The Slave, the Snake, and the Sinner Pt. 03

SORRY FOR THE PREVIOUS DOUBLE-UPLOAD... this is the new one

NOTE: This chapter is less just-plain-nasty than the first two parts, but it's still non-con, so don't get your panties in a bunch when no one gets doe-eyed. And, as usual, I write long stories (this is the 3rd of 4 parts). Feel free to skip ahead to the juicy bits, but they're even juicier if you know how they're related!

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IV: No Saints Here

Becoming a slave certainly sped up the process of personal growth.

Cassia nearly snorted when the thought occurred, though it was surprisingly accurate: she'd whizzed through a dozen versions of her personality this week, none of which she'd seen before. Were they true, deep-seated changes or transient reactions to stress? No idea, but whatever they were, they'd all been important in bringing her to this moment. And in this moment, she was very, very angry.

Cassia had always believed hopelessness was the very end of the road, a random genetic detour from the five stages of grief where depression became apathy instead of acceptance. From there it was a short step to suicide or a slower death via one's drug of choice. She'd been wrong, though. After being abducted from the Vixen Vacation Queen and repeatedly raped in the hold of the slave ship Sultana, Cassia had taken a left turn from anger into a short-lived burst of hopelessness, and there, she'd found the road diverged once more. And at the end of that road was fury.

Cassia was mad as hell. Mad at her parents, mad at Kenneth and herself, and mad, most of all, at Marcus Rasim Sinter, whose full name she'd learned that very same morning. And this development didn't feel at all transient. It felt like something that had been a long time coming, something that would leave behind a brand-new Cassia. She wasn't at all sorry about it, either.

She'd always tried to be a good person. Since her father's money meant she didn't have to work for her tuition, she volunteered at a shelter for battered women, and she studied when she might have played, habits that would have gotten her out of college a year early without denting her 4.0. Even before college, she'd always tried to do the right thing, taking care of her family when she was young enough that other people should still have been caring for her. When she should have been failing Lipstick 101 with a horde of giggling girlfriends, she'd been sitting at her mother's bedside, spoon-feeding her broth which usually came right back up. Cassia's first trip with her brand-new driver's license should have been going to a mall or movie in a sporty little coupe. Instead, her father had given her a boring blue sedan so to safely chauffeur her mom's chemotherapy sessions. She'd never complained, never said a word about it, but where had all that goodness gotten her?

Nowhere. When he should have been sharing the burden of her mother's illness, her father had over-worked his way through grief, stopping only to attend the funeral his daughter had arranged. She was angry with him for remarrying before she'd even had a chance to forgive him for abandoning her. She was angry at her step-brother for years of sniping insults and snooping in her room. She was altogether done with his shit several years ago, but she'd been a "good girl" through all of it, biting her tongue so as not to make any trouble for her father or her step-mother, a nice woman who didn't deserve the loathsome progeny fate had given her.

None of her former "niceness" had mattered, however, and Cassia felt no need to continue. What Snake had done to her in the dark, dirty cell had freed her from all societal inhibitions. Her mother's advice—if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all—certainly didn't apply here, and Cassia wasn't sorry for any of the changes taking place in her head and or in her soul. She felt as though her "Fuck you" to Ghan in the hold had also been a giant "fuck you" to her father for his desertion, to her mother for dying, to her step-brother for being his asshole self, and to everyone on board this floating hell-hole.

She was even mad at the three inexpert lovers of her past: if she'd experienced good sex before she got here, maybe she wouldn't react the way she did to Captain Fucking Sinter.

Despite sloughing off the bindings of her formerly sweet, obliging self, Cassia tried to remember that she should be wooing the captain instead of provoking his temper. She should be manipulating the situation to her advantage, trying to coerce him into keeping her with him, then waiting for an opportunity to escape. She firmly agreed with all those "should"s in her head, but her blossoming temper kept getting away from her, and Cassia's past didn't lend itself to nurturing illusions.

Still, she was no longer as hopeless as she'd been before.

Maybe it was seeing the light of day again. Maybe it was sleeping soundly, without worrying about Snake attacking her. Maybe it was being fed, or being clean. Whatever it was, suicide-by-Ghan no longer seemed to be an option. She still didn't think she'd be rescued―she doubted this ship was headed anyplace with an extradition treaty―and no amount of hope could change what would happen to her on shore, but maybe, just maybe, she could survive it. If she stayed alive for long enough to become old news, maybe someone would let their guard down. Maybe she would some day be able to escape. That was the only thing she hoped for now. She wouldn't waste her time making up knight-in-armor scenarios that would never come to pass, but she'd try to hang on to the distant possibility of freedom for as long as she was able. And she'd try, try, try, to keep her temper in check with Marcus Rasim Sinter.

—o—

How the hell had he let this happen?

Marcus repeated his five mantras over and over and fucking over. Then he saw her, or heard her, and nothing else mattered but getting close to her, getting his hands and his mouth on her, and getting his cock inside Cassia Pendergast's sweet little pussy, where it belonged. Hell, he even liked lying in bed simply talking to the girl. She was quick-witted and she got his sense of humor. He thought she'd even understand the real Marcus Sinter.

Yeah, like that would ever happen.

She was his CAPTIVE, for fuck's sake. (Mantra Four. You don't get to keep the hostage when the job is done. He was sure he'd read that in a manual somewhere.) What the hell was he doing? (Aaaand back to Mantra One.)

His attitude had wounded her repeatedly over the past three days, and every time he saw it in her eyes, Marcus wanted to stab himself, to cut his heart out and serve it up on a platter, because no mere apology could possibly suffice after everything he'd done. He'd be thinking that, but then she'd say something snarky about a topic that shouldn't matter to him, they'd start arguing, and he'd be right back where he started: pinning her against a bulkhead, tossing her onto his bunk, or lifting her ass to the nearest horizontal surface—whatever the hell it was—just to get inside her.

Fuck. How the hell was he ever going to get over Cassandra Pendergast? (Mantra Five. He'd forget her as soon as the gig was over. No problemo.) Fuck, fuck, and FUCK.

He told himself he should leave her in the bunk all day, but he actually enjoyed spending time with the little harridan when she held her spiteful tongue, which was only about half the time. They swapped stories, and even though Sinter's were only half-truths, he enjoyed Cassia's company. He also enjoyed pissing her off every so often, just for the hell of it. She hated when he called her "baby," and standard anti-Americanisms―no matter how subtle―always made her snappish.

Relaxed by their most recent love-making session, she was lounging sideways against Sinter's broad chest, answering questions about her life.

"Why Boston, baby? Don't you want to live in Hollywood, where it's always warm and sunny?"

Ignoring the irritating nickname, she answered him seriously. "Anyplace is better than Hollywood: LA has the worst traffic, the worst smog, and the most snobs per capita in the United States. Besides, I go to school in Boston."

"What about New York City? You could go to your college in Boston during the day, and sleep in a Big Apple penthouse," he asked, pronouncing it "beeg."

Cassia lifted her head to gape at his suggestion, ignoring his accent and the fact she'd probably never see Boston again.

He met her fiery eyes with a lazy kind of curiosity. "What?"

"That . . . it's like . . . that's gotta be five hours one way, Sinter!"

He frowned down. "I don't think so . . . they're right next to each other on the map."

She stuttered, completely speechless for one brief, glorious minute. Unfortunately, she recovered, yelling, "ZOOM IN, you moron!" and successfully kindling Sinter's own increasingly short fuse.

Since she was already in his lap, when he stood, she naturally collapsed forward—right across his blotter. Cassia didn't notice his hesitation, but in Sinter's head, he was fighting, using every iota of his considerable strength to stop himself from paddling her delicious ass. He shuddered, blinked slowly, and dropped his pants.

She wound up on his lap again, her neck arched, her legs splayed widely around his thighs, and her small, fair hands on top of his large, dark ones. He was squeezing her breasts gently, the pale skin bulging out between his fingers while his thumbs and forefinger pinched and pulled her nipples. The rhythmic lift and tilt of his hips moved his cock only an inch or two, while Sinner kissed her neck, and whispered his heated encouragement against her ear. "Yeah, baby." She didn't seem to mind the nickname as long as he was fucking her. "I want to feel you coming on my cock."

She whimpered, her head rolling from side to side. She needed more. She needed him to fuck her faster, or harder, or something, but she'd given up begging a while ago, and she could feel the orgasm gathering in her belly now, despite his agonizing pace. "Please . . . ."

"Come, baby, come all over my cock . . .nice and wet so I can fuck you some more."

That image was enough to push her over the top. She folded forward over his hands, curled until her feet were at his knees, and came, gasping and shaking from exhaustion. They'd already been fucking for at least an hour, on top of doing it a hundred times or so over the past three days, and Cassia was starting to get really, really sore. But she wanted him as badly as he apparently wanted her. She tried not to think of it as anything other than sex, but she couldn't seem to keep her feelings tucked safely away when he was kissing her neck and whispering in her ear and stroking her so softly, as though he really cared, like he was right then.

Leaving her feet where they were, Cassia let her hands fall to the side and her head drop back to rest on his shoulder again. She lolled there bonelessly while Sinter took his own reward, bouncing her ass on his lap until he was groaning and sweaty, but pulling out at the last second and pressing his spasming shaft to her slit. She'd become accustomed to it now, and she merely moaned as he dragged his cock through the sensitive folds, nudging her clit with every last drizzle.

Then it was his turn to collapse back into the chair, groaning and replete. "I think I might have a heart attack if we do that again."

"Well, at your age . . . ."

Another time, the pointed comment might have riled him, like she intended, but now it just rated a soft, dual pinch to her nipples. She squeaked and jumped, but relaxed again when his long fingers returned to idly stroking her sides. She was drifting, near to slumber, when Ghan came in. He announced himself in the usual way—a knock—but the crew rarely waited for the captain to bid them enter. Cassia was nude all the time, so it didn't usually matter to her, but she wasn't usually perched on the captain's lap, flashing a dripping split-beaver at the door when someone walked in.

Cassia screeched and tried to roll sideways off his lap. With one hand, Sinter kept her pinned in place as he lifted his head to meet Ghan's eyes. "Yeah?"

"The watch is changing in ten minutes. Also, Libor got the servo fixed and that low pressure seal is tied up tight."

"Dobro. Get him an extra case of whatever he drinks as soon as we make port."

Ghanbar hesitated, his eyes roaming Cassia's bare body, revealed in all its pale glory by the harsh industrial lights. Watching his first mate from under thick black lashes, Sinter ruthlessly suppressed a whole slew of reactions with a one-word promise to himself. Later.

His wilting cock reversed its downward path, swelling with intent and the seeds of male-aggression .

"If you don't mind me saying, Boss, looks like you got things wrapped up pretty tight here, too." The leer in his eyes was there in his voice, as well.

Sinter laughed, a gruff, lazy sound. "Da, I have that," he replied, letting a hint of braggadocio leak out. Ghan instinctively understood the comment, and the door closed on an answering chuckle.

Cassia didn't move. Her arms were wrapped around her knees, her forehead pressed against them, her toes together and pointed down, though she had no hope of hiding her feminine delights when Sinter held her back firmly pressed against his chest. He heaved a soft sigh of regret and released her. She rolled slowly forward until her soles touched his knees, then, quick as a sparrow, she was off. His eyes tracked her flight, but Cassia's face was turned away from him. He listened sadly to the sound of her crawling into his bunk.

In the long silence which followed, Sinter turned his eyes to the ceiling, and sighed again.

—o—

The last hours of the Sultana's voyage were unpleasantly quiet. Sinter couldn't rouse Cassia from her stubborn ennui, not even to fight with him, so he was denied any further opportunity to work out his stress and guilt in her hot little body.

Not that he could blame her for reacting this way after the scene in his office, but he didn't have a lot of choices. Ghan would have perceived her departure as Sinter's weakness—he'd obviously not given her permission—and he couldn't afford to show any weakness in front of his men, especially when it came to Cassandra Pendergast. Knowledge is power, and if anyone knew how he felt about her, Cassia would be in a world of danger. The only way to keep her safe was to be the same cold, heartless bastard he always was.

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NOTE: Thank you for the hearts, stars, and comments—those are the little bits of happiness that make posting here worthwhile. Love, Stefanie