Friday Free Read: Pet

 This Friday's Free Read is an experimental snippet from my current Work-in-Progress, Master Me.

 

 

She was called a 'pet'. Actually, there were many names for her, but 'pet' was most accurate. To Set and the men of his cult, slaves like she were prominent symbols of power. A man could not truly be honored as a master, until he had taken one of his own.

 

Sadira's Words

Bannon and Sadira

One of the most pressing desires I as an author have is to write a full-length novel from the point of view of Sadira, a submissive and a slave.  I love the thought of exploring her submission and devotion to her Master, and how deep her need for his brand of domination goes.  Here is an excerpt from what I hope will grow into that book.

* * *

Scarves (Pt 3)

<Pt 2

She groaned, tilting her head towards his voice, arching her back to press herself closer into his hands.  His heat radiated against her, making her quiver.  She wanted him, oh, God how she wanted him; she would offer him anything, let him do anything he liked—she was desperate for him.

“Uh, uh, uh,” he muttered, and she uttered a sad sound as he carefully drew away from her.  She’d betrayed her want too early; now he was going to deny her.

She strained for him, following the sounds of his movements, desperate for him.  He circled her again, paused; circled the other way, paused.  He was just out of reach—not that she had any hands to reach with—teasing her with his nearness, his unrelenting distance.

Scarves (Pt 2)

<Pt 1 

It was as she had suspected: she was forced to stand on her toes, grasping the scarves to steady herself, or else strain both shoulders with her full weight.  She gasped a little and her highlander pulled her arms even higher, stretching her reach further, leaving her even more precariously balanced.

“Sadira,” he murmured lowly, running a rough, callused hand across her bare breasts, vulnerable little teacups spread almost flat by the stretch of her arms, the arc of her spine.  He circled her, touching her, trailing his hands idly over her nudity, tickling her and making her tremble as she danced from toe to toe.

Scarves (Pt 1)

Orange torchlight; the rock and sway of percussive song, the embrace of flute, dulcimer, cymbal, drum.  The men watched, enraptured by the winding twist of her hips, the sinuous motion of naked sensuality, following the shimmering gold firelight over bared breasts and long, slender legs.  Sadira’s tawny mane fell wild to her shoulders, held back from her face by a headdress of beaten bronze and adorned with great feathers of exotic birds; thin braids, wound with ribbons and small red jewels, fell at different lengths behind her ears.  As she slowly spun in place, weaving her arms in seductive rhythm over her head, the light of the fires lighting up her savage curves, the dark lines of the tattoos marking her hips and shoulders—markings of her former allegiance to a fallen clan and fallen master—wound with her, a map of her ignoble heritage, a testament to her alien origins.

The men around her cared little for the marks, however.  The foreign beauty, famed as a lover and a soldier to their greatest enemy, now danced for them, enchanting them and pleasing them, impressing them with the sultry talents they might never have expected from one who had been raised in the way of swords and combat.  One who knew the woman’s story might have recognized the distant aloofness on her face even as she arched her body, displaying herself for her enemies, the clan of rugged highlanders that had captured her and kept her prisoner so far from her homeland.  One who had heard the tales of her might expect the beautiful slave yet harbored a searing fury and distrust in her heart, a plan of rebellion in her mind—that observer might even believe he caught a glimpse of something like the subtlest hint of a sneer  across her lips, the defiance of a legend brought low.

Into the Dollhouse (Pt 2)

<Pt 1

Colt reminded Darry of a boy he’d taken theater classes with in high school: he was lean but muscled, catlike almost, and probably agile and wiry.  There was only one word for this young  man’s face, though: beautiful.  He had an almost royal countenance, gorgeous hazel eyes and lovely, pouty lips.  He was sitting lazily on an uncovered sofa when Genesis led naked Darry into one of the musty upstairs rooms, where the sheets had been pulled off of the furniture, and the shades thrown open to let in the sparkling, bright moonlight.

Colt was a lovely man, but it was Cleo—his sister—that immediately drew Darry’s eyes.  She was even prettier than Genesis, with long, shapely legs and smooth, delicious hips.  Her elegant but low-cut gray blouse showed off the curves of her gorgeous breasts, and her long, dark hair fell in a cascading wave down to the small of her back.  When Genesis and Darry entered, she turned away from a musing study on the night sky, and Darry noticed a lithe dancer’s grace accented even her slightest movement.

Into the Dollhouse (Pt 1)

 Guess what? I write sequels.

The days were filled with desperate, wild sex, passionate and indulgent, more than he had ever thought he could take or give.  And yet, each time his beautiful Genesis reached for him across the cool, quiet darkness, silently beckoning to him and whispering sweet, lustful promises into his ear, Darry found himself ready, burning with a fever to consume her and bury himself in her, over and over.

He was losing weight—he was never hungry, except for her.  He was missing classes, he hadn’t spoken to his friends or even his family.

And it didn’t matter, as long as she was there.

~ Slave ~

Completed illustration for To The Victor.

"Slave", copyright 2012

To The Victor

Overhead, she could hear the sounds of the enemy celebrating.  It was a raucous uproar, a hundred men dancing on the grave of her master, the great warlord known as Set.  He had been slain by the leader of the barbarians.  His power was broken.  His clan was in chains.

His woman was their prisoner.

Sadira bowed her head, a grim and bitter scowl on her face.  They had captured her and bound her with ropes, tying her wrists and ankles, and thrown her into her master’s bedchamber for their leader.  She waited on her knees on the bed, stripped of her leather armor, left in only a thin cotton bodice and a flimsy loincloth to cover her nakedness. 

But that was nothing new.  She had been slave all her life to Set and his sadistic madness: she had been servant, soldier, consort and victim to his whims, a prize for his pleasure.  To be honest she was glad he was dead;  she had lived on her knees before him, exactly as she was now, and more than once she had wished she could be the one to sink the blade into his heart.