by Jory Strong
Karena forced herself to breathe deeply in the hopes of loosening the constriction in her chest. Except for her ability to communicate with horses, she was practically a null, and because her talent had little value, she had few options and limited choices when it came to escaping whatever plot her father hatched.
Qumaar was a water world dotted with densely packed islands. The nature of the planet had once made it seem like the ideal prison world. A place where both criminals and “undesirables” from other planets could be dumped, left to fend for themselves—a task they were well suited for, having survived by brute strength, wit or supernatural ability on their home worlds.
Just who—and what—was “undesirable” varied greatly, and because of it, the experiment failed quickly, well before Karena’s birth. The officials stationed on Qumaar were no match for the combined psi abilities that had been inadvertently thrown together there. They were quickly overrun, and many of them slaughtered.
Warships moved in to prevent escape, and generations later, ships still kept the inhabitants, the progeny of those first men and women who’d been dumped on the planet, from leaving.
Karena took off her gown. Gooseflesh pimpled her skin, not from the sea breeze wafting in through the window, but from thinking about the furtive glances she’d gotten from some of her father’s drinking companions—and the more focused ones from Melor.
In physical appearance Melor was attractive enough, not that it mattered. Even an ugly man could find a wife in society if his status was high enough and his psi talents of value.
There’d been rumors of several impending announcements of marriage though nothing materialized. She suspected she knew the reason why Melor had no wife, guessed he preferred young boys over women. More than once she’d caught him studying her, his eyelids lowered, as if by squinting he could pretend she was male instead of female.
Karena forced thoughts of him from her mind. She removed her underclothes, hanging them on the hook with the gown.
The breeze felt like a caress and she glanced down at her naked body. She was grateful her size and shape meshed beautifully with her gift with water horses, but along with the lack of a valued psi gift, the way she looked was an impediment when it came to gaining a husband.
Men on Qumaar preferred women of a different type. They wanted tall, lithe women with long, sleek legs and figures that invited wandering hands. Not petite ones with less-pronounced curves, a woman easily viewed as better suited to riding on the back of a cold-blooded seahorse than astride a hot-blooded man.
Her breasts were much smaller than was fashionable, her skin tone darker. Her mound smooth and bare because she preferred it that way.
Despite having a body that had drawn only Melor’s attention, she liked the way she looked. Yet even as she thought it, Ebann’s face rose in her mind. It brought shame with it, memories of the sexual tutoring sessions her mother had insisted on as a way to make her marriageable.
Karena banished the images, fighting them by rubbing her palms against her nipples until they stiffened. By taking the dark areolas between her fingers, pinching and tugging and twisting, sending currents of warmth pulsing through her belly on their way to the place between her thighs.
I’d rather rely on myself for pleasure than be with a man who doesn’t truly desire me, she thought, one hand following the trail of heat downward to her clit, grasping it, pumping it as she closed her eyes and gave herself over to a favored fantasy.
She imagined lying on a bed with two men, always the same two. A blond with hair cascading down his back in waves and eyes the color of green shallows. His companion, brown-haired with blue eyes that sparkled like sun off water, and a mouth that hinted at a ready smile.
Both of them looked at her with shining approval and molten lust. Their hands spoke of the same feelings. As did their lips when they pressed them to her skin.
They caressed her with wicked touches and wet kisses, aroused her flesh with heated strokes and teasing licks, marked it with claiming bites.
And she did the same to them.
They were hard in the places she was soft. But even as they used their strength to strip all vestiges of control and inhibition away, underneath it was the promise of protection and safety, physical well-being as well as emotional caring.
She could trust them. She could give them her love knowing it wasn’t a trophy, or leverage to be used to gain status or added riches.
On a soft sigh, her fingers delved into her slit. Her channel clenched on them, but they were no substitute for a man’s penis.
She’d felt humiliated each time Ebann came to the estate and her sisters made jokes at her expense. She’d been ashamed that he couldn’t do his job without first taking one of the expensive aphrodisiacs harvested from deep in the sea. But for all that, Ebann had been talented enough to make her orgasm. And because of it she knew what it was like to find release by something other than her own hand, though the feelings of well-being ebbed away with thoughts of him.
Frustration edged out the earlier warmth. Karena tried desperately to recapture the fantasy and the pleasure, but it was too late.
Her hands left her breast and cunt. It’s just as well, she told herself, reaching for the jockey’s outfit and slipping it on.
The thin material left nothing to the imagination. Nipples, clit, the crease between her buttocks and the lack of pubic hair were all there, just as the size of a male jockey’s flaccid penis and testicles were visibly outlined.
The lack of bulk was functional, intended to maximize contact between rider and horse while minimizing weight and water drag. And though the design of the suits was similar to those used for swimming, the fabric was specifically created to provide protection against the mini-spines on some of the mounts.
Most of the water horses were tame, and well-enough bonded to their riders not to intentionally harm them. But occasionally, in the heat of competition, the spines would flare open.
Karena tugged the suit a final time, pulling the material from its tight clinging to her mound. She grabbed up her riding goggles and left to join the line of male jockeys in the weight room.
Her turn on the scales arrived. Her weight was duly recorded and she was given a bib with the number seven on it.
There were no land horses on Qumaar, though she’d read about them. On other planets races took place on oval tracks, or on courses with fences and obstacles, or across open countryside. Compared to those venues, the races on Qumaar were tame.
The water horses went in a straight line, propelled by small fins on their backs and strong tails. They raced from one side of the harbor to the other, or, less often, from one of the nearby islands to another.
It wasn’t a hugely popular sport. But thankfully there were odds-makers willing to post spreads and bettors willing to gamble.
She left the building and found the guards assigned to her by her father waiting next to the door. They remained there, only sitting on small portable bleachers after she’d climbed onboard the boat that would take the jockeys to the floating dock and the pens.
Karena’s anxiety returned, accompanied by the image of Melor and a sense of time running out. She tried to distract herself by mentally calculating how much money she would make if the only horse she knew she was riding today placed in the money.
It brought little relief. Only by coming in first would she finally have enough to pay a smuggler to get her off Qumaar.
Karena’s mouth went dry thinking on the prospect of trusting a stranger in that way, a shadowy figure spoken of in whispers only. It was dangerous, and she wasn’t at all sure she had the courage to do it.
How could she know she’d find a better life on another planet? How could she be sure she wouldn’t be sold into slavery or murdered by the very people she’d paid to get her off Qumaar?
She couldn’t.
Chapter Two
Chill bumps pebbled Karena’s skin. She had never seriously thought of trying to escape Qumaar until her best f
riend from childhood was unwillingly married to a man who enjoyed delivering pain, both inside and outside the bedroom.
Arabella had become a prisoner in her own home, allowed out only when there were no telltale bruises. She’d been desperate enough to risk putting her life in the hands of a smuggler and Karena had seen no better alternative.
Between the two of them they’d carefully sold the jewelry Arabella had taken with her into her violent marriage. Together they’d cautiously sought out the name of someone who could broker a transaction with smugglers.
Karena’s throat closed against the fear and worry for her friend’s unknown fate, and the loss of her. She missed Arabella.
They’d had so much in common, including being daughters born with talents not valued by society. Though in Arabella’s case, she’d been beautiful, and with her dowry and the political advantages of taking her as a wife, she’d been married off as soon as she came of age.
Karena knew that of the two of them, she’d been the luckier. As awkward and humiliating as it’d been to have her mother hire a sexual tutor for her, as horrible as it’d been to hear her sisters’ taunts and laughter, all of it was better than being raped by an unwanted and abusive husband.
She said a silent prayer, hoping a divine being might note her small presence in the universe and grant her requests. First, that Arabella had already found safety and happiness and someone to love and cherish her as she deserved. And second, that she might find the same.
The boat transporting the jockeys pulled alongside the floating dock. Karena left it, hurrying toward the pens where the water horses were contained at the beginning of each race.
In all but one of the pens, horses bobbed up and down in the gentle tide, necks and heads above the water. It was a sign of excitement in creatures who were most often content to anchor themselves in kelp or coral near the sandy ocean floor and wait for their meals to swim by.
Karina stopped next to the pen corresponding with the seven on her race bib. It appeared empty and she frowned in feigned concern, as the stable master had told her to do.
It was a ploy designed for the benefit of those spying on behalf of the odds-makers, though she doubted anyone was fooled. Psi talents were a matter of record and hers was registered. Anyone who bothered to check—and those involved with gambling surely would—could easily guess she’d schooled her mount to wait for her at the bottom of the race pen.
She remained at dock edge rather than slipping into the water. The stable master finished speaking to the jockey who’d drawn the number two position, then came to her.
“Hold back until the halfway mark,” he said. “It’s more important to test Cloud’s competitiveness this race than to win it.”
Karena’s heart thundered in her chest at hearing his instructions. Every beat felt like a desperate confirmation that she needed to win this race so escape from Qumaar would be possible. But there was no other choice except to obey the stable master’s order. If she defied him, she’d lose her chance to ride for the remainder of the race season.
The stable master walked away, heading toward the official observation point so he could watch the water horses line up in the starting gates. Karena slipped into the water, its warm embrace soothing her, allowing her to concentrate on what was in her power to effect—the present.
With easy strokes she swam to the middle of the pen, her mind reaching out for Cloud’s. He acknowledged her presence, sending the image of his head bobbing up and down in greeting. She pulled the riding goggles up and over her eyes, then took a deep breath and dived to where he waited for her.
No two water horses looked exactly the same. He was solid black, the deadly spines used to deter ocean predators flattened against the bony ridges encircling his body.
Cloud turned his head when she reached him. He nuzzled her chest with his thin, elongated snout.
She rubbed her hand along it then indicated with a mental picture that they should rise to the surface. He released the thick strands of seaweed anchoring him to the bottom and used the swish of his tail to move upward while the smallish fins served to keep him on a straight course.
They broke the surface of the water and Karena saw other racers heading toward the starting line. Some had woven ropes fitted around their mount’s snout, looping them around to form something similar to the halters and reins used on other worlds for riding land horses.
It gave the riders the feeling of control, but Karena thought it a dangerous illusion. Every season a rider was killed after getting entangled, or after hanging on in a vain attempt to prevent their mount from escaping after it had decided it preferred freedom to racing.
She put her hand on Cloud’s neck and directed him toward the mesh gate. When they reached it, she undid the clasps and it was pulled downward by weights attached to the bottom of it.
Cloud needed no urging to pass through the opening.
They traveled along a waterway created by additional mesh fencing, the depth only sufficient for getting to the starting chutes.
With a murmured “wait” she stopped Cloud so one of the other riders could pass and enter the number six chute. His mount was green-gold, fractious, its spines raised and tail churning the water.
After they were in, she proceeded, entering the narrow number seven chute and closing the gate behind her.
Around her other jockeys were doing the same before climbing onto their mounts. Karena sent the image of riding astride to Cloud, communicating her intention and waiting for him to acquiesce.
He lifted his snout from the water and snorted, then raised his head, the motion tilting him backward, presenting his back in an invitation to mount.
She grasped one of the ridges on his lower neck, a gesture of trust given the spines that could flick upward like a knife blade hidden in a hilt.
Cloud moved so her thighs rested against his sides. Her mound pressed to the smooth skin between the bony ridges that formed a perfect, natural saddle on his back.
Desire flushed through her at the contact, her clit still sensitive from the failed attempt to ease herself in the dressing room. It was enough to bring a familiar fantasy, one that distracted her with images of riding a land horse across the sand.
It was a race to pleasure and the heat of the desert was nothing when compared to what raged inside her. It was a carnal pursuit where she was a prize to the men chasing her, yet in catching and mounting her, the victory was hers.
The dream so often seemed real that she woke expecting to smell the exotic scents of another world, to feel masculine arms around her, masculine bodies pressed to hers.
Arabella had claimed it was a premonition, citing it as a reason for trying to find a way off Qumaar. But such a psi talent didn’t run in Karena’s family. For her, the dreams that had her waking with her hand between her thighs were simply a reflection of loneliness and desire, of wishing for physical pleasure coupled with love. Something she had little hope of finding.
The sharp blast of a whistle jerked her attention back to the impending race. She blushed, though thankfully the starter’s warning was for another rider.
Using her hands and legs, she urged Cloud forward to line up at the front of the chute, with the end of his snout inches away from mesh hanging from a bar several feet above water.
Like the lanes leading up to the starting gates, the mesh didn’t go all the way to the sea floor. It went only a few feet, just enough to give the illusion of being an enclosed space.
Leaving the chute before the bells sounded resulted in disqualification. It was up to the riders to keep their horses close to the surface so they didn’t swim beneath the barrier and break away early.
When all the horses were lined up, the caller yelled “ready” and the riskiest part of racing was seconds ahead, that first rush to freedom promised by an opening in the fencing.
Beneath her hands she felt Cloud gather himself, muscles bunching as if he’d surge forward, racing the boats to open sea and depths men
couldn’t reach with their nets and capture poles.
She sent images of crossing the bay, racing against the water horses on either side of him. Focused him with her hands and mind and body as the caller yelled “set.”
Bells rang as eleven latches opened simultaneously so the barriers snapped upward.
Cloud left the chute in a rush, his powerful tail propelling him forward and innate competitiveness driving him, channeling his energy to a distant point across the bay.
His eagerness and excitement pulsed into Karena where their bodies touched. She wanted to let him go, to feel the water rushing past them, but she didn’t dare defy the orders she’d been given.
Cloud fought her as she held him back using mental communication and a shift of weight. He tossed his head and bucked, the behavior getting worse as frustration built when, because of it, he fell farther behind the green-gold horse that had taken the lead.
“Easy,” she murmured, sending him the image of the buoy marking the halfway point, along with the sense that once he was there, he’d have the freedom to go as fast as he desired.
Cloud settled, accepting the pace she communicated with her hands on his neck and thighs against his sides.
Slowly he began passing horses in more distant lanes, gaining on the leader. She’d lucked out in drawing the position next to the green-gold horse. It was easier to race when the faster mounts were close enough to feed the competitiveness.
At the halfway mark she let Cloud go and he surged forward, chest cutting through the water like the prow of a boat.
Instead of concentrating on controlling his speed, Karena focused on keeping him straight and at an angle allowing for efficient travel. Her heart rate sped up, matching his. Anticipation built as they closed the distance, gaining on the green-gold horse.
There was a tail’s length of distance between them as they reached the home stretch. “Come on,” she urged, tasting victory, needing it.
Cloud responded with a powerful surge, a huge thrust of his tail that carried them out of the water, like a surfer riding a wave except they cut through air.
