Flinging his bag on the bed, he removed his cloak and boots. He then moved toward the hygiene chamber to wash up. When he opened the door, a very pretty woman sprang to her feet. Briefly, he was startled, but when Tarken realized she was naked from head to toe, he perused her body and his shaft began to stir.
“I am Ayia,” she said with a curtsy, her sight falling to his partially stiff member. “I have been assigned to serve you during your stay.”
“I want to bathe,” Tarken told her with uninterested emotion and turned back to the sleeping chamber while she readied his bath.
His arousal of the female waned, his cock softening quickly. When she announced his bath was ready, Tarken sauntered to the hygiene chamber, lowered into the hot scented water, closing his lids, allowing Ayia wash the grime from him. She lathered a sponge and massaged it over his body. He felt himself relax as she washed him thoroughly, particularly enjoying the feel of her fingers massaging his scalp before she moved to other body parts.
Tarken opened his eyes when her touch left him, but realized readily she wasn’t finished yet. With her hands wrenching the sponge, Ayia squeezed the excess moisture from it before lathering it up once again with the soap. She bathed his skin, his chest, his abdomen in slow sinuous circles. His cock grew stiff again as she ministered to his body.
Wrapping his arm around her waist he pulled her to him and growled. “You are here to serve me, are you not?” Tarken took her hand and placed it on his now throbbing member.
Ayia smiled. “I am here to serve you in every way.”
“Get in and straddle me,” he told her.
She immediately obeyed, climbing into the tub.
“Turn around.”
Again, she obeyed.
Tarken reached up and grabbed her hips, guiding her downward. He slid his cock into her and then reached around to grab her breast. He began to fuck her. She moaned and groaned as if he were the best thing she’d ever had, but he knew this was just part of the service. On a sigh, he pushed up on her bottom. She raised enough for him to withdraw from her. He then brought her ass to rest on his thigh. He never thought it would happen, but Tarken was actually bored. He didn’t even have the desire to come.
Women were all alike. Flesh to take one’s pleasure on and ministering to their need for the same, it was sex, pure and simple, the enjoyment of it easily forgotten after a good eve's sleep.
“You’re not pleased with me, m’lord?” Ayia’s expression revealed her fret.
“You did well, girl.” Tarken slapped the side of her ass and watched it jiggle slightly—not a hard slap, but enough to give her flesh a zing. “And now I am going to get some rest.” With that, he moved her aside and stood.
Ayia stepped out of the tub and grabbed a towel, offering it to him.
Tarken allowed her to dry him, and without a word to her, he walked to the bed chamber. He started rummaging through his belongings and then stopped to glance in Ayia’s direction. He felt no need for her, predominantly preferring sleep. “Your services are appreciated wench, but you’re dismissed to another patron.” He kept his expression blank, void of emotion when disappointment spread across her face. “You may leave now.”
“Yes, m’lord, as you wish.” Ayia turned to toward the door and exited. She didn’t bother to don her clothes. In fact, it seemed she had no clothes since the slavemaster saw none of such in his chamber.
Tossing his bags to the floor Tarken lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling for only a brief moment. He drifted toward sleep. There was a knock on the door disturbing his oncoming slumber, and he chose to ignore it. Three more knocks—louder this time and Tarken grunted his irritation as he rolled from the bed. He hadn’t summoned anyone. Grabbing his bunched up pants from the floor, he slid into them, not bothering to fasten them up. He opened the door.
“Good eve, sir,” the caller greeted, stepping through the entrance, uninvited.
“And who might you be?” Tarken scrutinized the man from head to toe.
He was well dressed in jade-colored trousers and a black shirt made of the finest materials. He walked like he was regal, holding his head like he belonged wherever he chose to tread and his arrogance was stinking up the room. His bald head gleamed from the low lighting and his brown eyes were small, an overly large nose sat in the middle of his face. A thin mustache and pointed tuft of hair on his chin did little to hide his thin lips. He possessed a look that dripped with dishonesty.
Tarken disliked him immediately.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” The tall, skinny man glanced about the room. “Lavidis Vanirgor.”
“Ah yes,” Tarken responded. “The slave trader.”
“That would be me.” Lavidis strolled across the floor, eyeing the cabinet he knew held spirits. “Mind if I have a drink?”
“Help yourself.” Tarken closed the door to his room, the slamming sound slight but revealing enough of his annoyance. “I thought to sleep and then see you on the early dawning.”
The man didn’t take the hint. “Ah, well—it is just past the supper hour and I thought to transfer ownership of the girl this eve.”
“Anxious to rid yourself of her?” Tarken had been told by the king that the girl was having trouble accepting her station, but he wondered how bad she could be if the trader was so anxious to deposit her. She likely just needed a bit of proper training.
“I have twenty-five slaves in my corral at the moment. They are quite costly to keep.” Lavidis opened the cellarette and poured a drink, choosing the most expensive on the shelf. He swirled his cup focusing a bit too intensely on the prismatic liquid it contained. “His Majesty has already paid for her. It seems only proper that I deliver her to you immediately.”
Tarken eyed the man suspiciously. “What are you failing to tell me, Lavidis?”
The slave trader took a sip of his drink and then released a harsh breath. He took a lengthy time in silence before he decided to speak. “The truth…ah, the truth is—I’m afraid she might try to abscond again, and I don’t want to lose the disgustingly large sum paid for her, if she succeeds this time.”
“She’s a runner?” Tarken drew his brows together. The trader seemed forthcoming with this information, so he didn’t think the man had any other motive other than wanting to keep the purse the slave earned him.
“What else?” Tarken asked him.
“Really nothing else, other than…” Lavidis lifted his glass to his lips and took a hefty swallow. “She is resistive, rebellious and has a smart mouth on her.”
Tarken started to speak, but Lavidis held up his hand. “I’ve told the king all of this.”
Contemplating the slave trader’s words, Tarken couldn’t help but wonder why his Majesty would make such a purchase and at what was apparently an inflated price. “So, I’m supposing at this moment that you want me to come with you to retrieve her?”
“It would be much appreciated m’lord.”
Tarken blew out a gust of air. What he really hoped for was a good eve’s rest. He didn’t look forward to sharing his mattress with this or any other woman. But he was being paid to train the slave and she would be in his bed every eve, if it was needed to tame her. What was one less evening he supposed? Picking up his shirt, he donned it, tucking the bottom of the garment into the waist band of his trousers. He pulled on his boots and then rummaged through his bag, withdrawing his laser weapon and harnessing it in his belt.
No sense in taking chances.
After all, he was transporting royal merchandise, and since his travelling entourage seemed to have no regard for discretion, it was better to be safe than sorry. For a brief moment, Tarken considered summoning them to escort him, but readily brushed the idea aside. They might make matters worse. His aim was to get the slave and get back to Buranis with her safe and sound.
“Let’s be done with it then.” Tarken headed toward the door. Opening it, he swept his hand toward the corridor outside while waiting for Lavidis to precede him. He then
followed, mumbling several curses for the sleep he was being deprived of and the exhaustion that surely would come from taming an unruly slave.
By mobile strollaway it was a short distance to Lavidis’ domicile, and as Tarken stepped from the conveyor his attention became transfixed on the enormous building in front of him. There was no doubt it was Lavidis’ domain since there was only one walkway leading to what he assumed was a gated front entranceway. Sure enough, the flesh peddler was ambling directly toward it, and as Tarken followed, he couldn’t’ help but notice how substantial the security around the small fortress was. It was rather amazing.
Scanning from one corner of the walled façade to another, the slavemaster estimated that there were at least forty blackguards, and there was a tower on each corner of the fortress, both with large artillery weapons aimed outward. Laser trips crisscrossed the entranceway, the crimson coloring telling Tarken they would severely burn an intruder who attempted to pass through, and all visible windows were barred with laser trips traversing them too. Truly, there couldn’t be that much of value inside to require such stately protection.
Even Mecor’s castle wasn’t this well-guarded. Tarken had to wonder how anyone could escape these walls. The slave he was to retrieve must be very resourceful indeed. It would be wise to keep an extremely close eye on her.
There were murmurs by the blackguards and other inhabitants who milled around as the trader waved for the deactivation of the lasers, and they passed through the now open gates.
Immediately, Lavidis began barking orders that caused the minions to scamper to and fro. He gestured for Tarken to follow, and they ambled through an archway that led to an inner court garden. It was then the slavemaster realized the magnitude of Lavidis’ trade.
The man was filthy rich.
The silvery speckled walkway was a mosaic of drek stone, the most expensive in the galaxy. And the foliage and flowers…they were of a rare variety and nearly impossible to obtain unless one had connections and resources.
“Here,” Lavidis motioned toward a table already set with and enticing aroma.
Tarken stared at the feast and then grumbled, “I’m not here to socialize slave
trader. Just give me the merchandise and I’ll be on my way.”
For several long moments, Lavidis said nothing. He merely stared at Tarken. His mouth twisted from side to side as if pondering something. “Very well.” He motioned toward another walkway. “Right this way.”He led Tarken up a few flights of stairs where they emerged onto an open balcony.
The slavemaster suspected that Lavidis’ was avoiding something and now Tarken knew why. From above where he stood, looking down upon the pool, he watched as the slave he was brought to observe was attended to by the other woman. Tarken took liberty admiring her form.
She faced away from him and therefore did not see him. Her curves were feminine, shapely. She was slender and petite though not overly of either. Her rounded bottom was partially submerged beneath the water, petals of shasheri flowers floating around her. The scent was sweet, titillating. It would still cling to her later.
Tarken knew the fragrance. It was one of the most expensive and powerful aphrodisiacs in the galaxies.
Lavidis acted wisely with his attempt to arouse Tarken’s libido. It was sharply obvious the girl was damaged goods. The flesh on her back was a network of scratches, and he couldn’t imagine how the rest of her was marred. Tarken would know when she was turned around, and he had to wonder if her face was scarred as well.
Despite this pondering, something inside the slavemaster stirred. He felt impatience as he waited for her to face him. It was more than curiosity about the condition of her body, and it was more than the sensation of his cock now thickening in his trousers. He felt something intriguing about her. There was something mysterious about this woman. But no, Tarken denied that. It was the aphrodisiac meddling with his mind.
What would her eyes look like? How womanly would the front of her body be, her breasts, her stomach, her mound? An image of her clit entered the slavemaster’s mind, his eyes taking in its shape, his finger flicking it. Would she become immediately wet for him? “Enough!” Tarken bellowed, startling the court below.
Even Lavidis, who stood at his side started slightly. “Her preparation is nearly comp—”
“There is no preparing needed!” Tarken’s voice boomed even louder. “There is no concealing the condition she’s in.”
The sound of his irate tone caused the woman to glance over her shoulder. Her crystal clear eyes fixated on Tarken.
Immediately, his gaze locked with hers and a sparking charge passed between them. It was unfriendly, aggressive even, almost as if she was challenging him. The rebellion the slavemaster saw there spoke volumes about the steadfastness of this woman.
She was far from a typical, compliant slave.
Spirits…damn him.
She sneered at him, her eyes riveting as if she were attempting to spear him to a wall.
Annoyance besieged the slavemaster. How dare she attempt to stare him down? Unwilling to break first eye contact, Tarken glared intensely, and she kept glaring back. Did the woman understand he could activate her slave band for that? She could even be beaten, or starved, or confined in closed in quarters, staked to the ground or…Damn she has beautiful eyes.
Colorless crystals, they sparkled like the finest of gems. Droplets of water clung to her long lashes, and her eyes tilted slightly at the corners. Her gaze was the clearest crystalline he’d ever seen. Their translucency was mesmerizing.
He could dissolve in them.
A tremor quaked up Tarken’s spine, and his balls tightened. He attempted to shake off the unruly feelings but instead, nearly choked on his breath when the attendants turned her around. Peripherally, his vision caught a glimpse of her rounded breasts, but he refused to break the lock he had on her eyes.
The woman would think she had the upper hand if he looked away first. He was master, she was slave. Her station would be established immediately, and Tarken would make damn sure, she knew who was in charge despite her beauty and her fabulous body and how he loved the look of her face—her face, it was perfection personified.
Despite himself, Tarken felt his expression soften, and before he even realized what he was doing, a smile crested his lips, his gaze becoming cordial, almost admiring. Though subtle, Tarken observed that something in her expression yielded as well. Her affect seemed less defiant, her eyes showing more interest, than anger, or perhaps confusion. It was then she cast her gaze to the side.
Good. She was conceding to his dominance over her.
The victory was short-lived, for as the maid servants led her from the pool, the woman’s gaze returned to his, and Tarken saw the fire in them—hatred, pure hatred. The bold expression of emotion by such a lowly subordinate should’ve angered him as it would most slavemasters, but it affected him quite contrarily. His breath caught in his throat, and his cock was brusquely, painfully hard. Instead of inflaming his temper, it inflamed his libido.
The maidservants rinsed the soap from her skin and the water cascaded down her body. Her gleaming white hair, which reached past her waist, now soaked, hung almost to her mid-thighs. It covered little. Hanging in wet tufts it framed her breasts, emphasizing the dusky tips, her nipples protruding into tantalizing points, hardening beneath the streaming water. The remainder of her hair wrapped around her waist like heavy drapery, though strands of it plastered to her hips and splayed over her hairless mound. Puffy outer lips clung tightly together protecting the feminine flesh that kindled her arousal.
With his fingers curling, Tarken watched her with a wetted sexual appetite. He was suddenly eager to separate that crease, to take pleasure in exploring the charms that lay beneath. How would she sound when she came? Would she moan? Could he make her scream?
Yes, she would scream, he thought with blatant, male satisfaction.
Slowly, his attention drifted upward, and oddly, when he returned t
o look at her face, the slavemaster was pleased that the fury remained in her glare. That anomaly in his reaction, he would examine later. For now, Tarken couldn’t think beyond the vision before him.
This slave was extraordinary.
He groaned as the maidservants led her from the water’s depths, exposing shapely, slender legs that Tarken couldn’t wait to feel wrapped around him as he buried himself deep inside her. His desire for her went beyond reason, she was—she was…
The private thought screeched to a halt. It had been solars since the slavemaster reacted to a woman with such sexual hunger.
“She’s a beauty, is she not?” Lavidis snickered, seemingly aware of Tarken’s arousal. “Cushla has that affect on every male when they first lay eyes upon her.”
Annoyed by his susceptible response to the woman, Tarken forced his mind to concentrate on the business at hand. “She’s cut and bruised. Is anything permanently damaged?”
“Ah, no.” Lavidis was wrenching his hands. “Beyond the temporary marks, marring such a beauty would be an atrocity. I’ve personally seen to all of her punishments to be certain that didn’t occur.”
Tarken lifted an eyebrow but kept his attention fixed on the slave girl. “All of her punishments? Just how unruly is she?”
“I wouldn’t put my hand near her mouth,” Lavidis mumbled.
“Say again.” Tarken jerked his attention from the woman to Lavidis.
The slave trader’s unease was obvious. “As I told you, your king has been informed of this, though it’s beyond me why he would pay top credit for a slave such as her.”
“His reasons are none of my concern.” Tarken narrowed his eyes, watching as Lavidis shifted nervously. He was hiding something. “You’re not telling everything, slave trader.”
Slavemaster's Woman, The Page 3
