The Bearer of Secrets (Dark Legacy)

by Kyle Belote

  He took the letter she offered, glimpsing the seal.

  “The A’uri will deliver it. You should have your answer by night’s end.” She nodded and turned to go, but the big man stopped her. “I know,” he began, searching for his words. “I understand it’s hard to kill someone, especially the first.”

  Xeno left him standing there, reentering her pavilion, but the big man hadn’t finished and followed her in. She stopped with her back to him.

  “I know what you are feeling,” he continued, speaking to her back. “I remember my first kill like it was yesterday. It is with you and will always be with you, Xenomene. You expected a glorious battle but instead received the cold, hard reality of war. You have trained since you came to House Eti at the age of five. I have observed you over the years, your skill surpassing those who were there longer. You’ve always craved a way to test your abilities for real, and now you have, but no amount of training prepares you for taking a life, death delivered by your hands.” He paused a moment. “We each manage it in our way. If silence is the way to distance yourself from the action, then keep your silence, and I will speak for you, for as long as you wish. You are my Do-don, and I am your second, I’ll follow you until I die, or until you fall. I’ll send your letter to the Heir … and I will have the camp hands boil you water so you can bathe.”

  When he mentioned the bath, she noticed that she had one in her tent, another bonus of being the Do-don. The shock of losing Raven and Two-tons weighed on her, a fog suffusing her. How could she miss there was a tub? What else did she miss? The welcomed thought of bathing in solitude cleared her head.

  Tiny left, leaving her alone in her dimly-lit palace of canvas, furs, and sparse furniture. Not long after, the camp hands delivered her water and filled her tub. When they left, she stripped out of her armor, laying it in an orderly fashion so that it could be picked up again at a moment’s notice.

  She looked at herself in the small mirror allotted to the Do-don. Her emerald eyes, usually glittering with life, stared back dully. Even her few, faint freckles of gold seemed diminished. She rarely had the opportunity to look in the mirror, so she traced her few freckles down her neck and to her shoulders. They crawled sparingly down her back; she even had a few on her curvacious buttocks.

  Her curiosity satisfied, she shifted to the steaming tub and sank beneath the surface. She rested and soaked the heat in, the knots and tension releasing minutely from her muscles. After the water turned tepid, she washed her hair, scrubbed her face and washed and groomed her body.

  She exited the tub and dried off with a course cloth and brushed her hair a hundred strokes on each side. Since she was the Do-don and had the privacy, she treated herself to a denied proclivity since they started the force-march: going without clothing. On the trail, she slept with covers, but now with the seclusion of canvas, she attained a level of freedom and privacy. She crawled on atop the large pallet and laid on her stomach. Every night, she slept on the ground, now she had a bed with wood slats standing a foot off the ground and covered with a thin mattress of cotton.

  At some point, sleep ensnared her without intention. She awoke to the sound of the flap opening, expecting the Mind or perhaps Tiny, but turned to see Bitcher, an unwelcomed guest. The canvas closed behind him. He, like her, was bathed but donned in clothing suited for camp. His eyes rested on her bare backside. A small bag clutched in his hand, all but forgotten. When he didn’t stir, Xeno broke her silence.

  “Have you come to ‘bury your face in it?’” she asked, her tone deadpan.

  When he found his voice, he spoke. “That, among other things.”

  Xenomene gave the Forgotten Islander a withering look. “Either do what you’ve come to do, if you are brave enough to suffer the consequences, or get the fuck out of my tent. I don’t want to be bothered now.” In truth, she wouldn’t mind company, but she didn’t view Bitcher as a suitable choice.

  She laid her head back down but was not surprised when his weight added to her pallet. His hand traced her back softly, and she made no move to block him, give in, or pull away. She waited for him to declare his quest, but he didn’t. Like everyone else, she overheard stories about Forgotten Islanders, but she never knew if they were true.

  Xeno had taken few lovers over the years, discarding each as quickly as they came, none able to provide what she lacked, what she sought. The arising dilemma manifested by way of not knowing what she desired and longed for, but was certain she would recognize the urge once she experienced it. Bitcher as a lover would not be as terrible as it sounded. Fit and fetching, definitely pleasing to the eye, but his personality gave her pause. He could serve her needs as a lover, but more? She didn’t want to encourage the thought.

  The saying about Islanders twirled in her head as she turned her head to face him, watching him disrobe. If she was going to stop him, it was now, but seeing him naked stirred a neglected desire. From a bag, he pulled out a bottle and set it nearby. Hands caressed her buttocks before his arms snaked between her legs, raising her hips and stomach off the bed, burying his face in her.

  His smooth tongue tickled her insides, the exploring warmth probing the space between her cheeks. She gasped at the pleasant but odd sensation. At first, she vowed to be completely indifferent to the touch of his hands, his exploring tongue, but her body defied her mood, relaxing as he charmed her.

  She wet her lips, rising, pushing against his delicate invasion. Warm hands groped her, his silky tongue alluring. Melting at his touch, she closed her eyes, enjoying the scandalous novelty. Sometimes he was slow and methodical, other times he stimulated her light and fast like a hummingbird’s wings. Eventually, the tension melted from her muscles and tranquility washed over her. His pace slowed, and much to her disappointment, his lips left her supple skin. She yearned for more.

  His body shifted, moving up beside her. A pause. The sound of cork pulling free of his bottle informed her of his prolong absence. Warm liquid dripped over her skin and between her crevice. His hand returned, massaging the oil into her, working down. Hot breath tickled her ear as he spooned her, his teeth pulling lightly on her lobe. Bitcher massaged her with amorous fingers, and her body responded, receptive, rebelling against her inner defiance. A finger probed her, slick, smooth, slow. She exhaled and breathed in deep through her nose. A heady sensation washed over her, an immediate euphoria. She shivered. Her legs tightened, knees curling into her chest.

  “Do you like that whore?” His soft breath tickled her ear. She heard the amusement in his voice. Before she could stop herself, she nodded. Stars swam in her vision, pupils dilating. “Breathe,” he whispered. “Breathe deep.” She did as commanded, her appetite sizzling, rising. A haze of glowing bliss coursed through her. Her head floated like she was drunk, breathing in the cool, night air. Her vision swam. Relaxing, his finger slid in further.

  “Again.”

  She inhaled through her mouth, a fiery heat raced through her lithe body, the skin on the small of her back prickled, sweating. The gratification burned darkly in her. Her hand reached for him, pulling his face closer, and kissed him, pouring into him what ran through her body. She jerked away, gasping, a sickly-sweet dizziness washing over her. Inhibitions crumbled. His hands rolled her to her stomach and a copious amount of oil cascaded over her skin.

  What the fuck did he do to me? she writhed. It didn’t matter, it felt too good to care; she yearned for what came next. Xeno hoped Bitcher proved equal to the task.

  Don’t disappoint me.

  He shifted, his hand running down her skin before pulling her up to her hands and knees. Her muscles loosened, her body floating. Shivers of pleasure ricochetted through her flushed skin. Nausea and sensuality carved through her with a frisson of what was to come. It had been a long time since she lay with a man, and the Mind prior to battle didn’t count. They never truly started. Her legs twitched beneath her and she fought to remain upright. With one hand guiding her by the hip, he entered her. As his satiny skin sank into
her, an oil-slicked hand reached around and teased her.

  So, it is true about the Islanders.

  The more he stirred, the stronger the sensations rose. She inhaled deeply as his hips drew closer, his length sliding into her, eliciting a moan.

  I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing my pleasure.

  Much to her surprise, Bitcher carried himself with an affectionate gentleness, the antithesis of his personality, much more tender than she accredited him. At least at first. The deeper he explored, the more his speed increased. Her altered mind rode the currents of swelling tides. Bitcher’s fingers danced in tangent with his thrusts. A delicious rush of lechery shot through her, sudden, unexpected, soaking his fingers, unable to control her body. She clenched around him. With a shaking breath, her legs trembled, and she moaned.

  Too late. He knows.

  Her body opened, relaxed. Even when drunk, she had never experienced the sensation simmering in her mind. Beneath her rising desires, a buried question seared, knowing he did something to her, yet it was fleeting, and she caved, coveting more of their debauchery. Whatever affected her did the same to him, too. Bitcher persisted without reprieve, the last tinges of her bliss rolling into the building sensation.

  He glided unobtrusively with deep, quick thrusts, his hands latched around her petite waist.

  He likes taking me from behind.

  Soft moans turned to grunts, the buzzing sensation provoking, enticing her to writhe beneath him, driven by his animalistic craze. She twisted and turned and tried to angle him just right to keep the passion soaring. Again the expeditious and abrupt release gushed forth. Her breath caught in her throat. Worries about him knowing her arousal were cast aside. She wanted more, craved more. Xenomene had never been with anyone like this.

  “Fuck me. Shades!” she groaned.

  “What?” She could hear the smile in his voice.

  Let him smile.

  “Scrotum of gods, fuck me harder!” she pleaded. Mouth open, she heaved, breath coming in pants with his relentless tempo. His hands pulled on her shoulders, drawing her back against his chest. A loud, long moan escaped her, and she buried her face in the covers, stifling the noise. The canvas flapped in the sudden gust, disguising her groans.

  Fingers snaked through her red hair, and he pulled sharply, making her shudder.

  “Harder! Pull harder,” she encouraged, and he did. The pleasure and pain twined together, bringing her to the precipice she longed for.

  One of his hands concealed her moans. Her skin prickled, nipples hardened, and her back, covered in sweat and oil, gleamed gold in the soft lantern light. She wondered if her squad heard her and if they would come to investigate. The thought of being watched while Bitcher dominated her was erotic, kinky, dark, salacious. Part of her wished they would.

  She climbed dangerously close to another summit, squeezing her legs together, cringing as the energy rumbled deep within her. The blankets snuffed her moan as the lightning arched through her, trailing fire in her veins.

  Fuck! Isn’t he done yet?

  The gentleness in which they started, but a faint memory, and somewhere deep inside, Xenomene was turned on by the Forgotten Islander’s unique fetish. Ralloc shunned Islanders for their penchants, seeing them as walking perversions, but each culture differing from Ralloc was despised. The capital was known for their extreme prejudice and prudish nature.

  His hands reached up around her throat, and he squeezed, gentle but firm. “Harder,” she begged, her hands touching his. “Harder.”

  Her arms shook, violent and weak. She melted beneath him, laying on her stomach, giving him the unrestrained freedom. He followed her down, his breath quickening as he let out a grunt.

  Fuck, he is almost spent!

  “Don’t even think about stopping,” she begged through the choke hold. He quickened, his flesh slapping loudly against hers. A warm gush flooded into her. His breath hitched, his body jerked.

  “Fucking scrotum of gods,” she rasped through exhausted inhales. A chuckle escaped him as he retreated. She faced him, turning on her side, and asked, “You’re not done, are you?”

  He smiled and reached for the small bottle, pouring the liquid in the palm of his hand before rubbing it over his member. “We’re just getting started, love.”

  “What?-what is?-that?” she inquired between gasps.

  He answered in kind. “Makes me stay hard, increases your sensations for more satisfaction, alters your mind. Surely you felt it? It’s a necessity for new initiates of the Islander Fashion. Do you realize how hard this would be without it? Your pupils are dilated. It makes you crave, itch, want more. We, Islanders, have made this into an art.”

  Xenomene experienced ‘the art’ until both sated their desires. Her covers, drenched in sweat, semen, and whatever liquid the Islander’s bottle provided, lay tangled at the end of the pallet. The air was stifling in the tent. She thought back over the last two hours or so and since the beginning, he had glided into her with ease.

  Fuck! I craved and begged for it!

  Whatever was in the oil changed her, interdicted her reservations. Bitcher admitted as much, but how much of an alteration, she couldn’t say. She lost from the start. When the sex subsided, the modified attitude fled, and she recollected everything with clarity. Did she enjoy it? Yes, undoubtedly. What she always searched for in a partner, she finally found in Bitcher, of all people. Not necessarily his propensity, but how he dominated her, commanded her, took her as he saw fit. She loved every moment, his fetish, roughness, and all. The longer she thought about it, the more she realized she never told him he could. She never even said it was okay.

  Or did she?

  What the fuck is in that bottle? she thought, her heart fluttered in her chest. I can’t believe I just did that!

  The Krey had never been a people of modesty, so as he dressed in front of her, she lay supine on her pallet, uncovered, watching him.

  It did feel great. I thought it would be more painful, she conceded silently to herself. So, now I know it is true what they say about Islanders—the vagina is for procreation, the ass is for recreation. What the fuck is that liquid?

  His tunic in place, he bent for his trousers. Xenomene looked at his still-swollen member. She would have done anything under the influence if he asked her to. Had he wished, before he took her, she would have drank him dry.

  Probably swallowed, too.

  Giving up that much power, released of the manacles of choice, terrified and thrilled her. He commanded, and she obeyed without question, misgivings, or hesitation. The scariest part was that she loved reaching the altered state and planned to do so again. Anew, the lascivious thought of being watched her squad tantalized her. At the moment, it would have propelled her to new heights. She both yearned and spurned the thought.

  I could never live that down. I’d always be the girl that got her ass fucked by Bitcher.

  Or would it have mattered? Would they have just watched or try to join?

  There’s a thought…

  Again, horror and thrill aside and her wanting to repeat the encounter, she never said yes. She didn’t say no either. In fact, Xeno never tried to stop him, but she didn’t give consent either. A gray area between the two extremes.

  Their encounter wasn’t a quest, a common occurrence among the Krey, that generally took place in the field rather than in House Eti, but the latter wasn’t unheard of. He didn’t declare it, and she knew he had full intentions of repeating the act. She did, too.

  For a quest to take place, there were certain factors involved. One was complete dominance or embarrassment of one person over another. The victim or oppressed could then initiate a quest, subjugating the other as an act of retaliation or equalizing the tally. In a way, initiating the act was an admittance that the dominating party was the better, and this was the only means of besting them. It was like the warring Ebbins of Groyntahl, who wore leather straps around their waste. A daring individual would earn the r
espect of their enemies by managing to snatch away the leather without killing or drawing a weapon, a way for an inferior warrior to gain respect without a certain death. She had embarrassed him when she kicked him off his seat and tossed her spoon at him, but was it enough to warrant a quest?

  The other primary means of initiating a quest was through subtle signs. It was different for everyone, but the leading means was through prolonged eye contact, much like she shared with the Mind before the start of the battle. In a way, it was like flirting without ever having to say anything, a free pass to explore someone intimately.

  Lastly, a quest was a one-time occurrence per grievance or in the case of Xeno and the Mind, until the next time they deployed. Any more than that, it was considered rape and not tolerated.

  So, what was it? The beginning of a relationship? No, they had no prior foundation for it to be considered a relationship. A question burned in her, one that she shied away from but needed to confront. Was it rape? Again, the answer was no. Rape was a violent, sexual act. While they were rough, she wanted it, craved it, asked for it, and participated willingly.

  Not a quest, not rape, an occurrence.

  That fucking cunt, he drugged me!

  He needed to be punished, reminded that he crossed a line. Next time, she would give her consent, sure that there would be another indulgence.

  Bitcher reached down and kissed her, but she didn’t return the gesture this time.

  Your dick is out of me and so is your drug! It doesn’t work anymore, asshole.

  Before he slipped out into the night, she started plotting an appropriate response to his transgression.

  ***

  Chapter 80 : Ralloc Domain