Page 16 of Dax: Gratefully Bonded (Rogue Bonds #2)

Dax

T hat night, I dreamed of my master taking me from behind, in the way that I’d been taught masters liked to take their dimari. In the dream, I was on my knees on a bed, but for some reason, the bed was in the middle of a jungle. My master’s hands were on my hips, my knees parted as his thick cock pressed inside me again and again. In reality, I’d never had sex with a real person, but I’d practiced multiple times with the various vibrators and dildos that my trainers had provided for the purpose of my sexual education. In the dream, his cock felt just as good as any of those toys ever had. My face was pressed down into the pillow, the fabric muffling my moans. I could feel cool air playing over my naked back and hear the faint drone of insects in the air around us.

At some level, I think I was aware that I was dreaming. And in that dim awareness, I wasn’t surprised. A year’s worth of repressed hopes suddenly brought to life were bound to play havoc with my subconscious. I only wished that one day, he might finally decide that he really wanted me to…

Oh stars! The pleasure crested suddenly, and…

I came awake abruptly, acutely aware of two things. The first was that I had cried out in my sleep. That was bad. Making noise was likely to wake my master, and waking one’s master was very poor behaviour.

But the second thing was even worse. I had climaxed in my sleep, the aftershocks of the release still tingling through my groin. I felt my scales flutter as a wave of shame hit me. Taking physical pleasure without permission was one of the most selfish, most disobedient acts a dimari could commit. I swallowed hard, taking deep breaths to try and slow my racing heart, and I tried to figure out what I was supposed to do now. For all my stubborn wilfulness, this was the first time in a whole year that I had outright disobeyed my master. During waking hours, such a thing was not possible. Disobedience, according to the trainers, was more a failure of attitude, a failure of promptness, a failure of quality of service. Blatant and wilful disobedience from a dimari was not possible. We were compelled to obey our masters.

But during sleep, it seemed, my body was perfectly capable of disobeying him entirely without my permission. I shifted position and winced as I felt the dampness inside my shorts. This was bad. This was so very bad.

I eased out of bed, snagging a fresh pair of boxers from the dresser and padded quietly into the bathroom. I turned the light on only once the door was closed, then cleaned myself, dropping the soiled shorts into the washing machine.

I leaned against the sink, wondering what I was supposed to do. We’d been doing so well. I’d been pleasing my master. Things had been improving.

Feeling acid churning in my stomach, I turned off the light and tiptoed down the hall. I stopped when I got to my master’s bedroom and listened, expecting to hear his deep breathing, or perhaps a light snore.

But instead, I heard… a whimper. Oh no. He was having another nightmare.

I stood and listened for a long moment, wondering if it had been a one-off noise, if perhaps he would settle again. He’d asked me to wake him if he had a nightmare, but was one little noise enough to prove that this was one? I waited…

“No!” The word was followed by a rustle, then a thud. It sounded like he’d just knocked something off his nightstand.

“Sir? Ezekiel. Wake up,” I said loudly, though I stayed in the doorway, not wanting to startle him by standing over him in the dark.

The room went suddenly quiet – unnaturally quiet, as even his breathing stopped for a moment.

“Sir?” I repeated, just in case he wasn’t quite awake yet and was wondering where he was.

“Dax?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, taking a tentative step forward. “You were dreaming.” I avoided saying specifically that it was a nightmare, though I was sure he’d figure that out.

There was a rustle as he turned over. There was just enough light filtering into the room that I could see the shape of him curled up under the blanket. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks,” he muttered, sounding slightly annoyed and slightly breathless.

I waited a moment longer. “Do you need anything?” I dared to ask. I didn’t dare to offer anything specific. That strategy had only made him angry, last time around.

I expected a quick denial, a curt response to the effect that he was fine. But instead, there was silence. And then he sat up, tugging the blankets higher around him. “Could you come and sit for a bit?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, hastily moving forward. I had intended to take a seat on the far end of the bed, giving him plenty of space… but he smoothed out a section of the covers just beyond his knee; an implicit invitation to sit closer.

I sat, wondering if I was supposed to say something? Or would he want a hug, maybe?

Even as I pondered exactly what he expected from me, a confession about my illicit climax was lingering on the tip of my tongue. If I didn’t tell him, guilt would eat at me forever. As unpleasant as the confession might be, at least if I told him, then I could accept the punishment stoically and move on.

But I was conscious enough of my master’s struggles to realise that now was not an appropriate time to be forcing him to deal with my disobedience.

“There were worms crawling out of my hands and feet,” my master muttered, then I heard him swallow loudly. “I was trying to pull them out, but there were just more of them.”

Acting more on instinct than any real plan, I gently reached over and took his hands in mine, squeezing them lightly. “Your hands are fine now,” I said, looking him in the eye, lest he think I was being dismissive. I rubbed my thumbs over the backs of his hands, intending to replace the unpleasant sensation of crawling and squirming with a consistent, soothing pressure.

It seemed to work, as he slowly tightened his grip around my hands, his breathing slowing, his shoulders relaxing. We sat like that for several minutes, with my master showing no inclination to move… until he suddenly tensed again. “Shit, you must be getting cold,” he said.

I was a little chilled, sitting there in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, but there was no way I would ever have complained about it. I opened my mouth to offer to go and get a jumper. If he wanted me to stay, but my staying was contingent on me being comfortable, then I was willing to oblige him.

But before I could say a word, he did something I would never have expected. Not at this early juncture in our relationship. Not for several more weeks, at least, unless things progressed far more rapidly than they had been lately. He shuffled backwards and held up the edge of the sheets. “Do you want to hop in? I just… I’m not quite ready to go back to sleep yet, and there’s no point in you sitting there getting cold. There’s plenty of room, and I could… I’ll just move over here,” he rambled on, shuffling further over on the bed. I wasn’t sure why he was so concerned about giving me enough space. Was this another strange human custom? Some cultural nuance I wasn’t picking up on?

Nonetheless, I slid into the bed, tugging the covers over my lap as I settled in beside him. “Tell me about something on Eumad,” my master said, slouching down against the headboard, his pillow stuffed into the gap behind him. “Like the wildlife. Or the scenery. Or some food you liked. Just tell me about… something.”

Something to distract him from his own unpleasant thoughts, I figured. “We used to go swimming at a lake near the training centre when I was a child,” I said, launching into the first pleasant memory I could think of. “It was a beautiful place. The rocks behind the swimming hole were layered, in five or six different colours. I never quite found out how they were formed. There were flowers that grew in the fields around the lake. They only bloomed for a few weeks in summer, but every time they did, all the children would beg our trainers to take us out there.” I rambled on, describing the trees, the birds, the races the children competed in. We played games with balls, or with pulie-rocks. They were a very light-weight stone, full of air bubbles that made them float.

As I talked, my master slowly sank down further and further into the bed, tugging the covers up by degrees, from his waist, to his chest, to his shoulders, to his chin. By the time I finished telling him about the night we all camped out by the lake one summer, he was fast asleep.

I considered where I should spend the rest of the night. A selfish part of me wanted to stay here. Another part of me was genuinely concerned that my master would have another nightmare if I left. I tried to figure out what he would want. He’d never asked me to sleep in his bed before, so it was entirely possible that he intended for me to leave.

But then again, he’d never asked me into his bed at all before, and he’d given me no instructions about needing to go back to my room, before he’d fallen asleep. So it was just as plausible that he wanted me to stay.

But he was defensive of his personal space, and didn’t generally like to be touched…

I eased towards the edge of the bed and pulled back the covers, intending to return to my own bed.

At that moment, my master rolled over, slinging an arm over my waist, his face pressed into my back. I waited a moment, thinking maybe he was awake… or that he would wake up in a moment, and then wonder what I was still doing there. But he didn’t. He made a light, grumbling sound, then settled down to sleep again, his arm curled tightly around my waist.

Well, apparently I was sleeping here, then.