Page 17 of Stolen Slave

The mystery of our destination was answered when he set me on the same cool exam table from yesterday and placed a palm in the center of my chest to nudge me to lie back. His fingers almost touched one of my nipples. I told myself that, since he didn’t have any, he probably didn’t realize what he was doing. It took a lot of effort to believe that until the hand withdrew.

He carefully removed the bandage from my eyes, and I blinked at the light. It was brighter than it had been before. But when I looked around, I still couldn’t pick out any distinguishable shapes. Certainly not any indication of my captor.

He spoke, and the tinny voice answered.

Lights flashed above me. The robotic vocalization after the lights ended was lengthy, and I ended up with a new bandage over my eyes and another stinging shot to the thigh.

The alien immediately stroked his fingers over the spot, soothing away the pain, before picking me up again. Cold from the table and shaking from fear—I hated not being able to see what was happening to me—I leaned into him a little as he moved. He didn’t seem to mind.

The walk was shorter this time, and he sat me on a hard chair instead of a bed. Chairs were good. Much better than beds. Or steamy rooms with bathtubs.

He said something to me and patted my shoulder before walking away.

Tilting my head, I listened to some beeps and rustles of movement and realized the underwater effect that I had been hearing for days was gone. My eyes watered, and more hope built inside of me. My new keeper had taken me from hell, washed me, let me sleep undisturbed and unmolested, and seemed to be giving me medical treatments that were helping fix some of what I’d suffered.

And now, I was in a chair. Why?

I tentatively reached out my hands to feel what was around me. A table and another chair. My mouth started to water. For all I knew, I sat in front of an operating table, and my Pavlovian response was pointless. But based on everything that had happened so far, I didn’t think so. And I really hoped I was right because I was starving and thirsty. So thirsty.

Fingers touched my arm, letting me know he was nearby.

I set my hands back in my lap, waiting for what would happen next but was completely unprepared for the way he plucked me off my chair and sat me sideways on his lap. Before I had a chance to panic over the new seating arrangement, he wrapped one of my hands around a cup and nudged it toward my mouth.

Rather than hesitate, I drank greedily. The sweet, slightly metallic water wet my parched throat and helped fill the empty cavern of my stomach.

He took the cup from me when I finished and set something else in my hand. A spoon. I stopped caring that I sat on his lap or that he was doing a lot of touching. I eagerly let him guide my hand to the bowl and dip the spoon. He held my hand steady as I brought it to my mouth. It smelled amazingly sweet.

I shoved the spoon in.

Something wiggled in my mouth.

I gagged, spat it out, and frantically wiped at my tongue. He just calmly wiped at my gag-reflex tears that had snuck past the bandage and stroked my arms. I decided then and there that he could shock me until I died. I wasn’t eating anything that wiggled in my mouth.

It took a few minutes for me to stop shuddering and another minute before I’d hold the spoon. He never got angry through his steady persistence to get me to clasp the utensil.

Rather than let him feed me another pile of what I was sure was live candied worms, I felt the table with my free hand. He took my fingers and placed them on the edge of two bowls, then made me stretch to feel the edge of a third bowl, which was pushed very far away.

Calmer, I let him help me try again. The second dish didn’t move in my mouth, which was good. But it tasted like how stagnant water smelled. I immediately gagged again, even as I tried to swallow. It wasn’t going to happen.

He met my second spitting eruption with the same calm, reassuring touches as the first one. When I stopped gagging, he pushed that bowl aside and moved the final one in front of me.

If it proved just as bad as the first two, I’d need to find a way to choke the contents down, or I’d starve. I’d been eating mashed-up bugs for a month. Why was I being so picky now? That answer was easy. The bugs, while disgusting, had been better than the shocks I’d received when I’d refused to eat.

I realized that his care for me and the lack of shocks so far had led to a subconsciously perceived level of safety. Because of that, I’d allowed myself to react as if I had a choice in what I ate…and that was dangerous.

I prepared myself to swallow whatever was in the next bowl. No matter what.

He placed the spoon in my hand once more and helped me dip it into a bowl. If he noticed my hesitancy to bring it to my mouth, it didn’t appear to bother him. He gently trailed a finger over my cheek, seemingly content to let me take my time.

When I finally did give the food a try, I moaned at the familiarity of it. It was the best damn oatmeal I’d ever eaten. And I didn’t like oatmeal.

I hungrily shoveled another spoonful into my mouth, keeping my fingers on the bowl so I’d know where to aim.

My living chair made a rumbling sound and trailed his hand down my spine. I paused with the spoon right in front of my open mouth when his fingers danced over the cleft of my ass. He said something and nudged the spoon as his other hand returned to the top of my head to repeat the petting motion.

Was that what he was doing? Petting me?

He was feeding me, comforting me, and caring for me.

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