Pleasure Dome

by L. F. Hampton

  "Put the wine over there and take off your clothes .” The curt demand came dry and impersonal, just as if he expected Sol to be there for him and his wishes. The nerve. After what she was paying, this pleasure treat could at least be polite. Sol was never into the dominating macho trip. One strike against her donor. Time to nip this in the bud. She was in charge.

  Sol flipped on an energy switch near the door and glared through the fake candlelight that the Dome considered romantic toward the voice's direction. “Hold your slipstream buddy. You're supposed to be of service to me.” She wagged her finger at the lump on the bed. “Not the other way around."

  The lump sat up. For several seconds, a large, dark-haired man blinked in the sudden light before rising, splendidly naked, from between the golden sheets of the opulent, silk- and brocade-laden bed. Light bounced off his high cheekbones and glittered in his slanted eyes, lending him a foreign cast before he dipped his head and safely dropped his gaze. He looked from the bed back to Sol with a frown. Needless to say, the overdressed, gaudy bed loomed as the focal point of the pleasure room. That is, it had before the man stood up. He, with his arrogant stance, demanded all Sol's attention. Bone-straight black hair tangled over the man's high forehead and dipped to his wide shoulders, while more of it curled in the middle of his broad chest. Between twin circles of flat brown nipples, a line of the sable stuff sprinkled past rippling abs and down his stomach to—Sol jerked her attention back to the safety of his shoulders—those broad shoulders. Yeah, her pleasure toy had enough body hair to be masculine and not look like an ape man, but he was big—much bigger than Sol thought she had specified. He filled the room with his brawny form, and, for a second, Soledad had trouble catching her breath, but not from fear. This sexual attraction rarely happened to her.

  Without a word, the man edged closer, frank appraisal in his wide-eyed glance, just as she was sure it was in hers. Sol noted that although he was a large man, he wasn't a bumbling brute; he moved with a natural grace of someone at home in his body—so darkly sensual. Nearly at her side now, he dipped his head at Sol in a brief nod, his gaze puzzled, as if he were trying to figure out something. In the light's soft reflection, Sol noticed his odd eyes—light, icy pale one moment, then a cold, arctic dark of a bottomless lake the next. They seemed at odds with the night-jet color of his hair. And for a quick moment, Soledad thought she glimpsed something swirling behind the brilliant blue, something violent, but she dismissed it as a trick of the fake candlelight's flickering shadows. The damned light did show off his attributes though—only too well.

  In her swift inspection, Sol noticed every smooth slab of muscle that flexed across the man's body. And he moved in fluid movement as if just to get her attention. Defying her stare, he deliberately raked back his heavy hair from his forehead—hair that was a shade too long for her taste—then he cocked his head to one side again, patiently waiting while she looked her fill. Between those chiseled cheekbones, Sol noted that his long, aristocratic nose was crooked, probably broken by someone not impressed by that insolent stare that he now used on her. Perhaps he was a professional fighter as well as a sex toy, defiant enough not to have his nose straightened. Soledad liked defiance in a fighter—among other things. Her lips quirked at the idea of some of those other things she was thinking about, thanks to that enhancement drug. But, frankly, the guy fit Sol's idea of the perfect father's size for her child. If he made her libido peak, so much the better. She was enjoying her long perusal. He evidently wasn't. Her playmate had lost his smirk.

  A long muscle jerked in his jaw under the darkened shadow of old-fashioned stubble. Odd. He hadn't made use of the spacing luxury of hair removal for his whiskers. That thought brought a hint of strangeness to Sol, since a pleasure toy had access to all the modern oils and depilatories, and a toy wouldn't want to offend a paying customer. This one evidently didn't care about beard burn on his partner, and apparently he also didn't care for her lingering stare.

  His snort brought a hot flush to Sol's cheeks before he insolently lowered his glance. Then the corners of his full, sensuous lips turned up. It was his turn to peruse her. His languid gaze slowly traveled from Sol's head to her toes then back again, all uniformed six feet of her.

  His stare left prickly heat behind before he said, “Anyway you want it is okay by me ... Legs."

  That mocking voice sent shivers up Sol's spine again, but she didn't change her bored expression. She, too, waited patiently for him to finish looking. Politeness seemed to be the meaning of the day. Soledad evidently met his approval for his arrogant body was on full alert, jutting out like a hunting hound.

  At the thick, bobbing sight, another warm flush crawled up Sol's neck, but she shrugged the discomfort away. She set the wine bottle down hard enough to jolt the glasses that waited on the elegant table with its flimsy curved legs. She decided to ignore his reference to her own legs, but speaking of anatomy...?

  Damn, she had seen naked males before, perhaps none as large or as attentive as this specimen, but this wasn't a virgin experience. She'd paid for professional services several times in the past, although not here in the Dome. And sometimes she had paid for services in other places with a more adventuresome male species. Spacing took you to far regions and was a lonely profession, although sometimes not lonely enough.

  Crowded ship quarters made for liaisons that could become a problem between shipmates of rank. Long ago, Sol had learned to never mix business with pleasure no matter the attraction. She had slipped only once. And it had been a long time since she had indulged her pleasure or been this attracted. Her sexual adventures were a matter of tension relief, not pleasure, and never with anyone who was dominant. This partner seemed different. Her heart skipped a beat then raced. And this time the results would be more than pleasure. She would leave with a miracle of life in her womb. Somehow, that fact made a world of difference, at least to her. Her partner didn't seem to care about giving up his precious sperm, he was patiently regarding her.

  "I want a bath and a massage before ... anything else.” She glared at the man whom the fertility clinic's computer had selected as the perfect father of her child. And he did seem nearly so with his towering height. Again she felt uneasy at his dominance of the room, but she had asked that he be taller than her. Sol studied him further before deciding his unruly hair was a nice shade and suited him with its darkness. His ears were not overly large and lay close to his head. There were those stories about big ears meaning something else was also big. Sol swallowed a snort. She didn't think the size of ears had anything to do with sexual organs.

  Suddenly, Sol noted that his expressive, lilting eyes twinkled with a mysterious wickedness—almost as if he'd read her amused thoughts. Ha. Good luck with that, buddy. No one gets past my guard. Thanks to her long military training, she had learned how to protect herself from overbearing males. But even then, in her dark past, she had witnessed a rape that she had been helpless to prevent. Never again would she be so hampered, so not in control. And, hopefully, that arrogant, superior look that most males used, as this one did to full advantage, grinning at her with his white teeth that oh so slightly overlapped in front, wouldn't be passed on to her son. Sol watched his lips move and tried not to stare.

  "As you wish. One bath coming up.” The man gave her a mocking half bow and flashed his firm butt in an arrogant stroll to the sunken marble tub that loomed just to the left of the red- and gold-draped bed. The handles and faucet glowed with the metal richness of false gold, too. But Sol knew that in these outlying settlements, real metal imports were too costly to be used as plumbing fixtures. Actually, most of the room's impressive furnishings were inexpensive imitations of actual ancient art. This part of the Dome seemed to be into an old world theme with the heavy brocade tapestries and large gilded mirrors set against decoratively carved plaster walls. Even the wall lighting flickered off the subtly painted frescos, as if using real candles for illumination. Sol's naked playmate should have looked silly in the e
legant room, but he didn't. Rather, he looked as if he belonged, a muscled centurion of Old Rome who owned all the red and gold splendor and was used to living in it, just like he was at home with the luxury of running water. He called to Sol over his shoulder.

  "Flowers or spice?” The weathered skin around those all-knowing eyes crinkled in laugh lines. He gave Sol a twisted grin. She suddenly noted silver strands scattered about in the hair at his temples. He was older than what she had first thought, and perhaps older than what she had specified, but by the gods, he was definitely libido lifting. Moisture pooled between her legs at the heated promise in his eyes. The man waited patiently for her answer, still looking as if he already knew what she would say.

  "Huh?” Sol's voice sounded thick, and she swallowed against a tight throat.

  "For the bath. Flowers or spice.” He pointed to the cheap cherub-shaped dispensers of liquid soap. His expressive full lips barely suppressed a smirk. She felt like slapping him.

  "Oh. Spice.” Sol was still trying to figure out how this guy fit into the idea of a paid pleasure treat. His long body was toned and fit; nothing like how she remembered a pampered sex toy looked when last she visited the Straits ages ago. Oh, she'd expected him to be good looking but more ... soft ... and not so decidedly male. Not that she was threatened by him, she told herself. Men seldom posed a threat to her. The ones that tried never lasted long.

  "Do you need help undressing?” The man now stood at her shoulder, then slipped behind her so close that Sol felt the heat of his words breathed on her neck. And he deliberately exhaled low, warm breaths. Delicate shivers slipped through Sol, tickling her stomach. One of his heavy arms curved around her middle. Her pulse leaped. He curled her closer. She grabbed his broad wrist and stopped his advance. For the moment, she just held his wide wrist bones in her two hands, not knowing why she had stopped him other than he was taking the lead. And going too fast.

  Arrogantly, he ignored her hint, and on another low exhale, he slowly drew Sol back inch by inch until she rested full against his length. She felt him flush to her back, every damned hot inch of him. She felt him even through her leather uniform. But more than the sexual heat, unexplained comfort surrounded her within his rough embrace. Such serene pleasure flowed from him that her pulse throbbed as if her blood answered a call from him.

  Sol closed her eyes, dropped her head back against his shoulder and surrendered to the pleasure of just being held, confident in the knowledge that she was safe, protected...

  What? Sol jerked awake. Whatever was she thinking? Where had she gotten the idea that she could trust this stranger? Soledad Scott allowed no one to stand so close behind her, to hold her in such a submissive posture. She didn't know this man, despite his distracting strength. And she sure as hell didn't trust him. She wanted his sperm and nothing else.

  With a practiced dark scowl, she spun her body at right angles to his loose-limbed stance, but he still loomed too close. Then a funny thing happened. As if he knew she didn't want the closeness, he dropped his arm and took a deliberate step back. Some of the stiffness went out of her, but she inexplicably missed his heat, the security of his touch. He regarded her with calm eyes, waited for her to make the next move. Sol noticed that his body's naked skin glistened tight and smooth except for where a series of odd black and white scars marked his ribs and curled around his right bicep. She stared at them thinking she should know what they meant. Oddly they looked like tattoos, a distinct pattern of diamonds and stars spaced and shaped like they meant something. But her head spun when she tried to think. She couldn't quite focus. Must be the damned drugs. She had drawn a strange playmate, but she couldn't complain. He still waited patiently with that noncommittal look on his compelling features.

  Drawn by that serene gaze, Sol leaned in closer and inhaled more of the scent of cedar woods coming off his heated skin. For a moment, she again lost coherent thought amid the rush of responding hormones. He coughed or spoke.

  Sol shook her head free of clouded thoughts in time to hear him repeat his question, something regarding help in undressing. She said, “Yes,” at the same time she shook her head no.

  Those odd eyes laughed, the crinkles deepening around them at her confusion. He slipped behind her again and reached around for the zipper on her one piece jumpsuit.

  Then he hesitated, fingertips poised on the tab. “Yes or no?” he whispered near her ear, his voice husky. He waited for her to speak. Such a gentleman.

  Again, Sol felt his expelled breath warm on her neck. She caught the hint of alcohol and the sharp bite of something darker, richer; such a definite masculine odor. She shivered as if with a chill, although the room was fast becoming hot—way too hot. Not daring to trust her voice to remain steady, and not daring to do more, she nodded yes, the back of her head thumping his chin. With her head tilted to the side and further back, Sol neatly fit under his jaw, a rare experience for her. The man was tall, just the perfect height to put...?

  No, she told herself, don't go there—yet. She leaned away and quickly glanced up at his eyes. No surprise. He was watching her intently, the slanted corners of his eyes looking all the more alien and dangerous.

  Suddenly, the dark ring in those pale blue irises widened. Sol swore she saw that strange mist swirl in them again before he deftly lowered his lashes. His fingertips lightly brushed against the hollow of her throat before he began the slow slide of her zipper down her front. Her heart rate notched higher when his fingers curved against her skin as if protecting her from the jagged teeth. All noise grew exaggerated in the quiet. The slithering rasp of her zipper was almost as loud as her ragged breathing. Her skin grew overly sensitive, too. His touch burned. His knuckles grazed between her breasts, rough fingertips rubbing against the tender skin. Sparks jumped. Static electricity—or something more?

  Sol grabbed his hand, stopping her zipper just below her navel. After a moment, and with that calculating steady look, the man moved the zipper an inch farther down. His teasing, one-sided grin mocked her. She refused to respond with anything other than a glare. Again, another inch exposed and that deliberate brush of knuckles against her belly sent sizzling ripples across her skin, a sensation that she felt all the way down to the juncture between her legs. More moisture gathered there and throbbed.

  Yeah, she was ready for fertilization. Ripe. Her body was at any rate; her reasoning mind just refused to cooperate. But there should be something more to this miracle of life than just a paid business arrangement. Perhaps she was feeling more hormones than anything else. She felt lost and out of control. She needed a distraction.

  "Music,” Sol gasped, as if asking for a life preserver.

  A deep frown marred the man's forehead. His dark brows arched, “Music?” he echoed. He sounded dumb, perhaps as dumb as she felt.

  "Yes, we need music,” Sol stated with a series of stupid nods. She needed more time to think. Something didn't fit here, but she couldn't put her finger on the problem. After weeks of being pumped full of repressed hormones, she wasn't thinking like a levelheaded galactic ship's captain.

  "We do?” The man still stared at her with a wrinkled brow and wondering gaze. His sex continued to bob and twitch at her. Sol's mouth went dry. She had a hard time speaking.

  "Yeah. Something soft."

  "Oh, something romantic.” He exaggerated the word, nodded and grinned again, a peepshow of those tweaked white teeth. Sol felt like smacking those curved lips. The man managed to irritate her with that superior expression. And why, in this age of perfection and the business he was in, didn't he have those imperfect bottom teeth straightened? His lips twitched again, and she found herself watching his mouth for another glimpse of those maddening teeth. It was safer watching his mouth than looking between his legs.

  "It doesn't have to be sappy,” she snapped. “I just want to relax."

  "Sure, Legs.” A corner of his mouth lifted, but not enough. No teeth were exposed. Sol couldn't help watching. She flinched at his next words.
“Anything the lady with the great legs wants, she gets."

  With another flash of that firm butt, he strode across the room and tuned the sound system, disguised as a Grecian vase, to a stringed melody, then said “No?” to her deepened scowl. A high-pitched, Calaxian mating tune was turned on next, then with raised brows that defied her, he announced with a firm nod, “This is perfect,” to a vibrating drum beat and a flirtatious guitar rhythm that sounded vaguely familiar to Sol. After a few minutes, she realized it was Bolero, ancient Earth music that fit twentieth century times better than that of ancient Rome. Perhaps he thought the sultry music would be perfect for mating.

  Mating—her heart thumped again.

  "Fine.” Sol sighed, tired of the delaying tactics. She had to get on with this. Her hands itched to touch him. The music played on, caressing her nerves more than she had anticipated. The rhythmic drum beat across her chest with compelling notes. Her nipples tightened and puckered into little points against the material of her suit. Hormones, again.

  Slowly, the naked man strolled back toward her, almost like a cat balancing on the balls of his feet. Sol realized that he wasn't dancing as much as hypnotizing her with his artless grace. And he knew she watched him while he studied her with that intelligent speculation in his eyes. But he was looking at her face, at her eyes, not at her breasts. Maybe he did have a brain to go along with all that muscle. Despite being a paid arrangement, Sol didn't expect a wham, bam, thank you, ma'am military sexual release from him. His studious stare hinted at deeper qualities. She anticipated the chance to experience some of those deeper ones.