by His Slave
“Why?”
“Simple. Earthlings know nothing of the Blind Spot, but the reverse isn’t true. To a man here, we concur we must keep our pulse on what transpires on Earth. Being in the communication business serves as the perfect vehicle. Finding you was a plus.”
“What about her?” Mace jerked his head at her. “Why is she here?”
With Mace’s gaze still on her, Cheyenne was hard put to concentrate on anything else. Even though she remained acutely aware of her nude bondage, she half believed it was just the two of them. At the same time, she knew how dangerous that thinking could be.
“A couple of reasons,” Atwood responded. “We believed you’d need an initial inducement to change allegiance from Earth to here, sweetening the pot, so to speak. She fit that role.”
“What’s the other reason?”
Robert had lowered his arm, but being able to stand flat-footed did little to remind Cheyenne of the freedom she’d always taken for granted. Not long ago, she’d been eager to surrender to Mace, but that had been role-play, a sexual game. Reality was too much to absorb.
“The Blind Spot isn’t a democracy,” Atwood supplied. “That’s a governmental form that doesn’t work for us. Much simpler is a dictatorship made up of key senior residents committed to maintaining a highly successful status quo.”
The gathered men, who’d all returned to their seats, laughed, but as long as Mace looked at her, she’d look back. If only she could read what, if anything, lay beneath the cool surface. Did the man she’d half believed she was falling in love with exist? If so, where was he?
“Male dictatorship,” Atwood went on. “Allowing women to participate in decision making as equals unnecessarily complicates things and is counterproductive. Men are direct. They identify a goal and decide on the simplest and most efficient way of reaching that goal. In contrast, women are distracted and diminished by emotion.”
“That’s one of Earth’s core problems,” one of the other men interjected. “They’re never going to make the advances we have here as long as emotion is allowed.” He pointed at Cheyenne. “Much more rational, and satisfying, is to relegate females to the role of slaves.”
Someone else added that the term slave encompassed everything from the sex slaves who catered to their masters’ every need to those who provided any and all physical tasks the dominant males had no interest in. There were female mechanics, construction workers, farmers, garbage collectors who attended trade schools and lived in segregated housing where yet other females cooked and cleaned for them.
“Who decides which women are assigned what tasks?” Mace asked. How could he ask such a question when she was still trying to absorb what she’d heard?
“That’s quite simple to answer,” Robert supplied, “especially for you because you spent time in group homes. As soon as children are weaned, they’re sent to dormitories separated by sex. The dorms are serviced by child-keeper slaves while certain of our men oversee the upbringing and education that takes place there. Part of the men’s duties is to assess the females’ suitability for various tasks.”
Before she could prepare, Mace grabbed her left nipple. “Let me guess,” he said as a film of discomfort and desire enveloped her. “The most attractive females become sex slaves.”
Grunting, the heavyset, professor-like man stood. “Right you are. Mace, absorbing the entire concept behind the Blind Spot’s success will take time. Unfortunately, further explanation must wait. It’s time to move to the judgment room.”
“Which is?” Mace asked, not slackening his grip on her.
“Where you will receive the most dramatic demonstration of a key service Blind Spot residents provide for Earthlings. Even your slave will appreciate what’s about to happen. If you want to do the honors, you can direct her to where we’re going.”
Mace released her breast. In the moment that followed, she half believed he would free her. They’d escape together. Instead, he took the lead rope from Robert, slung it over his shoulder, and turned his back to her. Forced to stumble behind him, she contemplated her lack of embarrassment over her nudity. Maybe she was still too shell-shocked to care, but maybe, like the other women here, she was becoming resigned to her fate.
There was another possibility, this one tied into Mace with his powerful, sexy body and her memories of how well hers fit around it.
Don’t go there. Not if you want to survive.
30
A silent Cheyenne behind him, Mace paused and took in his surroundings. Everyone, even the other naked women, had gone behind the waterfall. Once there, they’d entered a long, wide, well-lit area he likened to a hall. A number of massive, closed doors led off the hall. Despite his desire to explore what lay beyond those doors, he decided not to risk garnering the disapproval of the Blind Spot residents.
Blind Spot? If not for his heart’s steady thumping and awareness of Cheyenne’s naked body close enough to touch, he would have sworn he was dreaming. Either that or drunk. For someone who insisted on controlling his world, he felt ill-prepared for what he’d been thrust into. At the same time, curiosity kept his head clear. One way or the other, he’d eventually put all the pieces of this puzzle, which included Cheyenne’s role in his new reality, together.
Shaking off her impact as best he could, he studied his surroundings. Although the room the entire group had gone into was expensively decorated and furnished, it reminded him of courtrooms he’d been in as a juvenile. Instead of benches for visitors to sit in, there were at least a hundred comfortable chairs arranged in a large semicircle. The majority of the men were already sitting, their slaves kneeling at their sides. Instead of a judge’s platform and areas for prosecution and defense attorneys, however, was a solitary chair positioned so whoever was in it faced the audience. Straps were attached to the chair’s arms and legs.
At Atwood’s and Robert’s prompting, he sat between them. Cheyenne stood until Atwood grabbed her collar and forced her to her knees next to Mace. Although her breasts with their hardened nipples were only inches away, he resisted the impulse to touch her. If he ever needed to keep his head about himself, this was the time.
Hoping no one knew of his inner tension, he studied his companions. What held his attention the most was their hands. From what he could tell, they’d all had their nails professionally done. More to the point, if these men had ever done physical labor, it hadn’t been for many years. Given the tropical environment they’d just left, shouldn’t their exposed skin be tanned? The almost unhealthy pallor told him they didn’t spend much time in the sun.
Beyond that, it was obvious they didn’t give healthy living much consideration as witness by sagging postures and potbellies under their tailored clothes. If, as he’d been told, they were indeed superior to Earthlings, why didn’t they take better care of themselves? A vision of everyone beginning their days by chugging down pills made him shake his head.
Cheyenne shifted position. The here and now was reality, not a dream. Instead of the independent, sexy businesswoman he’d been getting to know, she was now a slave. A sex slave. His if he did whatever it was he’d been brought here to accomplish.
No more need to play according to society’s rules. The end to role-playing. Cheyenne would belong to him.
It wouldn’t matter what she did or didn’t want because he’d be in charge, he who’d once had to fight to get through each day now had total control over not just another human being, but the one who’d set up residence in his dreams and groin.
Allowing himself a small smile, he ran his fingers into her hair. She looked up at him.
“Guess you won’t be telling me you don’t want to have anything to do with me after all, will you,” he said.
She met him stare for stare. Distracted by her small, helpless body, he nearly missed the sheen in her eyes. Too late for tears.
“It’s about time,” a man grumbled. “Someone please tell me why we thought Bat could still do the job?”
Mace
again pulled his attention off Cheyenne. A muscular man was coming through a side door dragging another man behind him. Naked, the second had on manacles that fastened in front and were attached to leg irons via a thick chain that scraped his flaccid cock. Obviously this was the last place the naked man wanted to be, not that he had any choice in the matter as the larger one forced him over to the chair with the cuffs. Despite his struggles, the stronger man easily secured him via a strap around his neck.
“You’re late, Bat,” the man who’d just spoken said. “You know what time the trial was supposed to start.”
“So sue me. You people think I can be everywhere at once.”
Bat folded his arms over a chest Mace had no doubt had gotten that way via uncounted sessions with weights. Studying him, Mace wondered if he’d been brought here to replace Bat.
“That’s enough defiance,” the speaker continued. “Let’s hear your report. What have you observed about the prisoner?”
Cheyenne pressed against Mace, compelling him to look down at her again. Now her eyes were wide and deep, disbelieving and comprehending all at the same time. “That’s Carl Schulz,” she whispered.
“Who?” he mouthed.
“The wife killer I wrote about. I stared at his picture enough; I have no doubt.”
Gone was the hint of tears he’d caught earlier. The mix of understanding and awe confused him until he recalled that Carl Schulz had gone into hiding after brutally killing his ex wife. Everyone believed Schulz had planned his disappearance.
Everyone had been wrong. Schulz was at the Blind Spot, obviously not willingly.
Standing, the man who’d been finding fault with Bat approached Schulz, keeping distance between them. After giving Schulz a look capable of putting him six feet under, the man spoke.
“Mace, I’ll bore my companions with what I’m saying, but it’s for your benefit. This bastard”—he spat in Schulz’s face—“slaughtered his wife in front of her sister. Their children will have to go through life knowing what their father did, hating him.”
The man slapped Schulz so hard the prisoner’s head snapped back. When, finally, he straightened, Mace saw Schulz had a split lip. Cheyenne, who no longer leaned against him, sucked in a breath.
“Instead of owning up to his crime and taking his punishment like a man, this bastard cleaned out the savings account his son had started for a down payment on a house for his family and moved to Mexico.”
The man slapped Schulz again, then a third time when Schulz whimpered. “Shut up, you piece of shit! A piece of advice for you, albeit too late. You should have opted for Earth justice. They’re much softer on murderers than we are. There aren’t any appeals at the Blind Spot, no years wasted on legal maneuvers.
“What lawyer?” Schulz blubbered. “I didn’t get—”
“You got as much consideration as you gave your wife. In fact, we’re giving you something you denied her, a trial. Look around. These gentlemen are judge and jury. You have exactly one minute to try to convince them not to do to you what you did to the woman who gave birth to your children.”
Mace didn’t need to look at Cheyenne to know they were thinking the same thing: this was eye for an eye, frontier justice.
A sobbing Schulz wasted half of his allotted time trying to compose himself. Finally, he pulled himself together enough to insist that the so-called trial was illegal. Mace thought he might insist on a lawyer or rail against his imprisoners. When he didn’t, Mace concluded Schulz had been in custody long enough to know how hopeless things were.
“Enough,” the man who seemed to be filling the role of judge interrupted Schulz. “Laws are different at the Blind Spot, and you know it.” He turned to the audience. “Have you made up your minds? How do you rule?”
“Guilty,” everyone said in unison. Sobbing anew, Schulz sank as deep into his seat as possible. His fingers fluttered helplessly.
“So noted. Now to the punishment phase. Has everyone read the details?”
Several men shook their heads, drawing a disappointed look from the judge. “I realize everyone is busy with other duties, but the Blind Spot prides itself on our proactive approach to Earth failings. Fortunately, our latest slave thoroughly researched the prisoner for her article for Edge. Robert, Atwood, do you want to handle this or would you prefer the slave to?”
The two men exchanged looks. Then Robert hauled Cheyenne to her feet. Seeing Robert’s hand on her arm tightened Mace’s gut and spoke to his cock.
“Do it,” Robert ordered Cheyenne. “Tell them everything. Leave out no detail.”
Although Cheyenne was now turned from him, he spotted her clenched fingers. “Before she does,” Mace said, “release her arms.
“What?” Robert frowned.
“When and if I accept your offer of employment and residence, she becomes my slave, right?” He made his point by sliding his hand between her legs. Her warmth slipped into him, compelling him to fight down a growl. Yes, the predator lived in him all right. It had begun growing the day he’d heard a juvenile detention door slam behind him. “I don’t want damaged merchandise.”
Damaged merchandise. Unable to shake off the surreal feeling, Cheyenne locked her legs in place but made no attempt to move away from Mace. His hand rested against her sex, awakening sensations that had no place in her new reality. Just the same, fighting them would accomplish nothing. The Blind Spot surrounded her. Those who lived here were collectively responsible for her nudity and the metal constricting her arms, but that paled next to Mace’s presence.
The men who called this place home had investigated Mace and determined he had the necessary skills for fulfilling tasks she couldn’t bring herself to think about. Maybe it all came down to their having detected the predator, the dom in him. Although she’d do everything she could regain her freedom, she wouldn’t fight Mace. Didn’t want to.
Muttering, Robert gripped her arm restraints. A moment later, her arms fell free. They’d soon catch fire; fortunately, they were numb. In telling contrast, her clit burned, and she’d give a great deal, too much, to have Mace slide a finger inside her.
How well he knew her, giving her a taste when she was starving.
“Fine, you happy now?” Robert grumbled. “The ball’s in your court, Mace. Get your slave to tell us every disgusting detail.”
“Did you hear him?” Mace asked softly, his other hand gliding over her outer thigh and making her stomach knot. “If you were the prosecution, what would you develop your case around?”
Hearing her task described in those terms helped her speak, although maybe the truth was, she needed to forget about herself, and focusing on Carl Schulz might be the only way she could accomplish that.
“His wife’s name was Viola,” she began. “She was ten years younger than him, a sweet and vivacious woman who adored being a mother. She loved gardening and working at a small plant nursery in the area. Those pursuits helped immensely when it seemed as if her husband disapproved of everything she did. He’d always been controlling, but became even more so once their children left home.”
Caught up in her determination to speak for Viola, she started to step toward Schulz only to stop because doing so would take her away from Mace.
“Both children told me they moved out as soon as they could support themselves,” she said with Mace’s hand dangerously back on her sex and her senses spinning. “They begged their mother to come with them, but she didn’t want to be a burden on them.”
Schulz’s face contorted. If he started crying, she’d slap him herself. In the meantime, she’d continue to take her strength from Mace’s presence.
“You already know she’d gone to live with her sister. She’d asked for and received a restraining order, but her sister guessed he followed her home from work. He broke into the house.” Already sick knowing what she had to say next, she rubbed her arms. Mace did the same to her right thigh, massaging it until she thought she’d scream.
At length, her voice tight
and gaze hard on the white-faced Schulz, she detailed the attack. When Schulz kicked in the flimsy back screen, his former sister-in-law’s little dog had attacked him. Schulz had kicked the dog with enough force that it flew across the room and slammed into a wall, killing it. As her sister dialed 911, Viola had tried to escape out front, but he’d overtaken her, knocking her facedown in the entryway and slashing her repeatedly. Police recovered a severed finger. Viola had fought for her life, but she hadn’t stood a chance as witnessed by the twenty-two wounds in her back, sides, and front. The fatal cut had been the one to her throat.
“Anything you’d like to dispute?” the “judge” demanded of Schulz. “Something detectives and sister got wrong? Maybe you didn’t mean to kill the dog, it just happened to be in the wrong place?”
“Yes!” Schulz fairly screamed. “That’s it. And my stabbing Viola, I had to defend myself.”
Any other time Cheyenne would have thrown the god-awful lie back in Schulz’s face, but her place in the world had changed. She might be punished for saying more than necessary.
“Is that so?” The “judge” leaned close. “Care to show us your scars? Oh wait, that isn’t necessary because we can see your body. Your unmarked body.” Looking as if he’d come face-to-face with a mound of crap, the “judge” straightened and faced the assembled men. His gaze skimmed over her, but she couldn’t give him her attention because Mace’s hand had returned to the heated valley between her legs. How she wanted to believe the gesture was his private way of reassuring her, but she didn’t dare.
“Gentlemen, we’ve been through this phase numerous times in the past, so I don’t need to spell out the details,” the “judge” continued. “You have two options to consider. One, the condemned will be put to death in a manner consistent with what he would face on Earth. Two, his punishment will be a duplicate of what he subjected his victim to.”