by Cara Bristol
His nostrils flared. “I would suggest as often as possible.” Corren started to leave, but then leaned so close that his breath stirred the strands of hair on her face. She had to force herself not to flinch. “For reasons I cannot discern, the Commander views you with favor. I do not. You would do well to heed my instruction and see that you do not provoke my ire.”
* * * *
Omra’s stomach growled as she used heat-impervious gloves to remove the tray of meat and golden tubers from the oven. After the idleness of the BCF, working filled her with satisfaction. She set the roaster on the metal counter and popped in the next pan. She’d had to improvise, since she’d discovered the food prep facility was stocked with only basic ingredients, but she’d whipped up a sweetcake of sorts. She hoped Alpha liked it; she wanted to please him. And Corren. If she could. She could not say that his pronouncement surprised her; she’d sensed his dislike upon arrival.
Before Corren left to join the Commander, he had shoved a small pile of clothing into her arms. She’d unfolded them and found a couple of new shifts and some hair-care implements. She’d checked the time, seasoned the meat and, after placing it in the oven to bake, scurried to the bathing chamber.
Oh how glorious! Without fear of being scalded or jolted by an icy blast, she luxuriated in the water. She recognized the scent of the cleansing gel; it had clung to Commander. Her stomach quivered. Would he notice the scent on her the way she had noticed it on him? She’d lathered her body and hair, rinsed off the suds, and repeated the washing because she could. Afterward, she brushed her hair until it draped down to her waist. She’d donned a clean shift, the beige fabric crisp and new, and hurried to complete the evening meal.
The men were waiting in the smaller dining room when she arrived, carrying a platter laden with meat and tubers. “I will bring the rest,” she said and placed her load on the table. She returned with a bowl of fresh vegetables and a tureen of gravy.
“I baked a sweetcake to finish the meal,” she said.
Under the scrutiny of both men, her hands shook with nerves as she dished out the food, serving Alpha first. She prayed she wouldn’t spill hot gravy on his lap. After she had doled out Corren’s portion, she stood by the wall with hands folded, ready to respond to further needs. Her stomach growled. She hoped the noise wasn’t audible and that she had passed her first test by providing an adequate meal.
She bowed her head and watched from underneath her lashes to gauge their reaction. After Alpha forked a bit into his mouth, Corren picked up his utensil, cut into his meat with a knife, and took a bite. His eyes hardened, and he moved as if to shove the plate away. Her rumbling stomach plunged. From his glowering expression, she could tell she’d failed.
But Alpha spoke. “Excellent.” The Commander nodded at her. He glanced at Corren, whose features went smooth. “She cooks well,” Alpha commented.
“She does,” Corren said without inflection, but his hand tightened on his fork. He ate only half of what she’d put on his plate and rejected the after-meal finish. Alpha ate everything and helped himself to a second slice of sweetcake.
She cleared the table of the dirty plates, and as she scooted behind Corren’s chair, he pushed back from the table, and his elbow bumped the pile of crockery in her arms. She grappled with the dishes, nearly dropping the lot, but managed to prevent them from crashing to the stone floor where for sure they would have broken.
She rushed from the room, her heart thundering with fear.
“Her clumsiness should be punished.” Corren’s displeasure filtered into the corridor.
“Let it pass. This is new to her. She is nervous,” Alpha responded. She did not hear Corren’s reply.
* * * *
She’d been correct about the windowed ceiling permitting a view of the night sky. A panorama of beauty stretched above her sleeping pallet: a bedazzling array of fiery stars, bright artificial satellites traveling at a dizzying speed, and the beautiful Parseon moon. It was the palest lavender she’d ever seen, appearing as an orb. A Trey Moon. An ominous omen when rarity and beauty combined. Ancient primitives believed that when a third full moon appeared in a month, it portended troubled times.
She’d never given credence to the lore, but it caused her to shiver now. She’d left the BCF with an optimistic outlook, but new worries had arisen like a Trey Moon. On the positive side, she tallied the physical comforts she enjoyed as a servant of Alpha’s domicile. She’d been able to eat her fill after serving dinner, she’d bathed, and her pallet, located on the floor beside Alpha’s large round sleeping platform, was cushioned and insect-free.
But the negative overshadowed the positive: Corren didn’t dislike her. He hated her. She could tell from his glowering glances, his refusal to partake of the sweetcake, the way he had tried to cause her to break the dishes so Alpha would have reason to punish her. When he’d come to the food-prep facility to tell her where she would sleep, she read the enmity on his face. She would do well to avoid him as much as possible.
She wished she did not have to bed down in the same room as the Commander and Corren, but she had expected it. What was the point of owning a breeder if she wasn’t readily available? Fortunately, both men were oblivious to her presence.
She couldn’t help but notice them, lit by a moonbeam from the sky above.
Corren crouched before the Commander, who braced himself on his knees, his posture rigid. Strength and power burgeoned in the muscles of his arms, his wide shoulders, his toned abdomen. And between his stout thighs? Omra gulped. Pure Alpha. She had been disinclined to study the manhoods of the males who had used her. She had averted her face and hoped for the painful experience to end as quickly as possible.
But she could not look away from Alpha’s erection. Its massive girth, a length that reached almost to his umbilicus, and the straightness fascinated her almost as much as the fact that his foreskin had been removed to reveal the bulbous head in all its glory. It might have been the moon that cast the knob with a purple hue, but she doubted it. The blood that coursed through his veins colored his manhood. Whisperflies fluttered in her stomach, and in her sex, which had grown wet.
Her mouth, however, had dried. One day soon, Alpha would force that massiveness inside her and eject his seed. The pain would be tremendous—and impregnation might require several attempts. And how many sons would he want?
Corren drew the Commander’s hardened member into his mouth. Alpha closed his eyes and clenched his fists at his sides. The beta rested one hand on the Commander’s hip while stroking his own manhood with the other. Corren’s penis was modest in comparison to Alpha’s. But small didn’t necessarily alleviate pain, which she knew from frequent experiences with the director, who had a stubby member. Would Corren take advantage of his rights as Sival had done? She clenched her buttocks. Alpha had granted him full permission.
The Commander’s head fell back, and the muscles of his face tautened. His nostrils flared. Corren’s head bobbed like a domesticated fowl, and his cheeks hollowed as he sucked. The beta groaned with pleasure; he did not gag like she had done when Sival had shoved his erection into her throat.
“Now,” the Commander said hoarsely.
Corren released Alpha and spun around; he pressed his face to the platform and raised his hips, bracing himself on one arm while continuing to sheath his erection in his fist. The Commander flattened his hand on the wall, and a drawer extended out of the stone. He removed a small disk, and her eyes widened as he rolled it onto his turgid member. An elasticene covering. Next he extracted a tube and smeared a thick gel onto his shaft.
Her eyes widened even more as the Commander pulled a silvery metal object from Corren’s rectum. He set it aside on a cloth he’d also removed from the drawer. He guided his erection to his beta’s anus and, with a rocking motion, inserted his manhood.
He paused about halfway in. “All right?” Alpha asked.
Corren emitted a long, rumbling groan. “Yes, Dak, more. All the way.”
After seating himself, Alpha moved slowly, and Corren’s breathing turned raspy and frantic.
The two male bodies synchronized their movements. Alpha never uttered a sound as his member invaded Corren’s rectum, but his beta emitted growls of pleasure and jerked his manhood at a rapid speed. She wondered how Corren was able to take enjoyment from an act that caused her excruciating pain, until she recalled how Alpha had examined her. He’d donned an elasticene glove, which had been covered with a slippery substance. There had been pressure but little discomfort. With Corren, Alpha had coated his manhood and eased it in, not forced it. And prior to penetration, Corren had had the metal object inside him. Perhaps that made a difference.
In the gleam of the moon, she saw Alpha’s face contort, his body shudder. Moments later, Corren cried out and ejaculated over his hand.
Alpha opened his eyes, and his gaze riveted on her. Silvery blue blazed white, melting her insides so that more moisture pooled between her legs. She ached, not in a painful way, but in a yearning, almost pleasurable manner. Alphas anointed to betas rarely debased themselves to seek pleasure from females, so it was unlikely that Dak would ever want her the way he wanted Corren, but in that moment, she wished to take the beta’s place, despite the intense pain it would cause her.
Alpha averted his gaze and stared down at Corren almost in surprise. With a shake of his head, he disengaged.
Chapter Five
To an observer, Dak would have appeared in full command, maintaining an unbroken posture, but inside, turmoil weighed on him. He exited the sky tram one stop short to permit time to clear his head of unsettled business and disturbing questions.
The moon ascended, its purple face reminding him of Omra. What large, striking eyes she had. Dak found her overall countenance quite agreeable. Despite her initial unruliness at the BCF, she’d turned out to be malleable and capable. His hunch about her trainability had been correct, although he’d erred by assuming she would please Corren. His beta continued to find her lacking, though he attempted to mask his disapproval. However, one could not survive as Alpha without honing the skill of reading people. Violent emotion roiled beneath a facade of calm. One risked great peril to ignore what lurked beneath the surface.
The moment Omra had tumbled from the conveyance, Dak had sensed Corren’s animosity. The fact that she cooked much better than he did not soften his beta’s dislike. In hindsight, Corren’s approval of hypothetically acquiring a breeder had lacked the heartiness of true enthusiasm. Had he agreed only because Dak was Alpha and he feared displeasing him? Dak hoped Corren understood he was free to speak his mind—within reason, of course. In his dealings with other males, he’d caught the leers and lust-filled glances betrayed by other betas and even some alphas toward females, but never by Corren. Come to think of it, the only emotion Corren displayed toward females was disdain. And in that, his beta differed little from Dak’s subcommanders, whose disregard for breeders had been starkly revealed today.
The information uncovered by his investigation appalled him. He’d known the BCF system was flawed, but he hadn’t realized how egregious it was. Corruption and graft ran rampant; monies earmarked for breeder care and maintenance had been diverted elsewhere. Intake documents appeared to be in order, but many Outtake records had disappeared or were nonexistent, giving the impression a large number of breeders had disappeared from the facility. Had they escaped? Or were purchases not recorded? If the latter, where had the money gone? To whom had they been sold?
Dak’s subcommanders accepted the obvious answer—that Sival had pocketed the proceeds—but Dak did not. The beta had struck him more as a minion than a mastermind. And like the records he’d been responsible for maintaining, he’d vanished since his dismissal.
But he would be located and interrogated. Sival would not escape justice—and it would be swift and harsh. The lack of concern his subcommanders expressed for the conditions at the BCF troubled Dak more than the machinations of one man. They did not approve of the diversion of funds but had advised against spending money to improve the food, hygiene, and shelter of the females.
“If the BCF operated on less than half the funds due to the director’s graft, that demonstrates we overfunded the centers,” one subcommander had argued. “They’re breeders. Expendable. Funds allocated to the containment facilities could better be spent on defense, infrastructure, or alpha training.”
Dak sighed. Vigilance engrained, he tromped along the lane that led to his domicile and scanned the landscape for movement, anomalies, tracks, or other signs that did not belong. The power conferred by his position also transformed him into a target. Many coveted his title and authority. Two attempts had been made on his life, once during his military training as a young alpha and another after he’d assumed command. The latter time he’d been captured by rebels, starved, beaten, and contained in a cell so small, he could not stand upright. But he had killed his guerrilla guard and escaped before they could execute him. Conditions of the BCF, though not as severe, had reminded him of the rebel prison.
His subcommanders’ lack of foresight perturbed him. Did they not understand that weakened, ill-fed breeders bore sickly, malnourished sons? It benefitted all alphas that breeders receive a minimum standard of care.
He approached his domicile, which had been constructed to be as sturdy and strong as a fortress. To its side stood the structure that sheltered his beasts. He treated his animals better than the breeders had been at the BCF. Than Omra had been. Sival had gone out of his way to make her life as uncomfortable as possible. Dak inhaled and exhaled to expel his tension. Her lock-ring guaranteed purity few could resist, including him. However, Corren had succeeded in planting a seed of misgiving. Was she too scrawny to bear his progeny? His sons would be large, and she was so delicate, a puff of wind could whisk her away if not for the anchor of her overly generous breasts. Should he have chosen a more robust female, one proven to produce healthy offspring?
Honesty forced him to admit a covetous emotion, not reason or suitability, had influenced his purchase. He could not explain why she intrigued him so, but she did. Once he’d set his eyes upon her, no other breeder would do.
He paused under the portico, reluctant to enter. Corren and Omra would both be asleep, his beta on the cushioned platform, Omra on the pallet at its foot. He’d been aware of her scrutiny when he’d satisfied Corren the evening of her arrival. That had been a fortnight ago, and it had been weeks before that that he and Corren had coupled. He’d blamed his travels and the demands of his command for the fact that he and Corren rarely engaged in the pleasures of the flesh. But the truth? His libido had waned to the extent that he lacked all desire for gratification. Until recently, he hadn’t even wanted sexual release. That wasn’t fair to Corren, whose physical drives ran high.
Omra had offered an expedient solution. Or should have. To his knowledge, Corren had not touched her yet.
Shamefully, Corren’s animus pleased him. When Dak imagined his beta following up on his rights and using Omra in the manner he had intended him to, it both sickened and enraged him—the same way he’d felt when he’d learned the BCF director had abused his authority.
If Omra had failed to arouse a necessary lust in his beta, the same could not be said of him. As he had found release with Corren, it had been Omra who had filled his thoughts, her mouth he imagined around his manhood, her body relaxing to receive him. He’d been startled when he’d opened his eyes to find Corren beneath him and Omra watching. He’d showered afterward but could not wash away the guilt. He’d taken Corren while longing for a female.
And since then, he had suffered no lack of desire. Quite the contrary. He suffered from acute cupidity. Her nearness, her scent, thoughts of impregnating her, had kept him in a needful state no matter what the time of day. But he would not go to Corren. Honor would not allow him to slake his lust for a breeder with his beta.
Nor could he seek out Omra, given the extreme nature of his present condition.
Until he could conduct himself in a dispassionate manner, he must postpone the mating. The savagery of the coupling would be hard enough for her without him losing control. He did not wish to hurt her more than necessary.
Dak detoured to the stable to check on Aithon and Phobos. Parseons did not normally bestow cognomina upon animals, but he had a fondness for the beasts, having acquired them as foals, and the names of two of the fire-breathing horses of Ares, a god in Terran mythology, had seemed to suit them.
The outside air had acquired the chill of the night, but the stable was much warmer. He found the beasts abed in their stalls. No straw could be laid to soften their slumber, for their fiery exhalations would ignite it.
He watched them for a moment, then turned to leave. His ears detected a sniffling. He grabbed his dagger from its sheath on his right thigh and spun around. “Who goes there? Show yourself.”
A naked Omra stepped out from a stall. The flashes of flame from the beasts’ respiration glinted off her pale skin, which was additionally tinted by moon glow spilling through the window. The embers of lust he’d managed to bank flared to life.
He sheathed his weapon and stalked toward her. “Explain yourself. Why are you here? Why are you not in the domicile?”
She bowed her head. “Corren has instructed I am to sleep here now.”
He glanced into the spartan stall and spotted her pallet on the stone floor. Her shift hung on a hook used for tack. He recalled the cell at BCF. Dismay and anger added to the heat of desire that licked at him. He wanted to push her onto the pallet and slake his ravenous need, haul her over his lap and paddle her buttocks in retaliation for the hunger she provoked.
“You shall not sleep here,” he bit out. “Bring your shift. Come inside.” He did not wait for a response but marched toward the exit.
“Should I take the pallet?” she called out.
“No.” He did not slow his pace, and the patter of feet signaled she trotted behind him. Upon entering the domicile, he strode down the corridor to the guest wing and pushed into the first room.
