Page 29 of Stolen Slave

“Right. Shower time. This I can do. If you hit the button for the soap, I can wash myself this time.”

Cleanser hit my back from shoulders to tailbone in rapid succession.

“I said I could do it,” I grumbled, reaching around for a palmful. When I looked at the soap, it wasn’t soapy at all. But it did have a pretty iridescence to it.

His hand clamped down on my shoulder to keep me steady while he started rubbing it into my back in small circles. I rolled my eyes at his persistence and brought the cleanser to my nose to smell it. The scent wasn’t anything floral or overpowering but had a subtle quality that reminded me of my keeper.

I rubbed the handful into my arm. It didn’t suds up, but the more I rubbed, the more my skin shimmered. His hands made quick work of my back, and I mentally braced myself for another unwanted invasion. He smoothed his hand over each butt cheek, and with a healthy helping of cleanser, slipped between them. Only it didn’t feel invasive. Not like his alien toilet had. In fact, each gentle swipe helped remove that lingering feeling.

Without his prompting, I widened my stance a little more, willing to erase the memory.

The thumb of his anchoring hand swept over my shoulder, and he said something. The hand between my cheeks disappeared only to return with more cleanser. I didn’t mind being double-washed back there today. His touch was far preferable to that possessed space toilet.

As he worked his way down my legs, I was feeling pretty darn relaxed.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

VYA

My keeper said something, patted my shoulder, then turned me.

I smiled up at him. However, my relaxed humor evaporated when he retreated a step. He was completely naked and, with a massive hand, reached between his legs and grabbed one of his two cocks.

Yes, two.

A really big one that hung long and straight between his legs.

And a marginally less big one above it that he clenched in his fist.

I hadn’t yet recovered from the shock enough to panic when he moved his hand—more of a squeeze than a pump—and something flew from the end.

Dollops of shimmer shot from him, hitting me in rapid succession.

Torso, valley of the breasts, collarbone, chin.

Bam-bam-bam-bam.

He released his top shaft and started rubbing the not-cleanser into my skin.

I wheezed in one breath, then another, as I tried to think through what exactly he was rubbing into my skin. It couldn’t be what it looked like. I sparkled. That was something that lotions and soaps did.

Back on Earth.

This wasn’t Earth. This was his spaceship. And he obviously made the rules here.

And the shimmer cream.

I started shaking in earnest while he held me steady with one hand and used the other to smooth his cream onto my breasts. He worked like he usually did. Methodically unrushed, yet, not gropey.

However, it didn’t feel the same. How could it? Now, I knew what he was doing to me. Wait. Did I? No, I didn’t. What was he doing if he wasn’t washing me?

While he worked, he spoke to me in his typical soothing way, but it wasn’t calming me like it usually did. Each of my breaths came faster than the last until I was panting and light-headed in my panic. Which was probably why he skipped my folds and continued down my legs.

I tried to tell myself that he’d done this to me twice already, but it didn’t help.

When he reached my toes, he stepped back and shot more not-cleanser at me, starting the process all over again. A repeat wash was new. So was the way he touched me. Instead of small rubbing circles on my shoulders, he kneaded them.

He was doing it again. Forcing without forcing. Doing what he needed to do to calm me down.

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