For an alien, she looked surprisingly human. She wasn’t really an alien, of course, but that was what they were calling them, until they got to know the rules a little bit better. The sigil that would control her and bind her was printed on the slip, and he had several other copies stashed elsewhere in the house. She wasn’t going anywhere.
On her knees, she was beautiful.
She had long, straight, fine pale hair that flowed to her lower back, bound once in a ring at the back of her head. She had a good frame, and the full, ruddy flesh of a child, but she was not overweight. She appeared to be about twenty-four. His eyes devoured her.
Her head was bowed, solemnly; sadly, of course. She was in bondage to him. What he could tell of her face was that it was kind and generous, with roundish features that excited him. She seemed a bit of a tomboy, without even doing anything.
Her clothes were only a flimsy white cotton half shirt, and a pair of white shorts that were wrinkled and slightly dirty. Around her wrists and neck she wore thin, silver rings of wire that were connected to each other with a silver cord that formed an upside down Y. The thread was only a metaphor, in fact: it would disappear if all of his sigils were destroyed.
She was his.
Not knowing how to address her, he asked her name.
“Rayna,” she said, facing him with some acceptance and an almost friendly measure of politeness. Rayna. He liked her, liked that she wouldn’t be frightened, nor difficult. He guided her (she walked on her knees) onto the big plush carpet of the living room, where she knelt before the couch, and he made himself a drink.
“So tell me about your... your world,” he said, pouring.
“My world is my perception,” she said, looking into his empty fireplace. “If you thought as I do, you could see it.”
“Are you saying I’m not as intelligent as you are?” he asked, his eyes flashing up for a second in anger, but his head keeping still toward the bar.
“You see things differently.”
He turned, smiling, holding his drink.
“Touche.” He strode over to the couch in front of her, and sat down. Looking casual, he sipped his drink, not looking at her. “Escape is impossible,” he said suddenly. He looked to her, to find her looking back at him, pleasantly. “Sigils are planted here, throughout the house, and in safety deposit boxes, and in places no one’s even dreamed, that only I know about.” She smiled, and blinked at him.
Not meeting a challenge, he looked back down into his drink, and shook the ice around a little.
“What do you call yourself? What kind of thing are you, I mean?”
“You want to know about my family, my culture.”
“They wouldn’t tell me...”
“They told you only I was a subordinate spirit.”
“‘Alien’ is the term, these days. Can’t have any superstition.”
“The people at the service, the office, said...”
“They said, you might have been in bondage to a human being before. Maybe a magician. Were you?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Why not?”
“I’d rather not say.”
He clinked the ice.
“Are you angry at me?” he asked her, again without looking up.
“No.”
“How do you feel about me?”
“You are my master. You are my owner, and my captor. What is to feel, but what you tell me?”
“Do you want to please me?”
“If you want me to want it.”
“Forget that. Are you attracted to me?”
“No.”
“Really?” He smiled, and put the drink on the table at the side of the couch. “Why not?”
“I am attracted to females,” she said.
“You what? Really?” He started pacing at once. “Well, that’s just great,” he said. “I ask for a supernatural sex slave and they send me a lesbian ghost.”
“I am not a ghost,” she said.
“Nymph, spirit, water being, let’s not mince words anymore, it’s getting annoying. Jesus, I’m getting on the phone to them, heads are going to roll over this,” he said, and began dialing. “I make one simple request...”
“I am what you wished for,” she said plainly, still on her knees, hands folded on her copious thighs, her head turned to face him.
He paused, and examined her. He put the phone down.
“Please,” he said, “no technicalities, no word play. Don’t tell me that because I stuttered or paused too long while I was ordering that I’ve gotten something that I obviously didn’t want. I know how irony works, and I know that magic is lousy with it.”
“You said,” she began, drawing in his focus to her, “that you wanted an expert in sex. This is, really, someone who can be objective about it, and not be rushed nor distracted by passion; but instead, someone who can remain calm, and practice techniques and caresses that when carefully and faithfully executed will send their recipient into ecstacy. I am not attracted to you, no. I will not lose myself in you. I am a technician. I am the best lay that you can ever have. I don’t care shit about you, and because I am not human, I care even less than a human lesbian would. I am a creature with superior abilities to your own forced by sorcery into the position of your pet. There could never be a more bored or skillful compliment to you, than I. The intelligences you petitioned with your petty carnal request would not have been flawed in filling it. They selected and processed me. I am the best that you can get, the best that any mortal man could ever have. I am the dream.”
With that, she turned up her lips in a slight grimace of reservation, almost like swallowing a really bad punchline, and turned away from him.
He stared down at her, suddenly aware of himself again, and realized that he had stopped breathing. Starting again proved somewhat difficult, but he eventually managed.
“Okay,” he hoarsely said, quietly, in a paradox of victorious surrender.
Before long, he was sitting with his shoes off, in front of her on the great couch, and had instructed her to show him what perfect ecstacy was.
“Take your pants down,” she told him.
“Why don’t I have you do it, for me?” he asked wryly, hoping to add to the excitement of the proceedings.
“Would you like my advice during this, or...?”
“Okay, okay,” he said, realizing that slave or no, she was the authority here, and thus logically the one to go to with these choices.
He stood up, wildly undid his belt, dropped his trousers, and sat back down again.
She looked away, with ennui.
“Your boxers, as well.”
“Hm? Oh, sorry.” He had been used to masturbating with his pants down, but his boxers on, through the pee hole. He got up, dropped them, and sat down again.
She faced him, professionally. She was at once contemplative, and confident. She put her hands under the backs of his knees, holding his legs in place, and lowered her head over his manhood.
For a short time, he didn’t feel anything.
He could see the sky above the roof, as though with x-ray vision, and he could feel the tug of the clouds shooting by at unimaginable speeds, winds scraping mountains into dust, the blue of the heavenly vault a thick, crusted fresco. He saw the gold of the sunlight as a valuable commodity, as real gold, as power.
He realized he was having visions.
He fought through the sluggishness at the back of his skull up to his eyes, and tried to peer out of them.
Her lapping was putting him into a trance, ensconcing his limbs and torso in a sore weight, welding his jaw open in a drooling, silently groaning crevasse. Every nerve on his scalp seemed to individually speak to him.
Her head moved up, and it moved down.
There was a snake curling around the world, a real snake, and a monster, one that would one day wake and end the world, and its scales were plates of fire.
Her head moved up, and down.
The hair at his anus twiddled over their opening. Was he aging? He felt ancient, immobile, useless.
Her head moved up, and down.
The hair in the sheen of daylight on sea waves that protruded from her skull beckoned to him. Everything was edible, smoked, stroked against his face.
Her head slid up on him, and down, back around him.
He wasn’t on earth anymore, he was spiraling above it with his hands out like the Christ, and pirouetting into the stars, and there was a lovely, friendly carnival going on up there.
Her kiss moved up, washed down.
His shoulders and head exploded in light. Drugs had never been like this.
Her head moved up. What was she doing to him?
Suddenly there was a flash of frightening brilliance, and no feeling existed, but his view of her taking him in her mouth before him, subordinate, was clear to him. The tour of metaphorical joy was ended.
Her head only moved with her shoulders and her ribs as she breathed the Earth’s air through her nostrils, imperceptibly: she kept her lips fixed at his base as if waiting for something, eyes open but unalarmed.
At once satisfied that the moment she was awaiting had come, she closed her eyes, and began swirling her tongue around it.
Oh, he cried, eyes closing in rapture, mouth crunching into a little circle. His breath fled out of him.
Oh! Still in the sitting position, arms and legs unmoving, his body began to levitate ever so slightly in its seat.
OH. Ambient light in the room grew in intensity as she started bobbing on and off his dick, having taken him to the top of the world, able to finish him now with a standard physical drawing out of his semen. Her tongue lashed wetly, splattering his balls and thighs with her saliva and his precum.
OH! He was gasping in a silent, paused and straining laughter as he continued to rise slowly in his sitting pose above the couch, and she was jerking him with her lips and the velvety insides of her mouth and her tongue. His eyebrows wavered wildly, his toes crunched mechanically, his organs shook.
As the light around them grew, his face seemed gaunt and dark, twisted up in agonized glee, until everything went blank.
The cum that had filled his shaft like the juice of a battery shot forth, and his muscles clenched and rippled, propelling it. She had to take the cock in her hand to keep it steady, but her head was driven off of it by the force of his ejaculations, and she kept her eyes bowed and aside as the joy exploded from him.
Everything dissolved for him, as he shot it; fleshy, wet, veined, pulsing, chiming, hard, done.
The next month, as she wore a sigil on a ring as a reminder of her bondage to him, she chided him as he tried to escape for work in the morning.
“Don’t forget the milk, and feed for kitty, and remember the Andersons are coming over for bridge this evening,” she yelled, in her flowery apron, waving a rolling pin after him as he opened his car door.
“Yes, dear,” he grumbled, and got in.