“No, no, no!” Lavidis held up his hands. “I swear my comrade, I’ve been honest!”
“Lavidis!” Tarken’s glare was threatening. “What else?”
Lavidis scratched his head before dragging his palm downward along his face, and then skimming it over his jaw. He seemed to consider something but finally spoke, “Her bed skills offer little to be desired.”
“Meaning?”
“She’s either complacent or resistive.”
From the looks of the trader, Tarken couldn’t blame her. The slave trader was a bit repulsive in features. It didn’t surprise him if the woman showed little enthusiasm with Lavidis. Tarken’s lips curled into a wry smile. “You know this first hand?”
“I do.”
“She has a pregnancy shield implanted?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then, I have no other concerns with that area.”
“No, friend. I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Lavidis?”
“Yes?”
“If you have nothing further to tell about the slave, then shut your trap before I truly become irritated with you.”
Lavidis made no further comments, and Tarken assumed he was through with his summation on what to expect from the slave. “Bring her to my quarters when she is ready,” Tarken commanded. “And dispel of the fucking aphrodisiac you’ve washed her with. If I detect even a trite scent on her I will return her to you in an instant.”
“Of course, yes!” Lavidis nodded his head, rapidly agreeing.
A crash below followed by concerned voices drew their attention. A stone statue that graced one corner of the pool had toppled, or rather the head of the statue had toppled, cracking in half as it hit the floor.
The astonishingly beautiful slave stared at it, but only for a moment. Slowly, she lifted her gaze, locking onto him with an icy glare that could freeze a flame.
This behavior intrigued him even further. Turning, Tarken swept toward the doorway behind him and left the balcony without further words, while overhead a large bird squawked loudly, its irritating protest echoing through the garden.
Chapter Four
He could tell by the look in her beautiful, clear eyes and the tight expression on her lovely face that she was still filled with fury. A bad sign. Belligerence was not a healthy asset for a slave to possess. She could get herself hurt—severely.
Tarken inspected her body, visible through the shear, full length cloak she wore. Nothing was left to the imagination, yet she clung to it like the cloth was made of the thickest cremali cotton. With a wave of his hand, he indicated for her to remove the garment, but she stood motionless, her rebellious gaze steady on his.
Tarken tipped his head askew as he studied her.
A slave who’d been owned as long and as much as this one had been should be much more compliant. Irritated, he stepped toward her. In and of itself, his large size should have been enough to intimidate the woman.
She however, seemed unfazed. In fact, her chin went up a notch.
He snorted. Such arrogance! Her prior slavemasters were incompetent at training her, or the woman did not understand his direction. Either that or she was extremely brave or daft. Tarken had yet to decide. He didn’t know which he preferred, but there was something intriguing about this female he had yet to figure out…and he would figure it out most definitely. “You’re a bold one, mistress.”
She should expect that he would activate her slave band to punish her. It’s what most masters would do.
Not Tarken.
Rarely, did he use pain as a first method. Rather, he much preferred to soothe the savage beast or administer alternate techniques before resorting to corporal intervention. Even then, the shock to the slave ban was weak, delivered only on the mildest setting.
He risked turning his back on her—testing her—well aware that many newly acquired slaves often took advantage of a master’s misplaced trust, attacking from behind in the hopes of escape. He moved to the cellaret on the other side of the room and opened it. “Would you like something to drink?”
She didn’t answer his question.
Nor did he sense any movement from the spot she chose to plant her feet on, so he decided to explore the cabinet in front him, ready to react if she dared to rush upon him.
Several carafes lined the shelves inside the cabinet. Tarken picked one up and examined it. Though he enjoyed a stronger spirit for himself, he chose a subtle umbret wine, a smoother drink much preferred by females. It was an expensive commodity, and one no master would consider sharing with a mere slave, but Tarken had no regard for what other masters considered proper. He was not a typical slave trainer.
Pouring the liquid into one crystal glass and then another, Tarken filled them half way. He then turned and sauntered toward her like a beast on cornered prey.
Where most would’ve cowered, no hint of fear showed on her face.
That intrigued him.
When he was close enough, Tarken offered her one of the glasses.
Cushla didn’t move, didn’t even look at him. Rather, her gazed shifted and then fixed to a point just past his left shoulder. It was a blatant refusal.
The slavemaster’s mouth curled up on one side. The woman obviously trusted no one. Gaining her confidence would be a challenge. “I can promise you there is nothing in this glass save the wine.” To prove his point Tarken took a sip of it and then moved closer to her, offering the drink once more. “I don’t drug slaves to subdue them. They willingly come to heel.”
Remaining mute, she failed to react in any way.
Tarken closed the space between them. Taking his fingers to her chin, he tilted her face forcing her to look at him. “Cushla, it will do you no good to try to anger me. I do not anger. But I am not a soft master either. You have obviously not been trained properly. Your other masters must have been very soft indeed.”
With that comment, Cushla gave a soft snort as she glared at him. “You’re clueless as to what I’ve endured.”
Her pale face flushed and he could tell she was feeling anger. For a moment, he waited to see if she would act upon it, if she would lash out. “Try the wine Cushla, you’ll find it to your liking, I’m sure.”
Instead, she stepped back from his grasp and extended her hand, taking the glass he offered. She didn’t sip from it.
Her left eye twitched ever so slightly, and Tarken was unsure if she was even aware of it, aware of how much such small movement revealed. She was still wary he was sure, studying him, and he had no doubt she thought that offering her such a quality drink was an attempt to sooth her, to gull her into letting her guard down, and she’d be correct.
Despite his thoughts, she took an obedient sip of the wine. This small token of compliance came as no surprise to him. He was the enemy, she the captured prey. Her survival meant understanding the master who owned her and how he might behave so she could adjust accordingly.
That is what a wise slave would do at least, and Tarken suspected that Cushla possessed much wisdom. He was also relatively sure that she would use that wisdom in attempt to outsmart him rather than please him. He’d have to see her reactions as he pushed further for her obedience. “Do you like it?”
She looked away. Not at the floor, however. Submissive slaves always looked down, but not this woman. She was thinking on something. Perhaps plotting her escape? At least she’d kept her temper in check. “It is very good—master,” Cushla spewed the word, pausing, gulping before clenching her teeth tightly together, the muscles in her jaw and cheek tensing, her lips pursing when she clamped her mouth shut.
“You’re humoring me.” Tarken almost chuckled, though he managed to keep his face expressionless--serious. She nearly choked over calling him master and he found her reaction amusing. “That’s fine, Cushla. Slaves should humor their masters, especially when they’re feeling oppositional.”
“I’m so glad I please you, master.”
“Call me Tarken, mistress.” He
ignored her sarcasm and smiled gently at her, knowing his instruction to use his name was highly irregular.
Cushla blinked at him. Calling her mistress was an outward proclamation of her station with him. The mistress of a slavemaster was exclusive only to him. Additionally, it meant she held authority above all other slaves who attended his house. “You wish for me to call you Tarken?” She asked, her gaze intense upon him, her brow creasing in confusion.
“I do.” Tarken nodded gauging her reaction, but the reaction he expected was not what he got.
Cushla’s lip turned up on one side, and she took two more steps back from him, stopping when she felt the wall behind her. “And is that your name, master, or some alien word for ‘I’m a shithead?’ ”
She’d actually looked him directly in the eye when she said it.
Tarken stared at her in stunned disbelief as his anger threatened its way to the surface. His hand went to the button on his waist band, but he being in complete control of his own actions and meaning it only as a threat, Tarken hesitated…and before he could stop it, a laugh burst from him! Cushla was an enigma. But he’d figure her out. No one was ever so complex that their true nature couldn’t be revealed…eventually—and she was damn lucky he was her slavemaster instead of someone else, or she would be getting the crap beaten out of her right now.
Cushla mumbled something while staring at the button that controlled her slave band.
Tarken could swear what he heard her say was press it. Did pain arouse her? Perhaps that was the reason she subjected herself to beatings. Tarken reconsidered the thought, doubting that was her motive. There was another purpose to her plea. After giving it some quick thought he suspected what that might be and would explore it later. For now, his mind was focused on only one thing.
Sex…
She was causing his cock to go rock hard.
“Take off the cloak, Cushla,” Tarken lowered his voice and commanded softly, willing the hand at his belt to remain still and the other to hold his drink steady. The gaze he held upon her, was seriously firm.
The urgency to touch her was almost unbearable. He was ready, aching to sink inside of her. Tarken couldn’t remember the last time a woman affected him this way. If he was a less patient man, Cushla would be beneath him on the bed at this very moment, and he would be selfishly plunging into her. “Take the cloak off, Cushla,” Tarken repeated. After taking a sip of his wine, he turned and walked toward the bed, setting the glass onto the nightstand. Patiently, he waited, saying nothing, wondering if she would do his bidding.
Moments passed, and Cushla just stood there.
Finally losing patience but revealing none of it, Tarken spoke, “I will not force you, Cushla, but you must learn to comply.”
Silence rent the air for a span of several ticks of time with no response coming from her.
Tarken quietly waited.
“No,” she finally whispered.
It was out-and-out defiance, and Cushla had to know she was drawing a harsh punishment. Why would she do this? Tarken crossed one arm over the other, careful to keep his temper in check. He studied her face.
She eyed him, but there was nothing but blankness in her expression and in her gaze.
“Come here.” He crooked a finger, and when she didn’t comply Tarken added, “You’ll find I’m not a typical master, Cushla. I have different methods of training, some you will enjoy, and some you will not.”
She didn’t move, didn’t even flinch when he took a deliberate step closer to her.
The woman had nerves of steel, he thought. His mere size alone intimidated most males, let alone females who were unfamiliar with him. “I’m waiting, Cushla.” Tarken stared at her for several moments.
When it became readily apparent that she would not comply, Tarken crossed the room.
He could nearly see the resistance spreading over her beautiful face, but instead of becoming irritated, her defiance was making his cock pulse! It was a strange thing. Certainly not appropriate for a slavemaster. It would be amusing if it weren’t so arousing, and he could swear by the flush in her cheeks and the haze that just clouded her eyes that the woman was as horny as hellfires for him too. He needed to get a hold on himself.
He needed to get a hold on her!
Tarken reached.
She still didn’t flinch.
His hand slipped through the slit in the front of her cloak, and he ran a single finger along the crease of her folds, stroking lightly at the tip of her clit. His other hand moved beneath the garment and he placed it on her hip. Her skin was warm beneath his touch and he wanted to feel more of her. With one steady hand he grasped her hip while the fingers on the other hand sought entrance to her womb.
Cushla’s breath hitched and she tensed. She was instantly wet.
Tarken knew then he was definitely arousing her. He pushed a single finger inside. She yelped and attempted to draw back but he slipped his hand from her hip and pressed it to the small of her back to hold her still. “Let me pleasure you, Cushla.” He slid his finger slowly inward and withdrew it just as slowly.
He had her. The muscles inside of her body squeezed, and Tarken was amazed that for as many men who’d likely fucked her, she was exceptionally tight. It was going to feel incredible to be thrusting inside of her. Time seemed frozen as Tarken stared into her eyes, sparkling like crystalline, they were captivating. He was so consumed with lust for Cushla that he never anticipated what came next, never expected the response she gave him to his touch—never saw it coming.
She threw her drink in his face.
Chapter Five
No! Cushla wanted to say it aloud but for some reason couldn’t. What was happening? It felt so good. His touch was electrifying and she was immediately befuddled by it. She wanted—wanted...
His hair…There was a sleek iridescence that sparkled along the length of his light brown hair. It fell over him like a drape, curling subtly inward at the ends that came to rest just past his shoulders. It looked so incredibly smooth, soft and clean. Her fingers began to curl as she fought the urge to touch it…and his face—Oh, why did he have to be so alluringly handsome!
He smelled good too…really, really good!
Distracted by the tantalizing scent, her brain fell into a stupor, and before realizing her actions Cushla dropped her eyes to examine the rest of this new slavemaster.
His chest was broad. His torso, for as much as she could see, seemed finely honed. His hips—agh… through his tight tan pants she could see the outline of a cock that he made no effort to disguise. It was rigid and ready to violate her.
Is that how she really felt, that he was ready to violate her? If so, then why at the moment did her pussy seem more important than her brain?
No! Her mind screamed out in rebellion, but when he stepped closer to her, she was frozen—mesmerized by his face, his eyes especially. His irises were black and dotted with minute shimmers like stars on a moonless eve. They pierced sharply, like a seer’s gaze, as if to burrow within the depths of her mind, and she wanted them to!
Something had stirred low, just at the level of her pubic bone but deep inside. At first, Cushla didn’t understand it. She’d never felt this sensation before. But it took no more than the length of a breath for her to realize it was desire!
No, no, no!
If she had to get him to beat her into bloody half-consciousness before he fucked her, she would rather have that than to enjoy a forced seduction. Enjoy? Cushla hated sex, hated to be touched, hated the feel of a man’s penis pushing inside of her. The thought made her ill. Irritation with her abandoned response to the slavemaster caused Cushla’s nostrils to flare. She inhaled—and panicked.
The vulnerability she felt in the presence of this man was immediately deciphered by her common sense, and she would resist it at all costs. Even if the cost meant more bruises or scars to her already battered body. That would be so far better than enjoying sex with him!
Enjoy? That damned word aga
in! Cushla really wanted to know what part of his lame brain was vacationing elsewhere. There was nothing about captivity to be enjoyed!
Blinded by the unruly and surprising sensations thrumming their way inside of her, Cushla panicked. Without thinking about the consequences, without full understanding of the punishment her reaction might bring, Cushla did the only thing she could think of to stop him—There it was. Of its own brainless accord, her arm thrust upward— it was if the liquid left the glass and floated through the air in slow motion as her brain quickly searched for a mode of escape.
The liquid splashed him ruthlessly in the face. He blinked, his soft expression turning clearly to shock, and they both jumped apart immediately.
Her hand automatically moved to her slave band, waiting for it to activate. A horrendous dread seized her. She’d just stepped way over the line and was suddenly very worried about this slavemaster she knew so little about. He was large. He could snap her like a twig. What if he punished her by doing strange sexual things that would have her in torment for dawnings?
Oh mystic stars! He works for the cruel and vicious King Mecor. Of course he would be equally vile!
What had she been thinking, taunting him like that? Cushla knew she had to get away. Frantically, she searched his body for a convenient place to bite him, but he was fully clothed and there was nothing exposed but his neck and hands and a small area of his beautiful chest.
Go for his throat! If he activated the headband she would rip out his artery when he jaw locked.
The thought disgusted her. Cushla dropped her glass to the floor and it shattered, the splintering sound resonating throughout the room. He was going to kill her! Without thinking she flew at the slavemaster, catching him off guard. She grabbed his shoulders for leverage and sank her teeth into the skin on his neck. Something strange came through the haze of anger and fear settling into the crevice of her brain. The scent of his skin assaulted her—not cologne. It was his natural scent, teasing her olfactory senses and he tasted rather good. A pleasurable thrill ran up her spine.
Slavemaster's Woman, The Page 4
