by Sierra Dafoe
Devarian Exile
Sierra Dafoe
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2006 Sierra Dafoe
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ISBN (10) 1-59596-464-9
ISBN (13) 978-1-59596-464-9
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Editor: Chrissie Henderson
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Chapter One
Captain Soleyla Devarian strode through the market, her blue Guardian’s cloak whipping behind her, feeling rage blaze through every sinew of her body. How dare her mother do this to her? She was so furious she spared barely a glance at the tents she passed, or even the slaves displayed outside them.
If she was going to be forced to spend six months on some barren mudball halfway across the galaxy, Soleyla swore to herself, she was damned if she was going to spend it alone.
The first time she’d seen the market on Porto V, Soleyla had been sixteen. For the daughters of senators, the purchase of one’s first pleasure-slave was as much a rite of passage as the sword trial itself. The trial, a culmination of three years’ military training in the Guardian schools, was both a final exam and placement test. When Soleyla Devarian had disarmed the three V’ranyii her swordmistress sent against her in record time, slaying two in the process and earning herself a Guardian commission as a second lieutenant, her mother had rewarded her in the customary manner by ordering the portals readied for the journey to Porto.
From the biting cold of an Argulian winter, Soleyla remembered, she had stepped from the portal onto soft white sand. The feathery fronds of unfamiliar trees had rustled in a light, warm breeze. Wide-eyed, she’d followed her mother from the debarkation point down the slope toward the market.
The colored awnings and silken tents had looked flimsy to Soleyla, raised as she was on Argulus where the fierce winter winds necessitated massive stone buildings to withstand their blast. The market had spread out before her, a riot of color under a gentle yellow sun. But it wasn’t the tents, or even the azure sea sparkling off in the distance, that caught Soleyla’s eye.
It was the men.
They’d posed outside the sellers’ tents, living advertisements of their owners’ wares. Their firm, taut bodies reignited the strange, unfamiliar restlessness that had begun plaguing her over the past few months, swelling the pulsing ache between her legs. Soleyla had studied them, following the line of their taut, tapered waists to where their manhood was displayed to her devouring gaze, nestled among curls of black or brown or copper hair.
One slave, a sleek, light-haired fellow with eyes the color of the distant sea, had fondled himself before her eyes, his cock hardening under his caressing fingers as he shot Soleyla a beckoning, seductive glance.
Her mouth had gone dry as she stared at his hands trailing up and down his thickening shaft. She’d watched him rub the darkening tip between his deft fingers, stroking them lightly across the velvety skin. Her footsteps lagged, and she’d found herself wanting to command him to rub himself faster, wanting to watch the muscles of his forearm clench and flex as he tightened his grip, watch his head drop back and his eyes fall shut as he stroked his warm, pulsing penis harder and harder…
Rachel Devarian had looked down at her flushed, staring daughter with an amused smile. “Patience, Soleyla,” she’d murmured. “Do you think the merchants put their best wares on display in the streets?”
Obediently, Soleyla had followed her red-cloaked mother, but she hadn’t been able to resist glancing back at the light-haired man, catching an expression of disappointment on his face as the tall, regal woman, clearly marked by her crimson cloak with its titanium clasp as a Senator of the Nine-Star League, moved away.
It hadn’t been likely that the man -- a mere pleasure-slave -- had known her mother’s name, much less her preeminence as First Senator of the League. But that hardly mattered, Soleyla had realized, watching the way his eyes followed Rachel. A forlorn hope shone in them, and she could almost read his thoughts. To be plucked from the pleasure-market, taken into the household of a senator! It would be the height of ambition for slaves such as these -- men selected in childhood for their attractiveness and trained in the arts of pleasing a woman.
It had never occurred to her that men had dreams, too -- no matter how small and inconsequential those dreams might seem to her, Soleyla, daughter of Senator Rachel Devarian, Regent of Argulus IV.
She hadn’t been entirely ignorant, of course, of the sensual uses to which a man could be put, even at sixteen. She’d walked in on her mother and one or more of the six pleasure-slaves her rank entitled her to, any number of times. But she herself had had no more than the briefest of conversations with the ordinary slaves who tended the fields, the manor, the livestock -- and none at all with the six her mother kept for pleasure.
It had been a shock to realize they might have dreams.
Her mother had led her to Merkun’s establishment -- an interlocking series of blue silken tents, the fabric fluttering lightly in the soft, sultry breeze. Wave after wave of half understood sensation had flowed through her as Merkun paraded one man after another through the small blue chamber. Soleyla had watched Rachel inspect the men, her mother’s long, capable fingers feeling their muscles, caressing their buttocks, curving down to cup their full, heavy testes. Soleyla had longed to be the one touching them, caressing all that warm, waiting flesh, but she’d sat quietly, awaiting her mother’s choice.
Finally her mother had decided on Danel. Dear, sweet Danel, who’d eased her gently into the knowledge of her own womanhood, who’d always been there, eager to please, whenever she’d wanted him. His softness, his sweetness, his gentle pliancy to her moods and needs had made him, Soleyla had to admit, an ideal selection for her first pleasure-slave.
Which made her mother’s betrayal bitter indeed.
That first trip to Porto had been six years ago. Now, at twenty-two, Soleyla was far more versant with the emotions that tumbled through her at the sight of those hard, chiseled bodies so delectably displayed before her. The hunger she’d ruthlessly suppressed over the three months since her mother’s betrayal roared through her as they preened, their poses and gestures and soft seductive looks all for her, this time. But desire reminded her fiercely of Danel and so fueled her rage, keeping her firmly on her course to Merkun’s blue tent.
Her mother had been right about many things, including the preeminence of Merkun’s establishment. That thought, too, carried its own weight of fury.
Merkun smiled and bowed as she entered his voluminous, multi-roomed tent. He had been castrated when granted his freedom by the regent of Porto V in token of fifteen years of outstanding service. Now the fat, aging man taught the extraordinary skills which had won him his freedom to the men he groomed for sale -- one of the many reasons Merkun’s pleasure-slaves commanded such outrageous prices.
As he ushered her into the same small room she’d sat in six years before, Soleyla was surprised by a sharp stab of grief. Here, she’d sat here, on
this very chair, the first time she’d seen Danel. His soft hazel eyes had studied her quietly as her mother inspected him, tilted his neck, felt his buttocks and genitals. Soleyla shut her own eyes tightly against the memory of his warm, gentle gaze.
“Captain? Are you all right, my lady?”
She opened her eyes again. “Yes. Some wine, I think, Merkun.”
He gestured to one of the two young men standing near the curtain that gave the room privacy. They were hardly more than boys, both of them, lean-limbed and beautiful. Merkun’s future stock, being assiduously groomed for their duties. The youth came forward, comfortable in his nudity, and knelt gracefully beside her to pour the wine. Merkun took a seat across from her and smiled approvingly as the youth held the cup up to her, his eyes cast demurely downward. “Would my lady care for anything else?”
She shook her head and waved him away. Merkun leaned forward, waiting -- it was not his place to begin business, but hers.
It had been three months. Whatever grief she still felt, it was time for a new slave. Soleyla cleared her throat harshly.
“I’m being sent to Antoros. You’ve heard, of course.”
Merkun inclined his head. Of course he had heard. Everyone had. It was tantamount to exile, being posted to that newly discovered world in the far reaches of the galaxy. And for a regent to send her own daughter to such a place… It took Soleyla a moment to push back her bitterness enough to continue.
“I’ll need a new slave. I’ll be damned if I’m going to that obscure rock-heap without one.”
“Of course, Guardian. Do you have any special requirements?”
Soleyla nodded. “He’ll need to be more than simply a pleasure-slave. The situation requires it. I can’t have a pretty thing with no common sense. He’s got to be tough, and willing to do manual labor, if needed.” She stared at Merkun challengingly. Slaves, of course, could be commanded to do anything, but pleasure-slaves held an exalted status.
The old man nodded. “I understand. It’s an outpost. Of course you can’t take a pampered lapdog.”
“I’d prefer him reasonably bright, as well as biddable. I don’t need to worry about his primary skills, seeing as he comes from your hands.”
Merkun smiled acknowledgement of the praise. “I believe I have a few who might suit, Guardian. If you’ll wait a few moments?”
She nodded, and again Merkun gestured to the youths by the curtain, indicating they should entertain her as he slipped out.
Soleyla leaned back, feeling the rage that had carried her here seep away, leaving behind an enervating melancholy. The two youths moved around her, setting a bowl of chilled fruit close to hand, refilling her wine. One settled on a cushion in the corner and picked up a syrinka, plucking a soft, melancholy tune from its four strings. The melody made sharp tears prickle behind her eyelids. Danel, too, had played the syrinka.
“Leave me,” she ordered. The youths glanced at each other, panic flickering in their eyes.
“My lady?”
She softened her tone. “Don’t worry. You’ve served well. But I wish solitude now.”
“Of course, my lady.” Bowing, they withdrew, and Soleyla sank gratefully into the privacy of her grief.
Oh, Danel. How clearly she remembered the feel of his hands, kneading the tension from the back of her neck, the slight hesitation he always made before sliding them downward to play over her generous breasts -- a hesitation, she knew, calculated to give her the time to indicate her desires without saying a word.
If she straightened under his hands, he knew that she did not wish his attentions, and tactfully withdrew. If she sighed and leaned back into his touch, that was his cue to move his strong fingers down over her large, firm mounds, rubbing her hardening nipples. When she arched her back, he’d move to kneel before her, closing his lips firmly around one taut areola, drawing it into his mouth and suckling it.
She loved the ache that spread through her at the feel of his warm mouth pulling at her nipples. He’d lap at one breast, then the other, moving his mouth back and forth between them like a puppy seeking the teat, rasping his tongue over the hard, rosy nubs till they stood as erect as his cock, which brushed undemanding against her thigh.
Under his ministrations, her breasts -- which had reached their full size only in the past two years -- seemed to swell even more, pressing against his teasing hands. She’d arch still further, letting him devour them, shuddering at the soft scrape of his teeth across her nipples, feeling his cock pulsing against her but ignoring it in the ecstasy of his mouth tugging at her breasts. Often she’d keep him there, her fingers twined deep in his thick, soft hair, while the ache inside her built and built until it exploded in liquid heat between her thighs.
Sweet, gentle Danel.
Soleyla heard the rustle of silk, and opened her eyes. Horrified to discover there were tears on her cheeks, she hastily wiped them away, glad that the slave who’d entered through the curtain had his eyes cast properly downward. Merkun followed, lingering long enough to register her nod of approval. Soleyla waved him back out, and looked the slave over.
He was sturdily built, with neither the overdeveloped muscles of the showier slaves nor the ethereal beauty the two youths had possessed. His eyes were a pleasant, clear brown, and he looked capable enough. Soleyla stood and walked slowly around him.
Thick honey-colored hair, broad shoulders, good firm ass. She laid her hand flat on his chest and ran it downward, feeling him relax into her touch. His penis stirred and lengthened, displaying a nice, full head, but…
Resuming her seat, she studied him, considering. Was it simply the memory of Danel that was blocking her own arousal? He was handsome enough, certainly, and his quick brown eyes promised a good degree of intelligence, yet…
“Come,” she said, and unclasped her blue Guardian’s mantle. He knelt before her, his fingers deftly undoing the buttons of her shirt. Soleyla watched his eyes widen appreciatively as he uncovered her breasts. They were, she had to admit, exceptional -- large and firm, with high, hard nipples. The slave stared at them, entranced. Then, glancing up at her for permission, cupped his hands around their lush roundness.
Soleyla watched him, his eyes turning a deeper, glowing brown at the feel of her breasts overflowing his hands. His cock sprung fully erect, twitching lightly in its eagerness -- but she herself felt nothing. Abruptly, she sat back. “Leave me.”
He rose fluidly, his chin dropped to his chest in mortification, and disappeared through the curtain. Soleyla pulled her shirt closed but didn’t bother to button it as Merkun entered. “He was displeasing, my lady?”
Soleyla shook her head. “He was fine. He just…”
He just wasn’t Danel.
Something flickered in Merkun’s eyes. It might have been compassion. The old man’s voice was husky with an emotion Soleyla couldn’t identify. “Skills can be taught. Techniques can be learned. But if the fit isn’t right --”
“Yes,” she replied, too quickly. “Precisely. He wasn’t the right fit.”
Merkun was silent a moment. Then, hesitantly, he said, “There is one in my stock who… I have no particular reason to think he’d be suitable, you understand, although he’s certainly bright enough. But intuition, if you will allow an old man his follies, tells me he might be worth your consideration.”
Soleyla eyed him. “Why the hesitation, Merkun? What aren’t you telling me?”
“He’s been… damaged, my lady.”
“Damaged how?”
The old man shook his head. “I have been in this business all my life, first as a pleasure-slave myself, and then as a seller. And in all that time I have never seen a slave --” He stopped speaking abruptly, as if words had failed him. “I bought him back. I had to. When I saw what had been done to him… My lady, I have never once had a complaint about a slave I sold. Until this one. And frankly…”
He glanced at her. His tone dropped to a whisper, as if he were terrified of what he was about to say. As well h
e might be, she thought as he concluded, “I don’t think the fault was on the slave’s part.”
Soleyla sipped her wine, studying him. “If I were my mother, Merkun, those words would have cost you your life.”
“But you are not your mother, my lady.”
Soleyla met his eyes. What she saw there surprised her. There was pride in his steady regard, a pride as great as any senator’s. What right had an ex-slave to be so proud? She was tempted to ask him, but there was something more there, as well. There was judgment. A keen, fierce intelligence that had weighed Rachel Devarian -- and found her lacking.
Soleyla sat back. “Bring him, then.” Merkun nodded and rose. She stopped him just before he disappeared through the curtain. “What’s his name?”
“Kantou,” he replied. He bowed briefly, and left.
Chapter Two
Kantou. She liked the sound of it. It had a lazy, playful, sensuous lilt that appealed to her.
Soleyla bit into a slice of chilled melon, enjoying the sweet crispness of the cool fruit as she imagined what this Kantou might look like. Idly, she reached for her wineglass, and discovered a man kneeling before her, holding it out. He’d entered so quietly she hadn’t even heard him.
His head was bent low, his eyes hidden behind a fall of gleaming ash-brown hair. His fingers around the carved crystal were long and slender -- an artist’s hands, or a musician’s. That, in turn, reminded her of Danel, and for a moment Soleyla wondered what she was doing here, why she was bothering. Then Kantou tilted his chin up, revealing broad, high cheekbones and a full, sensuous mouth.
Soleyla slid her hand underneath his chin, raising it higher, and found herself looking into eyes the color of an Argulian storm.
He’s been… damaged, my lady.
There were shadows in Kantou’s smoky gray eyes, dark shadows. But his expression remained calm, undemanding, and the shadows stayed far back where she could not read them. She saw intelligence clearly, however, in the shift and play of thoughts within those eyes. What did he hope for, she wondered -- did he still hope for anything?
