* * *
Blaire
He’s a misogynistic nightmare, and I have two, maybe three years to get the fuck out of here. It has to be doable. But if it is, I have to stop fighting with him. Assholes don't like it when you argue.
The sex was good. Super fucking hot actually, if you ignore the part where he was trying as hard as he can to knock me up whether I’m into it or not. There are words for that. Dark words. Nasty words. Words that would fit if I wasn’t into this as hard as I am. That injection protects me, and that’s all that matters.
There’s no real risk to this. There’s filthy hate-fucking with an alien king with a dick like a… well, a goddamn stallion.
“You may be angry with me, but you are not allowed to speak to me that way. You will speak to me with respect. You will respect me, and if you will not, then I will make you.”
He moves fucking fast, and suddenly he has me gripped by the back of the neck, his teeth flashing in front of my nose. His eyes are dark with dominant intention, and his voice is a low growl which promises pain if I do not find the respect he demands from me.
But he can’t force feelings. I don’t respect him. I fear him.
I fear him because he is bigger than I am and because he is willing to do whatever it takes to give him what he wants. He will hurt me. He will break me. He will keep me captive, and he will fill me with his seed until I am brimming with it.
“Understand?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Good. Do not think about running again. If you leave my camp without my permission, and I have to hunt you down again, I will whip you until it hurts to exist.”
His threat is very real and very frightening. The slow, careful trainer is gone. The cruel monarch sits in his place, wearing the same body, looking through the same eyes, but being something else. But the threat is inherently empty because it already hurts to exist.
It hurts to be seen as a means to an end, a vessel for a man’s ego and seed. It hurts to have my softness exploited for his pleasure and my degradation.
He releases me. I hide my anger behind a blank mask. The pleasure I felt with him has melted away to leave me with nothing but resentment and fury. I am going to make this fucker regret the day he ever laid eyes on me. I swear that much.
* * *
Equs
I made a mistake in threatening her. I knew it the moment I spoke, and now I can see cold anger in her eyes, a determination I always knew was there but discounted in my eagerness to claim her. I cannot turn around and apologize or retract my statements. To do so would be to immediately appear weak. If she believes me to be a tyrant, she would be correct.
I have never cared what my subjects thought of me. Their subjugation and conquest were all that ever concerned me. Their terror fed me. But when this human looks at me with her expressive eyes, I see myself reflected in a manner I do not care for. It is because she meets me at the nexus of my best and worst selves. I am at my best when I am handling my mounts. I am at my worst when I handle my subjects.
It might be better if I simply treat her like an animal. I can be tender without fearing my weakness. I put my ropes on her and I work her in the pen and I know what I need to be. Then I take her to my bed and I mount her and I know what she needs. But when I try to speak to her… it all falls apart in an instant.
* * *
Blaire
He pushes me gently, but firmly back into the pen. I have been left with his seed drying on the inside of my legs, my clothing ripped and torn from his rough attentions.
I turn to face him, then avert my gaze. I hate looking at him. He is so fucking handsome, and there is eternally a part of me that makes me want to run to him. Every other part would give anything for an old-fashioned revolver. I’d shoot this fucker dead if I could.
He knows it too. That’s why I’m here, and not being kept for easy access in his tent bed.
I have never felt this helpless, or this furious before. I want to wash, but there is only limited drinking water. I am forced to wear his seed and feel his mark upon me with every move I make.