by E G Manetti
After returning the disk to the tray, milord collects a slender spike the length of Lilian’s pinky and passes it to Master Trevelyan. Trevelyan, in turn, shakes his head in wonder. “Remarkable, Monsignor, truly remarkable. It is impossible to distinguish the synthetic from true Vistrite.”
Vistrite technology controls everything from lights to stellar transit. In complex technologies, the synthetic Vistrite will fail abruptly after mere days of use. In simple devices, such as lights and door controls, it will endure for several years, almost as long as true Vistrite. In underdeveloped systems where distance from a Vistrite Crevasse makes the simple devices unaffordable, the inexpensive synthetic will be exceedingly popular and profitable.
“Lilian, what think you?” Milord demands, holding out the slender rod.
Milord! Milord wishes her opinion. Milord has acknowledged her. Reverently Lilian collects the small object and rubs it between her fingers. While similar to refined Vistrite, it is not the same. There is a wrongness. Rolling the small cylinder between her fingers, Lilian is unaware of the intensity entering her eyes as she raises her face to milord. “It is not as silky as true Vistrite, milord.”
“So I noted,” Milord agrees. “Rachelle?”
“It is as you note, Monsignor,” Rachelle replies, her smile in place as she instructs her protégé, “Irina, if you would?”
Irina is a pretty woman with black eyes, pale skin, and glossy chestnut hair gathered in a soft chignon. Her voice is laced with excitement as she explains, “Monsignor, that slight coarseness is a series of minor imperfections that develop during construction. The flaws persist throughout the crystal, which is why it will never support advanced technology.”
Limited to simple technology, the synthetic will never threaten the supremacy of Vistrite. Nodding, milord returns his attention to Trevelyan. “Are the arrangements complete on the Western Continent?”
“Aye, Monsignor,” Trevelyan grins, returning the small spike to the tray. As Blooded Dagger’s security-privilege master, Trevelyan is charged with keeping Blooded Dagger secure and its secrets undiscovered, among which the synthetic is currently the most precious. “Eventually it will be known that the new construction is not a water filtration plant. By then you should be ready to reveal the true purpose.”
The prototype synthetics facility will be located in saltmarshes associated with milord’s Western Continent fisheries. In a few months, when construction reaches the stage where the Iron Hammer controller technology will be required, Lucius will reveal the synthetics endeavor to his fellow cartel governors.
»◊«
The crowd gathered in the riser bay pulls back from the arriving carriage, leaving a passage for Lucius and his party. At the sight of Lucius, the carriage empties. With a single tap, Lucius sends the now-private carriage on an uninterrupted journey from the eighth storey to the thirty-fifth.
“What think you, Rachelle? Will the Iron Hammer contender achieve the semi-finals?” Lucius turns the topic from the secret synthetic to the annual Third System Moon Races. It matters not that they are alone except for their apprentices and that the risers should be sealed to Lucius’ security-privilege. In the risers, where Blooded Dagger territory intersects that of Serengeti, Trevelyan is routinely thwarted by the Cartel security-privilege seigneur, Damocles of Grey Spear.
As Serengeti’s spymaster, Damocles is sworn to uphold the security-privilege of all three cartouches and the Cartel as a whole. In practice, Damocles serves Lucius’ rival, Monsignor Sebastian Mehta of Grey Spear, before all others. Damocles routinely exploits his position to violate Blooded Dagger sovereignty within the vulnerable risers. It is another Grey Spear insult to Lucius’ preeminence. It is one he intends to answer within a year, no more than two.
“Kemeha’s protégé is daring.” Rachelle follows Lucius’ lead, well aware that their conversation may be known to Grey Spear. “I think he might well achieve the semi-finals.”
The casual conversation is a pleasant one. It has been several years since the Serengeti Group fielded a competitor in the annual Moon Races, and Iron Hammer’s engineering seigneur and his protégé are both well liked. As they approach Lucius’ commerce suite, he remarks, “I will have Marieth reserve extra places in the observatory this year. If you are correct, demands on the Serengeti box will exceed its capacity.”
At the black enamel doors of milord’s commerce suite, Seigneur Rachelle turns away and toward her office, followed by Chrys. That it lacks a half period to midday matters naught. Apparently, Seigneur Rachelle’s response to commerce success is similar to milord’s.
Excitement tingling in her belly, her lips softening in recall of milord’s earlier embrace, Lilian follows milord beneath the poured-gold Blooded Dagger Cartouche that ornaments the lintel. It is only seven steps to the scarlet door, milord’s office, and milord’s passion. Lilian’s initial trepidation at yielding her body as part of her bond agreement has dissolved in the wake of her wild and unprecedented response to milord. Lilian’s limited experience had not prepared her for the intensity of milord’s passion or the pleasure he can pull from her.
Mistress Marieth, milord’s elegant, silver-haired executive servitor, smiles and nods as milord passes without acknowledgment. As Lilian comes abreast of the elegant cherry-wood worksite, Mistress Marieth drops her smile but returns Lilian’s polite nod. The remote and inaccessible servitor treats Lilian with cool courtesy, as she does all associates.
Crossing the scarlet threshold, Lilian dismisses all thoughts of Mistress Marieth and thought in general. Lilian has barely discarded her jacket and slate satchel before she is in milord’s embrace. Milord’s kiss is searing, milord’s hands are in her hair. Heat rushes along Lilian’s extremities, pools in her center, and causes the muscles below her navel to tighten and quiver.
“Raise your arms,” milord commands against her parted lips, pulling her blouse from her skirt.
With a quick tug, the blouse finds the floor while milord’s mouth once again captures Lilian’s. A flick of milord’s fingers and the bra yields, exposing tight rose peaks and modest, well-shaped, creamy breasts. Even as she wonders once again at her uninhibited response to milord, Lilian yields to it. Pinned against the back of the scarlet couch, Lilian revels in the press of her bared breasts against milord’s hard, warm chest, her nipples puckering at the delicate abrasion of milord’s silk jacket.
Sighing with pleasure, Lilian sends one hand to the back of milord’s neck as she tangles her tongue with milord’s. Her other hand finds a shoulder blade and uses the leverage to press closer to milord’s chest. There is a slight tug on her warrior’s queue and then the familiar sensation of her hair pulling loose. Milord’s lips abandon Lilian’s to travel along her throat as a large, hard hand glides across her torso to discover and fondle one breast and then tug gently on its hardening tip. Gasping, Lilian arches into the demanding caress. She wishes for more intimate contact.
“Not yet, Lilian,” milord rumbles against the curve of her throat and then steps away. Dark eyes hooded, milord states, “Your skirt does not please me.”
Wordlessly Lilian releases the fasteners and steps free of her skirt. Her eyes never leave milord as Lilian carefully shakes the garment and places it on the back of the scarlet couch.
Milord glances sharply at her chest. Lilian adds her dangling bra to the skirt. She is clad in naught but a scrap of black satin and lace, which hides a small thatch of surprisingly bright red curls. Sliding her hands to the lace border, Lilian prepares to release her last garment.
“Not yet.” Milord halts her motions. Milord’s dark gaze roams freely over her nudity as he deliberately removes his jacket. Milord moves lightly against Lilian, trousers whispering against her legs as milord’s silk tunic brushes her torso. The tantalizing contact raises shivers along her skin, escalating her need for more a forceful touch. Lilian whimpers in anticipation and then in disappointment as milord steps away without deepening the contact, his jacket neatly draped o
n the back of the sofa. “Come.”
Milord’s desk is a massive structure of glossy ebony. Lilian knows from experience that it is wide enough to support her from hips to head. It was a startling experience that Lilian found a great deal more pleasant than she had expected. Turning her gaze from the desk to milord, Lilian discovers a familiar glint of dark mischief. Game time.
As Lucius lifts Lilian to the edge of his desk, her gaze widens and her nostrils flare in confirmation that she recalls the last occasion he bent her over his desk. Stepping between Lilian’s parted thighs Lucius cups the elegant globes of her breasts and uses his thumbs to stroke stiffened peaks to tight points.
“As I recall,” Lucius purrs, tugging on the darkening tips, “you referred to being bent over my desk as ‘nice.’ ”
“Yes, milord,” Lilian replies. Her sharply indrawn breath and dilated eyes echo the arousal signaled by her peaked breasts.
“Do you recall my response?” Lucius demands. He knows that Lilian does, but he wishes to hear her voice his promise.
Lilian’s tongue darts between her lips, moistening the surface swollen from his kisses. “Yes, milord. Milord voiced that as I found the experience ‘nice,’ we would enjoy it again and . . .” Once again the tongue briefly emerges.
The woman is unnerved. It is not readily accomplished. Lucius finds it remarkably enticing.
“And take a little more time,” Lilian completes.
“Very good, Lilian.” Lucius pushes Lilian gently onto her back, spreading her dark red locks so that they cascade over the far edge of the desk. “That is exactly what we are going to do.”
Milord gently flicks her stiffened nipples and then sets lips, tongue, and teeth to her breasts. Involuntarily, Lilian laces her hands in milord’s hair to encourage the delightful torment while she arches her pelvis against the weight of milord. Discovering a hard hip, she shifts her angle, attempting to place pressure were she desires it most.
Grasping her hips, milord pushes them firmly to the desk. “Hold here, Lilian.”
Returning his mouth to Lilian’s torso, milord maps a meandering course along her ribcage, waist, and abdomen. In response, the pleasant ache between Lilian’s legs swells to an insistent throb even as she savors the erotic contact. Milord’s tongue slides along the hollow of her hip at the edge of the black lace barrier.
“Milord, please,” Lilian gasps, writhing against the slick desk in response to the taunting exploration, her heated sex dampening with excitement.
With a masculine chuckle, milord slides the lacey barrier from Lilian’s hips, down her thighs, and free of her feet. Rising over Lilian, milord parts her thighs further, pausing to gaze at her as he discards his tunic. At the heat and promise in milord’s regard, Lilian’s breathing catches, and her cleft pulses as her hips widen and tilt with invitation. She knows she must appear a complete wanton. She cares not.
Lucius’ groin tightens sharply at the sight of Lilian’s abandon. Her arms are curled by her head, her legs spread and dangling over the edge of the desk. Moisture glistens on the delicate folds of her sex. A light flush suffuses her torso and face. The pale pink blush is a delectable contrast to the creamy skin, which is striking against the ebony desk. Savoring the wanton display, Lucius discards his tunic. The pleasant aching in his loins intensifies to urgency as Lilian shifts slightly, tilting her pelvis. Offering herself. Bending over the prone woman, Lucius grasps her ankles, pulling her feet to rest on the edge of the desk. The movement widens her hips and further tilts the delicate folds for access.
Milord’s tongue strokes the length of Lilian’s opening, escalating her arousal and pleasure and causing Lilian to cry out and shudder in delight. Her heels press hard to the glassy surface to keep from slipping. She is as milord wills. She must not move. Her hands search wildly for purchase. The slick surface of the desk offers none.
Her hands reach once again for milord and find his heavy locks. Her open thighs loosen further as milord’s tongue strokes and his teeth nip across the sensitive flesh. Milord’s tongue circles her inflamed jewel, taunting, teasing, and finally lashing. Invisible cords extend from her tormented jewel, tightening her abdomen, swelling her breasts, and jolting the tight peaks.
“Milord, please, milord,” Lilian whimpers.
Placing his hands on Lilian’s thighs, further immobilizing her, milord mercilessly flicks the swollen bud of her sex with his tongue and then scrapes it with his teeth. Keening quietly in desperation, Lilian’s hands convulse in milord’s heavy locks as the invisible cords twist, pulling her taut. Increasingly frantic in her rising need, Lilian implores, “Please, milord, milord.”
In response, milord pulls free of her hands and rises above her. One of milord’s hands reaches for his trouser fasteners as the other holds her hips firmly to the desk. At the sight of milord’s sex, long and hard, Lilian moans. A predatory grin spreads across milord’s face at the sound. The shaft moves eagerly. Milord grasps her hips, tilting her until her opening is angled toward the rod standing straight, dark, and swollen.
Her back arched, Lilian gazes up the length of her prone body to the strong torso above her and the erection about to enter her. The head strokes across her opening. The taunting caress draws an inarticulate sound from her. Lilian is wet and ready, her sex swollen with arousal. The dark length plunges into her. Her abdomen contracts, her channel tightens as milord fills her.
“Rise to me. Take me deep.” At milord’s command Lilian wraps her legs around milord’s waist, tilting her hips, taking the hard, hot length of milord deep into her body. It feels wondrous.
“Yes, Lilian, yes.” Milord’s voice is rough with passion as he drives into her, flattening her to the desk.
In moments, milord is moving hard and fast within her, finding that perfect spot, the perfect rhythm that snaps the cords and sends Lilian soaring into a haze of pleasure.
As Lilian shudders in release, her chamber clenches on Lucius’ sex, igniting answering spasms that fire from the base of his spine to spill him into a deep red well of ecstasy.
»◊«
“Milord, I beg pardon. I cannot locate my nape ties. Does milord discover them?” Lilian is standing, fully clothed, in the doorway of milord’s freshening closet. Her rumpled garments are steamed smooth, the musk of passion erased by a freshening packet.
With a brief glance around the chamber, milord shakes his head. “I discover them not. Do your best. We are expected within moments.”
Repressing her distress, Lilian returns to the freshening closet to work her hair as best she is able. The inevitably casual arrangement will leave none in doubt as to how Lilian was employed for the last bell and a half. I am the sum of my ancestors.
Aware of Lilian’s brief discomfort and the cause, Lucius cannot fathom why she finds public knowledge of their carnal activities embarrassing. As is common within the Twelve Systems, Lucius does not confuse passion with love, attraction with affection. Desire is as natural as hunger or thirst. It can be indulged to the extent that one’s means and inclinations dictate.
Wedlock and children are serious commitments not undertaken lightly. Among the warrior class, those who claim direct descent from the Five Warriors, a wedlock alliance is a carefully crafted mingling of genetics and wealth.
Lilian shares the common sensibility. Her discomfort arises from her deeply reserved nature that finds speculation about her carnal service to milord invasive and prurient. Her continued confusion at the power of her physical reaction to milord only increases her discomfort. Apprentices are expected to find their masters pleasing. Lilian’s eager response borders on the wayward.
Her complex reaction to milord is not the only source of Lilian’s distress. Lilian’s usual nape ties are inexpensive linen and steel, prone to knotting. This day’s ties were a gift from Dean Joseph, her academic mentor and foster father. Accented with platinum, the supple black lizard skin is unique to Artesia, where Lilian attended the university. Normally reserved for shrine rituals, t
he ties were one of the few items of value Lilian managed to retain after her unlamented sire, Remus Gariten, brought them to ruin.
I am the foundation of my family. Setting aside her concern, Lilian focuses on braiding her wavy locks into a tail looped into a casual knot. Shades willing, it will stay off of her face. Honor is my blade and shield.
Milord sets a rapid pace across the reception area to his large conference chamber, making Lilian grateful for her modest heels, which allow her to keep pace without stumbling. For a sevenday Lilian has speculated about this conference. The bitter rivalry between Blooded Dagger and Grey Spear spans a decade. An endeavor that requires the unified support of all three Serengeti cartouches must own exceptional importance, and it is not yet time to reveal the synthetics.
Clustered around the conference table are the Iron Hammer preeminence, Monsignor Elenora Odestil, her engineering seigneur, Kemeha, and his protégé, Fletcher Detrenti, along with milord’s kinsman Seigneur Marco and milord’s protégé, Nickolas. As Lilian takes her stance behind milord’s left shoulder at the head of the table, Fletcher sends her a charming grin while Nickolas offers naught but a stiff nod and tight lips. The conventional protégé has not failed to note the casual arrangement of Lilian’s hair or discern its cause.
A tall man with a strong build, Nickolas Cyncad has burnished copper locks held in a queue, green eyes, and a face so handsome it is almost pretty. As with most of the Twelve Systems, Nickolas holds Lilian in contempt, although he is careful not to display it publicly lest it be considered a challenge to Monsignor Lucius’ will.
Seated next to milord, Seigneur Marco says naught as he sends a pointed glance toward the far end of the table where the Grey Spear contingent is notably absent. A short, compact man of sixty years with blunt features in a square-jawed face, Marco favors dapper styles. Close kinsman to milord, Marco is trusted with commercial endeavors involving high risk and high return. His lack of involvement with the important and risky synthetics is a mystery Lilian has yet to solve.