The Cave Ch. 02

Pratt expected me to struggle. One of his bony hips pushed on my lower ribs, locking me against the wall and his forearm was like a bar on my chest as he wrestled my hand into the appropriate cuff. The split ends of his hair tickled my face.

Reaching into the waistband of his loincloth, he brought out his key to secure the first manacle, and then snapped it between his teeth as he prepared the second cuff, jamming my forearm inside, clamping it shut and twisting the key into the lock.

Pratt took a step back, but before I even had a chance to swing at him, his hands clapped to my hips, turning me, crossing the streams of the chains. He kept on spinning me, around and around, disorienting me. My arms began rising up over my head as the chain slack disappeared and when I felt the snug tug of the cuffs on my wrists I could hear the creak of the chains twisted together. The tighter they got, the more difficult it was to revolve me and just when I didn't think I could make another turn, he wound me again.

He didn't stop until I was standing on the tips of my feet, my wrists bound tightly together. I squirmed like a fish on a hook. My heart was thrumming so hard it hurt and my legs were still agitated from their sprint, but a shard of excitement spiked through me as I comprehended what was happening.

My head was still spinning when he seized me under my knees and yanked me off my feet. The iron manacles were severe against the meat of my thumbs and I felt his hand between us, rummaging for his organ. He gave a rough thrust and in an instant I was completely occupied and gasping.

Everything up until then happened so fast, but now he was giving me a minute to take a breath. Spiked on his rigid cock, I was firmly sandwiched up against the jagged wall and the edges cut into my shoulder blades. Pratt's ribcage flattened my breasts so they ached. His hips crushed mine. My knees were pinned to his flanks.

He jolted again with a primal growl, driving upwards. I cried out hoarsely. Already, I was exhausted. I couldn't fight; I couldn't contribute. The tendons of my neck were comprised of wet noodles and it was a strain to hold up my head.

Another brutal stab. He was moving faster now, to his own selfish pace. Cold, unfriendly strokes laced with relentless grunts of pleasure. His pelvis was thumping mine, battering me, hammering me to the wall. I was just a vessel to him, a means to satisfy his greedy end, and while I don't believe I was meant to climax, I could feel it approaching. I could neither slow it down nor speed it up. I could only moan my pleasant agony with every assault.

On some level, I think I was waiting for this. Expecting it. My first day waking in the cave, I took one frightened look at my fetters and I knew this was inevitable. I couldn't bear to imagine what a nightmare it would be to experience it, but at some point, after learning how benevolent and thoughtful Pratt really was, I began to secretly crave it. Something rough and vicious. Something that might leave marks. Something I would definitely feel in the morning.

And I think it must have been on the back of my mind when I ran. I sought correction, to remind me of what I was, truthfully, in this place. I was not his mate, not his partner. I was his captive, his slave, meant to be used up and pitched away.

Pratt's orgasm came in a frenzy of quick and shallow pumps, hollering nonsensically like an exasperated Wookie. Mine was so close I could reach out and touch it, until Pratt abruptly jerked out. I heard the crude splash of ejaculate on the stone wall behind me, like water when it first hits the side of the tub. My climax reluctantly retreated and I moaned again, the aggravation grating my vocal cords, clear enough to cut through any language barrier.

My toes sunk into the fur blankets as Pratt brusquely left me. Curtly adjusting the waistband of his loincloth, he turned away and I glimpsed his sticky, glistening penis withdrawing back into the windsock of his foreskin.

I struggled with my cuffs, writhing like a caught marlin, feeling the taut chains pulling my body to the left. Touching a heel to the wall, I kicked off. For a moment, I was a ballerina on tip toes, twirling around as the chains winded down. It picked up force and the last few turns came violently fast, like spinning on playground swings.

My legs were out of strength and I plopped gracelessly down on the bed. When I leaned my back to the wall, I felt the tacky wetness of Pratt's semen drying there, but I was too spent to change my position. As the adrenaline wore off, my feet began to tingle and I discovered they were bleeding a little from all the tiny sharp rocks I'd run across. I was panting, my genitals throbbing, but I felt oddly content. Like floating.

I would rather take my chances in the cave. I was better here. Almost thriving.

Pratt didn't look at me as he played with the fire, adding timber. As I watched him through my lashes I thought he might be fuming. I had used him to fulfill a private fantasy I had only recently developed, but maybe he didn't like to punish. The old, this-hurts-me-more-than-it-hurts-you standby.

When the fire was brilliantly roaring, he got up and began his ritual of dousing the candles before bed. Then he came towards the bed. He flicked up one of the blankets and crawled underneath, and I pulled on my restraints as I noticed he wasn't releasing them.

Curled up on his side for sleep, he propped his cheek on his elbow and his eyes finally met mine. I could see they were positively glittering.

I was still dragging air into my lungs and I resisted the tug of my lips as they threatened to spread into a smile. Grinning would certainly break the magic of our role play.

It wasn't long before his blinks became drowsy, his eyelids fluttering to keep surveillance on me, but eventually he drifted off.

*

It must have been my own groaning that woke me. When I opened my eyes, I was making small, blissful creaking sounds with my larynx and my pubic lips were already swelled and flaming from the soft tongue massaging them. Biting my lip, I rolled my head slowly across the wall and peeked down.

In the low firelight, Pratt was a large shadow crouched between my knees, taking pity on me I was sure. I used to love it when he woke me up like this, stealthy, in the dark, so that Amy wouldn't know. I still loved it. But there was never any chance for it now that I slept in his bed.

Pratt stooped closer, his tongue sliding around with more enthusiasm. I gasped and my knee jerked mechanically so that he had to hold it down with one giant hand. I wondered how long he'd been lapping away down there while I had been asleep; I was already so far along, so flushed and feverish, teetering at the edge. I raised myself on the chains and began thrusting to my own speed. Almost instantly, I was spiraling out of control, dry, wordless yells rasping out of my throat.

When Pratt coaxed every last spasm from me, he jumped to his knees, whipping out the key from his waistband, and fumbled with the locks of my arm cuffs. As soon as both chains were empty and dangling against the wall, Pratt gathered me, clutched me hard against his chest. I felt his nose in the crook of my neck, sniffing me.

"I missed you too," I whispered and squeezed his thick neck. Over his shoulder I examined the fire and surmised we had only been apart a few hours. Burying my face in his fur, I breathed in his woodsy scent of spicy pine.

I assumed my infraction was more than forgiven, but I had a feeling I would be a repeat offender.

Bending, Pratt slid his arms tenderly under my knees and lifted me, carrying me out of bed. He brought me to the fire where it was warm and then hunkered down to feed the small blaze sticks and leaves.

According to my makeshift calendar in the niche above my manacles, it had been nearly 10 days since the first time I was allowed by the fire, right after Pratt snapped out of his post-Amy lament. How things could change in just over a week. I wondered if he still even thought of her. Of course he did. I still did.

When the fire was high and hot, Pratt got to his feet and picked up my plate, which I only now realized was sitting on his far side, along with the basket he took with him berry picking. He tipped the basket over my plate and berries spilled out.

That's funny. When did he have time to fruit forage this morning? I had no way of knowing what time it was, but it seemed so early. I still had that weary feeling in my bones from not enough sleep. I decided maybe Pratt couldn't sleep and wanted my company.

He handed me my breakfast and as he sat down next to me, I examined my plate. At first look, I thought they were blueberries, but they were darker and smaller. Pratt had picked the raspberry bushes dry and now he had moved on to some other crop. I ate one and that's when I knew it wasn't a blueberry. It had a tart flavor and the seeds were bigger.

Their common name was huckleberry, but I wouldn't learn this for another several weeks. During future research on wild fruit native to Minnesota, I would learn the huckleberry was high in antioxidants, iron, vitamins B and C and acted as a laxative. (Actually the laxative part I would learn much sooner.) It wouldn't occur to me until then I should have been more concerned about the fruits Pratt was giving me. Not everything round and squishy with a pretty color was safe for humans. Fortunately, huckleberries were okay.

Pratt and I sat peacefully by the fire, an easy silence falling over us. As I picked over my berries, Pratt propped his ankle on his knee to casually inspect the sole of his filthy, calloused foot, probing at something he might have stepped on. I inclined to him, resting my shoulder on his arm as I stirred through my breakfast to select the juiciest berries first. His arm stretched up and curled around my waist, laying his large hand on my thigh, and he absently scratched my leg with his dark hooks. It was all so informal, so familiar. So content.

With my last berry, I nudged Pratt in the hip with my elbow and held it up to his mouth to share. His head recoiled back an inch or two so he could focus on it and then leaned forward with his mouth open to receive it. At the last second, I took it back and gobbled it down.

He looked at me sharply, his eyes twinkling incredulously, a flirty sneer on his lips like the King of rock and roll. I giggled in spite of my brazenness and stuck my tongue out at him.

Blinking, Pratt's expression suddenly blanked. I froze. Surely I had crossed a line, gesture-wise. Like how in other countries, giving the finger meant something else, like a thumbs-up. Maybe to Pratt sticking out your tongue was a threat.

Just as I started to break out into a cold sweat, I saw Pratt's closed mouth changing shape and a second later, his long, flat tongue poked out between his thin lips. I was almost positive this was his first time sticking his tongue out at anyone. I burst out laughing, but then stifled sheepishly as the echo of it rang nonstop off the stalactites.

While Pratt stared down at me, I scrunched up my nose twice, like a bunny. Instantly, Pratt copied me, a truly frightening sight if I didn't know him better. I smothered a grin. Pushing my hair behind my ear, I angled it up towards him and wriggled it. I thought to myself it was a good thing I was sitting on his left side because I could only move my right ear.

Not to be outdone, he shifted in his seat and faced me full on, gathering his own mane of unruliness at the nape of his neck to show me both his ears. I realized it was the first time I'd ever seen his ears. They were vaguely human, only longer and twisted closer to his head. Their membranes were thin, like a cat's, and the tops were lined with delicate wisps of black hair. And of course they were both effortlessly bobbing up and down, and I had a hunch he could probably do this all day, while my ear movements required complete concentration.

Smirking, I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, furtive, thinking of what I could do to top that.

When I thought of it, I extended my arms out in front of me with my hands twisted away, thumbs down, so that my knuckles faced each other. Pratt's posture straightened, curiously attentive, and mirrored me. His long arms stretched out closer to the fire. Without moving my hands, I crossed my arms together and stopped to let Pratt follow my movement. He did, precisely. Then, I awkwardly laced my fingers together and waited again for him to comply.

We both looked like we were in some kind of advanced yoga pose, but I briefly unfolded out of mine to correct him, lowering his hands a little towards his lap. While he concentrated on his hands, I swiftly clasped mine back together to resume the position.

I paused for a long time, waiting for his complete attention for the next step. When I had it, I slowly turned my hands so that my thumbs, folded together, were now turned up. I parted my hands and waggled my fingers as a final flourish to my illusion.

Pratt tried, but his hands were stuck. I could see the muscles in his forearms fighting to move. Shocked, his eyes snapped to mine and I giggled.

He lifted my arms so that I would show him again. Together we went through the trick a second time and when I turned my hands so the thumbs faced up, giving the impression my shoulder or elbow had somehow become disjointed for the sake of the trick, Pratt's hands stayed locked together, jammed, and he gave a riled sigh.

I only shrugged at him: a magician never reveals her secrets.

His light eyes narrowed playfully for a moment, but then the humor drained from his face and his look turned grave. Eyes slightly widening, he looked seriously terrified as he considered me.

A thread of anxiety tickled my insides. "What is it?" I asked.

He took in a breath, held it and looked away for a second. He was hesitating about something and it genuinely scared me. He started to get up and then stopped to hold his palm to me.

Stay.

I nodded.

Leaving me by the fire, he jogged over to the dark niche at the back of the cave and I could hear things tinkling together.

He returned a minute later but he didn't appear to have anything. He sat down and his enormous palm cupped my face, blocking the light, and I understood I was to keep my eyes closed. I felt him lift my right hand and a few moments later, something light and prickly grazed my wrist. I resisted the urge to peek. Pratt patted my knee and I looked down at my arm.

It was a bracelet and my first thought was it was made of sea shells. It dangled lightly and it clasped with a simple "S" hook made of very thin wire. I realized they weren't shells. Pratt's large black talon pointed them out and I could see they were teeth. Boxy, flattened teeth of rabbits. It was morbid and beautiful and I loved it. He was able to thread the wire through the teeth through the pulp cavities. There were so many teeth, at least thirty little white nubs and each one was a little different. I could see a lot of work went into it.

Tears stung my eyes, but I held them back. I had been expecting a gift, but I didn't anticipate it to affect me like this. It shouldn't have. Amy had gotten jewelry, too, and as I recalled how she had warned me—"I'm sure yours is in the works"—something bothered me about it, something intangible, but a moment later it eluded me.

Pratt tenderly squeezed the back of my neck and I tried to look at him, but the film of tears thickened and I scoffed at my own emotion. I hardly noticed when he took my hand until he placed it against his chest. He had turned slightly in his seat so that my hand flattened in the relative area of his heart and then he patted the back of my hand to simulate its beats. His gaze was intense and unblinking.

I jumped up and climbed into his lap. I had to kneel up to throw my arms around his neck and I could only reach as far as his Adam 's apple until he bowed his face towards me.

"I love you too," I murmured and kissed the corner of his mouth.

I didn't know how easily love came for him. Maybe he had done this whole routine with Amy, too, when he'd given her that bird's foot ring. But love didn't come easy for me and at that moment I wanted to say it to him, whether he could understand it or not. Perhaps our language barrier was why I could voice it out loud at all.

He responded with a heartfelt squeeze.

My nipples rubbed against his chest fur, our lips brushing together dryly. I had not thought to provoke a kiss before and while he held me close to him, I nudged his lips with mine. His upper lip only quivered. I opened my mouth and tipped my head slightly, slowly drawing on his lips. He didn't recoil or pull away and I felt his face gently nuzzle mine, but none of it counted as kissing me back.

While humans could express a thousand expressions with the muscles in our mouths, Pratt had only enough to bear his teeth. Just like I only had enough muscles in my ears to move the right one, in miniscule increments. His mouth expressions were the same over and over, but I had learned to tell the subtle differences through the emotion in his eyes.

I think he enjoyed my kisses just for the sake of the affection, but they felt hollow to me and I could feel our moment of deep connection drifting away. Of all the needs Pratt filled for me, this was the first time I felt quite unsatisfied, that even he had his limitations. He couldn't kiss. Not like a man could kiss.

I pulled away, sheepish. The way Pratt stared at me without expression put me on the spot. The heat rose to my face and I buried my face in the scrub of his chest hair to hide for a little while, but Pratt found my chin with his knuckle and tilted it back. His eyes flickered on my mouth and he seemed to be deep in thought on something, realizing his inadequacy in this regard.

Abruptly he dipped his face to mine and I thought he might try his luck at a real kiss. Instead, he lovingly nudged his fine nose against mine, soft, deliberate, back and forth strokes. It wasn't a kiss, but it was nice. What was a kiss if not a way to show affection? And there was a lot of ways to show that.

My hands felt their way to his face, cupping around his solid jaw, feeling the subtle way the muscles tensed and relaxed there. I caressed my thumbs downwards until they met the corners of his mouth. I don't believe he'd ever let me touch his face before, but his nose was so focused on mine that I don't think he noticed.

Somehow, last night had brought us closer. We knew better our boundaries—not so much the ones we couldn't cross, but the ones we could. And I for one wanted to keep pushing them. Pulling my face back slightly, I ran the tip of my finger lightly down the line of his lower lip. When it didn't provoke a reaction, I gently pushed up on his upper lip to expose his right fang. It was smooth and brilliantly white and my ministrations made the pointed end press absurdly against his lower lip. I started to run my finger across his top teeth, to push his lip far enough back to see his gums, but Pratt suddenly flinched, as if just realizing what I was doing. He didn't look angry. Instead, his eyes sparked with amusement.

I drew my hand back, just an inch or two, my finger still posed expectantly for more prodding as soon as he stilled. Hesitantly, he angled his face towards me, giving me a humorless snarl—his permission to keep exploring.

Grazing my finger over the bumps of his glassy teeth, lubricated with his saliva, I expected to find bits of meat caught between them. But he picked them every night with some kind of bone to keep them clean. I lifted his upper lip to get a glimpse of his gingiva. It was firm and pink with splotches of dark pigmentation, and probably in better shape than my own, according to my dental hygienist. Not many chocolate bars in the wild, I guess.