Transgressions

by E G Manetti

  Normally, Lilian welcomes milord’s careful peeling of her garb, but there is naught of passion in milord’s demeanor, only increasing threat. Normally, Lilian find’s milord’s features compelling. Lilian dearly wishes she dared to close her eyes against milord’s anger and the promise of correction.

  “Yes, milord.” Lilian attempts to ignore the abrupt movement of milord’s hand against her hip as he drags her skirt free of the entangling gold belt. “Master Martin and several Grey Spear associates entered the riser carriage at the tenth level. They were in no hurry to reach their destinations.”

  “Insufficient, Lilian.” Milord’s silky tones are dangerously cool. Milord’s fingers are busy on the clasp of the delicate teal silk that shields and confines her breasts. Modest in size, the creamy orbs are elegantly shaped with deep-rose areolas.

  Unnerved by milord’s knuckles grazing her breasts and the threat in milord’s voice, Lilian trembles. She is perilously close to complaining about a warrior of higher rank, yet another transgression. “At the s-seventeenth storey, M-Master Martin held the carriage to continue his discussion with his exiting companion.”

  Milord’s eyes remain locked with Lilian’s, his gaze commanding her to continue as her bra slides from her shoulders. Answer the question and do not volunteer are the primary rules of all apprentice communication with those of higher rank. Yet, milord is not asking specific questions. It is difficult to know what to reveal, what to contain. Lilian must voice all and hope milord is not offended by implied complaint. Milord’s thumb strokes one tender peak into a hard point.

  Honor knows not fear. “With three other companions, the repeated delay would be extensive.”

  Milord’s fingers lightly tug the lengthening peak.

  Honor endures. “I was compelled to use the stairs.”

  Milord’s gaze is unwavering as his thumb begins to assault Lilian’s other nipple.

  “It was too far for a decorous pace.” This day. I will not fail.

  Socraide’s Sword! Lucius mentally profanes. Pulling information from Lilian is more difficult than mining Vistrite. She is duty bound to tell him all, and yet she gives him half answers. Lucius has had his fill this morning of those who would flout his preeminence. Lucius lightly pinches the tender peak for emphasis. “Blooded Dagger owns more than one riser carriage.”

  “Yes, milord,” Lilian’s reply holds a slight gasp in response to the pinch. “And the Cartel has other associates who are entertained by delaying the risers.”

  It is as Lucius suspected. She has been prevaricating. She knew the potential for such a delay and did naught to circumvent it. His ire flares to anger. “Then this is a common challenge.”

  “Yes, milord.” Lilian trembles under Lucius’ command, as well she should. It matters not that the compounded challenges of the morning could not have been foreseen. The Apprentice Protocol is absolute. Excessive ill luck does not mitigate her failure to abide by the strictures.

  Anger washes red behind Lucius’ hooded eyes. For months, Lucius has overlooked Lilian’s missteps and errors, giving her time to find her balance after the shock of her ruin. Eventually, she settled into a model of apprentice decorum, wholeheartedly dedicating her considerable talents to the advancement of Mercium and Bright Star. Lucius rewarded her with a conservatorship and permitted her to carry a thorn within his Cartel. Barely a sevenday gone, he circled her in the gold belt to mark her as his to protect. Now, in return for his indulgence, his favor, she has become lax and arrogant. He should belt her raw for this.

  “Twenty-eight and thirty-six,” Lucius intones, indicting Lilian for failure to diligently discharge her duties and for improper commerce attire. With each word the gray eyes darken, the lithe form quivers. Her fearful response is insufficient. Lucius releases Lilian’s breast to grasp her left hip, immobilizing her against him. “Which others? Cite the others you have defied.”

  At milord’s quiet recitation of stricture, a cold pit forms in Lilian’s middle. There is no specific stricture that demands timely attendance. It is a matter of custom. Lilian has failed in her duty. She will not repeat that error by violating either the first or tenth strictures, which command her obedience to milord and a full and truthful response to milord’s questions.

  Honor acts as duty commands. Facing milord’s harsh regard, Lilian unflinchingly completes the litany of her transgressions, “Twenty-first, thirty-fifth, and first.”

  Lilian has failed to honor Cartouche and Cartel protocol and stricture, raced within the Cartel ’halls and, by violating so many strictures, violated the most essential of them all: the first stricture, which requires that she put milord’s will first and foremost in all matters.

  “Explain your lapse.” At milord’s biting command, Lilian jerks involuntarily in the tight hold. Milord’s eyes darken, and the tight grip intensifies.

  I am the sum of my ancestors. Answer milord. “Eighth bell. I did not wish to fail, milord.”

  “So you willed which strictures to uphold, which to ignore?” Milord’s voice cuts like a blade.

  I am the foundation of my family. Lilian placed her concerns, her desires, her will before the demands of Cartel stricture, effectively placing her will over milord’s. Miserable, no longer able to meet milord’s gaze, Lilian confesses, “Yes, milord.”

  Releasing Lilian’s hair, milord pushes her toward the ebony desk. “Face the desk. Place your palms in the center.”

  Honor is my blade and shield.

  Nude but for her shoes, the gold belt, and the small scrap of teal silk that guards her sex, Lilian pulls her warrior’s queue forward over her left shoulder. Bent over the ebony desk, palms in the middle, Lilian is intensely aware of milord’s presence at her back. Moments stretch to minutes, and minutes to eons as Lilian’s nerves stretch taut in anticipation. Straining her ears in the silence, Lilian waits for the sound of leather against fabric, the telltale that milord is freeing his belt.

  Reaching for his belt, Lucius notes that the creamy expanse of Lilian’s back is flushed, undoubtedly from exertion. It is a marked contrast to a few months gone, when the surface was covered with bone sealant and healing patches in the aftermath of Martin’s violent training chamber assault. It requires little imagination to imagine the expanse marred with welts and bruises from his belt.

  Master anger. Lilian’s error is as much a result of yet another Grey Spear intrigue as her own fault. Master pain. Martin will have great pleasure in Lilian’s misery. Master ambition. Lucius will not serve Grey Spear. Mastery of mind. Lilian is not at fault for Raphael’s foolishness or Tiger’s vile allegations. Master sorrow. She has naught to do with Sebastian’s refusal to protect Mercium. Master fear.

  Recognizing that his anger is due more to Grey Spear and Tiger than it is to Lilian, Lucius leashes his temper. It was an ill day for Lilian to be beset by so many challenges. Lucius knows that Lilian is normally within his Cartel well before eighth bell. There is a point beyond which allowing for every possible problem becomes ludicrous. Lilian would need to arrive at dark of night for total certainty.

  Nonetheless, by her own admission, Lilian has transgressed. It cannot go unanswered. And there are better means for Lucius to relieve his anger and frustration than through a belt. Bending Lilian over his desk was a sound notion a half bell gone, and it remains one. Master pleasure.

  I will not fail. I will not fall.

  “Widen your stance.” The heavy timbre of milord’s voice holds passion as well as anger, renewing Lilian’s trembling even as she obediently spreads her feet to achieve the angle she knows milord expects.

  The light rustle of milord’s crisp, well-tailored suit signals milord’s approach. A large, hard hand cups and caresses one buttock. Braced for a blow, Lilian flinches and then settles. What does he?

  Long, strong fingers dive between her thighs and delve beneath the small silk shield to invade and work her sex. Milord’s fingers, rough from arms practice, scrape the delicate flesh and probe deeply. Fear has lef
t Lilian dry. Tight.

  Milord hisses slightly as he finds her unwelcoming. The hand not working her sex moves to Lilian’s hip, tilting her, angling her for easier access. Milord’s breath tickles her shoulders, and then milord’s teeth find the column of her throat. The fingers working her crease locate and tease the jewel that centers her passion.

  As milord’s practiced fingers stroke her sex, Lilian’s confusion gives way to desire. Desire crashes into the fear that has been building for over a period, creating a heady brew of endorphins that dizzies Lilian even as it soaks her sex.

  Finding sudden welcome, milord sends two fingers into Lilian’s rapidly heating channel as milord’s thumb works the nub. Eagerly pressing against the invading digits, Lilian whimpers as milord’s free hand finds her swelling breasts to tease forth the hard, throbbing peaks.

  At Lilian’s eager thrusting onto his hand, Lucius rears back and releases his straining sex. Lilian is wet, ready, and able to receive him. He need not wait. Grasping her hips, Lucius tilts her for his use and powers into the hot, tight sheath.

  Milord’s rough positioning is all the warning Lilian receives before the hot, hard length of milord drives into her center. The intensity of the sensation sets the wild cocktail of fear and desire to a boil. Milord’s passion is fierce, demanding, relentless. Again and again, milord strikes deep, dragging along that place deep inside Lilian that darkens her vision and reduces her to naught but sensation.

  Savagely milord slams into her, each punishing thrust strikes that spot within and inflames the jewel without. With the rage of a storm, milord drives Lilian harder and further until with a roar, milord jerks violently, the force of his release pushing Lilian into a starburst of sensation.

  The hard, slick surface of milord’s desk sticks to Lilian’s sweat-dampened skin. The hot, heavy weight of milord presses against her back, grinding her pelvis uncomfortably against the desk and flattening her breasts into the unforgiving surface. Lilian deliberately shallows her breath, attempting to ease the discomfort without disturbing milord.

  It could have been a great deal worse. Lilian knows not which of the Shades turned milord’s anger to passion. She is pleased to send prayers of thanksgiving to all Five Warriors and her spiritual patron, Adelaide Warleader.

  With a guttural sound that Lilian hopes is contentment, milord rouses and eases from her. Emotionally and physically spent, Lilian clings to the desk before duty reasserts itself. I am the sum of my ancestors.

  Releasing the desk, Lilian rises and turns, her eyes lowered. Milord is correcting his attire.

  I am the foundation of my family. Gracefully, Lilian sinks to her knees, head bowed and hands resting on her thighs in the required posture for contrition. “I beg milord’s pardon.”

  Master pleasure. Lucius does not doubt the sincerity of Lilian’s contrition. With his carnal release, his rage from the compounding events of the morning has subsided. It does not alleviate Lucius’ concern that he has been too lenient with the fallen warrior.

  Master anger. Lilian’s trial is not yet a third done. Transgressions that could be overlooked a year gone will carry severe penalties as her trial progresses. Lilian’s apprentice trial is the modern version of the ancient practice of Trial by Ordeal, designed to drive her to self-slaughter or render just cause for her execution. There are many who wish Lilian’s demise. Although he is determined to keep her alive, for all Lucius’ wealth and influence, a year gone Lilian came perilously close to joining her criminal sire, Remus Gariten, in the Final Draught. If she is to avoid that fate, there can be no hint that Lucius is making her trial easy.

  Master fear. There is no possibility that her racing, disheveled appearance or untimely arrival went unnoted in the Cartel. Many will believe she missed the chimes. Even a mild belting would have left telltales that will be noticeably absent. Lucius dare not appear lenient by omitting public correction.

  Holding her position as milord’s silence deepens, Lilian watches as milord’s booted feet move away. “Garb yourself. Omit your lingerie.”

  The sound of milord’s quiet footfalls is followed by the unmistakable tapping of fingers on a techno array.

  I am the sum of my ancestors. It could have been a great deal worse.

  I am the foundation of my family. Milord has not given his pardon.

  Rising, Lilian risks a glance toward milord’s expansive techno grouping. Milord is immersed in commerce, his forbidding profile a warning that Lilian dare not tarry. Her abandoned skirt is but a step away, her bra next to it. Her satchel and jacket another step. Clutching her satchel and garments to her chest, Lilian moves toward the scarlet couch to locate her blouse. After several increasingly frantic moments, Lilian finds it between the cushions where it settled after milord’s careless toss.

  Quickly, she peels off her minimal briefs and tucks her lingerie into the satchel. With equal haste, unwilling to test milord’s temper, Lilian drags on her skirt, mentally cursing as it snags briefly on the gold belt.

  “Lilian,” milord clips out, calling her attention.

  Milord has not turned. Lilian finds naught but the back of the massive scarlet leather desk chair when she turns toward his voice.

  “Yes, milord,” Lilian responds obediently. How have I erred now?

  “You are unfit for the Cartel. Seek the freshening closet.” Milord’s command is barely voiced before milord’s fingers recommence tapping.

  »◊«

  The use of milord’s freshening closet and several freshening packets has cleansed Lilian of blood, sweat, and dirt. The steamer has eradicated the wrinkles in her attire. A handful of pins and a little of the sea-scented cleansing gel milord favors have welded Lilian’s errant lock to her warrior’s queue. There is naught to be done to remove the sweat stains from her blouse, the rip from her jacket, or the swelling bruises on her hands and knees.

  Honor is my blade and shield. Lilian resolutely exits the safety of the closet to stand at attention before milord’s desk.

  For several minutes, milord continues to tap. Without turning, he speaks, “Place your lingerie on the desk.”

  Unnoticed by milord, Lilian’s stoic mask slips briefly in surprise. What does he?

  It matters not. Lilian pulls teal silk and lace from her satchel and places it on the desk.

  Releasing his console, milord turns. His forbidding expression yields no more of his thoughts than Lilian’s shuttered one. Reaching out, milord pulls the small pile of silk to him. “You will don no others until I return these to you. Leave me.”

  »◊«

  Torn between relief at milord’s relatively mild correction and concern that she has yet to receive milord’s pardon, Lilian weaves unseeing through the sea of gray utilitarian worksites. After months in the Cartel, she no longer needs the guidance of the small markers in Blooded Dagger red and gold. Shame at her failure to honor the Apprentice Protocol is leavened by frustration at the ill luck that compounded problem upon problem this morning.

  Tucked into a corner by the risers, Lilian’s worksite is isolated by a wall at its back and two discouraging associates in the front. Turning down the walkway to her worksite, Lilian notes that the Grim Twins, as she mentally refers to them, have not yet arrived. Although no one has admitted it, Lilian is certain that they are Seigneur Trevelyan’s operatives. The proximity of their worksites to hers provides milord with close monitoring of her behavior and Lilian with protection from harassment.

  “Shades take it!” Rebecca hisses, surging from her worksite opposite Lilian’s. “Why is he tormenting you?”

  Once again, Rebecca dares to refer to milord, one of the most powerful warriors in the Twelve Systems, with the familiar ‘he.’ Shaking her head in an admonishment she knows Rebecca will ignore, Lilian drops into her worksite chair. “Peace, Rebecca. Milord is forbearing. I erred.”

  “Let me guess. Your posture wasn’t perfect, or perhaps your suit less than pristine,” Rebecca comments with blatant derision, well aware how humiliatin
g Lilian finds being subject to the gossip her freely moving breasts will engender. By midday, half the Cartel will be speculating about the state of Lilian’s attire. Knowing how much Lilian has done to advance Lucius Mercio’s ambitions, Rebecca’s anger spikes. “Oh wait, I know—you failed to find yet another system-rocking opportunity for Cartouche and Cartel to increase in power and wealth.”

  “Rebecca, cease!” Lilian cuts off her friend. The morning has been ill. Lilian does not need the criticism of a warrior, let alone Monsignor Lucius Mercio, added to her list of transgressions. “I violated at least a half dozen of the apprentice strictures. Milord is forbearing.”

  For a heartbeat, the lovely platinum blonde is silent. Her sea-blue eyes widen with surprise, and her lush lips hang open in her sun-kissed, heart-shaped face. Several inches shorter than Lilian and more curvaceous, were it not for her modest height, Rebecca would be the ideal of warrior beauty. Rebecca’s delicate jaw works, and her mouth closes. Her eyes narrowing, Rebecca states, “That’s ridiculous. You’re a model of apprentice decorum. Associate Master Straus has said so more than once. What happened?”

  “The Luck of the Second Warrior happened.” Lilian refers to ill luck. “Katleen was out of sorts, so I was late leaving home. Then there was—”

  “Rimon take all public transports and their drivers.” The male Grim Twin slams into his worksite. “I had better use for a half period than sitting on a jammed transitway.”

  “Second time this month,” his female counterpart agrees. “They need to be fined for causing such delays.”

  “At least we were close to the Cartel,” she adds with a seemingly casual glance at Rebecca and Lilian. “The Cartel is half empty, and it will be another bell before the transitway clears.”

  “You were caught in it?” Rebecca asks Lilian, sliding back into her worksite. As Seigneur Trevelyan’s apprentice, she knows the Grim Twins are his operatives. The female Grim Twin’s casual glance was a warning that the apprentices need to attend to their duty.