The Pleasure Slave i-2

by Gena Showalter

  Protect Your Master With Your Own Life

  "Uh, excuse me," a deep, slightly accented male voice called. "Are you okay in there? I heard screaming. Should I call the cops?"

  Julia glanced at Tristan, then down at their still-joined bodies. This wasn't happening, couldn't be happening.

  But it was… She'd just had a mind-shattering orgasm. Tristan had just had an earth-shattering orgasm. And there was someone in the shop's vestibule, wanting to know if everything was okay. Her cheeks erupted into flames. Here she stood, her clothes a few feet away, a half-naked man between her thighs, and the echo of her screams ringing in her ears. Why, oh why, hadn't she locked the door and posted the Closed sign? Just how long had the customer been there? What had he heard? Enough to want to call the cops, obviously.

  Tristan, the jerk, seemed totally unconcerned with the thought of having an audience. Smiling, he pushed the bathroom door shut with his foot and continued to grip her hips in his hands.

  "Hello?" the voice said again. "I'm dialing 911 right now."

  "No!" Julia shouted. "I'm fine. Really. I'll, uh, be right there."

  She scrambled away from Tristan.

  "Do you need any help?" the stranger asked.

  "No, no. Stay where you are."

  "Allow me to aid you, little dragon." Tristan picked up her skirt and helped her step inside.

  "I need my panties, too," she whispered.

  "Nay." Eyes darkening, he shook his head. "You gave them to me."

  "Well, I'm taking them back."

  "I will fight to the death to keep them."

  Her teeth ground together. Without her underwear, cool air continued to kiss her exposed skin, a potent reminder of everything they'd done. How was she going to face this customer with that knowledge fresh in her mind?

  She'd once thought having a boyfriend would solve all of her problems. Now she learned a boyfriend created a whole new set of complications she'd never imagined.

  Tristan watched the play of emotions cross Julia's face. Embarrassment. Satisfaction. Aye, even excitement. Whether she protested or not, she was enjoying each new adventure tossed her way. And he liked that she liked them.

  "Are you sure I can't help you?" the man said.

  "I'm sure!" Julia cried.

  Tristan's good humor quickly fled as he recalled this man was alone inside the store and could even now be searching for the box. At the moment, Tristan suspected everyone, male and female, for a woman could easily pay a man to do her dirty work.

  "You will wait here, Julia, while I interrogate this new arrival."

  "No, Tristan, I—"

  He stalked off before she could finish.

  Her fingers moved lightning fast over her shirt, re-fastening the buttons. She grimaced when she saw the crimson spots of dried blood dotted across the center. Too late to do anything now. She refused to greet her customers in her bra. If he'd just come back for a moment, she could change into her spare outfit in the storeroom. "Tristan," she called.

  Tristan ignored her. In the center of the shop he spotted a tall fair-haired man. He was dressed in ripped, faded clothing that showcased a warrior's muscles. He also carried a red rectangular crate that held… weapons? Weapons to kill or to break inside the safe? Or mayhap both. Tristan's gaze scanned the item in question. It appeared fine. He searched the rest of the store. Three other people, two female, one male, were wandering around the shop, inspecting the merchandise.

  Tristan finally settled his concentration on the muscled man with the red crate and cursed himself for placing Julia in danger. He should never have relaxed his guard. But, curse it, the woman was too tempting, too alluring for him to resist. When she had taken that candy into her mouth, her expression had looked the same as when she came. He had thought of nothing but bedding her from that moment on.

  "What do you here?" he demanded of the man with the crate.

  Before the man could answer, Julia shuffled around him.

  "Hello," she said, then stopped. "I'm, uh… well, I'm Julia. The owner." She took a deep breath and made a visible effort of gathering her wits. "How can I help you?"

  Tristan lunged to grab her, to shove her safely behind him, but she easily sidestepped him.

  "I'm here to fix your pipes," the man said.

  His voice was oddly familiar, Julia thought. But it was his eyes… they were deep blue, bottomless, and as clear as ice chips. They struck a deep chord of familiarity within her. However, she'd never seen him before in her life. She would have remembered. He was gorgeous, almost too beautiful to be real, as if he were wearing some exquisitely detailed mask.

  "I believe you're expecting me," he added.

  "Oh, yes." She offered him a welcoming smile. "Morgan Schetfield, right?"

  He paused a moment, then nodded.

  "That's right. I am Morgan Schetfield."

  Tristan still did not relax his warrior stance.

  "I will need to see proof of your identity," he said, taking Julia by the shoulders and forcing her to his side. Her frown flashed in his direction.

  "I'm sure that's not necessary."

  "It is very necessary." He gave the man a pointed stare.

  "Sure thing,"

  Morgan said easily. He muttered something under his breath, then withdrew a thin card shaped much like Julia's American Express. Tristan took it, studied it from every angle and handed the colorful, thin square to Julia. She glanced over the surface.

  "He's Morgan Schetfield, born December second, nineteen seventy-five. His license expires in exactly three months. Anything else you need to know, Tristan?" she asked dryly.

  "That is sufficient." But he planned to watch both Julia and the man until he was assured of Julia's safety.

  "The problem is in the back," Julia said. "If you'll follow me…»

  Tristan followed. He almost smiled when her cheeks reddened as she entered the bath chamber. He did gloat. Both of her shoes were strewn haphazardly across the floor. She quickly stuffed her feet inside.

  "What exactly is the problem?" Morgan asked.

  Julia explained about the moaning pipes and unflushable toilet.

  "Think you can fix it?"

  "I know I can."

  Morgan jumped into the work, chatting the entire time, inquiring amicably about Julia and her life, asking if she was happy and other such things that were none of his business. It irritated Tristan that the man showed such interest in his woman. What irritated him more, however, was the fact that the man accomplished something he himself had been unable to do, making the plumber appear a hero in Julia's eyes. The cursed man fixed the pipes, just as he had claimed. Even when his job was done, Morgan continued to smile up at Julia, laughing and talking about people and places Tristan knew not. Tristan did not like it. He suppressed the urge to pound the plumber's face into the cracked tile floor. Let us see how well the man smiles when his teeth are ground into powder.

  Contrary to her initial unease, Julia was perfectly content with Morgan; not the shy, nervous woman she had once described herself. She no longer seemed weighed down with self-doubts. She appeared confident. While he was proud of her inner growth, he did not like her ease with this other man.

  By the time Morgan left, Tristan was seething with emotion. He was not jealous. Nay, he was furious. Julia was his, and he would not allow another man to poach on his territory. Julia quickly eased him from his upset. When the last customer left, she wrapped her arms around his neck, drew him to her and whispered all the things she wanted to do to him. Only to him. By the time she uttered her last word, a sheen of sweat covered his entire body.

  "Let us go home," he managed. Her lips lifted in a slow smile, and she nodded.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Never Slacken From Your Duties

  Julia zipped along the highway. She and Tristan were almost home, almost in bed. She patted her purse, sighing contentedly when she felt the comforting bulge of the jewelry box. She glanced over at Tristan, and her relaxed mood
vanished. His eyes were closed, and his skin was unusually pale. Sweat beaded on his brow. At the corners, his lips were tinged with blue.

  "Tristan?" she said, alternating her attention between the road ahead of her and the man beside her. He didn't respond. Her stomach knotted with fear. "Tristan?" She yelled his name this time, and the sound echoed throughout the sedan. She punctuated the word with a shake of his thigh. "Tristan!"

  Tristan was lost in a world of darkness and light, one or both, he couldn't decide. He only knew his body burned, an inferno of flicking flames. He was trapped in some sort of prison, lying on the cold, hard ground.

  Suddenly Zirra was straddled over his body, cruelly using him to gain her pleasure, yet denying him his own. He was almost glad he was to be denied release, for even while he prayed for it, he despised himself for giving her any part of him.

  Nay, his mind shouted. This isn't real. This isn't happening. Fight it.

  "Do you see how I control you?" she said huskily. "Do you see?"

  "Aye."

  "I know you like this. I know you like me. How can you not?"

  His jaw locked mutinously.

  "Say it," she demanded. "Tell me how you're glad of my domination."

  "I am glad."

  The lie tripped from his lips by force because the spell dictated that he please her, and his admission would surely please her, though he tried desperately to hold back the words. Zirra did not deserve such an avowal, untruth or not. She deserved only words of hate.

  "What a good little slave you are," she praised, raking her nails down his chest, not as a lover would, but as a master does to someone unworthy of tenderness. "Now tell me how much you love me."

  "I love you," he growled, adding silently, I loathe you.

  "Liar," she snarled, baring her teeth in a fierce scowl. "You are a liar. The spell would be broken if you spoke true. How dare you lie to me, to your master. You will be punished, doubt me not."

  She rode him hard, pounding against him with bruising intensity. When she came, she threw back her head and screamed. With rage and pleasure. Victory and glee. He didn't want to come. He fought against it. He always fought against it, but in the end, his body betrayed him every time. Zirra's spasms ceased soon after his own, and she glared down at him.

  "All I have ever given you is love, and yet you constantly throw that in my face."

  She pushed to her feet and drew on her robe. Her hair tumbled over her shoulder when she turned to glare down at him.

  "Why are you still in bed, slave? Bow before me. You owe me thanks for the pleasure I just bestowed upon you."

  He moved automatically, dying a bit more with every movement, and took his place before her. Abruptly Tristan found himself chained to a wall. His surroundings were familiar. He'd been here before, he thought, confused. A progression of women paraded in front of him. Each female was allowed to touch, to taste, to do anything she desired as she strolled past him. The line seemed endless. He endured cruel pinches, eager tugs, stinging slaps, and by the end, his skin was a mass of purple and blue bruises. Even the battlefields of Gillirad had not wounded him so deeply.

  "I am your master, your true lover," Zirra said when the last woman left the chamber. "Will you ever again glare at me?"

  "Only if you command that I do not," he gritted out.

  Her eyes flashed blue fire.

  "For that you shall spend the rest of the eve as you are."

  Again the image shifted. Colors swirled behind his eyes and blurred together, spinning and spinning, tugging him closer to another part of his life.

  He found himself standing naked before a bed. Zirra reclined on the mattress, white pillows at her back.

  "Tristan, come over here, darling.". Without hesitation he obeyed. He crawled up the bed and hovered over her, staying on his knees as he knew she liked.

  "I have need of you," she purred.

  "Whatever you wish, you know I will perform."

  Her features softened.

  "Tell me you want me."

  "I want you."

  "Tell me how beautiful I am."

  "You are beautiful."

  He did not elaborate as she wished. She had to force his every move. He would give her nothing willingly, no more of himself than demanded, for that was the only control he had over himself.

  "Love me," she breathed, placing kisses up his chest and neck.

  He despised her every touch, wanted to race from this chamber and spew the contents of his stomach each time she glanced his way.

  "Love is the one thing I do not have to give you, Zirra. You know that. Your spell was for me to give pleasure to my guan ren. It said naught of love. That was your mistake, and that is what you must live with. For I will never offer you my heart." He took great delight in his next words. "You sicken me."

  The nails that had softly scraped his back now sank into his flesh, causing droplets of blood to slide down his back.

  "Who owns you?"

  "You do."

  "Who governs your fate?"

  "You do."

  "Never forget that, Tristan, or I will make you suffer for it." Tristan vaguely heard someone, a female, calling his name from a faraway place. It was a voice he felt compelled to answer. His mouth refused to work, however.

  The voice continued to echo in his head. It was Julia, he realized, and she was afraid of something. She needed him. In a panic to reach her, he fought his way through the dark haze enveloping his mind. As he fought, he became aware that his body was soaked with sweat and he was trembling. He sucked in a deep breath.

  What had just happened? He had been inside Julia's car, had been viewing the scenery of this planet he had come to admire. The red hills, the stone homes, the clean, crisp air. Then a dark presence had invaded his mind. He had been unable to stop from following the presence into his memories.

  Aye, memories. That is what they were. But how had he relived them so vividly? He already knew the answer. Zirra. She was forcing him to remember. Since she had failed to reclaim him, she now reminded him that she was out there, searching for a way. He bit back a curse.

  "Tristan. Please, look at me."

  Bit by bit, he cracked open his eyelids. Julia was crouched in the open car door, her lovely face above his. To his left, cars whizzed past the window.

  "Are you allowed to park here?" he questioned hoarsely.

  A sob burst from her throat, half laugh, half desperate cry.

  "That's all you have to say?"

  "Aye."

  "Well, the answer is yes. This is the side of the road. Now tell me what the hell is wrong with you."

  "A dream. Only a dream," he forced out.

  "No." She shook her head. "It was not just a dream. You were in some sort of trance."

  "I am fine."

  Though her expression remained unconvinced, she pushed out a shaky breath.

  "Are you sure?"

  "I am fine," he repeated. "The past simply demanded consideration."

  His head fell against the seat rest, his energy quickly deserting. He felt himself sinking into sleep.

  "Take me home, Julia. Take me home."

  When they reached the house, Julia helped Tristan to the couch, locked his box inside the plant stand, then raced to the kitchen to get him a glass of water. He drained the liquid with one gulp and set the glass aside. He stretched out his long legs, and she snuggled up beside him, her arms holding him close.

  She'd never witnessed anything like what she'd seen in the car. He'd been deathly still, barely breathing. He'd alternated between pale and fiery hot.

  Thank God he'd awakened on his own.

  Thank God.

  She didn't know what she would have done if he hadn't.

  Yet, as her eyes had met his, she'd almost wanted him to sink back into the trance—anything so that she wouldn't have to see the horror and pain on his face. What had happened to him to cause such a look? With her fingertips, she toyed with the fine hair on his arm.

&n
bsp; "Tristan?"

  He didn't stir, didn't face her.

  "Hmm?"

  "Tell me what happened. I want to help you."

  Silence. Silence so thick an oppressive fog descended all around them.

  "Speaking about what happened to you might help ease the pain. I won't judge you, or laugh. I'll simply listen."

  More silence. And then he spoke.

  "Zirra, the woman who entrapped me and kept me for several seasons," he began hesitantly. "She was a cruel mistress. She demanded my love and when I wouldn't give it to her, she punished me."

  He continued on, telling her of all the guan rens who had emotionally scarred him with their cruelty. He described horrors such as she'd never imagined, terrors done to this strong, proud man whose only sin was his beauty. She listened to his every word, trying, hoping, to absorb some of his pain into herself.

  "In the end," he said, "I lost my will to fight. I simply accepted what was done to me and expected it. My only control was the pleasure I could give and the way I responded."

  "You are not a pleasure slave anymore," she said softly. "You are a man, Julia's man, and I am your woman."

  "Julia—" he said, his tone laced with regret.

  "No. Don't deny my words or tell me that you are what Zirra made you, that what we have can't last. I know differently."

  "We can prevent the box from being stolen, but we cannot prevent time from passing. I will never age, never die. And you will, Julia. You will."

  "What if—what if you loved me? The spell would be broken and you would be mortal. Just like me."

  "Oh, that I could, sweet dragon. But I do not and I will not love you."

  She fought back tears.

  "Why?" The word was broken, hoarse, "Am I so unlovable?"

  "Nay," he said fiercely, taking her hands in his. "Never think such a thing. You are the most precious woman I have ever encountered. But if I love you, I will lose you. And I will not lose you."

  Confusion mingled with dread, twisting inside her.

  "I don't understand."

  "The magic will be broken and there will be nothing to bind me to you or to this world. As I have no magic of my own, I would hurtle back to Imperia without you."