Bitsy's Inhuman Submission

Bitsy sat, ruminating over her fate, in the rapidly cooling water of her deep bath. The king—Stuart—Tristan—Master, she corrected her mental voice, had graciously allowed her the freedom of her bath. The tropical humidity that characterized the lushness of the soak's beginnings had transformed her pinned up ebony cloak of hair into damp ringlets that escaped the confines of the clip.

Her bath served to clarify the murky depths of her mind. She still felt torn between the love and affection that she felt for Michael and the obsessive depths of passion Master inspired within her. The sensuous motion of the rose-scented water as it smoothed over her curves reminded her of the caressing tones that Stuart employed to coax—then demand—her sexual obedience.

Through half-open eyelids, Bitsy surveyed the sumptuous interior of the master bathroom. It was, rightfully so, a lavish refuge for a dominant ruler. The walls were stained a golden hue, a delicate wash at odds with the blood red tapestries and towels that remained, warmed and at the ready, for her eventual exit from the marble tub that appeared to have more in common with an Olympic-class swimming pool than a shower stall. An assortment of bottles and jars concealing perfumed secrets littered the edges of the oasis.

The truly shocking feature of the bathroom, however, greeted her as she rolled her eyes heavenward: a mirror mounted high into the ceiling that reminded her of the king's more salacious appetites.

The staccato of his riding boots on marble alerted her to her Master's arrival. She heard the familiar thudding of his riding crop smacking his open hand encased in the leather of his riding gloves. In response, her heart began to thud heavily, her breathing grew shallow and rapid, and her eyes dilated with glazed passion showing only peridot green orbs in her eye sockets. Why she anticipated the hard thrashing she was due to receive the way a romantic yearned for a lover's sweet kiss, she couldn't say. But, from his smirking glance, she knew Stuart had catalogued each evidence of her arousal.

As a "payment" for her languorous bath, the King had made but one demand—that he claim a forfeit from her at a time of his own choosing—now, it seemed.

"Stand." One word, harshly spoken, even as his hunters eyes turned crimson with his own answering lecherous intent.

The water sluiced down her soft pink skin, made ruddy by the warm water, leaving rapidly cooling, fragrant drops that clung like diamonds to warmed skin.

"Is this where you are claiming your forfeit?" Bitsy asked, barely able to keep the quavering excitement from her voice. Her gleaming peridot eyes followed the hypnotic movements of the riding crop.

He nodded, slowly, savoring her obvious indecision. The prim and proper thirty-one year old First Lieutenant warred with the seductive succubus his slave was rapidly becoming. Flashes of fiery submissive passion had already begun to melt the Ice Bitch façade.

"I haven't focused on your training; I've been too lax with your submissive instruction," he explained.

Bitsy's eyes widened. "Too lax?" she questioned, her voice an aghast breath, a mere whisper.

"Precisely," he answered in a tone that brooked no argument even as he chuckled inwardly. "This evening, you will experience delights--and torments--you can't even imagine. Come here, slave," he commanded, snapping his fingers and pointing at his feet.

She began to walk over, sauntering slowly to show her body to the best advantage. Her new collar twinkled in the candlelight where the metal caught the wavering lumens. She jumped when he yelled an autocratic "No!"

Bitsy faltered. "Is something wrong, Master?"

"Return to the tub, drop down to your hands and knees, and crawl to me, slave. You are showing way too much pride for a slave." The crop hitting his riding boots formed a staccato rhythm that was easily audible--even above the thunderous pounding of her heart.

After returning to the edge of the tub, she slunk down to the marble floor and began to crawl to her Master. "Straighten your back," he directed, enjoying the gentle sway of her ivory-and-rose breasts as she crawled. "Look up at me, slave," he demanded when she ducked her head.

He smiled in proud pleasure as she arrived at his feet. "Now kneel," he told her. With his left hand, he stroked her cheek in appreciation and approval.

"What next, Master?" she asked, this time unable to keep the breathless excitement from her voice.

"We're going to experiment with new forms of...restraint," he chuckled, an insidious gleam in his eyes as he glanced down at her breasts with malicious intent. "You will also learn to orgasm only with my permission and to withhold it if I deny that permission."

Bitsy's audible gulp was her only response. Her mind raced. Her Master made her feel completely out of control as he seduced her. How would she ever be able to resist the undeniable need to orgasm?

He snapped his fingers in her face to grab her attention. Bitsy shook her head as if to clear it. "I'm sorry, Master," she said, completely compliant...completely his, Stuart realized.

"Follow me," Stuart dictated then turned toward the bedroom. On his way through the door, he grabbed two lengths of slippery nylon rope.

Bitsy's pussy clenched as she wondered what the rope would be used on.

"On your lovely breasts, slave. They were made to be tied," Stuart explained. "Stand."

She stood, her hands clasped behind her back, shoulders back, as she presented her breasts to him. With deft, efficient movements, he wrapped the rope around each breast, securing them together. "It's like a rope bra," Bitsy mused, looking down and twisting to test the strength of the--tight--bonds.

"You're welcome, slave," her Master said, a strange smile on his face. "How does it feel?"

Closing her eyes, Bitsy concentrated on feeling. "I feel constrained and aroused, Master," was her grudging description.

"Let's test that arousal, then," Stuart said, sliding two fingers into her drenched pussy. Bitsy had to bite back a moan. "I see," he said, with the maddening chuckle that didn't bode well for her.

The two fingers exited her pussy only to rub her juices on her nipples. Her Master clucked his tongue. "That won't do, slave. Those nipples need more decoration than just your arousal juices.

"But first," he said, picking up the crop, "I must prepare them to be adorned."

The only warning she received was a loud swishing by her ear. A loud CRACK was shortly echoed by her wheezing gasp. Stuart's response was an outright laugh. "Croppings are quite different with your breasts bound, aren't they, slave?"

Bitsy was still struggling to breathe around the sunburst explosions of pain that engulfed her entire breast, not only the nipple that received the bite of the crop. Her tardiness in answering earned her a matching THWACK on her left breast.

"Now, slave, what is the appropriate response?"

She couldn't hold back the agonized squeal. "Thank you, Master, for disciplining me," she gritted out.

"You're welcome, slave. That was very prettily done." He laughed in sheer pleasure. "But, now for your special jewelry." He opened a drawer and removed a box. "These are called clover clamps."

She opened the box, removing the medieval-looking devices. The clamps were attached with a thin silver chain. He took the box from her and removed them, holding them up so they could catch the light.

"Face the mirror, my pet. I want you to see your body correctly adorned as my possession." She did as bid, drawing in a sharp breath as one, and then the other, clamp tightly grasped a nipple.

Fire seemed to shoot from her nipples southward, igniting the barely stoked flames in her pussy. The sensations were made all the more intense by the ropes constraining her milky globes--although their milky whiteness had become a more ruddy hue because of the bondage.

Stuart, sensing her impending climax, took pity on her. "Come for me, my bitch; sing for me, my siren." He yanked hard on the chain; her nipples felt as if they were being ripped from her breasts. A scream, endless, wordless, preceded her crashing orgasm.

Bitsy's pussy erupted, squirting juices that slicked her thighs, as she dropped to her knees, the state of semi-consciousness known only as subspace took over her composure to leave the ravenous, needy desires of his submissive bare to his enjoyment. Instead of gradually finding the peace a trip through subspace usually allowed, Bitsy's lime green eyes burned with a strange light, and her mouth swelled as her canines elongated, forming the long sharp spikes of fangs.

The succubus within Bitsy would no longer be stifled. Eyes of phosphorescent fire burned Stuart as she climbed from her kneeling crouch. With sinuous movements she balanced on her toes and entwined her arms around his neck. The fangs, so characteristic of her race, so elusive until now for her until her passions had been unlocked, weighed heavily in her mouth.

She opened rose tinted, trembling lips to reveal the snowy white spikes that tingled with an unfamiliar electricity. They grazed Stuart's neck, and he tensed. His carotid artery pulsed his heartbeat against her gleaming canines. Her soft tongue swabbed softly at the bronze skin concealing the blood pumped by his heart.

Much faster than a snake could strike, Bitsy snapped her head back and then down again, piercing his skin with the razor-sharp canines that overburdened her mouth.

Bitsy responded to his rumbling groan with an answering euphoric moan. Her lips trembled as his salty sweet blood filled her mouth. His body quaked against hers.

With the blood flooding past her lips and teeth came a flooding of images in Bitsy's mind. She was, perhaps, the strongest telepath of her generation, but all previous telepathic experiences seemed puny--in comparison to this one. She had never attempted to "read" the king, for years out of a disgusted disinterest of what she might find there, and, most recently, a troubling curiosity of his inner thoughts had enticed her dangerously to break her resolve.

His mind was not the murky cesspool of depravity she had imagined. There was darkness there, a wealth of dark desires that he had begun to share with her. Behind everything else, as she delved deeper, she discovered a bitterness, a wrenching jealousy. Just as Bitsy was about to uncover exactly who and what he was jealous of, Stuart pushed her away from him.

Bereft, she looked up at him from wounded eyes. "You cannot invade my privacy this way."

"Yes, Master," she responded, her puzzlement still evident. Under half-closed lashes, she looked up at Stuart uncertainly.

With a growl, he yanked her to him. His own sharpened canines, the mark of his werewolf gene, distended his lips. Unafraid, Bitsy tilted her neck back, offering her neck and breasts to his mouth, his teeth.

His bite, when it came, was not a clean puncture, but a savage tear that burned her neck with a thousand flames. He drank, greedily gulping, heedless of all but the enchanting green elixir that poured down his throat.

Bitsy struggled to clamp down on her thoughts, feelings, or memories, but it was no use. Every corner of her mind, every vulnerability, every secret was transparent to him. And he viewed them all.

She gradually lost consciousness, and he lifted her, cradling her against him. He walked into the bedroom and deposited her carefully on the bed before sitting on the edge to face the dawn.

Bitsy's breathing evened, and Stuart sat up on the edge of the bed, holding his head in his hands. He considered the folly of the evening. Biting Bitsy's neck and drinking her blood--and then allowing her to do the same to him--may have sealed her fate irrevocably. Only the next full moon would tell.

The law outlawing hybridization had been signed by his several-greats-grandfather, Stephen I. Mixing his lycanthrope gene with her Vampiran one would lead to a death sentence for her. Since, contrary to beliefs perpetrated by movies and fiction, the exchange of blood with a Vampiran did not cause one to become a vampire, Stuart was safe.

He chuckled softly to himself as he responded to his own mental statement. No, her heady blood may not bring the fangs and immortal life horror stories suggested, but it did make for a delicious repast: sweetly tart, it reminded him of the lime candy the Rom used to sell at fairs when he was younger. Until Tracy Bathory and her mother banished them at the end of the war, that is, Stuart thought, sobering. The Gypsy Banishment Law went into effect the same day as the Hybridization Reinforcement Law.

The new law dictated a slow, painful sentence against newly hybridized were-vamps. To date, the sentence had never been meted out, but Stuart realized that Tracy would love nothing more than to make Bitsy the inaugural criminal.

These thoughts kept Stuart awake as the sun kissed the horizon outside his window. As the sun rose, warming Bitsy's pale skin a golden hue, he stood and dressed to go for his morning run