Sold to the Alien Cartel: An Alien Menage Romance

by Corin Cain

  So, her words fall flat. Compared to the likes of her, I’m no beauty. I’m just a miner – a greasy, asteroid-chasing, cockpit-jockey space pilot – and I’m proud of it. I’ve always got by on my wits and skill, not a pretty face.

  But I shouldn’t discount that. We all use what scant gifts we’ve been given. I used my wits, she used her beauty. That doesn’t make me any better than her – and maybe, just maybe, this woman can help me.

  “Please… Help me get out. They’re going to sell me!” I swallow my defiance and plead with the blonde, hoping beyond hope that she’ll see it in her heart to let me free…

  …and yet, knowing already she won’t.

  A tiny, sad smile comes to the beauty’s face.

  “So young,” she sighs. “Twenty-one? Mmm – be brave. There is hope for you, yet, my sweet. I’m part of Xeres’ personal harem. I am totally, utterly loyal to my master – just like you will soon become loyal to yours.”

  I stare at her blankly. She either ignores, or is oblivious to my scorn, and continues:

  “You are such a beauty – so you will have nothing to worry about out there on the auction block. The richest members of Titus society are all Aurelian. No slimy Toad or weak-willed human will be able to afford the price they’ll pay for your body. You will have a master worthy of your feisty spirit. Now, sit.”

  She seems so submissive and demure, but that last word is an order, and I can do nothing but obey.

  Too bad. This poor woman is brainwashed. I can’t tell if she’s a slave to Xeres, or a willing member of his personal harem. At this point, I doubt it matters. She’s been spanked, whipped, used and broken until she herself believes he owns every inch of her.

  I am pleading for my freedom, but Mr. X is all that is on her mind. She would die for him, I can see it in her eyes. She’ll be of no help to me.

  But even if she was – or even if I pushed right past her, and fled down the hallways, I don’t even know where I am. I don’t know the way out of this place, or even where this mansion is located in Titus.

  Not to mention, the moment my escape would be reported, the Aurelian I called ‘The Accountant’ would trigger the Orb-Collar around my neck, and no matter where I was, I’d fall to the floor flailing and writhing in unspeakable agony.

  Maybe they’d keep me there, twisted and screaming on the floor, until they finally came to scoop me up and return me to captivity.

  No, I had to face the truth. As humiliating and powerless as it made me feel, I could do nothing but sit down and do as this blonde instructed me.

  It starts with a shower. A sudden spray of water from the ceiling shocks me. It’s cold, almost icy, and it power washes every bit of grime from my body, and sends it spiralling down a drain beneath the bench. Then, just as suddenly, hot air bursts out from hidden vents and dries me within seconds. In the blink of an eye, I’m squeaky clean – cleaner than a greasy asteroid-miner like me has been for months.

  Then, as I sit there with goosebumps over my freshly-pink skin, the make-up artist transforms me.

  I’m used to seeing myself after three weeks in an asteroid belt – my hair greasy and clinging to my head, my skin smeared with oil and dirt. Even when I’m clean, I never use make-up. If there’s one way to lose the respect of a crew in deep space, it’s to doll yourself up like one of those Barbie Dolls children used to play with. Not when you should be focusing on keeping everyone you work with alive.

  It’s obvious what the goal of the make-up artist is. She wants me to look sultry – enticing. She wants me to look as if being sold as a slave is the most wonderful thing that could ever happen to me, rather than the most horrific and humiliating.

  When she’s finished, the blonde beckons me to stand. I hardly feel shame anymore – I’m too starved. Hunger gnaws at my belly, and I almost double over even as the blonde looks me up and down, studying me like a painting.

  Thank goodness for the food bar the Aurelian left me. It’s less painful than before, but I’m still starved.

  The blonde is oblivious to my discomfort.

  “You’ve got an excellent body. It’s a good strength of yours. We’ll have to show it off.” She saunters to the closest, pulling out a gossamer, sheer blue dress.

  For a moment she studies it – then turns to me and holds it out expectantly.

  I have no choice but to put it on.

  I slip into the slinky dress, and instantly, my eyes widen with shock.

  The thin material seems to tickle and tease every inch of my body, caressing every curve – each touch as erotic as if a finger was grazing my nipple. I hate that I suddenly feel a surge of arousal.

  “Relax, my sweet,” the blonde can sense my reaction. “This is a very expensive dress. It’s the garb of a pleasure slave, designed to keep you in a state of constant arousal. Even Queen Jasmine wears garments like this one. Don’t fight your body’s reaction to it. The dress will make it easier for you.”

  I don’t want it to be easy. I’ll die before I let some rich Aurelian touch me.

  I swallow hard, realizing what I have to do.

  I’ll have to play nice on the auction block. I’ll have to meekly and demurely be led by my new master to his mating chamber. Then, I’ll have one chance – just one – to overwhelm and kill him; to surprise and slaughter a towering, seven-feet-tall alien while he’s distracted during the opening throes of his species’ infamous mating frenzy.

  I’ll have to pretend to be a fawn, hiding my fangs, until I can reveal what I wolf I can be.

  I turn to the blonde, and reluctantly tell her: “Thank you for your help. What’s your name?”

  The blonde gazes at me with open contempt.

  “I don’t tell my name to slaves.”

  6

  Korgath

  I look at myself in the mirror, disgusted at what I see reflected in the cold glass.

  It’s ironic. When humans lay eyes on me, they only see the outside. Their females become weak at the knees, filled with lust. Their males feel fear and envy me.

  But I don’t have the luxury of focusing on my exterior. When I look at myself, I see only what I’ve become – the creature on the inside.

  All I see reflected are the lives I’ve ended.

  And if that wasn’t bad enough - I’m about to break my one, final rule – to cross the one line even I never thought I’d be shameless enough to step over.

  Sure, I’ve killed men. Humans, Aurelians, Toads, Scorps. Rightly or wrong, so many have died at my hand. Both these hands.

  I bring my palms up, looking at my huge hands, seeing the tiny lines that five hundred years of life have left on them; like little cracks across my marble-white skin.

  Five hundred years. Five centuries of killing, and law-breaking, and smuggling, and warring.

  But in all that time, never have I taken a slave.

  But this is the only way to win his trust. Slavery is the most heinous crime in the Aurelian Empire, long abandoned after our shameful beginnings in the Early Empire, when we forced humanity into submission.

  But Xeres must know I’m willing to do anything.

  The promise of trillions upon trillions in riches – earned when we make a deal to become Xeres’ chief distributor - is not the only thing that keeps me going.

  No. Those riches pale in comparison to what I’m really after.

  I’m going to end him.

  I’m going to bring Xeres down – for good – and I only hope it’s my blade that pierces his heart.

  No other Aurelian has as much security as Xeres, though. He needs it, too. He’s the only rogue Aurelian that the Empire wants to find, arrest and convict more than me – and at least I only kill those who are as corrupt as me: Murderers, drug dealers and mob bosses are the ones who’ve found the tip of my Orb-Blade stuffed down their throat.

  Xeres is a different beast. He has a reputation for careless violence – for fits of bloodthirsty temper that erupt from beneath his cool exterior.

  But car
elessness is a weakness, and I’ll exploit it. I will be the one to take him down.

  But first… I have to get close.

  As I look in the mirror, my face betrays nothing. My eyes are cold and emotionless. The tailored suit I wear costs the monthly wage of the average human, and the watch hanging from my wrist is worth a years’ worth of work to most of them.

  Many humans look at my finery with awe, or jealousy – but to me they are simply tools of my trade. After all, in this business, image is half the battle.

  Especially when it comes to your reputation for violence. When word spreads that you pulled the head off your rival gang leader’s neck, for example, you rarely have to follow up subsequent threats with more violence. One bloody, grisly display is normally enough…

  …for a while.

  Until people start to forget. To get bolder. Then you have to remind them again – brutally, and openly, and firmly.

  The death of Xeres will be one such example… But as I said earlier, first I have to get close to him.

  I wish I could bring my Orb-Blade to tonight’s soirée, but Xeres has tight security. No Orbs of any kind allowed in his mansion.

  Except for his, of course. He will be certain to have his Orb-Blades at the ready – the same weapons I was allowed to keep after my hundred years of service to the Aurelian Empire. The same honorable gift I received, before turning to my dishonorable life of crime.

  Him with an Orb-Blade, me without? Trying to kill him on his home turf would be a suicide mission.

  But I’ll do it, eventually. I’ve fought and killed my way to the top of the criminal underworld, and there is only one man above me – but soon I will dethrone him.

  I turn away from the mirror and stride out of my chambers, walking through the opulence of my penthouse. On my private landing deck, my personal vessel awaits – a sleek, unshowy craft equipped with enough Orb-powered enhancements to rival one of the Reavers I used to pilot with my blood-bonded triad, back during our days as soldiers.

  I take my private ship to Xeres’ mansion, well out of the city. His security is tight – beyond even military-grade. I have to enter my personalized security code – sent when Dorothy accepted the invitation to the auction on my behalf – before I’m even allowed access to the landing pad.

  When I bring my vessel to the ground, I land it next to row upon row of luxury cruisers and high-end speeders. The expensive ships suggest an affluent crowd of attendees. That’s hardly unexpected – even on a planet in which the trade is ostensibly illegal, there are still many who would eagerly bid on slaves.

  After all, when you own everything money can buy, things stop giving satisfaction.

  That’s why the richest humans and Aurelians have come to realize they don’t just have to stop at things. They can buy souls. People.

  I walk to the security crew manning the entrance, who greet me with respectful nods. I’m one of the few who isn’t forced to show ID. They know me by my face – there isn’t a soul on Titus who doesn’t.

  Still, they pat me down, checking for weapons – weapons like the Orb-Blade I had been so tempted to bring. With that at my side, security would have had a hard time stopping me from entering this mansion whether I was invited or not – but Xeres had considered even that angle. He has a fellow rogue Aurelian as a security guard – a bulky man nearly my height, who does his job of patting me down professionally, while also reminding me that I’d have more than just human security officers to contend with if my intentions coming there that evening had been anything less than honorable.

  Likewise, lurking in the shadows are two Bullfogs – the biggest, most brutal of the Toad species. I don’t fancy getting into a fight with them any more I do the Aurelian guard – not without my trust Orb-Blade at my side.

  I’m patted down, and once it’s confirmed I conceal no weapons, I’m urged to make my way inside Xeres’ towering mansion. There are priceless paintings and ornate sculptures at every corner of the long corridors, demonstrating Xeres immense wealth and ostentatious taste – but none of them make an impression with me. True riches are not mere possessions. True riches are power, respect, and the ability to make whatever is in your mind become reality.

  Servants guide me to the auction room, and as I stride into the huge hall, I feel a shudder of disgust across my body. The noise of that is echoing down the hall hits me like a wave as soon I walk in – raucous laughter and ribald chatter from the crowd of other attendees – all eager to trade coin for flesh.

  The auction room is set up like a theatre, with guests gathered around a stage-like auction block. The stage is empty… for now.

  But soon there will be woman after woman paraded in front of us, and the crowd will be baying to make them theirs.

  Human caterers bring drinks and small snacks to the attendees on little trays, but I dismiss the offered fare with a wave of my huge hand. I have no hunger – not given what I am about to do.

  Instead, I stride through the crowd - making my way past the wealthiest members of the Titus underworld, as well as some of the richest business magnates who do business through more legitimate channels. All look at me with respect – tinged with fear.

  I’m surprised to see so many of them here – especially the businessmen, who usually try to feign a modicum of legitimacy. But, it seems that the draw of bought-and-paid-for flesh is greater than even the fear of Aurelian law. Mind you, that’s the appeal of Titus – far out on the fringes of the universe. Out here, on the dark edges of space, even the ostensibly law-abiding soon forget the threat of an executioner’s axe.

  Despite their fame, wealth and influence, the other attendees part like the waves of an ocean – allowing me to make my way through them to my seat of honor near the stage.

  I step up onto a dias, behind a velvet rope. A servant closes it behind me. I take my place in the comfortable seat, overlooking the stage, and close myself out from the babble behind me.

  I don’t need distractions. I’m here to do one thing, and one thing only.

  One slave. That’s all I need.

  7

  Juliana

  I’m standing amidst a row of other women, all dressed the same as me. Each one of them has their hair and make-up beautifully coiffed and painted, all in exactly the same style. It’s as if there’s a look that our beautiful blonde beautician designed for slaves – sultry, demure, sexually charged and uniform.

  The other thing that is uniform among us is the look we all wear on our made-up faces. The look of fear, humiliation, anxiety and disgust. Our painted red lips are pursed. The gossamer of our pleasure robes ripples with the shivering of our nervous bodies. I know every other woman here is a virgin, just like me – and all of us must be thinking the same thing:

  Who is going to claim us? Who is going to buy us?

  It’s beyond humiliating – it’s dehumanizing. We’ve ceased to be people in the eyes of the auction attendees. We’re simply commodities now – flesh to be traded, no different to cattle in the city market.

  Each of us wears an Orb-Collar around our necks, every one attached to a long, thin chain – so sleek and small compared to the heavy links that the pirate slaver led me around with that they almost appear like grim and macabre jewelry by comparison.

  The auctioneer comes in and leads each of us girls out one by one, through a door leading to the auction block. Every time the door swings open, I see glimpses of the stage beyond. As my turn draws nearer, I grow more nervous – almost hating the light that floods my face every time one of the women ahead of me is led out, and the door swings open to the dreaded room beyond.

  I snort bitterly, and look at the chain attached to my collar. It’s so thin and delicate looking, I almost feel like I could pull it apart with my hands if I tried to – but I know it won’t budge. It’s made of some strong, alien alloy – many times stronger than steel.

  Besides, the chains are largely ornamental. They’re for our new masters to lead us about with, after they buy u
s. It’s the sleek, menacing Orb-Collar around our necks that truly guarantees our compliance.

  All the other women look down at the floor as they await their fate – fear emanating from their trembling bodies. I can feel the fear too, gnawing in my belly, but I’m much too stubborn to succumb to it. I keep my chin up, my back straight, and cling to whatever illusion of dignity I have left.

  But the truth is, I’m terrified.

  Who will buy me? Oh, God – what if a rich Toad takes me?

  If the natural, statuesque beauty of Aurelian men betrays their cold, arrogant attitude, the gross visage of the Toads similarly illustrates their nature.

  They’re practically the opposite of the poised, controlled Aurelians. Toads are disgusting creatures, standing as tall as a human, but weighing four or five times as much – their bodies equally flab and muscle, covered in slimy and wart-covered skin, with saliva and secretions of Gods-know-what-else seeping out of every pour and orifice they have.

  Toads are disgusting, and are just as repellent to human women as Aurelians are alluring to them. For that reason, tinged with a natural hatred and jealousy towards Aurelians, the Toad species delight in taking human slaves.

  I steel myself.

  Whoever buys me, it doesn’t matter – even if it’s some rich, disgusting Toad.

  Whoever places the winning bid will not touch me. I’ll play the coy, seductive pleasure slave – innocent yet willing to serve…

  …but only until their guard is down. Then, at the first opportunity I get, I will end their pitiful life. Human, Toad or Aurelian – any man who takes a slave deserves nothing less than a painful death, and I will be happy to deliver it.

  As I watched them rattle their last dying breath, I’ll show them that I’m no toy, to be bought and sold.

  A sharply-spoken command snaps me from my thoughts.