by Renee Rose
“Conveniently still holding the syringe you used to attack me.” The captain frowns.
I nod. “I apologize a thousand times, my lord, more if I can. That was unintentional. I only meant to ask you for asylum, not to hurt you. I lashed out in confusion and delirium. I am sorry.”
“That sounds incredible.” He crosses his arms and scowls.
Taken aback, I blink at him. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” He quirks a brow, but it’s not playful.
I shrink back on my stool. “No, my lord, I do not.”
He and his second in command exchange another look. He steps closer. “Tell me again where you got the poison in the first place.”
His frown deepens and I quickly answer, “Leylah made it. She uses the venom to make antidotes because humans are sensitive to the toxins. Ocretions are not.”
“But this isn’t an antidote.”
“No, she made a new poison.” I’m starting to feel dizzy again. My voice falters. “She said...ah, rumor had it that this concoction is fatal to an Ocretion within the count of three. And she was right.”
The Zandian captain says, “So she made a brand new toxin out of the blue, based on a rumor, something that can fell a full-grown Ocretion. She does this in some barracks shack with rudimentary equipment and no training, all in secret. Is that right? And she gave it to you on a fool’s mission with little chance of success, and if you were found with this substance, possibly all of you humans could be killed?”
I shake my head. “She was very confident I would not fail.” I try to think back. “At the time, I suppose, I had doubts the venom was a good idea, but she said to do it. So I did.”
“It sounds fantastical. I don’t know if it is the truth. Humans lack honor. They lie.”
“Then what do you suppose is the real truth?” I challenge, even though I know better than to challenge a master. “First of all, Leylah is not some random human. She’s, well, she’s Leylah. She has gifts that are beyond the ordinary. And second—”
He cuts me off. “You will speak when you are spoken to.”
“But I—”
“Will be punished if I need to say it again.”
The words stand between us, shimmering in the air. We are both silent. He’s locked eyes with me again, and although he’s angry and suspicious, I suddenly know it in my bones. He desires me right back.
And unlike the attention from the grotesque Ocretion, I’m not afraid of it. In fact… I want it.
The other Zandian in the room clears his throat. “Captain Drayk, I will give you, ahem, privacy.” The look he gives the captain is a sort of meaningful eye-roll, and my face grows warm.
Mother Earth.
“Thank you, Ark.” Drayk nods. Then he turns his attention fully on me. I shrink under his gaze.
“Did somebody give you these syringes and tell you to poison me and my crew?” He snaps the question at me. “Is this a poison that is meant to test out whether or not you can kill Zandians with a new toxin?”
“What? No!” I’m horrified. “Of course not.”
“Was it all a setup?” He steps closer. “Did your master send you here to fake an escape and test out a new bioweapon?”
“No, my lord. Please believe me.”
My Zandian holds up his hand. Mine? When did I start to think of him this way? Especially now, when’s he’s interrogating me?
I flush and direct my eyes to the floor, hoping to clear my mind of these strange thoughts. Mistake: On the way, I catch a glimpse of his thighs in his tight breeches, the muscles outlined, lean and powerful, and feel the new but already familiar rushing in my body.
I’ve heard about this sensation but never before experienced it. Desire.
His voice softens as if he feels it too. “You asked for asylum, and we are capable of giving you that, if you are deemed worthy. But I require the truth. If you were forced to board the ship and harm Zandians—perhaps under threat of torture to you or your friends—we will take that into account. You will not be harmed, if you tell us the whole truth.” His voice is silky and almost hypnotic. “You can trust me. Tell me who asked you to do this. It is the right thing.”
I want to comply, even though there’s nothing to tell. I want to win his approbation.
“I did tell you, already.”
He discards the persona and snaps back into a ferocious stance. “Who gave them to you?” His glower intensifies. “I do not for one second believe that your little human group is capable of creating this.”
Thrown off by his abrupt switch, I stammer. “I-I told you, Leylah—”
“This technology is beyond your comprehension. Do you even understand what this is?” He holds up the glass vial, and it shines in the light, the fluid inside gleaming and sparking a sudden rainbow when he tilts the container just the right way.
“I do not know the details. But I swear on my life, I am not lying about this.”
“You’re lying to me about something.” He growls the words.
How can he tell?
“I am not.” I dart my eyes away before I mean to. Damn. Now he knows I’m lying.
He laughs. “We’ll see if I can find a way to loosen your tongue.”
In a flash, he tugs me to my feet and pulls me toward him. Even though it’s not a tender gesture, it’s not rough, either, and the touch of his large hands on my skin makes me gasp.
When I look up at him, his face displays shock, as if he feels it too, and is just as amazed. But he looks away and his grip tightens on my arms. “Zandians have a policy against torture. But physical punishment has been proven useful for disobedient human females. I understand it will cause no lasting damage or harm, but I promise, you’re not going to like it.”
I squeak and try to pull away, but his grip is like steel.
“So I’m giving you another chance to tell me the truth about the syringes, Taisha.”
He looks into my eyes. We’re so close now his breath feathers across my face. It’s warm and neutral, like faint grass. Pleasant, actually, and without meaning to, I lean in. His lips look so smooth and strong at once. Why do I wish I could stroke his jaw, touch his horn? I’m fascinated. I think it would not feel rough under my fingers, but smooth, warm, probably pulse with life. Reflexively I move my cuffed arms upward and hit his lower body, connecting with a part that I’ve Never—Oh, Mother Earth. My face burns and he startles, staring down at me like he’s not sure what I’m about. I look down, then back up, because his eyes are magnetic.
“Taisha?” My name on his lips sounds so good. No being has ever said my name like that. Like it’s something more than a barcode.
I breathe out and make a small sound, and this time it’s he who leans in, like he’s captivated. As if he can’t resist. The purple in his eyes is deeper now, darker. Mysterious. I can’t look away. Any second now, I swear it, he’s going to put his lips to mine. Stars, it makes no sense; it’s not possible, but I feel in my bones this being wants me as badly as I want his touch.
“But I am telling the truth—”
“And that was it.” He steps back. He sounds almost disappointed as he hoists me into his arms. “Your last chance.”
He carries me across the prisoner cell. “The pack on your arm is flashing green, which means you have no internal injuries.” He deposits me on a bench across the bay, “And that means that I can spank you as hard and as long as I require.”
Spank? I only have a vague idea what that means. I’ve heard the word, but it’s not a punishment I’m familiar with. I don’t see a shock stick on him.
He regards me with a regal gaze. My eyes widen as he rolls up the sleeve of his flight jacket, flexes his hands, the way the powerful corded muscles on his arms moves smoothly. “A few minutes ago, you begged me for asylum and said you’d do anything. I. Want.”
“I—”
“And what I want,” he adds conversationally, as if we were chatting about the weather, “Is for you to
submit to your punishment. And then to tell me the truth about what I ask.”
This male moves like lightning. One second, he’s standing in front of me. The next, he’s seated on the bench and I’m over his lap, my belly pushing into those hard thighs I was eyeing just a few minutes earlier.
“No. Stop.” I kick just once in frustration at the leathery covering of the hoverseat. “You don’t need to. I told you—”
“Lies, unfortunately.” He places one hand on the small of my back and presses me into his lap. “But I think that after a spanking that will change. It works quite well on human females, I’m told.”
“I don’t know this punishment. The Ocretions—”
“Are beasts,” he snarls, his hand pressing harder. He releases it immediately and strokes me, as if apologizing. “Evil.” He softens his voice. “They use torture and fear. This is not the same.” He glides his hand over the small of my back and I relax. Fight the urge to push my hips up toward his palm, because that would be ridiculous. He’s threatening to punish me, so why on Mother Earth would I even...
“It certainly sounds the same,” I snap, although it’s not true. Punishment at this male’s hands feels vastly different. Is it because our species are more compatible? My attraction to him makes subjugation more palatable?
More frightened of my own reaction than of what’s going to happen, I use my cuffed hands to hit his shin—which, I can’t help but notice, is extremely hard. Taut. I hit it again, and try to do it slowly, so my fingertips can slide around to his calf, contact his body and linger just a second longer than necessary for someone trying to do damage.
“That is going to cost you,” he warns me, but his hand on my back is soft and loose. Still stroking. It’s hard to believe that a touch so soft is compatible with a real punishment.
A second later I change my mind entirely.
“Ow!” Without warning, he brings his palm down across both of my upturned buttocks, and the burn is immediate. “Stop, please!” I twist, and he pulls me back into place.
It’s just a slap. I know that. It won’t cause me any harm. Not like a shock stick. Or a real beating. Or starvation. Still, it hurts. And it’s embarrassing.
He does it again. “When a Zandian punishes you, you do not get to ask him to stop.”
“Stop,” I hear myself repeat. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s like I want more of his punishment.
It’s insanity—back on Romon-3, my behavior would get a human shocked severely. Starved and put in isolation for weeks. But somehow I know instinctively that he’s not going to hurt me. And part of me, a part that makes me feel half excited, half ashamed, thinks that maybe he even likes this kind of reaction.
Why I would like it, as well, is not clear.
But I do.
At least, for now. Because although the spanks are hard, and set my bottom on fire, each slap presses my belly into his thighs, against his body. I feel his muscles working under my skin, and I hear him breathing. And that tingly feeling grows inside my body, making me want more contact with him.
I wriggle on his lap, already breathless. Why? Is it because my heart is racing? “Please.”
“Tell me the truth.” He spanks again. Again.
It feels both good and bad at once. “I am.”
He doesn’t answer, but spanks me steadily, increasing in intensity, until my ass burns.
It’s not so much fun anymore, and he’s shifted me so I don’t press into his legs in that special, delicious way. No, now it’s just discomfort.
I whimper. Try to catch my breath. Mother Earth, it burns!
Thankfully, he finally stops.
I want to soothe the wicked ache by rubbing my sore skin. I would need to be free of the cuffs, though. My relief turns to horror when he pulls at my garment. “Since you don’t seem to be responding so far, I’ll have to spank your bare ass.”
“No.” I tense my thighs.
But he’s stronger than I am, and crazy dexterous, and a moment later—without my assistance—my breeches and undergarments are on the floor and my entire bottom half is naked.
“What are you doing?” It’s a dumb question. He’s not only told me what he’s doing, he’s already doing it.
His hand comes down again with a crack, making me squeal and pull away.
“Ten of these,” he says, settling me back across his lap, “and we’ll have another talk.”
His hand comes down again. Again. He’s strong. I can’t imagine a human could spank this hard.
And that thought reminds me of the way his muscles bulged in definition beneath his white warrior’s garb. I shouldn’t find this arousing.
I shouldn’t.
I use my entire strength to push against him, but it’s in vain, and he knows it. He takes his time, letting the spanks take a moment to sink in before he delivers the next.
Even while I struggle, gasping, squeaking at the burn, I realize he’s like a stronger animal playing with his prey. Teasing. Taunting. And that thought brings back that tingle to my belly, and it starts to grow, and soon each spank ignites it again until I’m burning for something I don’t even understand.
By the time he gets to ten, I’m squirming, not as much from discomfort (although it definitely burns!) but from my confusion. My body is betraying me in a way it’s never done.
“Now let’s try that again, shall we?” His voice is different, it seems. He pulls me up and seats me on his lap, twisting me to look into his face. I feel the hard muscles of his thighs beneath my bare ass. Am acutely aware of my pussy against his leg.
Why in the stars would he put me on his lap? Is he angry or not? Is this punishment...or something different?
I swear his horns are thicker and more taut than before, and I think I feel his cock harden under my ass, too. I squirm, partially from discomfort, and also to learn more about him.
“Drayk,” I breathe, forgetting to call him Master or Lord.
“Tell me what I need to know.” His deep voice is low and beseeching. “I don’t want to have to hurt you.” He actually appears concerned, searching my face to be sure I’m not broken.
Apparently Zandians have no idea how much pain and torture a human can take. I’m not going to enlighten him.
“Just make this easier on yourself.”
He’s so earnest, I want to give the answer he wants. But it’s impossible. “I can’t make up fables to satisfy your misconception.” I’m helpless to explain, to make him understand. “I swear, the syringes have nothing to do with Zandia.”
“Then we do this again.” He sighs. “You are bringing this on yourself. You had a chance to avoid it.”
He sets me on my feet, facing the bench, then pushes my torso down. He runs one hand over my ass, as if to soothe the sore skin.
“This is going to hurt,” he warns. I hear a swish and jingle, as if he’s removing something, and then I realize he’s taken off his sword belt. The sword itself lies sheathed on the floor. Apparently he’s completely unconcerned with me reaching for it.
Right. This male could overpower me with his smallest finger.
“If you don’t answer my question by the time we get to ten…”
There’s a whooshing sound, and then a line of fire hits my ass. I cry out, but he’s holding me in place. I can’t escape.
“You can spank me as much as you want but it’s not going to change my story,” I cry out. “You can kill me and I won’t change it. I speak the truth.” My eyes fill with tears. The thing that really hurts is his distrust.
“Veck.” He tosses the belt aside and it clatters on the floor. He sinks into the seat beside me. “This is not want I intended.”
Drayk
The human sniffs and I stiffen.
Stars, no.
I’ve hurt her. As gently as I can, I grip her chin and nudge her face toward me. Moisture coats her cheeks. I’ve heard of the human tears, but haven’t seen them before.
I’m totally unprepared for the
rush of horror it produces in me.
“Taisha?”
She pulls from my grip, and turns her face away.
My chest tightens.
Veck. I was an idiot to think I knew how to discipline or interrogate a human female. I’d just heard so many talk of the pleasure of bringing their humans in line, I never dreamed it would be anything but… satisfying.
But it’s not.
It was vecking awful, actually.
Except for the part when I sat her on my lap.
I need help. Some being who can counsel me. Make sure I haven’t done irreparable damage. I activate my comms unit and request connection to Dr. Daneth, the king’s royal physician. The being who came up with the human breeding program.
Dr. Daneth’s holo pops up, but I’m suddenly possessed with an insane urge to keep him from seeing Taisha. Especially because I’ve bared her. I fumble with my comms and switch to audio, inserting the receiver in my ear so only I can hear him.
“Dr. Daneth, yes. A human female stowed away on our ship while we were on Romon-3—an escaped slave. I applied”—I clear my throat—“discipline with my hand to encourage her to be more forthcoming.”
“Yes?” Dr. Daneth prompts when I don’t go on.
I swallow. “I also used my belt once. She’s crying now.”
“I see,” Dr. Daneth says in his cool, clinical tone. He’s one of our elders, but he has his own human mate—a young, fertile breeder who’s given him two Zandian half-breed young already. “Does she cry from pain or from need?”
My cock surges at the word need, even though I’m not certain what Dr. Daneth means.
The lovely human has curled up on the farthest end of the bench, in the corner, where she regards me. Her knees are drawn up, hiding her pussy, but the reddened curves of her ass still show.
I clear my throat. “Uh… how would I know, sir?”
“Is there moisture at her entrance? You might see it glisten between her legs. Or scent it.”
I stride over to the female with purpose, but stop short. I’ve trained as a warrior since I was a youth. I’m fearless in battle. Certain with a sword, or hand-to-hand combat. At ease at the helm of a ship. But the human’s full pouty lips still quiver, and I’m suddenly unsure of myself.
