vision.”

  Bowing my head, I replied, “Thank you, Master.”

  Leaning in close, he brushed a strand of hair from my neck, placed a single kiss over my pulse, and added, “And a quick study. Let’s hope you stay this obedient. My High Monebi have a habit of breaking my trust and consequently losing their lives.” He nuzzled his rough cheek against my cheek and said, “I would really dislike it if you forced my hand. I’d hate to see such beauty fall.”

  “Yes, Master,” I whispered, my hands shaking.

  Master straightened and smiled wide. “That’s what I like to hear.” Securing my arm through his, he led us out the door, past a guard dressed in a jet-black uniform. I glanced back at the guard, just to see his hard eyes staring at us as we left.

  A trickle of ice-cold shivers ghosted over the nape of my neck as an image sprang to mind of two children—an older boy and a younger girl hiding under a bed. A deep sense of sorrow followed. I racked my brain, fighting to keep tight hold of the memory, as Master guided us through a dank, dark hallway and down a set of stone stairs.

  Guards lined the hallways every so often, and as we passed, they stood attention and saluted Master. He paid no heed to their obvious show of allegiance and respect. He just kept his head high and his attention straightforward.

  As the faint sound of clattering metal and shouts increased in volume the farther we walked, I began to wonder where we were going. I didn’t have to wonder long, for as we turned a corner, the mouth of the hallway revealed the answer to my question.

  I stared, gaping at the vast expanse before me. A space so wide that I struggled to interpret exactly what I was seeing.

  Master stepped forward and held out his free hand. “The Blood Pit,” he announced, his voice laced with pride and conceit.

  The Blood Pit … My eyes struggled to absorb the many males, segregated into hundreds of small sand pits. And they were fighting. Weapons of all descriptions were being used. The males were of all shapes and sizes, but most were huge; muscle packed upon muscle as they circled one another, sparring and drawing blood. They were all dressed the same: bare torsos, bare feet, and black pants.

  Guards lined the sides of the pits. Most held metal prods, sparking at their tips with what appeared to be arcs of blue fire. If a male stepped out-of-bounds or stopped fighting, he was struck with the prod. Most fell to the ground in obvious pain, like boiling-hot lead was scalding them from within.

  Suddenly, the image of the scarred male that had plagued my thoughts since I’d awoken filled my mind. I could see him, as clear as day, standing before me as a boy, a large tattoo on his chest, as he was forced to fight … forced to fight as I was forced to watch … just like this.

  And he did. He fought everyone, as commanded, reaching for me when all of his opponents had been defeated. But as had happened every day since, I was taken away. And then … then …

  I didn’t know.

  As my vision cleared, I whispered, “I have seen this before. I’ve been here before.”

  Master stiffened beside me, then asked, “What?”

  My heart raced with the fear. I shouldn’t have spoken of my own accord. Swallowing back my nerves, I repeated, “I said, I think I have been here before.” I frowned, struggling to remember. Master’s dark eyes narrowed. Straightening my shoulders, I continued, “But I do not remember how, why, or when. Surely I must be mistaken?”

  Master did not move for several seconds, nor did his expression change. Eventually, he moved to stand before me, blocking out the view of hundreds of males fighting. His hands reached up to cup my cheeks, and he smiled. “You were raised here, 152. You have spent many days here as a child and as a teen, one of our most stand-out monebi.” Suddenly, his face frosted over as he unleashed his anger. “If I had known you before, you would have been with me from a young age. But my sister found you first. And now, you are home…”

  He stepped back and linked my arm through his again. “… To my empire,” he added. My attention was immediately drawn to his face. I studied his expression and saw the happiness radiating through. “I am the only male on the planet who has this as his kingdom.” He gestured with a sweep of his arm, then continued, “A Caesar for the modern age. An empire built on strength and skill. A gladiatorial Rome right here in Georgia. An arena where we root out the gods from the men. The arena where my word is law, where lives are saved or taken by the simple flick of my wrist.”

  In a split second, Master dropped his exuberant, insane excitement and assumed a neutral air of composure. My head ached with his constant change of moods. But more than anything, my fear of him grew minute by minute. In the short time I had spent with him, he had shown many versions of himself—none of which I liked. All of which were terrifying.

  Master patted my hand and pulled me forward along a path that ran around the edge of the sunken pits. From our vantage point we could see every strain of bare muscle, every drop of sweat glistening over scarred skin, and we could hear every grunt of exertion. Such energies generated a highly charged static, which hovered in the musty air. This place stank of violence and death. The male beside me, the male who had just taken me, was truly the master of all he surveyed and king of these slaves.

  Master pointed out certain pits as we passed. “New fighters, they’ll be first-round fighters only,” he explained without feeling, casually talking about the group of males in training as though their days were numbered. He pointed to a pit farther across the room. It was a larger ring filled with larger men. “New transfers from our gulags in Western Europe. We’re still determining their capabilities.” As my eyes focused on the males in training, one looked up and blatantly stared my way. Master tensed beside me. Then I cried out when his opponent swung his ax and buried its blade straight into the chest of the staring male. The male dropped to his knees. I stopped. Yet I didn’t react. My nerves were altogether too calm, my demeanor too collected. I instinctively knew that I had seen death before. Death just like this: quick, brutal, violent, senseless.

  Many deaths.

  Master continued my tour as though a male had not just lost his life. Glancing back, I stared at the number on his chest, 129. I repeated the number in my head. I silently mouthed the number on my lips. I did it because I knew, without thought, that no one else would ever remember the male who had just died here in the pits.

  Merely one of many nameless to needlessly perish.

  I frowned at this flicker of knowledge. Then Master pointed out other groups to me as we slowly circled his enterprise—paired fighters, group fighters, veterans, those brought in from gulags from all areas of the world. I listened enough to show I was attentive and nodded in all of the right places, and I offered a “Yes, Master” or “No, Master” response when it was expected.

  Then we stopped. We stopped at a secluded pit in the far rear of the training space. As I glanced into the sunken pit below, I saw the biggest male I had ever seen, dressed only in black pants, menacingly circling another male.

  “And here is the most important pit of all,” Master explained. I looked to his face and watched as a smile, a maniacal smile, spread on his lips. But he didn’t look to me; instead his attention was fixed on the male in the pit. I followed his gaze. Just then, the male turned, his large chest facing us. His identity number was showcased for all to see: 901.

  As if feeling my stare, 901 glanced up. Blue eyes met mine. But these were not kind blue eyes. They were cold and devoid of life. No warmth lived in that stare. No, all that glared up at me from this pit were the eyes of a killer. A brutal, and what appeared to be the most successful, killer under Master’s command.

  Master squeezed my hand and announced, “901 is my prized champion. The undefeated ‘Pit Bull’ of the Arziani pits. No one can touch him. He’s infallible.” Master stopped abruptly, his jaw tensed. “Or so he tells me,” he added. I noted a hint of venom in his voice. Master dropped his head to the side as
he stared at his champion, and he said, almost to himself, “But he has a weakness. I just need to find it.”

  Then Master appeared to freeze. When I looked down into the pit, trying to fathom what held him so captivated, I once again found the cold, hard stare of 901. He was still looking at me.

  My heart pounded under 901’s scrutiny. I ducked my head to the side, edging closer to Master. He did not make me feel much safer, but 901’s rawness and harsh attention seemed the greater threat to me right now.

  Then Master glanced to me. His eyes watched me and his lips curled in anger. Before I could understand what had triggered his rage, he called, “901, come here.”

  Master’s loud command caused me to flinch, and I almost whimpered aloud as his grip on my arm became unyielding, to the point of pain. I kept my eyes down but heard the heavy thud of footsteps crunching on sand, approaching our vantage point.

  A fresh scent washed over me, then I saw two large bare feet stop in my line of sight. Master eventually slackened his grip on me to guide my head up with a finger under my chin. I obeyed this silent order and lifted my head. But Master wasn’t watching me. His attention was on the male standing a mere foot in front of us.

  “901, this is my new High Mona, 152,” Master announced. My attention remained with Master, but then Master’s thumb and forefinger gripped my chin and forced my head to turn. Turn and meet the blue eyes of the champion of the pits.

  If I had thought 901 huge before, it was nothing to how he appeared now, standing before me. His chest was double my width, and his height towered above me, my head in line with his chest. Every inch of him was ripped with muscles, wide veins cording in his arms and neck. Despite myself, I noticed his face, mostly how handsome he could be if his stare wasn’t so cruel. Master was beautiful, his dark features staggering and elite. But 901 was the epitome of rough and raw; every inch of skin was marred with the scars of cruel tattoos: blood drops, decapitated heads, and what looked like images of shreds of torn flesh.