Typical disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rated a hard M. Turn back if you're too young and/or not into ZaDr.
Title based on the song by Godsmack.
Love, hate, sex, pain...
It's complicating me sometimes...
I descend to the base as soon as I walk through the door, leaving the world, the day, and my fury with my book bag on the kitchen floor. Well, maybe not all my fury, my claws seem perpetually clenched into fists, I'm made for war and destruction after all.
Now that I'm enclosed in the only sanctuary I know, surrounded by cold steel coils and the low hum of a hundred machines, I feel the set of my shoulders relax a little bit as I sink into my chair. I can finally discard this stupid disguise, and I agree with him for once, it is utterly laughable that I survive day in and day out undetected. The computer comes to life as soon as I'm recognized, throwing useless security data and mission statistics across the monitor as if something has changed since yesterday aside from depleting supplies and one more "x" on the calendar. Somehow I thought conquering the world would be more fun, most of the time its just a test of my patience and exercises in varying degrees of rage. I silently console myself, claws steepled against my lips, this will all be over soon and when I stand on the highest point of this dirt ball, I will laugh at those pathetic creatures in their well deserved chains and rest my foot on one back in particular, feeling his spine buckle...
My antennae shiver, detecting movement somewhere to my left just before I catch the sounds of something softly stirring, rousing its self as if summoned by my thoughts. I turn my chair just in time to see him emerge from the darkness, his sleek muscled body bathed in indigo light as he slowly crawls across the floor, head down, the chain around his neck producing a faint ring with every movement. He wears nothing but a pair of black vinyl pants and the collar with a chain. I won't even give him his glasses. I like to watch his bones move beneath all that soft white skin. I like to see his naked face. He will not raise his eyes, he wouldn't dare, so he doesn't see the twitch of my lip, the flash of exposed teeth as he raises himself to his knees before my feet and crosses his arms in the small of his back.
"Forward," I command.
He complies immediately, shuffling with meager grace between my knees, burying his face in my crotch, teasing my cock from its sheath, mouthing the shape it makes through my pants. I lean my head back and sigh, my claws finally unfolding, my impotent anger redirected into something more productive as my dick eagerly responds to the stimulation of his lapping, oscillating of its own accord behind the confining fabric. His hands raise in a gesture that looks like surrender even as he continues these ministrations, his sole way of communication since speaking would earn him nothing but pain.
He takes my boots off first then neatly folds my pants on top of them before resuming his position, his tongue is like fire against my bare flesh , and when he consumes me all at once I can't help the gasp that slips past or win against the urge to take fist fulls of his black hair in my grasp and slam my hips into his face. He takes this punishment with his hands folded behind him, we've done this so many times before, he knows to be quiet, to be the best little slave he can possibly be if he wants to see tomorrow, he knows his life is meaningless except for this, the feel of my cock slithering down his throat, wrapping around his satin tongue like lovers embraced. He knows I will kill him if he doesn't give me everything, if he doesn't make his master happy.
I pull him back by the grip in his hair and present my fingers, he takes all three of them in his mouth with the same vigor and I watch them disappear and reappear, the spit glistening against the tight latex of my glove. If there is a better purpose for humans I have yet to find it...especially this one. What comes next is the only time he's allowed to move without instruction because I like to see him do it on his own, a testament to his avid submission, the way he stands and unfastens his pants, discarding them without a care to stand naked and vulnerable before me, his member heavy and pink with arousal. Then he turns and drops to his knees, leaning forward to press his cheek against the floor, his arms resuming their post in the center of his back, his ass presented for the next act in our play. The sight of him poised like this never fails to excite me beyond measure, sometimes I merely pleasure myself while he remains this way, trying not to shiver on the concrete floor.
Tonight is not one of those nights, not after the way I was insulted today, not after the way his voice rang out across the halls to ridicule and accuse me. He will suffer even if he has no idea why and I do not give him reason as I push one, two and finally all three of my wet claws inside of him, stretching the unyielding entrance of his body to its full capacity even as he cries and then screams. I used to punish for these sounds but after so long they have grown on me and my lust shudders with impatience as I press my entire hand to the wrist past the quivering pink opening and curl the trapped digits into the fist they know so well. Despite his obvious pain he begins to work himself back and forth on the obstruction, his entire body quaking with the effort it takes, though I notice his cock is still rock hard. This goes on until his moans become hitched and disjointed, borderlining on sobs.
When I pull him onto my thighs and thrust my cock inside his ass I can practically feel his gratitude coming off in waves, though I make him sit with his back facing me, if I look at him right now, I still might kill him. He rides me with the power of his legs, if I even see his hands move from his back I'll beat him until he passes out, to steady his strides I hold him by a bruising grip to his pelvis. I watch the black bolt of his hair bounce up and down in time with the sound of his dick slapping against the front of his stomach, his pace eventually rising to a maddening tempo that forces me to groan and brace myself against the back of the chair, hips rising to meet him on every descent. My orgasm rips through me like a vicious living thing, taking my rage, my day and the world, shooting all of it into the creature still writing on my lap, the breathing embodiment of my torment and obsession.
When it's over he takes to his knees once more before me, head down, arms tucked. The only difference now is that his chest moves with his panting, there is a fine sheen of sweat all over his slender body and his cock leans towards me, the head swollen and dripping with precome.
I like him this way so I dress myself and resume my position in the chair, relaxed and renewed, ready to plan an attack on the five closest cities. I should leave him this way, aching and unfulfilled, held in check by nothing more than his desire to open his eyes tomorrow.
"Finish it." I am not merciful, especially to the boy who thwarts me at every turn and makes a mockery of my reason for being, but on occasion kindness isn't beyond my scope.
A whine comes from his throat and he takes his cock in his hand and strokes it harshly, moving his fingers over the pulsing tip with expert skill, his pelvis gyrating with each pass over the turgid length. He throws his head back and moans when he comes, pearly white fluid jetting from his clenched fist to splash against his stomach and even the center of his chest with the force of his climax. He arches away from me when this happens because he knows if any of it gets on me, he'll be licking it off after I put my boot in his ribs a few times. He wipes the excess from himself and smears it on his pants where it will not absorb but rather sit there like a reminder until he changes into the next identical pair tomorrow.
"I hate you."
These words, spoken so suddenly with such assurance, make him forget himself and he stares straight into my eyes with such shock that I don't remember to lean forward and smack him. Then his head drops and I can see, even in the purple shadows, the look of heart broken anguish that molds his face into a mask pain and brings swells of tears to his eyes.
"I love you, Zim..."
"You are insolent tonight, Dib 76, have you grown so tired of your pathetic existence?"
He cringes away from me, knowing Dib 77 could be created at any moment from the hair and skin samples I took of the real Dib so long ago. Yes, there have been 76 Dib clones. The first prototypes were exact replicas but I found them too strong willed and unruly, it has taken years to give the boy the correct attributes and characteristics to become my perfect pet, not mindless but unwavering in his dedication to serve me, though some days I still come home and kill them because the original has pushed me past control.
"Get out of my sight."
I watch him crawl away and dream of the day when the real Dib will weave his way to me on hands and knees, that look of perfect submission gleaming in his eyes.