Author Note: I'm not usually much of one for writing one shots, but this particular scene wouldn't leave my mind. For those of you who haven't read my series "The Golden Age", neither the characters nor events of this story, other than the sex, will make much sense at all, so I'd recommend reading the actual series first before delving into this and any other side stories that may come to be. For those of you who are familiar with TGA, and especially The Reclamation War, this is a look at my most controversial relationship, Zacharis Frost and Lilia of Garden City, through the eyes of Lilia. Yes, the story is rated M, and it contains swearing, some pretty explicit sex and adult themes. If that's not what you're looking for, there's plenty of stories in the K-T section for you to peruse, I'm sure. Me, I'm not afraid to realize that characters, fictional as they may be, are still people in a way and thus act like them, especially when it comes to intimate relations. Again, for those of you not familiar with TGA, both characters here are OC's, and though other characters are briefly referenced, this is by no means a standard fanfiction about the canon cast. Of course, TGA is both longer and more in depth than both Seed and Seed Destiny combined anyway, so there is that. This scene is actually set in advance of the current point of RW by a month or so.

I do own both of these characters, though the skeletal structure of the setting (it is set in C.E., though far removed from the years of the canon shows) and some of the characters referenced, I don't own.

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New Eden, Northern Himalayan Mountains, C.E. 86, March 2nd, Just after dusk

My world has become one of darkness, dusk's final weak light having faded some time ago. Normally I'm very conscious of such things, I know to the second when dawn breaks or dusk settles, but now my memory is more fuzzy, and I find I cannot recall exactly how long it has been since I've last seen light. I wonder if my mind has been tampered with again, and then realize it probably has been... just not in the exceptional manner. My tormenter doesn't need to use psychic powers to screw with my head, he does just fine with these little games that he plays. I call him tormentor, but its with a hint of a wistful smile on my face as I do so, and I am quietly distressed to realize that I have already come to enjoy these play sessions almost as much as he does... even as he shatters my grasp on reality, makes me wonder if I am dreaming or merely hallucinating, my heart starts thumping faster in my chest and a pleasant, tingly warmness spreads slowly through my limbs. The more I try to focus on the time and events that has elapsed, the more I cannot remember. I do not even recall what day it is anymore, or what I was doing before darkness fell. I have started to exist solely in the present, like him. My entire world has become one of darkness... and to my surprise, I find it comfortable. Liberating even, in a way. Empowering.

I have a name, but I've started to forget what it is... disuse will do that to you. Truth be told, between him and me there is little need for the formality of names anymore. When he speaks, I know just by the words and sentence structure whether he means them for me, for himself, or for others, and in return... well, I don't spend too much time talking with anyone else these days. I guess I'm becoming isolated, am isolated even, and I never even realized it. But there is a difference in how I talk when I'm with others now, a sort of brazen confidence, a challenge that rings subtly in every word, maybe even a hint of arrogance that infuses my normally humble being. His mannerisms have begun to infect me, like a person becoming sick after a large, long term exposure to radiation or a toxic environment, though instead of bleeding gums and hair loss, I find myself becoming cold and even haughty when dealing with people other than him, confrontational where once I was compromising, impatient where once I was mellow. But just like radiation poisoning, this kind of exposure is something you can't feel or see, you can only recognize the symptoms after you've become sick, and by then, it is too late.

Unlike radiation poisoning, this "infection" is neither painful nor debilitating, but rather the opposite. For some reason my body seems to zing with energy like nothing I've ever felt before, and everyone agrees that I exude a strong presence, like a nonverbal shout of acclaim, that draws eyes to me whenever I enter a room or gathering. Like a declaration of challenge, I have become impossible even for the most important personages to ignore. If this is what real power feels like, I see why they say that it corrupts, because the sensation is headier than any pleasure drug, and unlike drugs, doesn't have a set time limit on when it expires, it all depends on you and what you're willing to do to keep the rush going. Fortunately for me, I have an external control on my power rush, because my tormenter is always willing to knock me down into the dirt again and remind me of the fact that, at the end of the day, I am still merely another human being, just one tiny, sharp piece of a massive and magnificent blade that is Humanity. Indeed, he takes a very sexual pleasure from the act of humiliating me, especially in front of others, and while at times I resent his need for such embarassing ploys, most times I am grateful for the wake up call, so to speak, the reality check that reminds me of who and what I really am. Sometimes, it's only during those moments that I can clearly remember what I'm trying to do here.

Because I'm not supposed to be enjoying this, certainly not nearly to the degree that I am. I intended to put myself willingly in the path of a charging Oxiphant, one might say, and knew full well that I was going to get trampled in the process of bringing it to heel and eventually leading it back to the corral, but instead I find myself atop the back of a Direcat with a thorn in one paw and a taste for human blood, hanging on for dear life, laughing in joy of life while crying tears of absolute terror at the thought of what will occur should my grip falter even a little, and I am bucked off my exhilirating and deadly dangerous ride. I could shake my head and laugh at the foolish and naive girl, Praetorian status notwithstanding, that thought she could bridle this Direcat and treat him like an Oxiphant just like that. I was so full of myself those days, and unlike now, I really didn't have much to back it up with. I really got more lucky than anything else, my willful naviete appealed to my tormenter's sense of whimsy, and so he stayed his usual reactions to being bothered by another, and I have survived to be the confused and exhilirated and terrified woman I am right now, rather than a brutalized, dismembered corpse tossed in some ravine somewhere for the animals to eat.

Not that it hasn't been close a few times, while I was still learning to discard all my preconceptions of what our relationship was going to be like and to recognize what he was looking for from me, but in the end he decided to remain merciful and forgiving of my earlier ineptitudes, not because of any special feelings on his part for me, though I know he cares more than he lets on, in his own way, but because he recognizes that I am human and that as such I am prone to making mistakes of judgement and action, that I am at my core weak and flawed, but that there exists in me the potential to be so much more than I was, with the proper tutelage and perspective. People call him insane, but I'm beginning to wonder if it isn't that he's just so much smarter than the rest of us, we just can't understand how he thinks or follow the leaps of reasoning he makes. He is certainly the most observant person I have ever met, able to tell truth from falsehood at a glance, even when the falsehood is firmly believed by the person in question. It's like he can literally see your soul exactly as it really is, with all deceptions, self or otherwise, stripped away like veils of gauze. Its very unnerving, but its also very refreshing. His honesty is brutal, but it is fair, he spares no one, especially not me, any consideration or favor with his observations.

That brutal honesty is one reason I find him so distractingly attractive. One reason of many, and I'm finding more all the time. He pulls me to him like he's surrounded by a gravitational field, warping the very fabric of space so that no matter where I go, no matter what direction I set my feet towards, I end up walking to where he is. There is no escape from him, and strangely enough, I find that comforting rather than distressing. He is a constant presence in my life, and he's not going anywhere without me. I know better than to rely on him implicitly, he is more than happy to stand by and watch me flounder and sink if I get in over my head, but he would never let me drown, though he might wait until after I'd passed out from water inhalation before he saved me. And he'd probably fuck me while I was out, at least, every other time that he's been forced to step in and save my life, he's exacted a steep price in sex afterwards, and he isn't too choosy about making it good for me, the opposite even, he makes it hurt to convey his disappointment more succiently than words of recrimination ever could. But at the end of the day, I still live, if sore and bloody in places I'd really rather not be either, and as long as there is life, there is hope, or so I strongly believe.

And so I indulge his own little bit of self deception, tongue in cheek you might say, as he goes on and on about how he owns me, mind, body and soul, which is pretty close to the truth sometimes, but its never possible for one human being to truly own another, not without the feeling being mutual. Which is the scary thing, because I am starting to accept his ownership of me, because I am beginning to feel that in turn, I own him, not that I would ever say such a thing out loud. Certainly I feel a unnatural anger rise inside me whenever he waxes wistful about Lacus Clyne, or Pink as he always calls her in endearment, a wish that he'd stop being so stuck on her and focus more on me, the girl he has right here in front of him! I must be a really horrible person, to be jealous of Lacus Clyne even after her death, but damn it all, SHE gave up on him, declared him a lost cause, and I'M the one who's proving her wrong, so WHY is he so hung up on her? He's never even had sex with her! What has she got that I don't? I just hope he doesn't learn about my jealousy, or else he'll have one more tool to torment and taunt me with.

The brush of a fingertip along the ridge of my spine snaps me from my reveries, back to the here and now, the world of darkness I currently inhabit. We are deep in the Himalayan Mountains, far to the north of Garden City, so far away that Yggdrasil would only be a hair thin line poking above the peaks, were it not cloaked by its Latent field of reality warping power. It's just the two of us and our Mobile Suits, having come out here to train. Or rather, I've come out here to train and learn from him, and he's come out here to teach me. And, of course, to torment me, his favorite pasttime. Most of my training boils down to "I'm going to attack, hold me off for as long as possible", but then again, that sort of intensive combat is exactly the sort of experience I need to become stronger. I know all the basics, I have my fighting style, it's just a matter of increasing my reaction time, expanding my bag of tricks, and constantly getting my ass kicked by a superior opponent in a superior machine. But then again, it's hard to get better when you only fight people weaker than yourself. I'm quite proud of myself today, I held him at a near stalemate for a few seconds more than ten minutes during our latest sparring. Even Kira would be pressed to do the same, though of course, this is without the use of Seeds.

He seems to be pleased with my progress as well, judging from his playful and generous mood. He'd gone hunting while I prepared our camp, little more than a camouflage tarp made into a lean-to among some boulders, with a small chemical heater and lantern being the only real amenites. I was in the process of building a cooking fire when he returned, bearing a medium sized Rex Elk over his shoulders. Mind you, a medium sized Rex Elk is about the size of a old Earth pony and weighs upwards of six hundred pounds, which isn't exactly the sort of thing most men can just hoist onto their backs, much less carry for any distance, but then again, he isn't most men. I don't see any sign of a bullet or projectile wound, and am forced to conclude that he just ran the damn thing down and snapped its neck, another thing that is far beyond most any man but him. He smiled broadly when he saw me, perhaps because I'd already dressed myself according to his usual desires. Which is to say, I was naked as the day I was born.

I remember the first time he'd made me strip, I'd been so furious and embarassed about it, and had only done it because he threatened to send me away permanently, which was a no go, since I've sworn an oath to redeem him and save him from his own darkness. It's really not going as planned, I can admit that much, but the end goal has not changed, and will not change. I will save him... even if in turn I must become damned myself. The stripping thing was a contest of wills that I really hadn't understood until recently, I had thought it was just him having fun making me bend to his whims, especially in front of my peers or friends, but as usual with him, there's more to it than just sick amusement. He doesn't know how to trust, you see, trust was never a part of his life, even the man he came to call his father betrayed him on a regular basis and kept him locked up like the rabid animal he wanted his "son" to be. And because he doesn't trust, he requires constant reaffirmation of his dominance over me... in short, he's insecure about his relationship to me, and constantly needs to prove to himself that he's still the one in control. Its more than a bit wacky, but there's not much I can do about it. I see now why he got so intense when I protested about it, he felt I was in a way cheating on him, basically, because I wasn't willing to be under his control, which means he would have to kill me for prides sake, and he really, really doesn't want to do that, though of course he won't admit it.

Its cute in a way, and disturbing in others. He's a control freak, just because he can't even conceive of a relationship where there is mutual power between the people involved, because he's never experienced one in his entire life before. He was always being used by everyone around him while growing up, literally designated as nothing more than a piece of equipment, a Biological Computer Processing Unit, interchangable and utterly replacable, if expensive. His only prior models of human interaction were either as a resentful slave or as a raging emotional typhoon that had no real interactions with people other than killing them. His "partnership" with the terrorist named Asmodeus Sark was more like a nonagression treaty, they both hated each other's guts, since Asmodeus was one of the people that had enslaved him, and they both knew and openly admitted that there would be a time when they fought to kill each other. Its going to take a lot of work on my part to show him that there is such a thing as altruism and sentiment that binds people together without the need for constant physical reaffirmation of the relationship.

Stripping without being told or asked to do so is part of that. If he really likes me to be naked so much, and he does, then its a very small sacrifice to make in order to help gently introduce him to the concept of trust. By catering to his desires without being forced, I can show him that I truly am interested in remaining "owned" by him without action on his part to ensure it. And I do admit, it does my battered ego some small good to see the way he looks at my body. I mean, I've always been aware that I'm pretty exceptional in the looks department... when people compare you to Lacus Clyne, there's no way not to take it as a compliment... but the intensity of the desire I see kindled in his eyes sometimes... he really has a way of making a girl feel extremely special and unique and, well, wanted. I guess that might be it actually... after my experiences as a sex toy in a rape dungeon during my formative sexual years, I think I'd begun to doubt my own self worth, at least as far as a girl and a sexual being, if not as a person entirely. I took lovers, but it was never anything more than a series of one night stands when the need to fuck grew unbearable, I was never interested in cuddling or dating, just an animalistic need to release tension. I didn't think any men would WANT to cuddle with or date a girl who'd spent two years of her life getting fucked in every orifice twenty times a day, who used to drink semen from a bucket and thanked her masters for the privilege afterward. I thought I was tainted by what had happened, that I was damaged goods and no man would ever want to put up with the baggage I would bring to a serious relationship.

He was the one who showed me the falsehood of this misconception of mine, not intentionally I'm sure, but it doesn't change the fact that he was the one who gave me my pride and dignity as a woman and a sexual entity back. It only took him raping me to do it, which is painfully ironic. But the way he looks at me, the way he touches me, like I'm the most wonderous thing in the entire world, the way he makes me gasp and moan and even scream orgasmically when he's making love to me... it shows me more than any words ever could that what happened to me doesn't bother him, doesn't even occur to him as something that SHOULD bother him, perhaps because as bad as my baggage is, its still a small carryon bag compared to his. Of course he would never admit that what he does to me is "making love", he'd probably call it "rutting" or "fornicating" or just "fucking", but believe me, I know the difference between them explicitly. I've rutted, fornicated and fucked with more men and women than I ever want to recall, but there's only one man whom I've ever made love to, who's given me as much if not more pleasure than he's received in turn, and with whom I would gladly seek out sex even when my own physical need is not great, because of the emotional support being with him in so primal and essential a manner gives me.

His fingers continue to trail down my back, stroking my spine like I'm some sort of pet cat, and I have to fight the urge to arch my back into his touch. He has commanded me to be still, another of his affirmation games, and another one I do my best to humor without complaint. Truth be told, I've come to almost eagerly anticipate that particular whisper in my ear, the predatory voice saying "be still and you won't be harmed", which is probably an indication that I am somewhat damaged in the head by experiences old and new, because the stillness game is usually a precursor to lovemaking, assuming I can hold out long enough under his teasing. In a way, this is the foreplay he doesn't consciously know how to do, the idea of getting me ready for sex with light touching, kissing and mood setting probably doesn't consciously occur to him... he'll stick it in me regardless of whether I'm wet or dry, its literally no skin off his parts, since his flesh is more like leather armor than skin, for all its deceptive softness. I'm not so lucky of course, and I have the friction burns and scraps inside my vagina to prove it, though thankfully they make a cream for that. But put things in a game format, where he gets to tease and taunt and torment me while I struggle to stay perfectly still, and he'll do it for hours. And he has sometimes, the bastard, driving me crazy fighting off the urge to collapse bonelessly or just rip his clothes off in a frenzy.

I think it kind of startles him when I have an orgasm during these little games, he kind of forgets just how sensual and erotic his light touching, tickling and fondling is for me, forgets that despite the intent to humiliate and dominate, I still get lots of pleasure out of his ministrations. The current game has been going on for maybe fifteen minutes, and by now I certainly don't have to worry about friction burns or scrapes on my insides! The fire is dying down to just embers, the bulk of the Rex Elk discarded in the woods for the animals to eat, even with his appetites, there's no way the two of us could eat more than about ten pounds of meat in a sitting, the embers giving off just enough heat to stave off the mountain chill on my bare skin, helped considerably by the heat in my loins rising into my belly of course. I'm forced to stare straight ahead, nothing to see besides darkness and the shadowy, hulking outline of a boulder in front of me, while he circles around me, his body in shadow, only his hands seeming to have any definition or form as they move in my peripheral vision, oftentimes reaching out only to stop just short of touching, the breeze of his passage all that tickled my trembling skin. Tonight he really is in a good mood, he's aware that I'm getting off on this and he's still doing it. And he says he doesn't care...

Of course, him being who he is, my trembling does have more to it than just my burgeoning sexual desire, there's a healthy dose of nervousness and ass clenching dread mixed in as well, considering that I am standing straddling the blade of Deathshriek, the QC scythe I had Vaul make especially for him. He loves it, probably more than he loves me in some ways, and unlike with me, he's not afraid to admit that he loves it. He carries it with him just about everywhere, hell, if he slept, he'd probably put it in bed with him like a teddy bear. Thankfully for the safety of my limbs, he didn't do that, I was the only thing allowed to share his bed with him, though he still didn't ever seem to sleep, he would just hold me and brood after I dozed off, and invariably I would wake up alone, though sometimes his spot on whatever surface we were lying on would still be warm when I did. But back to the point, or rather the edge, at hand, I was straddling Deathshriek's edge, sharp enough to slice individual atoms in half, and it was just about touching my groin. Like, if I relaxed the tension in my legs too much, I'd split my clitoris, and everything beneath it, cleanly in half, and the worst thing was, the edge was so sharp I wouldn't even feel it until after it had already happened!

He seems to find this sort of situation highly amusing, which I guess is an indication of just how warped he really is, and despite knowing that even should an accident happen and I do end up cutting myself open on his scythe, that he won't let me die, I'd still really, really rather not have it happen. Because I'd had sharp things inserted into my vagina before, during my time as a sex slave, and its REALLY not something that is fun. There are LOTS of nerve endings there, and a lot of blood vessels too. If you don't hold perfectly still and keep yourself relaxed until your master takes the sharp thing out of you, you chance slicing open a major artery and rapidly bleeding to death. I'd gotten away with nothing more than nicks and light cuts, thankfully that particular master was a rare attendee of the little rape club that had kidnapped me, since the others didn't like the way he tended to damage the goods, so to speak. But yeah, sharp objects and sex organs aren't meant to mix except during some stages of pregnancy and birth, take it from me.

Of course the worst part of it all was that I couldn't actually see the scythe with my eyes facing the way they were, and if I turned my head, even just a tilt of the chin to see where it was, that would break the rules of the game, which at the very least would mean no happy sex tonight, and could end up with me beaten to a bloody pulp and essentially raped, since it was hard to say "yes" when you were beaten unconscious first. He takes these affirmation games very seriously, like I said, any overt resistance at all, even by accident, is basically the same thing as telling him that I've been sleeping with other men. He just doesn't have a scale to rate things on, things are either okay or ultimate betrayal with him. Every moment I spend with him is a test, a test of my worthiness to continue holding his attention in a nonlethal manner. I didn't even know if the scythe was still positioned between my legs, though it does make a very distinctive noise when it moves through the air, thanks the the microscopic channels in the blade that give it its name, I'd been zoned out enough that he could have eased it away without me noticing. He's good like that.

He left off his stroking of my back, somewhat to my disappointment, to begin combing his hands through my hair, which is blue and long, hanging to the swell of my buttocks, and I could feel the light tug on my scalp as he lifted my hair to his face and scented it. Like the rest of me, it smelled like him, since he spent so much time fondling it, but he liked that, saw it as one more proof of ownership. He was really animalistic in that way... all Edenites have a heightened sense of smell that we can use to discern certain amounts of social information, even including mood and of course, sexual status, but his was more like a bloodhound's sense of smell, a whole different world where the scent of a person was like a open book declaring what they'd been up to for the past few days. If I ever did cheat on him, not that I EVER would, for the safety of the entire world, I'd have to spend about a week away from him taking heavily scented baths to disguise the fact, and then I'd have to explain why I'd canceled out his scent marking with the soap, which would probably occur while he hoisted me in the air with his hand slowly throttling me.

My hair fell back against my side and back, tickling me as gravity sorted it out, and he moved back into my field of vision once more, his body and face in shadow, only the crimson bioluminescence of his altered eyes truly visible, the red light within the jelly of his eyes providing all the illumination he needed to see, even in absolute pitch darkness. I could barely see him, even with my eyes adapted to the darkness, but he could see me like I was outlined in neon paint. It was sort of poetically fitting in a way... there was still so much I couldn't figure out about him, whereas he seemed about three quarters done memorizing the book of Lilia in its entirety, and knew the rest pretty damn well also. He was back to using finger touches, studiously avoiding the usual erogenous zones, such as breasts, face and of course the groin, preferring to touch my stomach and sides, run his fingertip down the inside of my arm, cup the curve of my hip with a palm for a moment, and rub the underside of my chin with his thumb knuckle, making me swallow, very hard, in concentration.

He was moving in closer, the glow in his eyes seeming brighter, and my breath started to speed up as well as his touching grew more intimate, his hands cupping and lightly squeezing my breasts before he dropped one hand between my thighs... damn him he HAD removed the scythe... and began rubbing my slickest and hottest spot with two fingers. As a Praetorian I had trained in meditation while balancing on top of a tall stilt pole while my fellows threw hard rubber balls at my face and body, and I can unequivocally say, merely staying still while he touched my most private places, was way, WAY harder to maintain. Though I suppose that with him, I couldn't really call them private places, since they were more often than not in plain view, and he was not afraid to touch them whenever and wherever he wished to. More like "exclusive to him, and sometimes to me" places. Most girls probably couldn't have put up with it, nobody likes being groped at random, even by a boyfriend or lover, but compared to what I'd put up with in the rape dungeon, a little robust fingering at inappropriate times and places was like a chaste kiss between virgins. And besides, the more attention he lavished upon me, inappropriate or not, was less attention he had to spend on killing other people, especially the people he was ostensibly allied with!

I lost my battle with self control the moment he slipped one finger inside me, but though the orgasm rippled through me like a tide of fire, I managed to stay upright and more or less still, stopping myself from losing the whole war because of a single moment... okay a lot of moments... of bliss. The effort involved made me feel like I'd just run to the top of Everest in full gear and a hundred pounds of rocks in my pack, and I was breaking out in cold sweat all over, but by the Tree, I didn't do more than squirm a bit when I wanted to cry out and melt against him, so I counted myself as ahead of the game. Plainly he was in the mood to forgive my involuntary motions also, the grin on his face like that of a little boy that just got a pat on the head from daddy, which I guess might actually be kind of close to how he felt. Men in general seem to be wired to start beating their chests and howling at the moon when they realize they're responsible for giving you pleasure, and not even he could escape that little fact of genetic indoctrination. Of course he took just as much pleasure from seeing me in pain, so taking things with a grain of salt was important, but hopefully I was slowly introducing to him the idea that he got to feel good when he made me feel good, which would hopefully make him want me to feel good more often, and from there I could work on him extending the same courtesy to others, hopefully without the sexual connotations. It would be highly embarassing to end up teaching him that it was okay to go around fingering every woman he met in order to make himself feel good.

And then thoughts abandoned me, as he slipped his second finger inside me and began rubbing and stroking my insides, slowly at first, but speeding up over time, his motions making highly embarassing little "squish" sounds as he plunged his fingers into my moistness, but I hardly cared. Could barely even think to be honest. Yet another effect he has upon me, for some reason he makes me instantly forget that I've literally experienced most every position in the modern Kama Sutra, had experience pleasing multiple men at the same time and basically seen every trick in the book when it comes to sex. By all rights I should be a stone statue right now, when I was with Alex or some of my other lovers of the past, I literally had to masturbate while fucking in order to cum, and that was when I only sought out sex for the express purpose of orgasm stress relief! Certainly two fingers shouldn't have me squirming and melting, but it was always this way with him. I guess there really was more than just words to his statement of "I own you, Mouse, mind, body and soul"... certainly he seemed able to reach parts of me that even I couldn't reliably find. In this case, the shy, sensitive virgin, freshly fallen in love with her first big crush.

Mouse is what he calls me, and at first I really resented it. I mean, who wants to be called a small, largely defenseless rodent? Certainly not me, the proud Praetorian known to all and sundry as Yggdrasil's Valkyrie! That's a pretty big demotion, going from semi-divine chooser of slain heroes to cheese eating food for cats. Its only after long exposure to him that I realize how apt Mouse really is. I may be the fiercest of hawks in my mind, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm weak, mostly defenseless, and basically easy prey for the REAL predators of life, like him. There's something to be said for the mice of the world anyway, without us, the fierce predators wouldn't be able to eat and live... they need us, though they wouldn't admit it. Just like he needs me, and can't or won't admit it. Without me, a part of him he doesn't even realize he has would starve and die, and so too would the rest of him, eventually. So yes, I am a Mouse, and fiercely proud of it. I'm his Mouse, and he can prey on me as much as he likes, because I know that he needs me in order to survive, much as he might play with me before he devours me.

His fingers slowly withdrew from my vagina, sticky with my feminine juices, and his other hand cupped my jaw, turning my face up to look at him as he loomed over me. He's really not that much taller than me, but he does know how to loom with the best of them, using his presence of charisma to make himself seem much bigger than he actually is. I could tell from the look in his eyes that the game was over, I'd passed another test, and that it was time to celebrate. He put his moisture smeared fingers into my mouth and made me lick him clean, another exercise in what many people might consider humiliation, but again, it didn't bother me. It was just another faint taste... I'd been forced to eat much more vile things than my own cum before after all, and it gave me a chance to tease him back a bit, rolling my tongue around his fingers, refusing to let him pull his hand back until I'd triple licked him clean. The little games you play when you're seriously, dangerously in love with someone. He was being very permissive, perhaps amused by something he saw in my own look, and allowed me to guide his hand back down between my legs, adjusting myself slightly to put his fingers back inside me. Game being over, I let out a groan that had everything to do with enjoyment and nothing to do with acting, which I knew well how to do.

I've had more sex than most pornstars ever do, and I could always tell the difference between when a woman on screen was actually enjoying herself or when she just wanted to convince the audience she was enjoying herself. Granted, when sex becomes your job you can't be expected to enjoy it all the time, but still, some of the acting was just atrocious, the moans being more pained than pleasured. Its even more important to give the impression than you're having a good time when you're a sex slave, because if your master or mistress doesn't think you're enjoying their ministrations, they're liable to get ugly with you as punishment. Of course, the worst most pornstars had to look forward to when their acting was bad was another boring redo of the scene, whereas I had multiple instruments of torture just waiting to be used mercilessly upon me, so perhaps that accounts for my greater acting skills. In any case, with him I didn't fake it, didn't need to, though an outside observer might have commented upon how often and how loudly I moaned and groaned, perhaps thinking I was overacting. No, no he's actually that good, I'm happy to say.

He picked me up like I was a featherweight, still maintaining his fingers inside me, stroking and rubbing and lightly twisting in an unbelievably intense manner... he'd once said, after I begged him to divulge how he could be so damned good with just his hands, that there was little fundamental difference between torturing a woman and pleasuring one, it was all in how much pressure you applied to the nerves. Which was disturbing, par for the course with him, though I guess it made sense, especially after he'd demonstrated just how much he could make it hurt with just a little difference in motion and pressure of his fingertips. I wasn't one to scream in pain... another thing a sex slave learned not to do unless commanded to... but he had me howling like a banshee with just his two fingers inside me, no tools, no drugs, just his damn fingertips made me hurt so much I wanted to die! I wrapped my legs around his hips, not to ease my weight, since he could hold me pretty much indefinitely with just one arm, but to relieve some of the strain of his hand against my privates, since I'd been close to getting fisted, rather than just fingered, in that position. Again, speaking from experience, that isn't fun. Some people like it, but I'm not one of em.

And then he was kneeling, laying me down on the dirt, withdrawing his fingers from within me as he dropped his pants to release his erection, and I barely even had time to wrap my arms across his shoulders and cross my ankles behind his back before he was thrusting into me, as usual starting out with power and sustain, so hard it was right at the cusp of being painful, his cock like a solid steel dildo thinly coated in oiled leather, filling me up inside. Oddly enough, as good as he is with his hands, he has little to no technique when it actually comes to sex itself, he just thrusts into you, hard and fast, at a rate that would tire out a goddamn machine but never seems to phase him, and it becomes a matter of hanging on for dear life, ignoring the scrapes and scratches from the ground, and trying not to pass out from the pleasure. He puts his entire being into those thrusts, so much so that sometimes it feels like he's literally going to break me in half, and his hands are apt to leave large bruise marks wherever he sets them, he gets so involved in what he's doing, he forgets how extremely goddamn strong he is! I'm not usually one for biting or clawing backs... a good slave never bites or claws with her nails, unless ordered to... but his skin is basically impregnable to merely human nails and teeth, and I need all the grip I can get!

Besides, he seems to get off on me taking hold of the base of his neck and shoulder with my teeth, and even when I draw his miraculous blood, which of course almost instantly scabs, he just chuckles like I'm paying him the highest compliment in the world. He's said again and again that he doesn't regard pain itself as a sexual pleasure, but he sure doesn't seem to mind pain while indulging in sexual pleasure. Something of a fine distinction, I'm sure you'll agree. He puts his weight on me, he's certainly no gentleman, because he's pretty heavy, heavier than any normal person of his size, compressing my chest and trapping me between him and the hard ground. I once joked, after we'd made love atop a boulder, that I really knew what it was like to be caught between a rock and a hard place, which almost got a smile from him, a major victory by any standard of measure. But in truth I like his weight atop me, his heaviness, his solidity as he thrusts himself deep within me, like he's pinning me to the ground... he's like a armored blanket that keeps the rest of the world out, a steel bank vault door I can pull on top of me to keep me safe from whatever might wish me harm. No one and nothing can hurt me while I'm pinned beneath him like this, I believe this like I believe the sky is blue.

He's speeding up, his breathing actually growing a little quicker, and I tense up in anticipation, having been hanging onto my limit for a while now, and then it's happening, his body shudders, his cock vibrates in my depths, and then hotness spurts into me as he cums, my body twitching against his like an electric shock victim as I let myself go as well, and our world fades to starbursts of color, sensation and intimacy. You know what I'm talking about if you've ever had a mutual orgasm with the person you love, and if you don't, assuming you're not underage, then I am really sorry for you. I probably screamed at some point in time, the glad kind of scream, and he may have grunted or groaned himself as he released, I can never seem to keep track. Senses return slowly, and I find that he's rolled over, for once, pulling me atop him as he gradually goes limp inside me, though he makes no moves to pull out. I'm certain he'll be ready to go again soon, its rare for us to stop at merely one ejaculation, but for the time being I luxuriate in the aftermath, my head resting below his chin, my body cuddling against his as my hands lightly stroke his sides. I'm still shaking with aftermath, and for perhaps the first time ever, he mistakes what I'm feeling.

"Cease thy trembling, Mouse." He whispers into my ear, his arms coming up to hold me against him, entrapping me, locking me down against him, claiming me for the whole world to see, even though its just us two in this world of darkness. "No terror of night or dreams could ever hope to match the terror you have already welcomed into your bed and body. You belong to me, mind, body and soul. Your pain, your pleasure, your screams and your gasps... I own them all, and no other ever shall."

This isn't the first time he's said the latter bit... he's big into repetition, though whether its because he thinks I've forgotten, or that he is the one who's forgotten, I can't say. But the first part of the comment is new, this is the first time I'd ever experienced him trying to reassure me and calm my fears. I debated telling him that it was just the shakes coming from an intense orgasm, that I wasn't trembling in fear of something, not even him at the moment. But I decided I liked the current situation better, because it did display, intentionally or not, that he cared for my well being, in his way. That he didn't want me to be scared, except of him. That he would protect me, if not exactly for my sake. And that he considered whatever it was that we had to be fairly permanent, and he seemed to like that idea. Progress, indeed. Hard to believe that this man, this exceptional man that I really cared far more for than was safe, was the infamous Zacharis Quentin Frost, a man seriously in contention for the "most hated and feared single person in modern history" award, alongside such notables as Gilbert Durandel, Noah Borander and Patrick Zala! A man who was, by his own and most other people's definition, pretty close to pure evil, and insane to boot. A man who called himself monster, and took pride in it.

He was the Darkness in the Human Soul. The Eyes of the Abyss that Stare Back. The Whetstone of Humanity. The End of All. He was one fated to unite humanity in a great conflict against himself, in the interest of making humanity stronger than it was. He was a man like no other, and I was deeply afraid that I was head over heels in love with him. I'd sworn an oath that I would do the impossible and redeem this lost soul, guide him back to the light in which all men and women were born, a goal even Kira Yamato and Lacus Clyne themselves had given up on attempting, but upon descending into his world of darkness, I'd found that there was already light, of a sort, here, for what is light but a lessening of the darkness? Far from illuminating him, I'd found myself illuminated as I slowly sank into the blissful dark, and incredibly, had found happiness and contentment in the midst of fear, suffering and hatred. It wasn't so much about saving him from himself for his own sake anymore... now my goal was to save him for myself, to reach an understanding with this unique man so that he could be mine forever.

I felt him stir within my loins once more, my shaking having ceased upon his arms enfolding me, and I slowly pushed herself upright until I was straddling him, looking down upon him in all his glory, free yet still pinned in place via our fundamental connection. I wasn't going anywhere, as he hardened and lengthened anew inside me, and I smiled down at him, his look somewhere between guarded and quizzical in reply. I touched the side of his face, stroking his jawline, staring into the phosporescent red glowing eyes, imagining the normal shades of violet with pupils of solid gold, like my own, lilac with gold, enjoying the peaceful moment, his member hot and fufilling inside me, before I leaned slowly back down to lie atop him once more, wishing that I could be a blanket for him like he was for me. I placed my head down in the nook of his neck once more, as his hips began to thrust up into mine, my toes digging into the dirt on either side of him for purchase, my hands gripping his shoulders tightly. "Tell me who owns me." I whispered to him softly. "Tell me who I am, Zach..."

"You know who owns you." He replied, putting his hands on my hips to hold me in place as he began thrusting up into me harder, making me gasp softly in reaction. "You are the Mouse. You know this too."

"Yes." I replied, closing my eyes and squirming my hips to allow his thrusts to penetrate deeper inside me, gasping again as he filled me, my insides still tender from our first bout of lovemaking. "But I like hearing you say it."

"You're a strange one, Mouse. What would Yamato say?" He arched his brow at me mockingly.

"Who gives a shit?" I reply, stifling another gasp of pleasure as he strokes inside me. "I don't care what Kira thinks anymore. I care about what YOU think, Zach! That's all!"

"And you know what I think?" He asks me, his brow still arched, his tempo freezing with him fully embedded inside me. For an instant I think I've said something wrong, that I've stepped over a line and released his more bloodthirsty side, and I start to shake again. "I think I prefer listening to you gasp than talk." He finishes, and I find myself once more in my accustomed place, pinned beneath him as he mounts me, hanging on for dear life with all my limbs. I've made him happy again, and I smile, as I oblige his desire. Its just the two of us in this world of darkness after all. Neither of us is getting out of here without the other. What more really needs to be said?