by Trent Evans
The woman who still had no idea who he really was, what he really wanted of her.
What he wanted to make of her.
He stroked D’s bottom, loving the way she flinched and yelped as he pinched a welt here, tracing the outline of a bruise just beginning to show at the curve of her lower buttock.
“Yes,” he murmured. “I wish I could tell you, Diandra. I wish I could make you see who you really married. I wish I could say that you wouldn’t run in terror from my desires. But I know you would, which is why these words… you’ll never hear them. Not even on the day that I die. I’ll take them to my grave, and I’ll still love you, and I’ll still cherish every day I’ve spent with you. And every day I may have left with you. ”
A shudder ran through the female form draped across his thighs, but incredibly, one of her hands caressed his leg, giving it a gentle squeeze.
His voice grew thick, an unaccountable surge of emotion threatening to choke him up. “I won’t ever curse you with that knowledge of... what I am. That knowledge stays here, safe, where only the stars can know.”
Chapter 11
Certain moments in one’s life were marked by surrealness, by the sense that the boundaries of reality were... flexible.
This was one of those moments.
He stood at the foot of his bed, bare from the waist down, stroking his fist up and down his cock, the slick, wet sounds accompanying the spreading of the clear lubrication up and down the veined length of his shaft. It was the only sound in the room — well, except for her breathing.
She knelt upon his bed, totally naked except for the cuffs binding her hands behind her back. She was gagged again. He was surprised at how much he enjoyed it. And he kept her blindfolded too. He knew it was sadistic, that it was selfish, that it was… maybe even evil. But he loved it, that need to keep her off balance, loving the idea that she had no clue what would come next. She was helpless to him, wholly subject to his lust, to his whims.
Of course, he was indulging his dark side. But even that wasn’t quite right. It was diving deep to the abyssal depths of a troubling part of his personality. But with her?
It?
He still wasn’t sure what to call her, even in his mind. With her — with D — he could do it, savor the knowledge that it didn’t really matter. And in a way, this helped him. This was uncovering a part of him that he wasn’t sure was the real him, or simply a passing fancy, a transient indulgence in... he wasn’t sure what. It was either a part of his makeup, or it was the wages of being alone for such a long time in the Purgatory of deep space.
It affected the mind, it affected the body, it affected the soul.
So, which was it?
Was indulging in these dark pleasures with this toy revealing the real him, or was it revealing the possibility that he had been damaged, warped, corrupted by his environment, by the stresses of such isolation.
Perhaps it was both.
What if they fed into the other, amplifying it, deepening it, spinning it in directions he never would have predicted. He would have to be at peace with it, at what it meant.
Or more importantly, what it might not mean at all.
He knew such thinking was crazy, that it was circle talk, self-referential, borderline illogical. But there it was.
He pointed at her, even though she couldn’t see him. “I want your face and your tits on the mattress. Ass in the air.”
He had taken to talking to her in that way, uttering little more than gruff orders, or admonishments, or promises of what she was to endure next. And yet, sometimes — especially when he slept — he would hold her tight to him, and he could feel her loosen, her muscles softening to his touch, to his embrace. It was in those moments, those dark quiet minutes utterly alone — despite the beautiful female was held in his arms — that he started to realize that the question at the center of all of this was... beginning not to matter anymore.
He watched as D obeyed his command, the round, luscious perfection of her buttocks hoisted in the air, the ghostly faint pink marks of her most recent spanking just visible across the lower curves of both cheeks. He would reinvigorate that color tonight. He put one knee on the mattress behind her, loving the way her buttocks were already quivering.
Then he froze as the harsh sound of the computer hailing tone rang through the crew module.
“Sir, you wished to be notified of changes in local communication. There has been a change.”
He backed himself off the bed, looking for his shorts even as he spoke to the Eye. “Let’s hear it.” He assumed it was some sort of transmitter anomaly with a passing freighter. It happened quite often, actually.
“Communications with Shiva-II have ceased, sir.”
“What do you mean ceased?”
“Shiva-II is no longer visible on the local network, sir.”
“Wait a second,” he said. “It’s not visible on the network at all?”
All the local mining stations within a parsec were visible on a map that could be projected up on top of the pilot house ceiling. It gave one an easy visual reference for all nearby stations, and if necessary, the closest modes of rescue if something were to go terribly wrong.
But for most of the crew members on Charon-90, that map served another — and perhaps more important — purpose.
It was a reminder that they weren’t alone.
Even out there, there were other human beings — no matter how far away they might have been in reality. It was a party line, he supposed.
It was the closest thing to a community a station jockey could hope for.
“Sir, Shiva-II is not only not transmitting, its node is now missing from the network entirely.”
Martin’s blood ran cold at that.
That meant two possibilities: either Shiva-II’s locator transponder had stopped working, or someone had turned it off. The latter possibility was what troubled him most. He was very still, a strange dread uncharacteristically paralyzing him for a moment.
“Stay here,” he told D, as if she had the ability or the inclination to move from the position he had put her in.
She made a muffled sound that he hoped was “Yes, sir.”
He pulled on his shorts, then closed the crew module hatch behind him. He barked out at the Eye. “How long has it been since Shiva-II last transmitted? Like down to the hour. How many hours?”
“Approximately twenty-six hours, sir.”
Jesus Christ.
He knew instinctively then that this was no transponder accident, that this was no mere maintenance issue.
Every station had the ability to transmit an emergency squawk, even in the case of a transponder failure, that would let all nearby stations — anything within two parsecs — know there was a problem. And it would have shown up within twenty-four hours after the emergency.
He knew what it meant. Deep in his gut, he knew exactly what it meant.
“Perhaps a maintenance issue, sir?” the Eye offered, hopefully.
“Negative. It’s something else.”
He made his way into the pilot house, jumping into the seat. He punched up the network projection, and it sprayed itself in blue and white iridescence all across the ceiling above him.
“God damn.”
Shiva was indeed missing. Literally gone.
He punched in the notification of other periphery stations that had either experienced recent maintenance problems, or had requested assistance.
Cold dread clutched his vitals as he read the words.
Three other stations — Glasya-IX, Mephist-I, and Gehenna-IVb — had all gone offline. Worse, their locations were contiguous — and they had all disappeared in the same way within the past week.
He almost snarled the words. “Eye, there’s three other stations missing, not just Shiva-II. Why didn’t you notify me when they went offline too?”
There was a pause, then the Eye responded, her voice as smooth and calm as ever. “The stations were not missing from the network a
rray, sir. They were transmitting as normal.”
“But they’re gone now.”
The Eye paused again. “Yes, sir. They’re all missing too.”
He sat there for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest, an odd compulsion to remain motionless taking hold, as if instinctively he knew twitching a mere muscle might endanger him.
Something was very, very wrong. Why did three other stations go offline along with Shiva-II, and why didn’t the Eye notify him when they had? He didn’t believe for one second that all four stations — including Shiva-II — had gone offline at the same time.
Which meant either the Eye hadn’t tracked it, or the Eye hadn’t reported it to him — despite being given a direct order. The Eye never disobeyed direct orders except in certain — and very specific — emergency circumstances.
Jesus, Martin. What are you into here?
He turned off the local network array, the light show above winking out instantly. Shutting down the command console before his jump seat, he hopped out, walking back toward the crew module.
Though he was more tense than he’d ever been in his entire stay upon this station — and during all the contracts he’d ever taken — he feigned nonchalance, strolling unhurriedly toward the crew module once more.
He knew he had to. He knew he had to buy himself time to figure out what the fuck was going on here.
* * *
Despair threatened to swamp him, to drag him down into its suffocating depths, never to be seen again.
Once he realized that there was indeed something more serious going on, he didn’t have it in him to continue with her. Not at that moment, anyway.
Unbinding her wrists, he had left her alone on that bed, standing over her as she looked up at him, her heavy breasts moving gently with each breath. The air was warm, close, on that knife edge between comforting and stifling.
“I’ve got to go. I don’t want you wandering. I’ve let you loose only because I trust you’ll do as you’re told and stay put.”
“Can… can I at least put some clothes on?” A strand of hair fell over her temple and she tucked it behind her ear.
“No.”
“W-why not?”
“I like you naked.” He touched her cheek, tracing the delicate down of her eyebrow with his thumb. “Besides, it’s plenty warm in here.”
She looked down. “Not… really the point.”
He allowed himself a nervous chuckle. “That’s entirely the point. Don’t leave this room. I’ll be back soon enough.”
Rather than check the secure locker as he had originally planned, instead, he paced outside the locked door to the room, listening intently for any sounds from her temporary prison. He imagined her pressing that voluptuous form to the door, her hiss of breath as her soft breasts pillowed against the unfeeling steel of the hatch, her blushing cheek hot against the cold metal.
The fact was, he didn’t want to leave her for so much as a minute, regardless of the fact that they were most likely in real danger.
Was it protectiveness? Or was she somehow at the center of what he instinctively suspected was a situation threatening to spin entirely out of control.
There had to be a way to resolve… whatever it was that was happening here, but he was damned if he knew how he was going to do it. He just couldn’t figure it out, which was not only novel for him — his problem-solving skills were a big reason why he’d been granted so many contracts for station work — but deeply frustrating.
The power he had over her… it turned him on more than anything else ever had. The urge to dive ever further into the dark, mysterious waters of this twisted — and very unequal — power dynamic was powerful indeed. He couldn’t help but wonder if that in itself was a distraction, a way to forget the unaccountable, inexplicable dread whose tentacles squeezed him ever more tightly with each passing day.
And most of all, a way to avoid confronting the troubling question he’d been grappling with since the moment D had appeared in that airlock.
First things first — safety. The pattern was undeniable: each station that had gone down was closer and closer to Charon 90. Shiva II was gone. Whatever it was — it was coming for him.
And her.
The thought sprung him into action and he sprinted into the corridor, tearing down toward the airlock. He didn’t have much time, if what he suspected was happening was really underway. It might already be too late.
Just as he reached the locker, turning the handle to open it, the Eye’s notification tone sounded.
He sighed, looking down with a shake of his head, even as he knew this might be the most consequential message from the central computer yet.
“Sir, you’ve received a message reply.”
“From?
Of course, he knew it already.
“Diandra, sir.”
“I’ll take it in the pilothouse.” He relocked the handle of the security locker.
He’d almost forgotten about the question he’d sent her. It had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, something done on pure instinct. He still wasn’t quite sure why he’d done it. Calculating as he walked how long it had been since he’d sent it, it was obvious it had taken longer than it should have. Two days? More?
Then he read the message, his mouth dropping open as he scanned the words upon the screen. The strange delay in her reply suddenly meant nothing.
Without a word, he closed the messaging program. He drew in a sudden breath, a hot weight sinking within his stomach.
His problems just became a lot more serious.
And it wasn’t because Diandra couldn’t remember the name of that restaurant on the oceanside bluff.
It was because there was no restaurant on that oceanside bluff.
* * *
The female body really was a thing of wondrous beauty. It was even more so stretched, arms overhead, muscles taut, quivering, breaths coming fast and frantic, weals coursing back and forth over sweat-slicked flesh.
D had been suspended for easily half an hour. The powered couplings were genius in their design. Originally created in order to hold precious cargo without actually marring the surface of said cargo, they proved to be perfect for their current use.
The fetching form of D struggled against the bonds, the glowing bluish field surrounding her wrists, yet not touching them at all. Visually, it was almost as striking as the sight of her naked body, laid bare for him to stripes of anguish painted upon her skin. The sodden length of her hair brushed the upper curves of her bottom.
He hadn’t said a word to her, instead, he’d taken her by the hand, and led her to the docking module. Imprisoning her wrists in the powered couplings, the barest hint of a hum just audible from their power supplies, he’d met her eyes. They were liquid fear, lust, and need. Her lips trembled as he looked down upon her.
Keeping his expression as neutral as he could, he had spun her around, and pressed her to the cold bulkhead, drawing a gasp from his captive. Though he was still angry with her, he couldn’t help but reach around, letting the tips of his fingers play against the curves of soft breasts bulging out to either side of her rib cage. He’d raised her arms over her head, ensuring the couplings had a solid contact with the metal, then set the height parameter.
In a spectacle that had his cock instantly hardening, the couplers had drawn her arms upward along the bulkhead. As her feet left the grating, D pulled further up the wall, the sound of her nails scrabbling against the metal made him shiver.
Now, she trembled continuously, the sweat running in rivulets down the trough of her spine. Her round buttocks twitched now and then, the pink stripes decorating it merely the prelude. Her breathing was harsh in the quiet
of the warm room.
“I’m going to ask you again. What is going on here, D? I know you know.”
“Sir, I…I have nothing to tell you.”
Schlack
The muscles of her back went rigid, the soft buttocks rippling with the viper’s strike of the lash. She groaned, but held her tongue.
“That… whoever it was who answered my message. That wasn’t my wife. It wasn’t Diandra.” He tapped the leather of the whip against the small of her back. “And yet, we know you aren’t my wife. You’re just a toy, a slut for my amusement. A thing.”
He shook out the leather again, and D stilled, holding her breath.
“So, where is my wife? You know, don’t you?” He raised the leather. “Someone fucking knows.”
“I don’t know!” Her voice broke into a howl as he sliced the whip into her again, lifting both her buttocks upon its embrace of fire.
The feel of the blazing hot welts under his fingertips was more arousing than he wanted to admit. That this episode had exposed a rich vein of sadism in his psychological make-up was both revelatory and something he felt more than a little dismayed by.
He’d never used this particular whip on her before — it being one of the numerous implements he’d retrieved from D’s shuttle — and though the brilliant marks seemed at home upon her soft skin, a part of him screamed in silence at the wrongness of what he was doing.
Yes, he didn’t have any answers. Yes, the realization that Diandra wasn’t really home — or at least not the one answering his communications anymore — had him more confused than ever.
And yes, he really was now in serious doubt that he maintained a firm grip on his sanity.
But that wasn’t going to stop him, He would have answers, no matter what it took.
He wasn’t crazy.
Not yet…
There was something else here, something that didn’t fit.