Author's Note:
This series is divided into two aspects: the story of Aeriel, a female sex slave/submissive, and the story of Arial, a male dominant and misogynist. The portions of Aeriel's story are told in flashbacks, some of which happen in chronological order, but mostly they'll be disjointed. As such, her story is going to be amended with narrative timestamps to help readers follow the course of events. Arial's story all happens in chronological order, and can be considered to be 'present day' activity. Also please keep in mind that though each chapter of this story will be in a category based on the content of that instance, the series overall is best described as Sci-fi/Fantasy, and the reasons for that will become evident as the plot progresses.
Chapter One: Looking Back
Aeriel stepped out of the shower. It was meager, but one of the few accommodations that she was actually able to join. The water was hot - sometimes too hot - but it was clean, and came from two nozzles, one above her head and another at waist level. A mostly clear curtain surrounded her while she cleaned herself, suspended from a bronze rail that connected to the concrete ceiling above. The tub itself was pristine white, probably genuine porcelain, and long enough for her to lie back in when she cared to take a hot, soaking bath.
The shelf between the two shower nozzles was stocked every morning with three small bottles - shampoo, conditioner, and body wash - and a fresh razor that she never ceased to be thankful for. She knew that it was there primarily for her to keep her intimate parts bare, but it also helped her retain some sense of femininity, her legs always smooth to the touch, even if no one that cared was going to see them.
Recounting the numbers of times she had seen the sun set and rise again as she gazed at the cathedral window on one wall near the vaulted ceiling, Aeriel determined that it was 1985, the 22nd of May, and probably about ten o'clock in the morning. Lacking an actual calendar or diary to keep track of time, she'd become astoundingly talented at retaining facts in memory. Every so often she could confirm her dates with a holiday or (very rarely) by catching a glimpse of a newspaper when an attendant came to her chambers for something. And of course, there was her birthday each year. She didn't understand why she was allowed to celebrate it, but she always was.
As near as she had been able to ascertain, she was somewhere in Persia, which people were now calling Iran. She couldn't be sure of it, since she didn't know the dialect, but even if she had not determined the country precisely, she knew she was not far from the Caspian sea, and it got so hot in the summers that eastern Persia seemed very likely. In any case it was getting warmer now, as it always did this time of year, and she softly stepped along the path made by the expensive carpets, not thinking she needed a towel to dry off in the arid atmosphere.
Aeriel's world, as she accepted it to be, existed in this one room. She had a bed, four tall posts with a canopy that stretched between them and a mattress that some people - lacking the experiences Aeriel had lived through - could call orgasmically luxurious, and also a chifferobe stocked only with multicolored silken negligee. Occasionally some other article would appear there, for her to wear on a special occasion, but it would always be gone just as mysteriously the following day.
Her shower, if it could be called hers, was in one corner accompanied by a toilet and freestanding sink, with a tall mirror positioned behind it. In the corner opposite was a door: the door that she had only been through once, and since had not left. The rest of the large room was vacant, save for the extravagant carpets that created a path between the room's amenities, but like her wardrobe this changed at the whim of its owner.
Soft linens were met by softer flesh as Aeriel settled herself on the edge of the bed and ran her fingertips along her leg from ankle to knee, assuring herself that she had missed nothing. It was impossible for her not to feel the reassuring comfort of the cushion beneath her however, and she slumped back onto the bedding with a contented sigh. In these moments she told herself that it wasn't all as bad as it could sometimes seem. She may not have the freedom of other women around the world, but she did have some luxuries that were perhaps worth trading it for. This thought faded quickly, as the sliding, metallic sound of her door being unlocked and unbarred jeered her into the now.
The heavy metal portal swung open on well-oiled hinges, barely making a sound once it started. Aeriel was immediately sitting upright in bed, her body uncovered and her curly brown locks tumbling over her shoulders but doing nearly nothing to obscure her alabaster skin, still pale from the winter months. Her mind told her to get off the mattress, but her body resisted. She simply stared with a blank expression at the door, something at the back of her consciousness screaming out a hope that it was simply time for her linens and robes to be collected for cleaning.
Two men entered, wearing garb that she had come to recognize as militia attire, though she still didn't know if it was private or government. They stood on each side of the entrance, and her heart began to sink. Slowly, tauntingly, another form sauntered into the room. The form belonged to a man with dark skin, darker eyes, and peppered hair that he wore short, complimented by a neatly trimmed goatee. Aeriel was already chastising herself for being slow to action, and knew now that it didn't matter what she did; punishment was imminent. The desires and demands of this man were irrefutable - the man that called himself her husband.
He glanced to the guards and gave a brief nod. They moved out of the chamber again, and the door was closed and sealed until such time as he called for it to be opened. Aeriel remained on her cushion, debating with herself which course of action would lead to a swifter resolution to her 'disobedience.' Her decision wouldn't come soon enough.
Striding toward her with the confidence only afforded to a dictator - or a slave owner - her husband began to nonchalantly unbutton his shirt. His clothing was not unlike that of his guards, but he bore neither rank nor insignia. He slipped it from his shoulders and let it fall to the ground casually, the deeply tanned skin of his muscular chest catching Aeriel's eye despite her better judgment.
"You are yet defiant?" he demanded in a gruff voice, just barely accented.
Aeriel had heard this tone, these words before, yet her reflex remained silence. She struggled against her instincts as she gazed at him, and forced sound from her vocal chords. "I... didn't mean to..." She couldn't manage any more without looking away, and of the two she preferred to be scolded for her disobedience rather than her disrespect.
