Enslaved - Book 3: Trek Mi Q'an

by Jaid Black

  He lay with his hands behind his head and his eyes closed, his mouth latched onto the large nipple of one servant, drawing from it.

  Female hands were everywhere, rubbing over every inch of his flesh. The harem women kept their attention on one specific aspect of his body, apparently whatever part of him they’d been assigned to arouse, and did everything in their power to make that part of his body feel pleasured. Some servants had been assigned to nothing more than a calf muscle or bicep, but they put all of their sensuality into rubbing and kissing that calf muscle or bicep, making it tingle and feel sensuous for the master.

  “They are preparing him for your channel,” a bound servant whispered into Marty’s ear. “You are assigned to pleasure his cock this moon-rising.”

  “Lucky wench,” the topless servant to her other side murmured. “The master is especially lusty this eve.”

  “Indeed,” the first one giggled as she glanced toward Marty, “he’s been indulging himself of channel for the past several hours. ‘Tis only just now that he feels calmed enough to sample of your charms.”

  Marty blinked. She was torn between the desire to run as far and as fast as her feet would carry her and the desire to understand how the man could possibly have any sperm left inside of him if he’d been screwing the entire day away.

  She sighed instead. “I can’t do this,” she whispered to her escorts. “I don’t belong here.”

  Oh god how she didn’t belong here! From what little interaction she’d seen between the king and his bound servants, it was obvious to anybody with half a brain that she’d never fit in here. The harem women kept their eyes lowered when greeting the warlord they called master, they fondled him as he passed by, touching him wherever they could, they—

  She sighed again. She could go on and on pointing out all of the sexually submissive overtures they made towards the big oaf, but what it came down to was the fact that she would never be like them—could never be like them.

  And what’s more, she didn’t want to be like them.

  Marty’s hand flew up to her forehead. This was totally overwhelming. “You mentioned something about him having sex with the other servants to calm himself,” she said tiredly. She hated that she even cared to know anything at all about this man, but there it was. “What did you mean by that?”

  The bound servant standing to her right—a busty brunette named Ora—turned toward Marty with a grimace. “I’m not certain myself, Mari.” Her look was thoughtful. “Leastways I have never seen the master worked up into such a frenzy o’er a mere coupling.” She smiled. “Though mayhap ‘tis a good thing for it no doubt means you will take Typpa’s place as the harem’s favored.”

  “Aye,” the other bound servant whispered. “She walks around with such airs about her, Typpa does.”

  Marty harrumphed. She had no desire to displace this Typpa character as the harem’s favored no matter how pompous the bound servant might be. She had no desire to be here period.

  And yet as her eyes strayed toward a well-endowed brunette who was straddling the king’s hips and sinking down onto his jutting erection, the oddest feeling of melancholia swamped her senses.

  It was she—Marty—who belonged there. It was she who should be riding up and down on top of him, sinking his flesh into hers, moaning the way Typpa was moaning as she rode up and down the length of—

  Huh?

  —Arrg!

  She didn’t care!

  But oh lord, as the coupling picked up its pace and Typpa climaxed over and over again on the king’s shaft, the scene became harder and harder to watch.

  “Master,” his favored breathed out as she rotated her hips and slammed down onto him, “oh yes.”

  “Ride me harder,” he murmured.

  The warlord’s large hands reached up and palmed the servant’s buttocks, securing her to his body as she rode him. More servants were kissing all over him, touching him, tasting the saltiness of his skin, feeling him...

  Marty felt her nostrils flare even as she reminded herself that she simply didn’t care. Her heart sank and rend into two as the harem continued to arouse him, even as she fervently recollected that she hated the beast who was lying amongst the pillows.

  “Mmm Typpa,” the king growled, his deep voice a rumble, “ride me harder. Milk me.”

  The servant did as she’d been bade, her breasts jiggling with each movement she made as she enveloped him further and further into her flesh. The giant warrior sucked in his breath, his large fingers digging into the softness of her buttocks.

  The sound of their coupling, of the servant’s flesh enveloping the warlord’s, of the king groaning out his pleasure, was enough to make Marty’s teeth grit. Typpa’s moans only further exacerbated the condition.

  As if he sensed Marty’s strong emotions and was trying to make sense of how he understood them in the first place, the king batted his eyelashes as he glanced around, a frown of incomprehension marring his brow.

  At last, at long last, his glowing blue gaze found hers. They widened when they settled on her, having realized the extent of her hurt. And then they brightened as they scanned her topless form, giving her the sensation that her mere presence made him happy.

  No, not happy. Happy was too weak.

  Elated. He felt elated, as though he’d been waiting for her all of his—

  —Arrg!

  Marty shook her head to clear it, not having the first clue why all of these bizarre and confusing emotions were swamping her. Why did she feel the way that she did? And how in the hell did she know what he was feeling?

  Her eyes narrowed venomously as Typpa convulsed once again on the warlord, her breasts jiggling up and down as she moaned and climaxed.

  Marty felt tears gathering up in her eyes and had no idea why. It just felt wrong, so wrong. Typpa should not be touching him. She should not be—

  Her eyes met the king’s once again. She sucked in a shaky breath as feelings of hurt and betrayal overpowered her. He was cheating on her. He had betrayed her. He—

  Huh?

  Marty closed her eyes briefly as she fought with the warring emotions from within. She hated him, she loved him, she needed him, she disdained his presence, she wanted him, and yet she wanted him nowhere near her.

  One set of emotions was primal and powerful, borne of instinct and intuition. The other set was borne of logic, of telling herself how she should be feeling instead of how she was feeling.

  Overwhelmed, grief-stricken, confused, and a thousand other things, Marty glanced down at the fornicating king one more time before she turned on her heel and fled the harem chamber.

  A pair of glowing blue eyes tracked her movements, following her as she fled from his presence. They dimmed when she left him, only able to shine brightly when she was near.

  The possessor of those eyes was too damned stubborn to figure out why his hearts were sinking, why he needed her nearness. Feelings were something he had done away with as a man-child and as a consequence he didn’t know why he was experiencing them now.

  And unfortunate though it was, the one who was fleeing his presence didn’t know enough about Trystonni mating to point it out to him.

  Chapter 8

  Kil’s nostrils flared as he regarded the bound servant who had been the favored amongst his harem for nigh unto six Yessat months. “What mean you?” he growled. “What reason did the new bound servant give for refusing to commence her duties this time?”

  Typpa was careful to keep her eyes lowered, a submissive gesture ingrained in every bound servant by the older ones when first captured and brought to their new masters. “I cannot say, Mighty One. Mari has been...difficult to get along with ever since you returned with her three moon-risings ago.”

  Kil grunted. He could just bet she had been difficult. ‘Twas sorely apparent the wench had been sired of a gulch beast. “I want her brought to me anon,” he barked. “I have waited already three moon-risings to sample of her charms.” His jaw tightened. “I
shan’t wait a fourth.”

  Kil paced the length of his black crystal-mirror bedchamber as Typpa took her leave to see to his bidding. Why could he not content himself with his favored? he asked himself bitterly as he watched Typpa make her exit, her naked breasts bobbing up and down seductively. Why did he insist upon having Mari?

  He knew he was behaving like a man-child. He had even gone so far as to pout last eve when Mari had not come to him as she’d been bade. He, king of the red moon Morak—pouting...

  Yeeck!

  Kil ran an agitated hand through his hair, grunting as he did so. ‘Twas insanity, this.

  On the first moon-rising he had granted Mari a reprieve when she had fled from him, realizing as he had that ‘twould be a kindness if he allowed her an eve to settle into the way of things. He had hoped she would come to accept her new station as his possession for ‘twas considered honorable in the advanced worlds to pay off one’s debts.

  Mari had battled against him with the Wani. The Wani had lost. Kil had captured her. ‘Twas a simple mental deduction that the wench owed unto him the battle price he sought. And what he sought was her ministrations in the vesha hides.

  But nay, he thought grimly, she had refused his summons on the second moon-rising as well, claiming ‘twas time the women of the castle “subverted the dominant paradigm” and formed a solidarity of sorts. This solidarity, he later discovered, included trying to goad the other of his bound servants into refusing him the use of their bodies.

  A tic began to work in his jaw. Had he thought Mari to be sired of a gulch beast? Nay, he conceded as his teeth clicked shut, the more he thought on the subject the more apparent it became that the wee warrior was a direct descendant of a heeka-beast. She mayhap returned to her nest in Koror each moon-rising after the rest of the palace lay abed.

  Kil’s hand balled into a fist and the veins on his arm bulged as he recalled what Mari had done on the third moon-rising when he had once again had her summoned to see to his comforts.

  She had not only given him her nay, but she had sent a message of sorts back with Typpa to deliver to him. Typpa had refused to be the bearer of bad tidings, had feared that the king’s anger would be taken out on her if she delivered it.

  It had taken long minutes for Kil to coax Typpa into delivering Mari’s message, during which he had repeatedly had to remind her that ‘twas not his way to inflict harm upon a wench. Typpa had finally relented and, with much reservation, had at last relayed Mari’s bedamned message unto him.

  The message had been brief but to the point, Kil reflected with a frown. Typpa had squatted down a bit upon her thighs, bit down hard onto her tongue, and given him double doses of the middle finger. That had been wee Mari’s message.

  His nostrils flared.

  Definitely a heeka-beast.

  The sound of Typpa reentering the bedchamber broke Kil from his thoughts. He ran a distracted hand over his chin as he turned to face her. He could see for himself that Mari had not accompanied her. He had a feeling he would not care for the why of it. “Aye?” he asked wearily.

  Typpa cleared her throat, blushing slightly. “Mighty One...”

  “Aye?” He waved a hand dismissively. “Just get on with it.”

  She nodded, her eyes straying down toward his boots. “Mari has refused your summons again, my king.”

  His jaw clenched. “I see.” A moment passed in silence. “And did she say why?”

  “Nay. Leastways, nothing new.”

  He grunted. “The usual?”

  “Aye.”

  He had a perverse need to clarify what the usual consisted of. “More nonsensical talk of paradigms and pigs in power?” The muscle in his cheek resumed its ticking. “Of subverting me and my lust?”

  Typpa nodded.

  He began to pace. He could feel his teeth gritting. “More middle fingers and gutter words, I presume?”

  She sighed. “Aye, Mighty One.”

  He grunted. “More insults and accusations? More curses and threats of dire retaliation?” His jugular vein bulged. “More likening me to the fascist pigs of pre-World War II Europe—whatever in the goddess’ holy name that means!” he bellowed.

  Kil’s tirade was about to escalate all the more when the bound servant forestalled it.

  “My king...” Typpa glided over to where he stood, his pacing having momentarily halted. Reaching out, she ran her hand over his crotch and squeezed his manhood in the way she knew that he liked.

  Kil groaned as he pressed his erection into her palm. It had been almost three moon-risings since his needs had been seen to. Three moon-risings of lusting o’er a wench who would not have him. Three moon-risings of wanting none other in the vesha hides but Mari. The moment she had fled from him he had set Typpa away from his body and taken to his rooms for privacy. And now he was in dire need of surcease.

  “Let me bring you pleasure,” she whispered. “’Tis all I live for.”

  Typpa continued to stroke his erection with one hand while she used her other to remove the skirt of her qi’ka. That accomplished, she bent toward him and brushed her lips across his belly. “There is no cock in the galaxies better equipped for pleasure than yours, master.” She tongued his navel. “Let me be the one who sees to your needs.”

  Kil told himself to take her, to carry her to his raised bed and thrust into Typpa long and hard. Yet much to his disgruntlement, ‘twas still the bedamned Mari whose charms he lusted o’er.

  He ran his hands through his hair and grimaced. ‘Twas for a certainty he was losing his mind.

  “Later,” he said gently.

  Gently? He never said anything gently.

  Yeeck!

  Kil clapped a hand to his forehead and groaned. He was crazed, as crazed as the heeka-beast wench he lusted.

  “Master?” Typpa said, worry apparent in her tone. “Have you the headache?”

  “Aye,” he moaned, latching onto the excuse the bound servant had unwittingly provided him with. “’Tis why I cannot couple these past moon-risings.”

  Her brow furrowed. “But two fortnights ago when you were wounded in battle and bleeding profusely, you commanded me to ride you whilst the priestess attended to your wound...”

  Kil’s jaw clenched. Were all of his bound servants becoming brazen, thinking they had the right of it to question him? By the sands, could a warrior not be possessed of the headache without ridicule!

  “...mayhap if I summoned a priestess on your behalf...”

  He winced. Yet another channel he’d have to turn down.

  “...she could attend to your aches whilst I attend to your c—”

  “Nay.” He felt himself blushing for refusing a coupling, so he cleared his throat and turned away. “I-I need to be...alone.” His teeth gritted. Did that sound as pathetic to the ears of others as it sounded to him? “I wish to ponder, uh, my headache.”

  He moaned again. By the goddess he truly was pathetic!

  Typpa began to back away, eyeing him as though he’d sprouted man parts atop his head. Kil resisted the need to blush, opting instead to grunt as he threw a hand toward the bedchamber door. “Take yourself off to the crystal spinner and have a qi’ka of your choosing fashioned to your taste.”

  Her eyes lit up. Kil knew then that she’d opted to forget this episode in favor of lusting o’er material possessions.

  “Aye, master,” she said breathlessly before disappearing through his bedchamber door.

  Kil released a deep breath, feeling as though he’d just won a small battle. “By the sands,” he muttered, “I am nigh unto crazed.” His jaw clenched tightly when he remembered why it was he was losing his mind in the first place.

  ‘Twas because of her.

  That bedamned irritating wee wench who made him feel like an unschooled man-child rather than a seasoned warrior to be reckoned with.

  He was a feared man. The most feared warlord any galaxy or time dimension had ever known.

  Yet ‘twas necessary to do no more than
gaze upon fair Mari and his hearts felt ready to swoon from his chest to his toes.

  Kil’s eyes flicked toward the bedchamber door. They narrowed determinedly.

  Swooning hearts or no’, enough was enough. The wench was about to find out her proper place. And he was the warrior who would show it to her.

  Chapter 9

  Naked, Marty stared out of the porthole that was located in her private bedchamber within the harem’s quarters. This was, she thought reflectively, the strangest place she’d ended up yet since having been hurled from earth to—whatever galaxy she was now inhabiting. Trek Mi Q’an she believed she’d heard it called.

  The only thing Morak shared in common with Tron was the inability of the people here to phonetically pronounce the English T in her name. So again, when she’d first told the damned giant her name, he had christened her Mari, insisting she was his little one.

  Whatever.

  Refusing to think about the fornicating beast who had enslaved her, she forcibly turned her thoughts to the habitat she was now living in. The red moon of Morak, she conceded, was appropriately named. During daylight hours a red sun dominated the skies, subverting a smaller yellow one behind it and casting a barely detectable reddish tint over the land. The tinting was barely noticeable on clear days, that is. On foggy days the air was shimmery and thick, almost like patches of red glitter littered the skies.

  The nights were always the same though, she thought, as she gazed upwards into the nighttime atmosphere that existed just outside the large porthole. Rather than turning black as the nights did back on earth, the air stained a dark crimson red color, almost like that of blood. It was still dark enough that visibility was low such as it was back on earth, but red nevertheless.