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Rated: GC · Short Story · Erotica · #1930211
Assassination gone wrong
To strip a soul of its defences was a delicate dance, an intricate minuet of submission and dominance, a clever endeavour to gentle another to ones lead. Silently he moved around her, letting her feel the power and menace of the moment. Her eyes remained on him unflinchingly as he took a seat behind the large glass desk. He knew exactly the impression he gave, leaning back in his chair, his hands folded in front of him, his legs nonchalantly sprawled. He knew that he was an intimidating sight for humans with his height and broad shoulders, his amber eyes so foreign and his teeth evidence of the more predatory origin of the Sheyan race. When humans had first engaged in space travel they had discovered that the universe held many races more wondrous and more dangerous than them, the Sheyan with their reputation as merciless warriors among them. He felt her fear tip over into terror and still she did not lower her eyes, showed no outward sign of discomposure. Her control was surprising and admirable, making the anticipation of its destruction even sweeter. Holding her blue eyes he slowly opened the right desk drawer and placed to items in front of him, displayed clearly and deliberately: a flogger and a riding crop.

“Your punishment: Either 10 lashed with the flogger, twenty with the crop or thirty of my hand on your naked ass. Your choice.”

His voice was frightening in its complete lack of emotion, in its cold implacability as he took out the torture-instruments and placed them in front of him on the desk. He expected her to make the choice what her torture would be, and she was smart enough to realise that making the choice was a torture in itself. But she was not willing to let him see the fear, the panic threatening to overwhelm her. She had come here certain she would die, she had hoped it would be fast and relatively painless, the fact that she would have to pay with pain rather than her life should be a relief. She had no right to the panic that was almost suffocating her, at least she reminded her mind of that sharply. It was not the pain she feared though, it was the lack of fortitude, her inevitable loss of dignity and pride that would come with it. Still, it could be worse and so she raised her chin and forced herself to consider the question. Rationally she knew she should chose the spanking as the least potential of serious harm to her - but she also knew that she would not, could not. She could not consent to the humiliation of stripping naked to be bent over and receive a punishment like a recalcitrant child. Her primary school teacher once had told her that her pride would be her downfall - this might be the moment the the prediction would come true and still she’d rather preserve her pride. So, crop or flogger? She had been riding most of her life and knew on her own body the devastating pain a riding crop could inflict swung by a spiteful little girl, it was almost unimaginable to consider 20 lashes backed by the strength of a full-grown male. The thought of the flogger was even more terrifying, history containing enough real world stories to warn of the potential damage or even death resulting from as little as ten lashes. But in a strange, paradoxic way - did she not deserve that? She had come here with murder on her mind, not just the murder of the man in front of her but the potential of a continuation of a civil war that cost thousands of lives each year, simply because she had not had the courage to find another solution. In some strange way she deserved all that would come. And in the same strange way she had come to terms with death on the way here, had come to see it almost as a rescue, a way out of her life - though that last thought was so unacceptable that she buried it quickly, unable to own it. Before she realised her own full intention she had pointed to the flogger.

His eyes did not move, displayed no emotion, but at the same time she thought him strangely displeased with her choice; though his only outward reaction was to ask in that same emotionless voice:


There was no way that she wanted to tell him , no way under which she wanted to bare her thoughts to his inspection - and so she remained mute, silent under his considering gaze.

“Lack of response will add another 5 lashes”

He was not willing to grant her even this small level of resistance.

“Sir, may I ask for clarification?”

When in doubt, when trying to avoid a question or when one simply needed to buy time to think: ask for clarification or elaboration. Many a conference had been weathered with that strategy. At his nod she continued:

“If I do not answer the question, I will receive an additional 5 lashes?”

Again he only nodded, holding her gaze, capturing it with his alien reptile eyes. At her answer she thought she saw a first flash of emotion in them, too fast to identify, too quickly gone to answer.

“I will take the lashes then.”

She had chosen to increase her punishment rather than answering his question, this following her choice of the most dangerous implement at hand, the only implement that had the real potential to harm her irrevocably within the perimeter he had set for the punishment. It was a surprising development in their little dance of punishment and redemption and not a little worrying. By her own actions today she had proven to lack basic self-preservation but he also knew her to be too intelligent not to realise her choices were dangerous. Her actions were either extremely foolhardy or supremely trusting. He would have liked to think that it was the second, but doubted it. Humans did not teach trust to their most vulnerable, they rather seemed to thwart it at any opportunity. So, why had she chosen this? Another puzzle piece, another wall to break.

It gave him slight satisfaction when she jumped as he rose but she quickly reinforced that impressive emotional control. He led her to the wall, the first true hint of opposition only coming when he stretched her arm to restrain it against the wall above her head.

“It is not necessary”

The calm reproach in her voice fascinated him.

“I intend to make it necessary”

He heard her sharply indrawn breath, saw her muscles tense and enjoyed the sharper emotions emanating from her - he would not allow her to be emotionally indifferent, he would not allow her to escape what he had planned. He made sure that both her hands were securely fastened to the ring in the wall above her head without the restraint cutting into her skin before binding her ankles at a distance that was not quite comfortable, but without being actually painful. The zipper at the back of her dress bared the long lines of her spine to him, but stopped just short of the gentle swell of her buttocks. With one decisive move he ripped the dress further to give him access to her ass and upper thighs. She was breathtaking, her skin so pale that the simple caress of one finger left a visible mark, the tactile sensation more silken than that of the ripest peach. She wore a simple black thong as only underwear and he allowed his finger to stroke along the seam between her buttocks in an indulgent caress. Her futile attempt to escape his touch by raising in her tiptoes made him chuckle. He was looking forward to this.

He stepped into her, trapping her between his warm body and the cold of the wall, letting her feel his weight and strength. His mouth found the juncture between her shoulder and neck, his teeth wrapping around the soft skin in a hint of a bite, not painful but a primordial reminder of dominance hardwired into the long-forgotten instincts of the human brain. He felt the shiver travelling down her spine but was almost certain that he understood her reaction better than she did herself. In reward, though for a moment he did not know if it was hers or his, he laved the slight indentations his teeth had left in her soft skin, taking her taste into him, savouring the flavour with mind and body. Then he stepped back, robbing her of the touch of another body, robbing her of HIS touch, leaving her only with the tight restraints and cold wall as sensual impact.

She had never been so frightened in her life, so lost and confused. Her own emotions made no sense to her, spiralled out of control. She had spend her whole life curbing her overactive emotional state, pressing it into a cage of rationality and distance, ordering her life along clear and immutable lines. She was a professor at the university, teaching philosophy. She had friends with whom she socialised one evening a week and two close friends who she met for coffee once a week. During the week, on alternate days she either exercised or attended a cultural seminar. The weekends she mostly spend catching up on work and her family. She was happy, truly was. Always knew what would happen tomorrow, never jaywalked and planned her diet according to well-known risk-factors. She did not like emotions, did not like the insecurity and unpredictability that came with them. She was never reckless and even though she had found herself heedlessly endangering herself twice tonight, once when she took that knife and once when she chose the whip. The first was explainable with her fear for her mother - the second remained inexplicable and soon she would be paying for it.

She could not see him anymore, did not even hear him move behind her, the only reality in her world the firm restraints holding her in place, the cold, smooth surface of the wall separated from her skin only by her too thin dress and the rising fear and expectation of what was to come. Somehow, the very lack of his touch now made her sublimely aware of every centimetre of skin which he had touched before, of the feeling of his teeth on her neck, his lips and she hated herself for missing it. With every second she expected the sharp pain of the lash, with every second her skin hungered for the contrast of his soft touch instead. She heard the movement of air before she felt the touch of the flogger, a set of tiny stings along the right side of her back, like hail hitting the surface of a river, disturbingly soft, too strong to be a caress, too mild to be called pain. It warmed her skin, prepared it for the long gentle sweep of his hand as he stroked away the sting. She felt the warm presence of his body along her side, his breath on her shoulder, its scent invading her consciousness before his words even registered:

“You need to count them, Darling”

She was confused, so lost in the tornado of decisions, exhausted by the emotions and choices of the day, felt adrift and hollow at the same time. His touch anchored her and with horror she realised that she had momentarily leant into him. Hurriedly she tensed away from him as far as her restraints allowed and tried to collect her rational mind. His only reaction was an evil chuckle and the touch of his lips on her shoulder.

“It will come, little one, don’t worry. Now count, only those you name will actually count towards the 15”


At least she had managed to return a semblance of control to her voice. There was no warning before the flogger came down on her back this time and the pain was excruciating, arrowing out form the lines across her lower back like rivulets of lava across her whole body. It brought her to her toes, tears streaking down her face and the quickly suppressed sob sounded loud in the room. His voice remained entirely mild:


She understood the lesson - as long as she did what she was told the punishment would be bearable, if she resisted him he would let her feel the consequences.

“One” she could barely recognise her own voice in that strangled tone. The next lash was so light that she almost missed it under the left-over searing pain on her back.


She did not hesitate a second time to sound out the count. She expected the next lash, braced for pain but instead felt his hands in a gentle caress over her back. It was as if he wanted to stroke away the pain and the contrast made the touch more exquisite. His hands followed her spine, stroked along her flanks before gently massaging along her arms to come to rest on her wrist restraints. Sometimes over the last few minutes he had lost his shirt and she felt the smooth hardness of his chest against her back. His hands were easily able to span her wrists reminding her of her position as well as imprinting his dominance on her. The warmth of his body rivalled the heat of her skin, melding the sensations of pain and pleasure. She shivered under the sensuous spell his lips wove with their touch over her nape. Her mind was fogging, losing coherence in this miasma of sensations, shattered by the unexpected and unpredictable.

“Why did you attack me during our dance, Sweetheart?”

His voice was an insidious strand of sound that wrapped itself around her consciousness and seemed to pull an answer from her without conscious thought. She felt the words hover on her lips and it was only the last vestiges of rational thought that kept her from speaking - from admitting something that would give her into his power even more.

He had not expected an answer, not really. It was a delicate dance to strip a mind of its defences, to shatter resistance and bare a soul to your touch but he was a master at it and would gladly bring his considerable experience to weigh in this game of pleasure and pain. She had given herself into his keeping, even though she did not know it, and he planned to honour her. The next three lashes were a rain of light blows, only hard enough to warm her skin over the whole of her back, and so fast that she barely had time to count them out loud. He could see the glow of her skin as her blood rose to the surface as if it yearned for his touch, the answering pressure of his waking cock against his leather trousers formed an almost painful counterpoint. But it was not only his marks on her skin that let him harden to a point of near pain but the slow gentling of her muscles, the reluctant giving way of tension to trust herself to the bonds. Already by the count of five he could not resist the temptation to let his hands run over her again, to come around her and fit her burning skin to his. It took almost sub-Sheyan strength to flatten his hands on her belly rather than cradling her breasts under the dress.

“Why, Sweetheart?”

“They wanted the peace conference to fail”

Her voice was dreamy, distracted, almost drugged and he fascinated how quickly he had been able to push her into that strange state of mind in which certain beings gave themselves utterly to another. It was precious, an ability to be treasured. He finally allowed himself to cradle her breasts, to feel their exquisite weight. Her head fell back on his shoulder, baring her slender throat to his lips. His moan echoed hers and for a moment he was in serious doubt if he would be able to hold back from sinking his cock deeply into her body before he had all the information he wanted.

“Why you, Why did you do it?”

His agile fingers played with her already hard nipples to keep her attention enthralled to his lead.

“He threatened Mother”

“Who did?”

He felt the minute withdrawal of her body, the almost imperceptible tensing of muscles indicating that her busy mind was recapturing reality. It was time to push her deeper, to enforce her capitulation.

The next three lashes were not any stronger than the previous ones but their placement over the lower globes of her ass and her sensitive upper thighs would make them appear more brutal, would emphasise his power over her. Before the sound of the eighth bow had died away he was on his knees behind her, laving the long red marks over he but with his tongue. Exposed as she was he could smell her arousal, an alluring torment for his senses. His hands spread her further, massaging the skin between her thighs without giving her any relief.

“Who threatened your mother?”

She was pushed near sobbing by the reaction of her own body. It was hard to control his own reaction to her abandon, hard to force deeper into her mind, knowing that without her trust he was pushing too fast and too strongly. He rose to surround her with his arms again, to coax her weight to rest against him.


It was a whisper, an encouragement, a temptation and in its soft breath over her skin an invitation to entrust him with the problem, to hand the responsibility over her fear, over her, into his hands.


Her answer was even more hushed than his question but not any less of a capitulation in that. It was not a surprise; their spies had reported the information days ago, had warned the Sheyan of the planned attack. He had known of it when he had asked her for the dance during the ball, had invited it - but this was proof and theoretically all he had needed. Were he anyone but a Sheyan warrior he could stop now, either let her feel the rest of the lashes as punishment or simply let her down and call it a successful interrogation, possibly after slaking his lust in her body. But anyone who thought he would step back now lacked even the most basic understanding of Sheyan culture.

“Why did you chose the flogger?”

Telling him about grandfather was almost a relief, a strange sentiment in face of her betrayal of her own family to a stranger, but nevertheless the truth. Whatever might come tomorrow, answering his question had lifted something from her soul, as if it lifted her mind onto a cloud to drift away. She had long since come to a point where her mind could not compute the opposing sensations, the pain and pleasure, the fear and arousal, and had simply surrendered to the knowledge that no matter what would happen he would be the source of it. But her mind had not conceded the field entirely and his question pierced the cloud of capitulation. Her head rolled restlessly against his shoulder in an attempt to separate from his influence. Immediately his hands began to stroke soothingly over her ribcage and belly whilst his mouth nibbled along her jaw. For a moment his touch scattered her tension before changing it, converting it, adapting it. ONe of his arms came to span her torso under her breasts, taking their weight and cradling one globe firmly. With its gentle massage that hand turned the languid arousal of her body to something sharper, something more disquieting. The fingers of his other hand found their way to junction of her thighs and stroked along her labia, spreading heat and moisture. A fiery urgency rose in her and she tried to bow into him.

“Why the flogger?”

His fingers dipped into the heat, circling around the entrance to her body before playing along her clitoris, careful not to touch her with any real pressure. It was maddening, her arousal skyrocketed to quickly that she thought she would come any moment - and just as she was ready to fall over the precipice he stopped.


She could simply not think, could not remember any reason why she should not answer, her embarrassment, her rationality, her very being consumed and held by him.

“I deserve it”

His strong finger turned her jaw, presented her lips to his and his kiss took her very breath, invading and claiming. Then suddenly he let her go, stepped back.

“Ok, Baby, the next seven lashes will hurt. A lot. But after that it will be over. I will count them for you and then I will spread you on my bed and make you forget who you are”

They did hurt, they brought tears to her eyes and tore screams from her lips - but they also brought her confused body ever closer to an orgasm. And then it was over and he was on her, removing the restraints and carrying her to the bed. As promised he gently spread her on the bed, coming to kneel over her, her face between his large hands; the controlled savagery with which he held her more frightening than the flogging. His yellow eyes held hers, did not allow her even one moment of respite as he sheathed himself in her, stretching her in one powerful movement. She started to come before he began to move and with each thrust her orgasm found new fuel. But only as his movement lost their rhythm, became more frantic in themselves, did he allow her to break their gaze, did he allow her the escape from the realisation that he could see into her, could truly see her. Her eyes closed as his mouth captured her moans and spasms of heat filled her womb.

As both their breaths returned to normal he bedded both of them on their sides, ensuring that her sore back did not touch the bed. He held her close, allowing her to return to herself in her own time, enjoying the feeling of her in his arms his hand gently stroking the hair from her face. Too soon did her intelligent eyes sharpen. She looked at him, met his eyes unflinching though embarrassment tinged her mind. She was silent for a long time, simply looking at him.

“The pain was not the punishment”

Her voice was sure, certain.


He had stripped her of all pretence, taken all control from her and left her open, vulnerable, confused and utterly destroyed. He saw that realisation in her eyes and saw how much she hated it, how much it frightened her. He could pinpoint the moment when she tried to collect her dignity in the face of this.

“If the punishment is over, I will leave then”


His calm answer halted her in her attempt to escape his embrace.

“I accepted the 15 lashes”

“You did and the punishment is over - but you will not leave”

He let her hear his conviction, did not allow even an inkling of his enjoyment show in the face of her rising outrage.

“You have no right …”

With a quick move he rolled her under him, knowing that the ache from her back hitting the soft sheets would be a poignant reminder of his power over her. He made sure his voice was another such reminder.

“I have every right. You are under my control until further notice”


“Sweetheart, you attacked a Sheyan warrior in his embassy, in a place where our law applies. You have proven unable to care for yourself and therefore given me the right to do so in your stead.”

For a moment she just sputtered, unable to think of what to say.

“He threatened my mother - I had no choice.”

His grin was lethal and he knew it.

“And until you discover what you should have done in your heart and mind I will be glad to take control of your security and well-being.”

And, God, did he hope it would take her a long time to learn that lesson.

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