by Jaye Peaches
“Parties? Celebrations, yes? Birthdays, weddings. I know,” he nodded. “We celebrate victories and battles.”
“But no dancing?”
“We chant battle cries.”
She giggled. “So sexy,” she mocked.
“Dancing is sexy?”
“Oh, yes. It can be elegant, and passionate—”
“Show me.” He jerked his head toward the tent behind them. “Go on.”
His request triggered a bout of nerves. She wasn’t a performer. Hesitating, she chewed her lip. “Just like that…”
“There is a music player. You can dance to Vendu music. We do at least have a variety of music.”
She followed him back in. Vendu music remained an enigma. While she studied the harp, she learned the pitches and rhythms of their music, which to Freya had the beat of African drums mixed to the blues. How could she dance to it?
Marco flicked a switch on a table and the music circled her. It wasn’t too strange; she could identify a rhythm to tap her feet to and a semblance of melodic tune. She eyed one of the poles—could she?
“Go on,” Marco urged, settling on cushions. “Dance.”
Her mind went blank and she froze in the middle of the tent. The hours of ballet lessons she’d taken as a child—forgotten. The various dances crazes that had traveled through history seemed inappropriate. Marco waited patiently, nibbling on nuts from a bowl.
Swaying her hips, conscious of her nudity, she wanted to bolt out of the tent, but to where? She might not be shackled to him, but he held her captive in other ways and she couldn’t resist his allure, the way it made her feel desired. Marco smiled as if he was reading her mind, then tossed a nut in the air and caught it between his teeth. His reflexes were amazing.
She slid her hand down the nearby pole—cold, almost icy. She wriggled up to it and looped both hands around the thick metal. The beat picked up tempo and on impulse, she tossed her head back and arched her back away from the pole. Ballet might have given her the agility, but not the moves. She made them up—the swirls, leaps, and rotations around the pole were all of her own choreography. What difference would it make; Marco had no idea of what to expect.
Perspiration collected on her upper lip. The temperature rose as she expended more energy, more vigor. She’d almost forgotten the other heat—the two warm spots on her ass cheeks. She stopped when the music went silent, collapsing on her knees by the pole.
Marco applauded. “Excellent. I’d no idea it was so enjoyable to watch. I’ve a fine view.” He poured her another drink and patted the cushion next to him. “Come and relax.”
She remembered to crawl, which wasn’t difficult since her legs were shaking badly.
Stretched out, trying to catch her breath, she laughed. “That was so much fun. I actually pole danced.”
“Now.” He leaned over her and licked her cleavage. “You need a thorough clean.”
Her eyes sprang open. “Not that kind—”
Marco laughed. “No. I meant with my tongue.” He shifted lower, trailing kisses down her belly. “Down here.”
She whooped as he reached her delicate folds and latched his mouth around her clitoris. Dancing had its rewards.
* * *
“I’ve been thinking about your dancing. And other things too, like writing down stories and theaters. I have made some conclusions based on your opinions. The Vendu hold fast to their ways, because we believe hard work and exercise keep a mind occupied and disciplined. Other than sex and some sports, we have no great need for leisure time. Other humanoids, like you Earthlings, have different needs.”
Freya waited patiently as he ringed her nipples and continued to ponder.
“I’m going to permit some of these activities.”
She beamed and opened her mouth to praise his idea, but he pressed his finger against her lips, preventing her from speaking.
“I’ll authorize limited paper production but no printing presses. There’s an abandoned factory that can be used to dry out the pulped reeds. Since prisoners have always found a way to send messages amongst themselves, whether they etch them on metal or stain cloth, paper won’t make much difference. As for music, I will permit dancing, but not between the different sexes. And one theater.” He nodded, as if pleased with his ideas. He removed his finger from her mouth.
“Thank you. Hope is so important.”
“None of these things will give them freedom.”
“But without them there is no sense of purpose or even belonging. Recreation eases tension.”
He pursed his lips and tucked his hands behind his head. “Of course, these things will have to be earned so—”
Freya started. “Oh, no. That wouldn’t work—”
Marco frowned. “Freya. These are the conditions,” he said sternly.
She shifted position and knelt. “Sir. With all respect for your generosity, if you make these things a reward, then like the food vouchers, they will be bartered and used by the factions to control and wage power struggles. Make them a choice for anyone. It will bind people together.”
Marco tipped his head up and examined the roof of the tent. Again, she waited for him to consider her suggestion. “Wise girl. Very well,” he sighed. “It will be open. But the first sign of misuse and there will tighter controls.”
She glided over him, lowering her warm breasts on his tattooed chest. She kissed his neck and rocked her body up and down his belly. Marco grinned and cupping her ass cheeks, he separated them and fingered her bottom hole. “I’m going to put a vibrating plug in here and you can dance again. Let’s see you jiggle inside and out.”
Freya paused mid-stroke of her hips against his hardening cock. She swallowed. “Yes, sir. Whatever you wish.”
Chapter Fifteen
The old factory bustled with activity. Several prisoners were clearing the debris on the floor, while others were moving in equipment—a water tank and rollers. The sweltering space was destined to make paper using the reeds growing along the river. Marco’s initiative had been met with puzzled expressions by his captains, one of whom stood by him as he watched the men work. He’d brushed aside his officer’s concerns, merely stating the provision of writing tools would allow the prisoners to spend their free time productively, instead of fighting each other.
What had surprised Marco was that paper manufacturing wasn’t unique to Earth. The project had taken off rapidly due to the number of prisoners who had an interest in making paper and ink. They formed a team with designated roles and put into action the idea. Sometimes he forgot that the prisoners on Tagra had once held other occupations—engineers, architects, builders. The penal colonies provided them with unskilled labor—tedious, repetitive factory work, and nothing that made use of their technical backgrounds.
Marco pointed to the other side of the building. “That area has been allocated for the theater and dance.”
His captain puffed out his lips. “Dancing,” he said with a derisive snort.
Marco ignored the dismissive gesture. “Yes. Primarily for the women, although I gather some men wish to form a troupe. However, no mixing.”
He continued to enjoy Freya’s private dance shows. Since they’d returned from their vacation in the tent, he’d tried to visit her regularly. What had changed since he declared his love was his urgency, the desperate need for sex. Instead of the appropriation of her body for his pleasure, he’d spent more time talking with her or he watched her little dances or harp playing, which she’d learned to a good standard.
What had this love done to him? It wasn’t easy to unravel the complex emotion since he’d never experienced it before meeting Freya. She reflected his needs perfectly. Every time he sought her out, she welcomed him with a kiss and knelt on the floor at his feet. His heart soared at the sight of her naked body—preened and glazed with oils, her hair coiffured, and her treasured sex shaved and swollen. Always ready. Always willing. That to Marco was love: her submission. Yet, instead of him ravishing h
er, she’d sat upon his knee and they chatted, joked, and touched each other with tenderness.
Refocusing his distracted thoughts toward his captain, Marco cleared his throat. “Let the prisoners organize this in conjunction with the supply officer. However, any sign of the factions interfering, then we step in.”
“Yes, sir.”
The disk on the back of his hand buzzed. The text rolled across the mini-display. Lalita requested his presence, at his earliest convenience, which to Marco meant now.
He commandeered a speeder to fly him back up to the city. He doubted Lalita had good news to tell. The overseer continued to rule the Volta with her exacting rules, and although he was sure she took care of the women’s physical needs, she remained detached and unemotional in her attitude to them as individuals. When Marco had proposed Freya teach some of the jenjins the art of pole-dancing, Lalita had scorned the idea. He’d persisted, arguing that it was entertainment and stirred in him a great desire for his jenjin. That had been the winning point—his needs outshone Freya’s wish to do something she enjoyed.
According to Freya’s latest report, the jenjin she’d demonstrated to had been keen to try it out and her classes were over-subscribed.
She’d laughed in the privacy of his chamber. “Me, a technology journalist, teaching dance! It’s the last thing I ever dreamed I would end up doing.”
There were many things she’d probably not envisioned and that included saying goodbye to her friend, Lucilla. The repatriation had happened quicker than Marco had anticipated. A new treaty had been negotiated with Lucilla’s people allowing her to return home, and he wondered if it was because of the planet’s special status. The only two planets—Earth being the other—to have their world left intact by the invasion forces of the Vendu. Why? He suspected it had to do with the plan to save the empire from collapse.
On the day of her departure, both women had wept in each other’s arms. Marco had scratched his head—why cry when she was going home?
“She’s my friend. I’ll miss her,” Freya had told him later.
He’d shrugged. “Friendships come and go.”
She’d pouted. “I’d cry if we were parted. More than cry, I’d be heartbroken. Wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t cry,” he’d answered, but he knew he’d not given the whole truth. Tears were an outward display of weakness, but inside, hidden from sight, he would be devastated.
Half an hour after he’d received the summons from Lalita, he bounded up the steps of the Volta and made his way to her chamber. She buzzed him in immediately.
“Governor, please take a seat,” she rose and offered him a chair next to her desk.
“What’s this about, Lalita? I’m a busy man.”
“Of course, I wouldn’t disturb you if it wasn’t important.” She sat, allowing her long skirts to settle neatly around her chair. Her deportment was faultless. Some time in her past, alongside other favored jenjins, she would have knelt naked by the emperor’s throne, waiting for the great man to summon her to service him. Now she held sway over the lives of many women, their happiness in her hands, including Freya.
“We’ve made some changes to the surveillance cameras in the atrium,” she said.
Marco furrowed his eyebrows—what did that matter to him? Lalita controlled the security of the Volta’s interior and all he provided was a team of guards to patrol its perimeter and entrances. “Yes,” he snapped impatiently.
“A blind spot had been identified. Something which I assumed was of no great importance. The sightings of the cameras have been adjusted. There is no more blind spot.” She reached across her desk and activated her console, bringing up a display screen. “I’ve been reviewing the new setup and this came to light… I will replay what the camera captured.” She tapped and the video appeared on the screen.
Marco leaned forward. It was Freya, partially hidden behind the foliage of a shrub, but sufficiently visible that he could see her upper body and face. Her modesty was limited, she’d covered her nipples with a flimsy robe, but the pebbles were erect and visible through the translucent fabric. She was smiling, her white teeth glinted and she held in her hand a piece of paper. Opposite her was the guard, one of many appointed to patrol the Volta. He was allowed to enter the atrium, but no further.
The young man’s face was flushed and the tips of his ears were pink. He glanced over his shoulder a few times, shifting on his feet as Freya spoke to him. There was no sound recording and Marco couldn’t lip read. She handed the guard the paper. For a second, he hesitated, but when Freya battered her long eyelashes, he grinned and accepted it. Then, with one last look around, he dashed off out of view.
Lalita sighed. “Such a pity. She was doing so well with the protocols. A model jenjin. No silly giggling during classes, no tardiness. Then, this.”
Anger boiled in Marco’s veins. He jumped to his feet and started to pace around the room. Love letters? He couldn’t countenance the thought. More likely given her history, she was sending an illicit message to insurgents, but whom? After she’d begged him to give the prisoners more privileges, she was abusing her own. What really struck Marco hard was that she flirted with another man and made sure she was doing it out of sight. He’d not doubt she had noted the blind spot and utilized it for her own purposes. What she hadn’t done was check if it still existed.
Why? He fisted his hands into tight balls. Why was she doing this? If she wasn’t in love with him, then he’d laid bare his heart for nothing other than her amusement. He pressed his lips together, silencing the stream of curses he wanted to shout out.
Lalita maintained her poise. “Naturally, this is a serious breach—talking to a man without permission.”
“She passed him a note,” he seethed. “Using paper I’d given her!” He roared and punched his fist against the wall. The pain rocketed through his knuckles.
“It’s these aliens. They don’t have the same standards as the Vendu. If they’d capitulated from the outset, lives might not have been lost on these planets. She’s disappointed me. Us. So sad.” She shook her head. “You will wish to punish her, and I might add, I do wonder if she is truly suited to the Volta. There are other jenjins—”
“No,” he snapped. He wouldn’t give up on her. Freya possessed a different kind of integrity to what Lalita admired and his jenjin was generous in nature. Inhaling deeply, he decided he would hear Freya’s side of the story and wouldn’t condemn her solely on the basis of silent surveillance footage. “Bring her to the punishment suite.”
A soft smile slipped over Lalita’s face. “If you think that is necessary, she will be brought there for your discipline. Might I suggest, since you wish her to remain here, that your discipline is firm and unswerving. She must remember she is nothing more than a pleasure vessel and has no say in her punishment. She might be the governor’s jenjin; however, her status is not to be augmented beyond that. It would disturb the order of the Volta if she was treated otherwise.” Lalita’s inference annoyed Marco. She alluded to something he considered private—his growing affections for Freya.
“I will determine her fate, Lalita, not you.” He left the room without saying anything further. Once in the punishment room, he moved restlessly around, touching a few implements, reading the labels on the bottles and examining the ropes and pulleys used to bind the disobedient jenjin. It wasn’t a surprise that Freya hated the room. However, she needed to appreciate what options lay open to him.
The problem was, he’d no idea what to do with her. His anger had abated, because he had to stay calm and not frighten her. While he needed answers and accountability from her, somehow he had to salvage their relationship. She was right when she’d spoken of tears at their separation, because he would suffer not having her in his arms. What dented his determination to resolve the crisis was the fear she might fight him or refuse to accept his punishment. Such behavior would mean they were doomed. How could he trust her ever again?
* * *
She’d been practicing her harp when the summons arrived. “Report to the punishment suite immediately. The governor is waiting for you.”
With trembling hands, she lay down the harp and hurried, without running, to the room she dreaded entering. She paused outside, trying to recover her shattered poise. It seemed more than a coincidence that the request had come only a few hours after she’d given Lucca the letter.
It had been the third one she’d given him to deliver. Of the guards that patrolled the perimeter of the Volta, Lucca had been the only one to smile at her. She chose him because he looked so young, barely an adult, and if she regretted anything it was abusing that smile of his and convincing him the letters were for her father. They weren’t and if he’d read them, which she prayed he hadn’t, he would see they were love letters.
She’d done a reconnaissance of the atrium, noting the movements of the cameras and spotted the gap. When she’d beckoned him over the first time, he had taking some convincing. He’d avoided eye contact until she’d fluttered her lashes, then pleaded for his sympathy—her poor father would be desperate for news of her and if he should reply in some way, a few words of reassurance, then would Lucca convey the message? He’d dithered and eventually agreed. That had been two days after she and Marco returned from their trip; since then she’d arranged the delivery of two others. As for the letters she’d sent her real father? In the second one she’d removed the sugar-coated view of her life, and other than glossing over Marco, she’d pleaded with her father to discover the truth behind Tony. As yet she’d received no reply from her father.
“How do you know my messages have reached him?” she’d asked Marco.
The question had resulted in a pause, the protracted kind that usually indicated Marco had something difficult to say. “My friend, Hadro, is part of the intelligence network that infiltrates your territory. You’re not the only one who uses spies. We’ve been moving amongst your kind since the invasion. It’s helpful that we have a similar physical appearance.”