The Cartel

by E G Manetti

  “I chase them, but they run too fast,” Lilian gazes hopefully at Nickolas.

  “Ah, Miss Lilian, there is your error,” the hero speaks. “Do not chase them. Be patient. Let them come close enough to grab and then, act quickly.”

  “I caught five salamanders that day, the most of any of us.” Lilian acknowledges the old memory, her tight countenance lightening with recall.

  “It is dead now, you know,” Nickolas’ cold, cutting tones shred Lilian’s recollection.

  Dead? The salamander? The words make no sense. From the protégé’s tone and expression, Lilian has erred. The brief light disappears from her face as her shoulders tighten.

  “Master Nickolas, I do not take your meaning,” Lilian replies carefully, assessing the man’s intent.

  “That life. It is dead. It is gone as though it never existed. For all practical purposes, your life starts today,” Nickolas’ eyes are as cold and cutting as his voice.

  “Yes, Master Nickolas, I understand.” The message could not be plainer. You are nothing but a doxy. Forget you were ever anything else. The beautiful man at the desk wishes he did not know Remus Gariten’s tainted offspring. He regrets ever having been kind to her.

  “Good, let us begin.”

  »◊«

  Lack wit. You have known men. It is a pleasant enough diversion. Lilian chides herself as she reaches the freshening closet. In her slate satchel is a set of freshener packets. Not as effective as a shower, the magic little puffs are a wonder in preparing for an encounter or erasing the results of one. Lilian began the day with an unopened package of six. One is gone, used prior to her midday encounter with Monsignor Lucius. Another is about to serve its purpose.

  After period of instruction from Master Nickolas, Lilian wholeheartedly embraced the distraction of her increased assignments. Now, as she prepares to attend the penthouse, the memory of milord’s embrace assails her. Recall tightens delicate muscles below her navel, the exciting sensation offsetting fear.

  “May the Five Warriors take it! Don’t these people have commerce to conduct?” The violently frustrated tone and words are at odds with the sweet loveliness of the woman splashing water on her face as she addresses the mirror.

  Lilian recognizes one of the new Cartel apprentices from the morning. Curiosity overcoming her start at the other woman’s outburst, Lilian inquires, “Is aught amiss? May I be of assistance?”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize anyone was there,” the woman responds, turning from the mirror.

  “You’re Lilian, I’m Rebecca,” Rebecca introduces herself casually, tension leaving her as she recognizes a fellow apprentice. Rebecca is truly beautiful with her smooth blonde hair, blue eyes, delicate features and lightly sun kissed skin. Of average height, she is shorter than Lilian, and more curvaceous. The Cartel apprentice’s fashionable heels bring her to Lilian’s level.

  Pushing back the blonde locks that have come loose from her chignon, Rebecca continues, “I didn’t mean anyone to hear that, venting a bit of ire is all.”

  Curiosity unabated, Lilian repeats, “Is aught amiss?”

  At Lilian’s bewildered aspect Rebecca shrugs and explains. “I brought a full package of fresheners this morning and now I’m out. I expected to be well occupied, the newness and all. But this is one of the most powerful cartels in the Twelve Systems. These seigneurs should have full schedules.”

  Lilian blinks. She is aware that Cartel apprentices are sexually available to the ranked members of the Cartel. Until this moment, she had not understood exactly how that might execute. What to respond? You have had six encounters this day? Do not voice that.

  “It is the day’s end. May you not retire to your quarters?” Lilian is proud of her response. It is pleasant, polite and not intrusive.

  “Not yet, I need to get started on Master Straus’ interrogative exercises. I didn’t get any real work done today and I can’t plan on tomorrow being any better. I don’t suppose you have a spare freshener packet?” Rebecca persists.

  Refusing to yield to her shock, Lilian reaches into her satchel and produces the small, pale green cube, “Yes, I have one to spare.”

  Snatching the object, Rebecca offers heartfelt thanks and the comment, “At least now I can smell like myself while I work. I’ll return the favor the when I am able, Mistress Lilian.”

  »◊«

  Settled into the sumptuous leather upholstery of the Serengeti transport, Lilian barely notices as Mr. George efficiently navigates the complex traffic patterns of the city. Entering the lobby, Lilian expected to find a servitor displaying the Blooded Dagger cartouche on a signal plaque.

  Mr. George required no plaque. In the redwood brown of Blooded Dagger’s common servitor, Mr. George could not be overlooked. He made Lilian think of the ‘tree-trolls’ of children’s fables; a massive block of wood capable of rapid movement and stunning strength. Completing the illusion is a face deeply pitted and weathered to the color of walnut.

  Prize fighter. The thought splashed across Lilian’s thoughts as she approached the driver. So strong were her impressions, the gentle courtesy and low voice with which Lilian was greeted startled her to a brief stop.

  “Good Evening, Mistress Lilian. I am Mister George. I am here to carry you to Monsignor Lucius. Allow me to take your satchel. If it would please you, take my arm. The walkways are slippery from the rain.”

  It rained? It would have been one of the sudden thunder showers that appear and disappear in a matter of moments during the early days of the dry season. In the interior section where Lilian’s worksite is located, weather changes commonly pass unnoticed.

  “My thanks, Mr. George,” Lilian replied as she tightened her grip on the satchel. “I will retain the satchel.”

  As to accepting the driver’s assistance, Lilian wondered if she is permitted to take the driver’s hand under the rigid stricture that only milord should touch her. As if reading her mind, Mr. George extended his right hand, palm down displaying light cloth gloves despite the warm weather.

  Consumed with thoughts of milord and the coming interlude, Lilian notes neither direction nor distance as the transport moves toward the penthouse. You enjoyed his kiss. He will not hurt you. You can do this. Think about -

  “Mistress Lilian, we’re here. You should go on up.” The quiet rumble of Mr. George’s voice resonates through Lilian’s thoughts. It brings her to the realization that the big man is standing on the pavement, waiting to assist her from the transport. The brief transit is ended. She is handed out on to the pavement with the same care that settled her into the transport.

  “I’ll be waiting to carry you home Mistress Lilian,” Mr. George informs her.

  Mouth suddenly dry, the best Lilian can offer is a polite nod of acknowledgement. I am the sum of my ancestors.

  A coolly austere doorman validates her access token and bows her through to the lobby. The gold lozenge is the size Lilian’s thumbnail and not a great deal thicker. Stamped with the Blooded Dagger Cartouche, it offers a small blue light indicative of Vistrite controls.

  I am the foundation of my family.

  An equally austere concierge directs her to a discretely placed riser.

  Honor is my blade and shield.

  The token is in the slot and the riser carriage starts to ascend.

  Honor knows not fear. Honor -- needs to unbind her hair!

  Lilian pulls frantically at the carefully woven nape ties designed to keep her wavy hair tight to her scalp and in a disciplined fall down her back. Fumbling fingers stuff them in her satchel. No mirror. No time. Flip forward at the waist. Shake her hair free and fluff it with her fingers. A chime sounds as the riser stops and the door opens. Snap upright and toss it back. Step forward.

  Where is he?

  Scanning the area, Lilian finds she is in a shallow foyer that opens into a large, high-ceilinged reception salon. It is striped with light and shadows from the fading sun. Inlaid wood floors spread out from the entry. The
gleaming wood is broken by finely woven wool and silk rugs. Unable to process details, Lilian has an impression of equally fine furniture and art.

  Where is he?

  By the two-storey window that serves as a wall, a shadow moves. It coalesces into a man. Milord!

  His tunic shirt is open revealing a wide expanse of well-muscled, dark olive skin. Milord’s trousers are unbelted, his feet bare. Milord holds a glass in one hand.

  “Lilian, you are in time to enjoy the last rays of sunshine. Come, join me.” With his words, milord gestures her toward him.

  Walking forward, depositing her slate bag on a small table, Lilian halts within milord’s reach. Milord glances down, and then reaches out with one hand to stroke her hair, rubbing a lock between two fingers. “Very nice, but a less disheveled arrangement will please me more.”

  “Yes, milord,” barely managing to repress her relief, Lilian yields the politely obedient response.

  The hand in her hair drops to her shoulder, glides across her shoulder blade to rest at the small of her back. Pulling her along, milord walks to the two-storey window. Lilian’s breath leaves her as the sight before her presents the illusion that she is but one step away from falling into an abyss.

  Lucius Mercio’s penthouse overlooks the Great Crevasse at the base of the city. As the last of the day touches the cityscape to the north, directly ahead and to the south, the horizon is black where the thirty mile deep crevasse drops toward the planet’s core. Within the Crevasse, the twinkling lights of the constant Vistrite mining appear as the sunlight that dimmed them through the day fades.

  The hand at the small of her back circles her waist, pulling Lilian against milord’s chest, her face to the dizzying view.

  “Vertigo, Lilian?” Curiosity and mild amusement are blended in milord’s inquiry.

  “Yes, milord.”

  “Do you fear heights?” Milord’s lips whisper against her temple with the question.

  Distracted from her vertigo by the caress, Lilian answers, “I had not thought so, milord. I was startled.”

  The arm not steadying her against milord’s chest appears in front of her holding a glass of pale, sparkling liquid. “A little wine will steady your nerves.”

  “My thanks, milord,” Lilian responds, reaching out to take the glass. The glass is halfway to her lips when she recalls her circumstances. Hesitating, she says, “I have not eaten much today, it may make me tipsy.”

  “I will not object. Drink your wine. All of it.” The words are casual. It is a command.

  Anchored by milord’s arm, sipping her wine, Lilian watches the sun descend and the stars reveal. Milord does not speak or move. Slowly, the sharp edge of Lilian’s anxiety fades. This quiet encounter is far from the abrupt use Lilian anticipated. Milord’s will is inexplicable. It is also welcome.

  The horizon disappears as the stars meet the twinkling lights of the Crevasse and become a single expanse. The nightscape solidifies the sense that Lilian is standing on the precipice of the void.

  With the total fall of night, milord stirs. Collecting the empty glass from her hand, he sets it aside as he releases Lilian from his support. She totters, and then steadies.

  “You remain dizzy?” Milord inquires.

  “A little, milord. The wine I think, not the drop,” Lilian explains. She is not precisely tipsy. The wine has blunted her concern.

  “Come then,” taking her hand milord leads her away from the window. As they progress the length of the great chamber, soft lights shimmer on. After a few yards, a door silently recesses.

  The bedchamber is vast. In the far corner, the floor to ceiling windows meet as one, displaying the sparkling void completely devoid of cityscape. Located in the glazed corner are a large, comfortable chair and reading stand. Between the chair and the entrance, centered between the clear corner walls, facing the vista is the bed on a raised dais.

  There are other furnishings within the chamber. All Lilian sees is the great bed as she is lead toward it. Now. Milord will have her now.

  Lucius stops midway between the bed and his chair and drops Lilian’s hand. Lucius has every intention of enjoying the next few bells. It remains to be seen how his apprentice will react. Moving away from Lilian, he seats himself in the chair facing the bed. The slender figure stands motionless where he left her. The wide gray eyes appear black in the dim light.

  She is waiting for instruction. This is promising. Lucius’ groin tightens in anticipation as he holds his expression impassive. Lucius speaks one word. “Disrobe.”

  As milord settles into the chair, Lilian considers her feet. She cannot tolerate the view and milord is only slightly less intimidating. Mouth dry, Lilian nods her acquiescence to the command she disrobe. This is it. In a few moments she will earn the title doxy. Milord’s pleasure toy. The thought sends an unexpected thrill to Lilian’s core, leavening her distress.

  He will not hurt you. It is pleasant to be with a man.

  Slipping off her suit jacket, Lilian casts around for a place to lay her garb. She settles on a small console table near the edge of the dais. It is at a right angle to the chair where milord sits, parallel to the length of the dais and bed. Carefully folding the jacket, she lays it on the table. Stepping out of her shoes, Lilian nudges them under the table with one foot while her hands move to the fasteners of her blouse.

  “Face me.”

  The quiet command reverberates along Lilian’s spine. Turning, Lilian continues to work the fasteners of her blouse.

  “The skirt first,” milord’s tone is instructing, patient.

  There are no comforting Five Warriors now. There is nowhere to settle her gaze but the intimidating vastness of the void or the slightly less intimidating person of milord. In the dim light milord’s expression is unreadable, his person unmoving. His voice holds the cool, even timbre of midday.

  Trembling fingers find the fastenings of the skirt and shimmy it off her hips. The skirt slips through Lilian’s fingers and hits the floor. Picking it up, it follows the jacket onto the console table.

  Turning, Lilian stands in her white silk briefs. The high quality silk is modestly cut at the leg and covers her to just below her navel. Delicate pink accents trail across the line of her hips and decorate the edges.

  Milord shifts slightly. He does not speak. A small spark of excitement ignites in Lilian’s center.

  The blouse is easier. Only one of three fasteners remains. She slides it from her shoulders and into one hand to place it crumpled on the table. The bra matches the briefs, fine quality, pink and white; her best.

  Milord yields naught. Lilian swallows hard and continues. The spark is growing. Her hands slip inside her panties to slide them off her hips.

  “The bra first,” milord corrects her.

  The small spark fades. It is a game. No matter what she had chosen, milord would have commanded the opposite.

  Lilian’s hands move up, behind her back, grappling with the suddenly soldered clasp. Finally, it releases and the bra slides off to join its companions on the table. Lilian’s breasts are modest in size but well-proportioned to her torso. Elegant and creamy, they slope to deep rose aureoles.

  Milord’s heated gaze is as palpable as a caress. Lilian swallows hard as her nipples tighten and her center contracts in response. The spark is expanding once again. Taking a deep breath, she slides down the briefs. A small patch of curls, surprisingly bright red-gold, guard her sex.

  “Await me on the bed.” Milord’s voice has acquired a husky tone that turns the spark into a small flame.

  Walking backwards, Lilian’s calves bump the dais and she stumbles. The response she experienced under milord’s gaze dissipates in embarrassment at her awkwardness.

  Lucius’ annoyance at Lilian’s sudden clumsiness is abated by his delight in her loss of composure. He has never cared for the practiced artifice of whores. “You may look where you are going.”

  Relief floods Lilian at milord’s grace. She gladly turns from the intim
idating regard as she mounts the dais and climbs onto the bed. In the middle of the bed Lilian curls her legs under her and waits. No power in the Twelve Systems can compel her to be so vulnerable as to lie down. She longs to cross her arms over her breasts, but dares not.

  Milord stands and shrugs off the tunic shirt. A hand moves to the closings of his trousers, they drop away and he steps out of them. The physical power Lilian suspected at midday is now clearly displayed. Strongly muscled arms and legs, a hard muscled stomach and chest, his sex is dark and stiffening. He is stunning, virile.

  Anticipation leavens trepidation. The small flame of desire begins to surge. Breathe …

  Thought scatters as milord strides toward the bed. Following Lilian’s path he mounts the dais and the bed, meeting her in its center. On his knees, milord reaches for her and drags her length of his body. Her breasts then belly graze his swelling manhood as he pulls her into another deeply carnal kiss.

  Mind starting to swim, Lilian is lowered backwards into the center of the bed. Milord follows. Strong, clever hands trace her torso, stopping to dwell on her breasts. Milord’s thumbs stroke the tips to aching peaks and send echoing sensations throughout Lilian’s belly and limbs and into the sensitive spot between her legs.

  Those hands continue their voyage of exploration, teasing sensation and desire as they move down her flanks, around her thighs. A finger strokes between her legs, starting at the bottom edge of her opening and moving upwards to that tight bud where a woman’s pleasure is centered.

  In response, Lilian’s center tightens, her hips shift and buck. Milord repeats the intimate stroking of her sex, again and again. Lilian surges against the determined caress, wishing more.

  Milord’s warm lips and hot wet tongue follow the path the clever hands have mapped. They wring even more sensation out of already engorged nipples, contract taut stomach muscles further, encourage already open thighs to loosen and widen. Milord’s tongue strokes and teeth nip across sensitive nether lips. Lilian’s hands convulse in milord’s hair as his teeth gently scrape the swollen bud of her sex. The exquisite feeling pulls a moan from Lilian and causes her to arch toward milord.