Prisoner's Slave

I

I awakened slowly, dreams of indeterminate nature crowded in my groggy mind. The press of naked flesh against me lingering from a dream, the hard pain in my mind real, wandering endlessly in a dark place dream, towers of dreams vaulted into the clouded heavens, broken bits of something, a fallen something, an imprecise nameless and imperceptible something lingering just beyond my grasp, reaching for it, reaching, a thick glove grasping at a needle, sharp but shapeless, gone in the numbness of my fingers, the cold pressing in. The warmth of body next to mine.

Not a dream. The body was not a dream. I could feel the flesh, naked against mine naked. Man or woman? Soft as a woman, breasts, not huge but neither small, touching against me shoulder. I faced her. I stirred more to pull away, I had no wakeful memory of woman, I could not pull away, a wall behind me, a cold wall. Laying on something soft, no cover, my back cold but she was warm. It was dark. Not the kind of dark where your eyes would eventually make out blobs of shape and angle, but true dark where nothing but the spiral bright light hallucinations.

The voice startled me and I jostled the woman, body falling away from me, still touching but should to shoulder pressed, squeezed between warm body and cold wall.

"You are awake now." A strange male voice. I had no elucidate response. "Uh," perhaps, or "gug."

Information will be revealed as the voice chose to reveal it. I could not talk back, there was no microphone it was talking to the cold box walls. She would not wake she was drugged, weighed deep into billowing numb soft. I could do what I liked with her, she would not wake nor remember. The silence was new when the voice was done. It had been before but I had not noticed it. It was the silence of a low, steady and incessant hum.

Do what I liked. Nothing as it was. A sleeping girl. Was I tempted? Not, I think, though her naked body there, shoulder pressed to shoulder, hip just touching hip. Her naked body, breathing there, the softness of her breasts, no, the softness of her flesh, but no. I could not reconcile myself to a man who would fondle a sleeping helpless girl. Not I. Would she wake and be afraid? Best to give no reason, to look eye to eye and say no, I did not, I could not, you are lovely but it would not have been the right.

Thoughts crowded to me though the hard edge of my headache. A drunken night, no girl, as always, alone and drunk, shrinking into tortoise shell or hermit shell, a weathered withered thing, all alone, trashed abode, trashed home, trashed floors, junk everywhere, only not junk, the things of my life. Hulking containers, vase and shipwrecked bottle. All alone and drunk. All alone and work. All alone and drunk. All alone and work, all alone and drunk. More gyre than cycle, widening out, blasting out to oblivion.

But now? A dream still? Sleeping by this body, this strange cold box, I felt above me and had only a foot above me. The wall besides me. Had she room besides her? No way to check without, yes, no way to check now.

The voice again. "She is cold, you must keep her warm or she will suffer. A dim light, a small box indeed, no room above or below or besides. A blanket by her feet. Gray lifeless walls. Indeed she shivered. I was able to pull the blanket to my hand with my foot. My thigh brushing against her thigh, she was indeed cold and soft, she felt wonderful but I should not dwell on that. I pulled the blanket around her. Her lips blue and seemingly bluer as I watched. I turned her towards me to hold her, pulled her close as she flopped sleeping against me, breasts, soft breasts, against my chest, soft stomach against my soft stomach. My too large stomach. Skinny thing that I am, a too large stomach. Hers was soft, she seemed formed to me, breasts pressing forwards to my chest, my stomach pressing out to hers.

She was very cold. Blanket up I held her to me. She shivered then it subsided, she moved a little, unconsciously nuzzling into me. I held her. To hold a woman. It had been, the last had been, but leave it, it was good to hold a woman, sleeping though she was. Sleeping. I the perverted wretched thrall clinging her naked flesh to mine, enjoying the press of flesh, the softness of breast, the feel of her thighs against my cock. My hardening cock. Or I the life giver, the benevolent giver of warmth, prometheus, but no, he brought fire not human warmth. I shifted myself just so my cock would press against the padding beneath us rather than her. I grew harder until I felt the strength of the erection would pull my hips down of its own volition. Of its or their? Semantics.

Okay. Thought. Thinking. Where was I? What had happened? Why were we entwined thus in some small austere box? Who held us captive? Why? I felt no panic. Odd, perhaps. To wake a prisoner and feel no panic?

"It is a drug inside you, you are filled with a benzodiazepine to promote calmness and prevent panic and injury. The dosage will be adjusted down as you settle into your new situation. The woman besides you will begin to wake soon, if you keep her warm enough. If she dies she will be replaced, so you may reject her if you do not like her."

She was cold and seemed small against me, so I held her and hoped my warmth enough to save her.

She began to wake very slowly. I had allowed myself to doze in and out of reality, not quite dreaming nor quite thinking, but roused myself now. Her breathing, the gentle press of her stomach into mine, grew stronger. In the dim light she looked blue, but fuller now, more even. I felt a nervousness inside me. Not strong, the benzos in my blood perhaps, but still, I felt as a man asking a woman he has longed for but never spoken with, the weight of fantasy and expectation weighing on an unknown temperament.

She moaned a little only as she woke. A mm in a high register, a slow movement of the head, a contraction of the arm against me. Then a start, small, controlled. Breathing faster now, awake, eyes open but downcast, which way was down? she looked not at me.

"I won't hurt you," I said as it seemed a good sort of thing to start with. Put her at her ease. I won't rape you, I'm not rapey, don't sweat it, you're just captive in a strange dark box with mysterious voices talking to you. Nothing weird though, none of that going on here, you're just just

"Chbvlksi" That isn't prenousable, but as close as I can tell it's what she said. More consonants that ought to be allowed smashed up, but she said it softly, almost a musical lilt.

"Uh, I don't understand you," I made my voice as soft as I could, gentle, don't be scared.

"Kchkd," or something likewise impossible. But she was not scared. She settled her arm about me, the other pinched between our thighs, close to where I had turned my erection away from her.

She was very warm. She did not, it seemed, to speak english. She shifted and her leg ended up just above mine. The feeling of flesh on flesh for which I have no real words. Hams on hams. My hand landed on her side, the slow curve of hip the stirring between my legs, my member growing stiff. Member, what a stupid name for it. Cock, too vulgar. Penis, too medical. No good word. I grew erect, pressing against the cool wall. But then she was shifting, I was shifting and we were side to side, breasts against my chest, thighs to thighs, my cock pressing into her legs and she, holding me, her breathing pressing her breasts up now into my chest, the stirring of desire within me, the shifting of her body, it would be okay, she would accept me. She held her nakedness to mine.

And I did not take her. Like that we lay. We lay like that. We lay together naked and we did not fuck. I had no thought, only the warm press of body to body, a sort of chrysalis of two bodies in a blanket and small space. An abstract composition. Nude descending a staircase. a hundred grand, a wandering mind and a wonderful strong accepting body before me.

II

The new master held me as I woke. He was not the hard body batteringram cock assaulting me I had feared, a soft body, an arm reached about me, my shivering form surrounded and warmed. He was turned awkwardly, his chest to my breasts, but his hip to my crotch, his genitals pointed down into the thin padding beneath us. His warmth was glorious alone for a time. Memories of my nakedness in those wide cold corridors of grey. To be warm, held, there was no word I knew, it was to belong with acceptance.

He could not be comfortable. The knowledge came with panic within me, a deep anxiety that clenched my spine and mind, a red light bright between myself and ground, a thousand little sharp sharp needles or spines or sharp sharp sharp. Paralysis, to act, to exert a will my own, or to make him suffer the discomfort of his twisting body, to allow the status to fall on me such an act implied.

I made no decision but I was moving, burrowing into his turned body and pulling back, but the wall was there and I could move no more, caught between hip and wall, but then he shifted too and turned towards me, full, erect, pressing against my thighs and pulling my chest against his, and I was settling and he too, we held each other and we lay as leaves settled to earth atop each other.

He spoke then, in a language that seemed more twists and flowers than hard words, I understood none of it, I said Master back and he was silent. Then I said the word Obey, I would obey, but he said nothing.

Thin sheet around us, I clutched him to me. My anxiety passed. A kind man. I hoped that he had liked my body as he explored it in my sleep. I hoped he liked the press of my breasts against his chest, the pressure of my thighs against his cock. I hoped that I was a warm soft thing he would desire and keep, that to a worse master I would not fall.

We whores and slaves sell not our flesh but the fantasy of flesh. This body, sleeping besides me, desires the quiet obedient girl besides him, not the willful, bleeding farting self I am. I hold the fart in, I pretend I am the porcelain perfect uniform and in all ways flawless. The man who sleeps besides me. Who's skin touches my skin, whos will is my will. Or my faux will, a children's game of make believe, the stimulation of this or that organ of procreation. The perfect breast a dug of milk for barfing screaming babes, the smooth and perfect groin an evacuation pipe for blood and piss and unused eggs.

Yet, something, the body there, the body with its own language, its words for belonging and closeness, desired, its affirmation, the bloody bloody thing. Never trust an idea that exists only in the words.

He sleeps, and so I will sleep. I who has no self to speak of. It was warm and I tucked my little body inside his arms. My breasts pressed against his breathing stomach, my thighs opened around him, his cock resting just there, just on the precipice, no sex but close.

III

When I woke she had pulled herself inside of me, wrapping about her my limbs, nuzzled face against shoulder. My cock was flaccid when I woke but quickly grew hard, bouncing against her inner thighs and against her pussy. Pussy? Cunt? The petals of her womanhood? Bah, but all the same perhaps. She had chosen the position, and so I lay like that, feeling desire in me pulling out to her, willing her pussy closer, closer. A breast was near my hand, and so I felt it, not fondling, feeling its texture, its curve, its soft nipple. A little moisture, I think, touched the tip of my cock. Was she awake and laying still? I could not see well enough, too dim, but her breathing was the same slow in and out and in.

A loud voice jabbering electronic woke me with hard cacophonous noise. Language maybe? I had jerked hard in startlement and she had caught me as if to steady her and myself. She nodded when it stopped and we settled back down.

"What did he say?" I asked, stupidly forgetting we did not speak a language together. She took my wrist, very weakly, a soft suggestion, no demand, she brought my hand to her breast again, and so I took it, and she was opening her legs and touching herself, my cock, having weakened, grew strong again, and she shifted herself so that the slow circles of her hands on labias bumped and circled my cock. I moaned and she moaned, were we making love? Did I mount her? She was masturbating herself, her lips kissed my shoulder as she pulled herself beside me, so she half stood hands and knees above me and half lay besides, not possibly comfortable but for me, my cock pressing hard against her thigh, her fingers moving moving, she was moaning and breathing and her free hand grasped at me to pull her breasts hard against my hand crushed between breast and chest. Her hand retreated but I crushed her back down and her hand responded and pulled her back to me, her body gyrating against her gyrating hand, circles that moved circles in circles.

What is time then, with no clock or sequence of moments? She seemed after a moment to slow down, her initial excitement flagging before orgasm, but she slowed not stopped, and for a great time it seemed she touched herself and held me, and pulling her back I, I would have made love to her if she had taken my cock in hand, instead I pulled her up and took into my mouth the nipple. Erect and small, her breast was large and I sucked it into my mouth to pull taught the skin and flicked and caressed the nipple with my tongue, and she gasped and clung to me, and we hovered like that a time, she rising, rising towards orgasm as a steady steady and she was orgasming and her hips were thrusting violently into her hand, and she clung to me and I to her, face pressed to breasts, warm soft warm comfort there, those magnificent mammaries pressed against my face, belonging there as a babe to mother's milk, and she fallen down and panting for air, her moist hand fallen by my cock.

"Dardgha?" she said, I think asked by her intonation. I felt her body, her back and sides above her hips, the slow curves, soft flesh, hot flesh welcoming and moving to my touch and kiss. Then her hand took my cock into it, not touching but holding. A wonder, an embrace, no words then, the language of our bodies. Desire and desired, giving and receiving purpose. Abstract drivel! It was our bodies speaking, her hand, then lips on me, not the cheap pleasure of a cheap fuck, but her performance of her will, her communication of soft sweet, tongue like a billowing wet cloud, warm and surrounded, I touched her skin and could not stop, ever inch of her needed my touch, I wished to know by touch every part until blind I could reshape her form from clay.

And then we were rolling, hard against the wall but there was no pain, I was inside her, slipping into her wet and ready self, the genital embrace, the pure feeling of belonging. Neither made the choice. It happened because it must happen, as a body must fall when dropped, inevitable and perfect. The particulars of sensation were gone, a huge drunken tingle of everything all at once, her body everywhere and mine inside it, warm safe and warm safe, and I was exactly where I had to be, where I must be, where I would stay forever should we never suffer.

And then pulling out my seed shot over her body and mine, a gooey mess as we held each other and kissed, my cock pumping out more and more until drained, we held each other and kissed, and she did not hold her eyes away now. Our bodies had spoken. It had not been a master taking a slave. Rather two perfect beings crystallized in one infinite and perfect moment.