Enslaved - Book 3: Trek Mi Q'an

by Jaid Black

  Kil tore his gaze away from the wee wench who was even now biting down upon her tongue and insolently stabbing the middle fingers of each hand up at him. His jaw clenched as he patted himself down and made certain his weapons were ready.

  ‘Twas a spanking she needed. ‘Twas a spanking she’d get.

  His head came up slowly and he locked eyes with the wee warrior perched atop the shoulders of the largest one. When his glowing blue gaze found hers and she gulped nervously, his lips curled into a grim smile.

  She was as good as his.

  Kil let loose his war cry at the same moment he telekinetically flicked on his zorgs’ flight mechanism.

  The look of dawning terror that stole over the wee wench’s features as she watched his body take flight faster than a gulch beast was comical enough to make him grin.

  But the ever-feared King of Morak and newly crowned King of Tron did not feel like grinning. He felt like fucking.

  ‘Twas time to seize his spoil of war the soonest.

  And ‘twas time to find out what in the sands a dildo breath was.

  * * * * *

  “Come on dildo breath, show Marty whatchya got!”

  Marty sat atop Flora’s shoulders armed to the teeth with a bryyit and spewed out one curse word and taunt after the next. As they marched into a battle formation to face off against the male warriors standing in line across the blue gemstone field, a surge of adrenaline shot through her veins. She felt overcome with the need to chant.

  Her nostrils flared and her cheek twisted portently as she raised two fists into the air and began shrieking like a madwoman. This felt just like any other sixties protest, she thought as the rush of blood took over. Minus the fact, of course, that she might be dead when all was said and done.

  “No justice! No peace! No justice! No peace! No justice—”

  The Wani joined in until all of them were shrieking at the top of their lungs. Well, Marty conceded, she was the one doing the high-pitched shrieking—the Wani just made bellowing sounds that could rival a platoon of King Kongs.

  Good, she thought with grim satisfaction as she bit down on her tongue and gave the warrior she assumed to be their leader a double dose of the middle finger. The bellowing made them sound all the more formidable.

  Not that they needed the added leverage. Granted, it was hard to assess how large the men were from so far away, but they were probably no bigger than the males of Wani village.

  Kids’ stuff.

  Like a schoolyard bully, Marty continued to hurl vile insults the leader’s way. The leader stood about a head taller than his men, which Marty figured might put him around six and a half feet in height.

  Ha! The Wani warriors would make minced meat out of that guy. She could almost feel sorry for the poor SOB were it not for the fact that he was the one challenging them.

  Smiling arrogantly, Marty’s gaze clashed with that of the leader’s.

  Her smile faltered.

  Marty swallowed a bit roughly, having never felt a man’s gaze penetrate every inch of her being so deeply. This was more than a battle to him, more even than a contest. He meant to have her.

  She wasn’t given any time to ponder over that fact—or to consider how she knew what he wanted from her to begin with—for a moment later the leader’s body soared into the air—soared into the air?!—and took flight.

  Her mouth agape, Marty could only stare upwards in dawning horror as the black-haired, glowing blue-eyed leader drew closer and closer. She noted with much trepidation that the very man she had just called every curse word in creation was swooping down on top of her.

  And that his musculature was twice as thick as a Wani warrior’s.

  And that he was over seven and a half feet tall.

  “Shiiiit!”

  As she leapt down from Flora’s shoulders to avoid being scooped up into the arms of the gigantic barbarian, it occurred to Marty that she probably shouldn’t have called him dildo breath.

  An almost eight foot tall giant who was probably carrying four hundred and some odd pounds of pure muscle around might not take to such an insult very well.

  —Arrg!

  Chapter 6

  Kil scooped the shrieking wee wench up into his grasp and snaked an arm about her middle to secure her. A large hand settled on her left breast and squeezed it a bit, playing with the nipple as the zorgs flew them back to the other side of the gemstone field. “’Tis mine you are now,” he murmured into her ear. His thumb and forefinger plucked at the nipple. “All mine.”

  Marty gulped, her eyes widening nervously. The feel of his hot breath on her neck sent goose bumps down her spine and induced the nipple he was toying with to harden all the more. When his other hand brushed through the honey-gold curls at the apex of her thighs, she found herself softly moaning and paradoxically hating herself for it.

  “Stop it!” she snapped, her senses jarring back to reality when his fingers found her clit, “don’t touch me!”

  Kil smiled. A real smile. He felt exhilarated, every cell of his body tingled just touching her. He knew not whether ‘twas the effect of the wench herself or the effect of the battling, but decided ‘twas probably the combination of both. That for once Kil Q’an Tal was doing no battling, that he’d opted to capture his woman without even giving a moment’s thought to warring, didn’t factor into his mind.

  His woman? he thought stiffly. Nay, not his woman. His bound servant. ‘Twas a difference.

  “Hush now,” he said, slowing down the speed of their flying now that they were away from the battling below. “You knew the price you would pay if captured before you became my prisoner.” His fingers rubbed her clit in methodic circles, causing her channel to drip for him. The black leather gee-string she wore offered him no impediment, for the Wani wore their leather cut in such a way that mating could be done without having to remove their clothing. “You chose to fight, wee one, and now will you pay unto me five Yessat years worth of servitude.”

  Only five? For the first time in hundreds of years, such a length of time seemed far too short to his thinking.

  Kil’s lips puckered into a frown. Why did this bedamned wench rattle him so?

  “Servitude!” Marty fumed. Her jaw clenched hotly. “Never! I will die first! Just kill me now, but do not try to enslave me or it is I who will kill you!” She decided to ignore the fact that what he was doing to her clit was a step away from making her eyes roll back into her head.

  “Mmm,” Kil purred into her ear in the deepest, darkest rumble she’d ever heard. “’Tis my good fortune to have captured such a passionate wench.”

  Marty swallowed a bit roughly, realizing as she did that her words weren’t making him wary of her in the slightest. And really, what could she possibly do to such a gigantic man? And one who could fly no less! But, she thought resentfully, did he have to be so certain of the fact that she couldn’t retaliate?

  —Arrg!

  “I want you to let me go.”

  Her voice sounded panicky, even to her. But she couldn’t seem to calm herself. She had no idea what servitude to this barbarian would entail and had no desire to find out. Would he lock her into some dark, creepy dungeon where she was only allowed bread and water once a day for five years? Would he have her tortured in front of him for entertainment purposes?

  Or, she thought anxiously, would it be far worse than that? What his fingers were currently doing to her clit gave her a fair idea of what at least one of her punishments would be. But the most humiliating punishment of all, she conceded, would be if he not only forced her to submit to him sexually, but somehow managed to make her want it.

  “Please stop,” she softly hissed as her body began to respond to what he was doing to it. “Please...”

  “Shhh,” he murmured against her ear. “’Tis five Yessat years you owe me, pani.” One hand continued to pluck at her nipple while the other one rubbed her clit in agonizingly slow circles. “I will take good care of you whilst you are bound to m
e.”

  Marty’s eyes closed and her head fell back against his chest as a soft moan escaped her lips. She had never felt anything like this, had never felt anything so good. She imagined a man with such talent could get any number of women to do his bidding. So why did he insist upon keeping her? Just because she’d been caught in battle?

  Marty’s eyes flew open and her body tensed at the precise moment it dawned on her that she was allowing herself to become easy prey. She would not succumb to this man. She would not! She would—

  “Oh god.”

  She breathed the words out gently as her eyes closed once more. He was picking up the pace of his rubbing, soaking her flesh until it dripped, hurling her closer and closer toward orgasm. Marty’s nipples stabbed out, one of them hitting his palm, as her breathing grew heavy and labored. She was so aroused that she didn’t even notice that they had landed, that he was standing on two feet as he held her body cradled and worked his dark magic on it.

  “Mmm, ty’ka.” The words were rasped out against her ear, his breath hot on her neck. “Come for me,” he murmured. “Come for your master.”

  Marty’s feminist instincts took over for a scarce second, the words he’d used setting off warning bells in her brain. Master. Come for your master.

  But it was too late. His fingers continued to work at her clit, rubbing it and rubbing it until she was in agony. Her nipples grew impossibly harder, stabbing further out as if demanding his attention. Her body had a mind of its own where this giant was concerned and it wanted to come for him. “Oh god.”

  Marty gasped as the coils of pleasure in her belly burst and exploded. She groaned long and loud, the back of her head hitting his chest with such force that the knot she’d secured her hair into came loose and waves of golden-honey hair cascaded down to cover them both.

  “Oh,” she whispered, a look of bewilderment and awe smothering her features. That had been wonderful, the headiest thing she’d ever—

  Battling ensued all around them. Weapons clashed. Hand-to-hand combat...

  It occurred to Marty that her friends could even now lay dying, their blood spilling on the gemstone ground. And yet, she thought in a rush of humiliation, here she lay in the enemy’s arms, climaxing for him as he’d told her to do.

  Mortification stole over her as the barbarian gently placed her on her feet. This man had captured her, had flat out told her he meant to enslave her, and yet she had spread her legs as far apart for him as they would go—she had wanted him to finish her off and make her come.

  Marty whirled around to face him, preparing to tell him exactly what it was that she thought of him. Her nostrils flared and her lips pinched together to form a glower most men would have cringed at as she turned on her heel and came face-to-face with his...

  Waist.

  Oh damn.

  Swallowing roughly, her silver-gray eyes bulged out of their sockets as they looked up, up, up to find the warlord’s face.

  Glowing blue eyes. Midnight black hair secured at both temples with a series of three thin braids on either side of his head. A jagged scar that marred the right side of his face. Brooding lips. A ruggedly chiseled face that was harshly masculine and hauntingly beautiful at the same time.

  And his body. Black leather-like pants. Black boots. A darkly bronzed body that was heavy with muscle and etched with battle scars. A shimmery medallion that hung from his neck laced with oddly colored gemstones. Massive arms that bulged like dark gold steel and were roped with puffy, masculine veins...

  His waist. Her line of vision came up to his waist.

  Marty’s eyes narrowed and her lips pinched together in a frown. She could just bet why he wanted to enslave her! She wouldn’t have to go down on her knees to perform certain duties, she thought bitterly.

  His waist, she thought again. Her line of vision came up to his waist...

  In that moment, every survival instinct that had been imprinted onto her genetic makeup from millions of years of evolution took over, causing Marty to do the very thing females have done since the beginning of time when being stalked by a far larger and more ferocious predator.

  She ran away.

  Screaming.

  * * * * *

  Kil wasn’t certain why he didn’t just end the chase here and now, why he didn’t just snake an arm around her belly and bodily haul her up against him.

  Mayhap ‘twas because her running from him afforded him an enticing view of her lightly tanned derriere.

  Mayhap ‘twas because her high-pitched shrieks could cause sweet juice to go sour.

  Mayhap ‘twas because he was fascinated by the fact that the wee wench was able to run from him shrieking whilst she simultaneously held up both hands to give him double doses of the middle finger.

  But nay, he begrudgingly conceded, ‘twas none of those reasons. ‘Twas simply because he wanted her to salvage some lost pride before he took her away from the Wani. He had a care not to injure the little warrior’s feelings. Mayhap if she thought she was dodging him for a time she would feel less wounded when caught.

  Kil scowled as the truth of it hit him.

  Yeeck! Why should he have a care of a bound servant’s feelings? Why should he even desire to rut in the channel of a woman who would bring him naught but trouble? Why, he thought angrily, did this wench beguile him so?

  He knew the answers. He simply refused to deal with them.

  Those expressive eyes, he reminded himself. That fetching colored hair the likes of which he’d never seen. That fleshy body that was so soft and womanly, so inviting to be lusted after and thrust into. Even the manner in which she glared at him—

  She made him feel. She made him feel and he hated her for it. He had but to look at her and she made his hearts ache.

  In that moment, the greatest fear Kil had experienced since the nightmare he’d lived through on Tron overtook him. She held a power over him he could not admit to—would not admit to.

  She had bewitched him, he assured himself. Mayhap the wenches of her sector were skilled in such arts.

  Even he doubted ‘twas possible to bewitch a warrior by throwing obscene gestures toward his person, yet he would think on the subject no more.

  She belonged to him, he reminded himself. For the next five Yessat years she was his possession, her body a mere vessel for his lust. He had captured her fairly in battle and she was his.

  Yet as his arm reached out and his hand snaked around her belly, Kil couldn’t quite suppress the rightness of how she felt against him. The sensation troubled him as nothing else could, induced steel talons to claw against the ice that was his hearts.

  He was so troubled by his emotions, so confounded by them, that he didn’t even take much notice when she squirmed out of his arms, then turned around and aimed a primitive weapon at him—he merely summoned it from her grasp without looking at her or thinking about it, the action instinctive and therefore not pondered over.

  His arm snaked around her again, possessively clamping her to his side. He paid her no more heed at all, for his thoughts were in turmoil for a certainty. But nay, he assured himself, he had naught to worry o’er. The scar on his cheek twisted and his nostrils flared as he reminded himself that he needed no one, least of all a shrieking wee wench.

  He walked alone. He had always walked alone.

  He would just have to keep reminding himself of that fact.

  Chapter 7

  Marty swallowed roughly as she glanced down at her new outfit. And she had thought that the clothing of the Wani was scandalous upon first inspection, she recalled with a frown. At least that clothing had been woman-proud, fashioned in a way that declared to one and all that Wani females were in charge and would take their pleasures where they wanted with whomever they wanted.

  Indeed, the Wani didn’t even mate for life. They would couple with a male with the intention of becoming pregnant when their biological needs became great and they were ovulating. But that was as far as a male’s role extended. The
Wani males had no rights as fathers and were never permitted to speak to their girl children as other than a servant. Marty didn’t agree with the custom, but there it was.

  She had been catapulted from a time and place where equality between the sexes was on the verge of bloom to a world where women reigned. A few weeks later she was captured in battle and her role had once again been reversed, but this time in the opposite direction.

  She was a slave. A sex slave.

  The very idea of it offended every feminist bone in her body.

  The other women of the harem had called her enslavement “bound servitude” and had informed her that she would be released and free to carry on with her life after the passing of five Yessat years. Call it what you will, but to Marty it was still slavery. It might be a form of slavery that had an ending date, but slavery it still was.

  She didn’t know what to think, didn’t know what to do. Everything felt surreal to her, as if at any moment she might wake up. Try as she might, she simply couldn’t come to terms with the fact that she’d been captured in a war on an alien planet and thrown into the harem of a giant warlord on a red moon.

  In a daze, Marty made no protest when she was led by escort from her private bedroom within the harem suite to the congregation chamber in the middle of the suite itself that consisted of nothing but a large room strewn with fluffy pillows and whisper-soft animal hides of every hue imaginable. This wasn’t real, she thought as her eyes flicked about warily, how could any of this be real?

  The sound of female moaning perfumed the air, echoing from within the harem suite proper. An accompanying male growl, the sound a man tends to make when emptying himself of seed, underscored the fact that her captor was in that room and had already busied himself doing what he apparently loved doing best.

  Definitely not a dream.

  The first thing Marty noticed as the topless bound servants at either side of her led her into the harem chamber, was that the King of Morak apparently had a greedy sexual appetite. Beautiful naked women lounged about everywhere, at least a hundred of them, all of them there for no other purpose than to give sexual pleasure to one man. The ten or fifteen bound servants who were able to get near the warlord in question were all over him—touching him, kissing him, stroking him—doing whatever they could to arouse and pleasure him.