Submission in the Stars

Chapter 22: Soft Hands and Gentle Touches

Valentin's breath quickened as the leader's hand left his face, and the room grew heavier with the weight of his silence. Bound to the large chair, his wrists and ankles restrained by soft but unyielding cords, he felt utterly exposed. The leader circled around him like a predator savoring its prey, his regal robes whispering across the floor. Valentin tried to steady his breathing, but the anxiety pulsing through his veins made it impossible. The leader's presence was suffocating, and the sense of helplessness gnawed at him.

Then, with a smooth, mechanical hum, the chair beneath Valentin shifted.

It wasn't immediate or sharp—it was slow, deliberate. He felt the chair recline, the back lowering as the seat flattened beneath him, his legs spreading slightly as the restraints pulled him taut. The soft padding beneath him molded to his body, and the chair transformed seamlessly into a table, positioning him horizontally. His breath hitched as he instinctively strained against the restraints, but they held firm. His body was now fully displayed, vulnerable in the new position, every nerve alight with fear and anticipation.

He could feel the leader's eyes on him, studying his reactions, enjoying the quiet panic that tightened Valentin's muscles. The leader's fingers brushed across his forehead, smoothing a lock of hair back with an unsettling gentleness. Valentin wanted to look away, but there was nowhere to go—no escape from the tension pressing down on him like a physical weight.

"You will serve well," the leader whispered, a soft purr in his voice. Valentin flinched as a length of fabric was drawn across his face. He couldn't see it, but he felt it as the leader wrapped a thick, silken blindfold over his eyes. The darkness closed in, sealing him further into his world of vulnerability. He wanted to ask what was happening, but his voice betrayed him. The blindfold tightened, and with it, his sense of isolation grew more profound.

"I will leave you now," the leader said, his voice fading as he moved toward the door. "But you will not be alone for long."

Valentin squirmed, a sudden wave of panic surging through him as the sound of the door slid shut behind the leader's departure. Alone. The fear struck deep. He had been conditioned, punished by isolation before. He couldn't handle it again—not in this state, not bound, blind, and vulnerable. His breath quickened, shallow and erratic, as he pulled helplessly at his restraints. The soft fabric of the cords pressed into his skin as he shifted on the table, trying to will himself to calm down, but the fear only grew.

A few minutes passed, the silence around him thick and oppressive. Was this the test? Was he supposed to endure the isolation? His mind spiraled, desperate for any sound, any indication that he hadn't been abandoned.

Then, he heard it.

Footsteps. Light and soft, barely a whisper against the floor. Two sets.

Valentin tensed, his ears straining to track the sound. He couldn't see anything, the blindfold thick and impenetrable, but the presence of others was unmistakable. The footsteps circled the table slowly, deliberately. Whoever they were, they were taking their time.

He felt a hand—delicate, featherlight—brush across his arm. He flinched at the unexpected touch, his muscles tightening involuntarily. Another hand followed, tracing gently down the length of his leg, the touch soft but deliberate. Valentin's heart raced, his breathing shallow as he tried to process what was happening.

"Such a perfect specimen," a voice said softly. It was calm, almost amused, with a melodic tone that sent a shiver down his spine. It was neither harsh nor cruel, but the way it lingered made him feel like an object being appraised, like something to be examined.

Another voice followed, equally soft but slightly more serious. "His training scores are remarkable. Far beyond what we had expected for a human, even one conditioned as thoroughly as he has been."

Valentin's mind raced. Training scores? He had never been privy to such details. All he knew was that he was expected to comply, to obey, to survive. But this—these whispers, these murmurs of his success—were new to him. He lay there, blind and helpless, as the two voices discussed him like he wasn't even there, like he was nothing more than a pet whose worth was measured in obedience and performance.

"He adapted quickly to the conditioning," the first voice said, the hand that had been tracing his arm now moving to his chest. Fingers brushed over his skin, light and barely there, as if testing his reactions. "His compliance was immediate once he understood the consequences."

Valentin's chest tightened as the fingers continued their path, grazing over his skin with unnerving precision. He felt like a specimen under a microscope, every touch deliberate, every word spoken in appraisal of his worth. The voices didn't speak to him, only about him.

"He's calm now," the second voice observed, a note of approval in the tone. "Even under the restraints, his heart rate is steadying. He knows his place."

Valentin bit back a frustrated noise. He wasn't calm—he was terrified—but his body had learned long ago to suppress outward signs of fear. The conditioning had drilled it into him. Panic was met with punishment; control was rewarded. His heart pounded in his chest, but outwardly, he remained still, compliant, exactly as he had been trained to be.

"Look at him," the first voice purred, fingers trailing down his chest again, this time more confidently. "He responds to touch without resistance. This is why they called him perfect."

Valentin's breath hitched, his body betraying him as he reacted to their touch. He could feel every brush of their fingers like fire on his skin, heightened by the fact that he couldn't see them. The blindfold rendered him powerless, vulnerable to every sensation, every whispered word.

"His genetic compatibility made it easy to integrate him with the other species," the second voice continued, its tone almost clinical now. "His metabolism was altered, his lifespan extended, and yet he remains obedient. It's remarkable how well he has adapted."

Valentin lay there, bound and helpless, as the voices discussed the alterations made to his body like he wasn't even human anymore. He wasn't just human anymore. The attendant had told him as much during his bath. His DNA had been changed, spliced with alien traits to suit their needs. His life, his body, had been twisted into something else, something no longer entirely his own.

"And yet," the first voice said, its tone dipping into something more curious, "despite all of this... despite his perfection, no one has claimed him as their pet."

Valentin stiffened at that word. Pet. It had been used before, but now it felt more real, more final. He was being treated like an animal, like a thing to be owned.

The second voice hummed thoughtfully. "Perhaps they didn't see his potential. Or perhaps they were waiting for the right moment. He's certainly... ready."

The hand on his chest moved again, tracing down toward his abdomen, stopping just short of where he feared it might go. Valentin tensed, but he didn't resist. He knew better. He couldn't risk disobedience.

"Yes," the first voice murmured, the touch lingering, "he is ready."

The two voices continued to speak softly, their hands moving over his body with measured, gentle touches, testing his reactions, pushing him just enough to see how far his conditioning had taken him. Valentin remained silent, bound, blind, and helpless, his body reacting to their probing hands even as his mind screamed for release.

But there was no escape. Only obedience. Only the hands, the voices, and the knowledge that he was no longer a person, but a thing to be owned.