Bitsy's Inhuman Submission

The day after Marcos's farewell to Bitsy...

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Thrust, parry, riposte! Thrust! Parry! Riposte! Stuart wiped away the sweat as he put himself through another punishing workout.

He had not slept last night and had instead practiced honing his other blade's skills. At swordplay, the king was a master—all Tsepesh males were. The bawdy joke was that they finessed ALL of their swords with equal cunning.

To him, fencing was a carefully choreographed dance, a tango between two—hopefully—matched opponents. Only two people came close to his skill—Michael and Marcos. He shoved thoughts of both of them away. Regardless of how much he dominated Bitsy's supple, soft, curvy flesh, his cousin still dominated her emotions, her heart.

And his brother? Even now, Marcos was probably seducing Bitsy further under his alpha's spell during his grand farewell gesture. And whose fault is that? an insidiously serpentine voice slyly queried. The voice sounded like Tracy Bathory's. He pushed the suggestion down. He knew that he was the only culpable party.

For the next several minutes, his mind slashed air, though with his virtual reality goggles. In his mind, he battled a fierce opponent. He himself had programmed the simulation; his opponent was an amalgamation of himself and all of his previous practices and competitions.

Then, his olfactory and psychic senses tingled. Bitsy, his Elizabeth, was home. To avoid seeming the eager puppy brought to heel, he resisted the urge to bound to her, press her into the plush carpets of the foyer, until she rested, panting and prone, beneath him. Only then would he feast with due carnality on her bounty.

With a frown, he locked down his desires with ironclad manacles of self-control.

Another fencing competitor teased the edges of his eyesight. Funny, he mused, drunk on Bitsy's intoxicating scent so close, yet so elusive, I don't remember adding another combatant.

Dressed in the white padded suit and mask, the new opponent nonetheless crept closer to him with foil raised and blunted. Slight, barely five-and-a-half feet tall, he figured he could easily crush this VR projection. He could have sworn he had the program defaulted to Expert.

As the image appeared to be a spunky stickler for form—as was he—he saluted the digital apparition with a whispered, menacing "En garde."

He thrust—and solid metal swooshed through the air—but clanged the solid metal of his opponent's foil.

**********

Bitsy was furious! Positive her eyes burned lime green from beneath the mask, she felt an intense satisfaction in seeing his hauteur slip, if only briefly.

His expression hardened, and she realized that he still didn't know it was she who parried his thrust. "A tiny assassin?" he ground out.

She didn't respond; she couldn't through her self-righteous fury and indignation over his treatment of Marcos, his own older brother and ALPHA—and her. Let him think she was some murderous sprite.

"Well, someone should have warned you not to attack me here, with a foil, in my domain."

Pushing off against the force of his foil, Bitsy danced away, twirling as she did, keeping sight of him. Yes, she knew he was renowned as the fencing champion of his generation, but Michael had taught her everything she knew about the foils. In their final days together, their matches often ended in a draw.

Focus! Concentrate! She knew he had to be exhausted and soon growing sluggish; his body was already drenched with the sweat of hours' long workouts. Breathing in his scent, she felt herself weakening, softening.

But then she thought of all Marcos had—and hadn't—told her. After having observed Stuart for several moments before she turned off the simulation, she spotted a flaw in his technique. Acting on that, she lunged heedlessly.

Clang! He wasn't taken aback this time! And whatever distractions she had noted watching him earlier had disappeared. His passionate lips set in a thin line, and he became the warrior of his ancestry.

"See?" he gloated. "I'm not so easy to kill!"

Through gritted teeth, she howled, "I'm not trying to kill you!"

This time, he danced back as if to gather his defenses. When he lunged this time, she saw a cocksure sneer. "What then, pet? Did you think yourself able to hold your own against me?"

She tried again for the weakness and almost scratched him. "Why?" she panted. "Why did you do that to Marcos? To me? To us?"

Breathless minutes followed as their swords clanged and clashed over and over. The two dancers, trapped in their own seductive tango, learning the strengths and weaknesses of their opponent.

When Bitsy stopped a particularly fiendish thrust of his with an underhand maneuver, he asked the obvious—to him—question, "What are you talking about?"

Both sucked in deep breaths in the moments after he voiced the question. That was the only sound in the large gymnasium.

"You told him to give me up, that he could only have one more night with me," Bitsy started to explain, striking once more with a repelled upper thrust.

In retaliation, Stuart launched a stopped thrust of his own. "I did."

Bitsy seemed to shrink. "You did? Why? I had only just begun to figure out my place, and you rip the ground out from beneath me. And all I get is an 'I did'?"

Stuart let his blade go slack. His other blade remained at attention. "I did. I explained to him the brevity of our connection—yours and mine—and prevailed upon him to remember that he could have you afterwards." Too late, he saw her interpret his words in the worst way possible.

Not even if she were nude before him and he had thrust the blade in her heart to the hilt could he have done as much damage, hurt her as much, as he had with those words. "When you are through with me, you mean? When I bore you? Your brother can then have your sloppy seconds?" she blurted, nearly in tears but refusing to let him see her cry.

"Pick it up," he commanded, gesturing to the metal shaft on the floor. He couldn't bear to see the Ice Bitch come into her eyes again.

"Why?" she asked, a gesture of defiance. His fingers itched to grab her and slam her over his knee and paddle the insolence out of her tone, her posture, and her gaze.

A deep intake of breath to calm the wolf within, challenged by his mate. Then, "Because you never start what you can't finish. You wanted to have it out with me, best me at my own game; have at it. But, beware, if I win, I will extract a price you will be unwilling to pay."

"And if I win?" He saw—and heard—Bitsy's squaring her shoulders for the battle ahead.

He tapped his chin. "If you win, you name your forfeit," he gritted out.

Amazingly, she seemed to consider it. Her pink tongue darted out to slide over her smooth lips, and Stuart bit back a groan. "I want things to stay the way they are."

Stuart realized then exactly two things: 1) He may have lost her forever—forget ten months from now, and 2) She was not going to play fair. As to the first, he hoped his peculiar brand of domination would be enough to melt the ice she had already begun to shore up around her. As to the second, he chuckled, in matters of lust, he never played fair, either.

This was the real fight for his life.

Eyes locked, Bitsy and Stuart raised their foils in salute. "En garde," softly spoken, both with malicious intent.

Instantly, with the first clash of metal, the air seemed charged with sensual energy. In the rational (yet depraved) part of Stuart's mind, he catalogued an image of he and Bitsy engaged in a battle as now, but completely nude.

He inwardly groaned at the image as he (and she) thrust through the open gaps left by each other's spread arms so that they were heaving breast to heaving rock hard abs. Bitsy looked up at him, and Stuart was lost in the lime green orbs, unable and unwilling to stop the swell of his erection in his breeches.

Again and again they danced the dance of death, at turns lancing at the other. Pants became moans and then groans—of effort mingled with desire.

Things came to a head when Bitsy tripped. With one arm, Stuart caught her, ending her backward fall in a graceful hold only seen on the dance floor at the end of a particularly beautiful and erotic pas de deux.

With his other hand, not completely the gentlemanly lover, he pressed the point of the foil to her throat.

Game over.

She reached up to pull off her mask. Her defeat—and her desire—warred with each other in the set of her face and eyes.

He placed his blade on the mat and lifted off his own mask. His expression, Bitsy realized, was less inscrutable than usual. Reaching down, his fingers tickled along her jawline, feather light, a caress she would have expected more from Marcos.

She shivered as his fingertips traced the edge of her lips, and her tongue darted out for a taste when he pressed into the crease. He tasted of himself and sweat, and she moaned.

Looking up at him, seeing the tenderness there, was almost her undoing. I could have dealt with everything else but this, she realized. Even the words he had thrown in her face earlier were preferable to the internal upheaval his gentleness caused now.

She closed her eyes and felt him press his lips on her closed eyelids, first one then the other. Then, he lifted her, just as Marcos had last night and carried her in his arms, lover-style, to his bed, up the stairs and several long corridors away.

Once there, he stripped her, gently, as Maria would, even caressing her breasts and flicking her nipples as Maria had grown accustomed to doing. He removed the pants of her fencing uniform. One long finger teased her mound and spread her pussy lips.

When a second finger joined it and he dropped to his knees before her, her legs buckled and she almost collapsed in a molten puddle of need in front of him. If not for the fingers within her core and his other hand cupping her ass, she would have fallen.

Her moans filled the expansive chamber as Stuart lifted up slightly to kiss her lips. His tongue probed her mouth, tasting, teasing, dueling with her tongue. All the while he fingered her.

Bitsy soon no longer stood passively. She kissed him, again and again, willing her lips to send the message that her voice could not, that she loved HIM. That she was obsessed with HIM.

What unspeakable delicious torments he wished to visit on her body next she was not long in wondering. He lifted her effortlessly, a cherished pet, and placed her in the center of the massive bed. Lifting first one wrist of hers, then another, he kissed the delicate ivory skin before wrapping the manacles around her wrists and clicking them into place.

The coldness of the manacles caused gooseflesh to appear all over her pink-and-ivory silkiness. Her tender nipples puckered, tightening to a nubbin of raspberry hue. Her pussy dripped steadily, weeping joyously from his touch.

Stuart stepped back to admire his tableau. His slave, his pet, eager for his lips and caresses. Her nipples and clit both taut and both that delectable resemblance to berries. He bent and curled a tongue around one nipple, showing off his expertise in this area, as well, when his tongue alone yanked her nipple.

A strangled moan parted her lips. Chuckling low in his throat, he pinched and pulled her other nipple, at the same time flicking it, as if her nipple were a bit of lint that had to be removed from a sweater.

Her response was a liquid scream as her cum poured out of her convulsing pussy, staining the red silk bedsheets beneath her.

Stuart tsked. Even as her body continued to shiver and shudder, he crouched low on the bed, his tongue sliding down to taste, to lick the bundle of nerves and pleasure that was her clit.

His sweet pet sobbed brokenly. Her hips rose and fell rhythmically trying to ride his face—and he let her. His hands slid up, caressing, stroking every millimeter of skin he could reach.

As he cleaned her, her drenched pussy began to again clench. His hands stopped their drugging caresses on her breasts to lift her by her ass to his mouth for a more satisfying feast.

Her sighs gave way to squeals which yielded to another screaming orgasm as her entire body, her heart, yielded to him.

He looked up, seeing the reflection of another in the room that Bitsy couldn't see. With a hoarse, sex-roughened voice, he interrogated her as Marcos watched.

"Who is your sole Master and owner, slave?" he questioned.

"You are," she whispered.

"That's not good enough, pet. I need to hear it. Who is your only Master and owner, slave?" His fingers dug bruisingly into her inner upper thighs, spreading her for his use.

Looking up, meeting Marcos's gaze, he delighted with jealousy-perverted glee as Bitsy screamed, "You are, Master!"

Observing Marcos's stony countenance as he turned to leave, Stuart swiftly freed his erection from its linen prison. While remaining fully clothed otherwise, Stuart plunged into Bitsy's soft, constricting depths with one long, slow stroke.

He paused as yet another orgasm wracked his slave's supine form. For moments, five harsh breaths, at least, he managed to remain still.

Only when she gyrated beneath him did he start to advance and reverse within her wet, juicy, squishy cunt, mimicking their wicked dance just minutes before.

Never feeling deep enough, he lifted her ankles onto his shoulders and pounded her already sensitive pussy.

Her walls clenched and released him, a welcome and farewell kiss, as he took her body as his due. He stroked her side boob and tender undersides before palming both breasts and squeezing them, marking her with his handprints as his. His toy. His pet. His slut. His slave.

Anything to erase the marks of passion and possession that Marcos had left the night before.

Finally, he felt his own climax upon him. He tweaked her clit with a cruel pinch once, twice, and saw her slam into subspace.

More reptilian than canine, the king lifted his head up and back to snap back down in a strike. His teeth ripped her neck right at the carotid, just as hers did the same to him.

Their thoughts, feelings, and memories danced and eddied between them. Unguarded, Stuart allowed her to see herself as he first saw her at the engagement party. And then later, in bondage and supplication to him. Her desire for him was a balm, healing the jealousy that Marcos's status as alpha and co-Master had wrought.

They pulled away just as Stuart pumped a seemingly never-ending spray of cum into her.

Still within her, he collapsed on the bed, curling her into him and pulling the spread over them both and tucking her in.

Their breathing slowly returned to normal. Stuart realized that now was the time to tell her of the forfeit.

He cleared his throat. "About the forfeit..."

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To be continued...