Vonna Harper

by His Slave

  Fighting Mace’s impact on her nearly shattered body, she concentrated on what she’d just heard and her role in the proclamation. She’d told the “jury” that Viola had been stabbed twenty-two times.

  “Option number two,” the men said as one. Hearing that, she gasped, but the sound was buried under Schulz’s inhuman scream. Grabbing her hand, Mace pulled her back down on her knees. She couldn’t guess whether he was concerned she’d faint or was exerting his command over her.

  “Silence!” the “judge” ordered a sobbing Schulz. “Listen to me, you bastard. You forfeited your right to live when you took your wife’s life. Punishment will be carried out tomorrow. Tonight”—he smiled—“is for contemplation, perhaps praying to whatever God you do or don’t believe in, or losing bowel control. There’ll be no last meal. We don’t believe in wasting good food on someone who won’t be around long enough to digest it. Take him away,” he ordered Bat. “And once he’s in his cage, I want you to join several of us in my chambers.”

  In turmoil, Cheyenne put her hands over her face and lowered her head, stopping when the collar pressed against the underside of her chin.

  “Hold your head high,” Mace commanded, grabbing her hair. “I don’t ever want to see that hangdog look on you.”

  “But he’s going to be stab—”

  A jerk on her hair accompanied by a light slap to the side of her face silenced her. “You heard the sentence. Accept it just as you must accept that you’re my slave.”

  31

  The so-called judge’s chambers put Cheyenne in mind of several of her college professors’ offices, except that this room was much larger and thus not cramped. It, too, had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with legal texts. An oblong cherry desk stood in the middle, and a half-dozen high-backed black leather chairs had been placed around it. Music that reminded her of a funeral dirge came from unseen speakers.

  While Robert, the judge, and Mace took their seats, Atwood commanded her to stand in a corner opposite the closed door. There were no windows in the room. Between that, the hundreds of leather-bound books, depressing music, and dark paneling, she wondered if a cave could be any worse. Even if she managed to make it through the door, where would she run to? Doubtless, she’d be recaptured and punished. A wave of light-headedness forced her to lean against the wall.

  This was no dream.

  “Bat will join us shortly,” the judge told Mace, who’d positioned himself so she couldn’t see his features. “In the meantime, we want to bring you up to speed. First, any questions?”

  Mace’s laugh lacked warmth, and yet she let it into her. Her thigh and sex remembered his touch. “I hardly know where to begin,” Mace said, leaning forward and placing his elbows on the desk. “My understanding is that I’ve been selected to fulfill a specific task here. Based on what I’ve been doing on Earth and what appears to be your dissatisfaction with Bat, am I right to assume I’ll be taking over for him—if I agree?”

  “Oh,” Robert said, “you’ll agree. You’ve barely scratched the surface of what the Blind Spot has to offer. We brought you first to the lagoon because it’s a favorite.”

  “With the men perhaps,” Mace said, and handed her a glance that didn’t last long enough. “But do the women agree?”

  “They’re slaves. Who cares what they think?”

  “Look at it this way, Mace,” the judge broke in. “It’s male instinct to dominate. Look at nature. With few exceptions, the males of the species are the leaders. They’re aggressive, larger, stronger. Unfortunately, Earth’s humans have been corrupted in large part because of female emotion. That unfortunate component has watered down civilization. Instead of pure power, which is necessary for ultimate survival, Earthlings have been weakened by democracy.”

  An unexpected sound turned her toward the front door. Bat, his eyes lighting on each of the four men in turn, entered.

  “The sniveling coward’s back in his cell,” Bat announced. “One second he’s sobbing like a spoiled brat, the next he curses. I might gag him later. For now, however, he needs to listen to the sound of his voice while knowing no one cares.”

  Images of Schulz shackled in his cell while waiting to be executed made her shudder. No one had commanded her not to try to cover herself, but it was too late for modesty. Besides, her arms felt so heavy she wasn’t sure she could lift them.

  “Sit down, Bat,” the judge ordered. “This won’t take long.”

  “Fine.” Bat pulled back the nearest chair and dropped into it. “I can make it even shorter. You’re not happy with my recent job performance. Hell, no one is. I could apologize, but it wouldn’t be sincere.”

  “Why is that?” Robert’s question left Cheyenne with a vivid impression of how much power he and Atwood wielded here.

  “I’m burned out. Tired. The rewards aren’t part of the problem; I couldn’t ask for more.” He winked at Mace. “Give yourself a few days on the job; you’ll see what I’m talking about.”

  Bat faced the judge. “He’s my replacement, right? Recruited and brought here without anyone bothering to inform me.”

  “Your knowing wouldn’t have made any difference,” the judge said. “Our minds are made up.”

  “I’m certain they are.” Bat turned his attention to her, eyebrows lifting in what she took to be approval. “What’s this, two for the price of one? You figured your new jailer would be more likely to accept the offer if he’s allowed to keep his sex slave?”

  “I’m not—” Cheyenne started.

  “Shut up,” Atwood barked. “Another word out of you and you’ll be gagged.”

  “You hear that?” Bat addressed Mace, who so far had been a silent observer. “See how easy it is to dominate a slave here. Like you, I came from Earth, where my desires and inclinations were severely curtailed by the laws there. It’s way different here. You’ll love it.”

  “That’s for me to decide,” Mace said. Hearing his voice caused her cunt to heat. Juice leaked from her.

  “Won’t take long.” As Cheyenne tried to concentrate, Bat described the opulent apartment he lived in. Whatever he wanted in the way of food or entertainment was granted him. A just-released movie, no problem. Front row seat to a concert, done. An endless succession of sex slaves delivered to his door, done and done.

  “It’s been a great gig in that respect,” Bat explained. “And working with recalcitrant slaves has its rewards, but there’s a downside.” He said the last looking at the judge.

  “Tell me about the downside,” Mace said.

  “Having everything I do scrutinized and criticized. Think about working for hundreds of bosses, each with their personal opinion about how things should be done.”

  Try as she did, Cheyenne couldn’t keep her mind on the rest of the conversation. She caught enough to realize that the judge, Robert, and Atwood didn’t agree with Bat’s assessment, saying that if Bat were competent, there’d be no need for scrutiny. All that truly mattered to her was that Mace was being offered the job of overseeing slave training and responsibility for criminals brought to the Blind Spot from Earth. In exchange for the opportunity that he was well-qualified for, he’d live rent free in a fine apartment and never have to pay a restaurant bill.

  In addition, she’d become his personal sex slave.

  “That’s not all,” Atwood added, giving her a demeaning look. “You’re free to bring home any and all slaves you want to, and for them to remain as long as they amuse you.”

  “Yeah.” Bat smiled the first real smile she’d seen on him.

  “That doesn’t get old.” He jabbed a finger in her direction. “Get tired of her and you can swap her out for the new. Believe me, that’ll happen. Variety’s the name of the game here.”

  “You never became attached to one slave?”

  “Hell no. They’re damn interchangeable once the spark’s out of them.”

  Mace, don’t let that happen to me!

  “What about him?” Mace asked the judge, indicating
Bat. If he knew what she was thinking, he gave no indication.

  The judge shrugged. “He retires. Yes, he’ll have to move to lesser surroundings, but the retirement package includes a steady stream of female entertainment, just not in the same abundance as before.”

  “Try getting that kind of severance pay on Earth,” Bat said. “I ain’t complaining, not that it would do any good. Pretty clear this is no democracy. By the way, when you get tired of her”—he grinned at Cheyenne—“I’ll teach her a few tricks of the trade.”

  “So”—the judge leaned toward Mace—“this brings us to the final part of this interview. We require a demonstration of your domination skills. A public one.”

  “When?” Mace asked.

  “No time like the present.”

  32

  Back in the grotto area, Cheyenne stood with her legs nearly a foot apart and her hands bound behind her. Although she still had on the collar, Bat had removed her leash before commanding her to follow him out of the judge’s chambers. His explanation had been that he wanted to see how submissive she was. If not for the warning look from Mace, she would have bolted.

  Patio chairs at one end of the pond were filled with men, but whether these were the same she’d seen earlier didn’t matter. Expressionless women serviced them, only occasionally looking at her. When Bat turned her over to him, Mace had positioned her in front of the pond so she was forced to face the audience. Then he’d taken a rope from Bat’s belt, but instead of immediately restraining her, he’d run his hands over her arms and then down her sides until she squirmed.

  “Hold still!” He’d punctuated his command by slapping her buttocks.

  Although he went back to caressing her sides, she’d forced herself not to move. Only then did he cross her wrists one over the other and tie them in place. That done, he turned his attention to her belly and hips, his fingers gentle and possessive at the same time. Unable to fill her lungs with enough air, she rocked from side to side, nearly oblivious to male laughter.

  “There’s more than one way of gaining control over a woman.” Mace sounded as if he was delivering a lecture. “I’m an advocate of mixed messages when it comes to breaking down a submissive’s barriers. Mixing the good with the bad keeps her off balance.”

  Turning her so her back was to the men, he ran his knuckles down her spine. He did so slowly, pressing firmly and then barely touching her by turn. When he reached the small of her back, he planted a hand over her belly to keep her in place. Gone were his knuckles, replaced by nails laying light furrows over the tops of her buttocks.

  No matter how she fought to remain silent, moan after moan broke free. Spreading her legs even, she begged with her body. The moment she did, she acknowledged that she’d demeaned herself. The hand over her belly remained resolutely in place while the other left first horizontal and then vertical tracks on her ass.

  “My God, my God,” she cried, trying to pull away. “Mace, please.”

  She’d barely gotten the words out when he slapped her buttock with such force she nearly fell.

  “What’s my name?” He spanked her again.

  “Master. Master!”

  “That’s the last time you’ll ever make that mistake, understand,” he ordered with his mouth against her ear. “To make sure you learn your lesson—Bat, if I may, a flogger please.”

  This wasn’t happening! Once again she couldn’t believe her life had turned into this. And yet it had.

  Lifting her bound arms, Mace forced her to lean forward. Shamefully aware of how much of her sex showed, she longed to close her legs, but she’d lose her balance if she did.

  “She’s interesting.” Mace continued his educational tone. “A true submissive. I’ve worked with enough women to know when I have the real deal.” Still holding on to her arms, he slid the flogger along an inner thigh. An involuntary shudder raced through her. If she dropped to her knees and rubbed her cheek against his cock, would he let her out of her misery?

  “There, did you see that?” The flogger slid over her other thigh. “Most women in this position would be too aware of their surroundings to respond fully, but she’s a prisoner of her body’s instinct.”

  “Is there a point to this?” Cheyenne recognized Atwood’s voice. “So far all I see is the bitch getting turned on.”

  “That’s exactly the point. It’s honey and vinegar technology.” The strands continued their sensual journey over her thighs, making her rise onto her toes while trying to dig them into the ground. Nothing helped. She still ached. Longed.

  “My belief,” Mace continued, “is that all women have the potential to become slaves to their carnal needs. It takes the approach I’m demonstrating. Over time, frequent and prolonged sexual stimulation reprograms their bodies. They’ll do whatever they’re ordered to, endure every discomfort their master or masters deem appropriate. That’s not to say they like what’s happening to them, quite the contrary. But their pussies don’t care.

  The flogger was gone. Tense, she tried to look back at him only to sigh and sag as his fingers brushed her labia. His touch was light, promise and potential. Too few seconds later he stopped, and she ground her teeth together to keep from begging.

  After what felt like forever, he caressed her again, the pressure stronger than the first time and reaching deeper. Her knees buckled, and she stumbled about in her effort to regain her balance. Throughout her struggle, Mace stayed with her, holding on to her arms while his fingers continued to kiss the heart and soul of her pleasure.

  “Granted, your view of the slave’s sex could be clearer,” he went on, “but there’s no way you didn’t notice what just happened. Whether she likes it or not, she craves this attention, don’t you, slave?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “But my pleasuring your sex isn’t enough, is it? You want more.

  Don’t do this to me! “Yes, Master.”

  “To further the demonstration, I need to make an adjustment.” Lifting up on her arms, Mace forced her so far forward she now looked at her hanging labia and his dark, invading hand. If she could, she’d lick his knuckles in gratitude and surrender. “Now I’m increasing her sense of helplessness by ratcheting up the insult on her sexual organs. Done properly, this technique so disorients a slave that she loses touch with who she is or, should I say, used to be.”

  Hating Mace’s words, and maybe him as well, she struggled to keep her legs under her as he backed her closer to the audience. When he had her where he wanted, he released some of the tension on her arms so her shoulders no longer felt as if they might snap. However, he refused to let her straighten.

  “I realize I’m preaching to the choir.” He chuckled. “Because I gather all of you are experienced in proper slave treatment. But if my assessment of operations at the Blind Spot is correct, I will soon be fully responsible for all training aspects. Much as a dog trainer shows the pet’s actual owner how to work with the animal, Bat instructed you in certain techniques, correct?”

  Although she heard mutters of agreement, only two things mattered. First, Mace stood so close that his leg pressed against hers in a blatant message of power. Second, even though the finger now on her clit wasn’t moving, the wild thing raging through her remained at full force.

  “I’ve only begun work on this subject,” he continued, “so I would be remiss if I turned her over to anyone now. That said, I want to demonstrate the progress I’ve made. If you see the potential in her and agree that I have the necessary skills to bring out the best in a slave, I’d be honored to accept the position.”

  “So demonstrate already,” someone grumbled. “Talk’s cheap.”

  “True.” Mace rubbed her clit, then abandoned it. “Bat,” she barely heard him say, “if I may, I’d like to borrow your nipple clamps.”

  Nipple clamps!

  To her surprise, instead of torturing her breasts as soon as Bat complied with his request, Mace ran a finger into the crack between her ass cheeks until he reached her puc
kered opening. His finger, well-lubricated thanks to the juices she had no control over, glided like silk over her bun hole. Her anal muscles tightened repeatedly; reality again faded. The faint sound of the waterfall quieted her nerves, making it possible for her to ignore the strain in her shoulders and the men who might one day claim her.

  Mace’s strokes on that most personal of places warmed and soothed even as he moved closer and closer to her pussy. She gave up trying to keep her mouth closed. Her breath hissed in time with his gliding caresses, and her hips rocked without her knowing how that was happening.

  Being drunk had felt like this. When buzzed, she felt as if she was floating. Everything was right then, with the world painted in pastels even as her awareness of her sexuality grew. After a glass of wine, she wanted a man, simple as that. Inhibitions were relaxed, so why not do what felt good?

  This moment was good, all floating warmth and trust. She was a fool for trusting Mace, but that mattered little. He’d taken over her body and was laying claim to everything.

  “When things are done right,” Mace was saying, “a kind of hypnosis takes place. Pain and pleasure mesh into one. As example...”

  The hand she was falling in love with pressed more firmly against her rear entrance, a finger pushing past the tight muscles. He’d released her wrists, but until he gave her permission to stand upright—

  A sharp burning sensation ripped her attention from her ass to her right breast. Gasping, she tried to turn away only to be pulled back in place via the clamp gripping her nipple. Despite her resolve, she cried out when he closed another clamp around her left nipple. A chain dangled between her breasts.

  “Take it,” Mace said so softly she doubted anyone else heard. “Show them what you’re made of.”

  Staring at the chain made what he’d just done even more real. The slender links appeared to be made of gold, same as the clamps. Hadn’t she read that gold was a relatively soft metal? Not soft enough.

  But Mace, her master, had ordered—or was it encouraged—her to accept the discomfort. If nothing else, she’d do that.