by Cara Bristol
Like all Parseon female offspring, she’d been sent away for breeding after a blood test confirmed her maturation, which she’d reached on her nineteenth year. The lock-ring, ordered by her sire, had been attached by a technician on the tenth anniversary of her birth, when her vulva had first begun to redden and swell, indicating the onset of puberty. She could still remember the searing pain and her mother’s happy smile.
Without status, breeders often were treated even worse than beasts of burden, but the ring—telenium, no less—guaranteed she would be purchased by an alpha of wealth, who would seek to protect his investment by treating her well.
So had been her sire’s intention.
But it hadn’t worked that way. Soon after her arrival last year, the director had discovered she’d been ringed and claimed her for his personal use. Anytime an alpha visited, she’d been ordered to hide. But this time, her sneeze had caught the Commander’s attention. He’d spotted the ring.
The door of the habitation unit grated open. Her bladder released in terror when Sival marched in.
“Get up, breeder.” His voice contained more venom than Alpha’s sudon.
She stumbled to her feet, and urine trickled down her leg. His countenance darkened with choler. “I gave you one simple command. Stay out of sight.”
“I tried.” She had made herself as small as she could. But her nose had itched from the dust and mold in the cell. She’d attempted to suppress the sneeze, but it had escaped anyway. She’d even bitten Alpha to convince him she was feral so he would reject her.
She averted her gaze and bowed her head, praying a subservient manner would defuse the director’s anger.
“I have been negotiating with interplanetary traders to sell you to an alien emperor.”
He’d planned to sell her to a denizen of another planet? She had assumed Sival had thwarted her sale to an alpha because he intended to keep her for himself. She’d heard whispered tales of foreign races needing vast numbers of female incubators because mating often proved fatal, but had assumed they were fable, not fact. Horror curdled in her stomach. Being used by Sival hurt terribly, but it wasn’t going to kill her.
He swung his fist and hit her across the face. She fell to the ground, and her head slammed against the floor
“But you will not spoil my plans. I will find another breeder to satisfy the Commander’s needs. Tomorrow, you will be delivered to the traders as planned.
Omra dug her fingernails into the stone. Please. Please. She lifted her head.
“Get up,” he ordered and balled his hands, ready to strike as soon she rose to her feet.
Injury wouldn’t protect her from further assault. She staggered upright. The force of his next blow split her lip and spun her around so that she tripped over the bench. Her stomach hit the edge, and it knocked the wind from her lungs. She lay there gasping and heaving, but covered her head with her arms.
He kicked her twice. Pain splinted through her forearms. “While an Alpha of Parseon may not want a breeder who looks less than perfect, traders won’t care. Your face is not what they’re interested in.”
The metal clasp on his uniform snicked as he released it. He twisted her hair in his fist and struck her with his other hand. Her face and mouth throbbed, and stars danced before her eyes. She wished she could lose consciousness, but she’d only gotten lucky once before.
“After the alien emperor uses you, if you survive, you won’t look anything like yourself anyway.”
He prodded her sphincter with his engorged penis. She tensed, clinging to the memory of Alpha. His austere features had betrayed no softness, but his invasion of her anal passage with his fingers had been gentle, and his physical chastisement measured and restrained, even if painful. Servicing him would not have been horrible. But it wasn’t meant to be. Despair choked her.
She cried out as the director yanked her head back. He adjusted his erection against her and grunted. Omra braced herself for the thrust, the tearing pain. Often she bled—
“Director.”
She couldn’t see to whom the voice belonged, but she heard the cell unlock and two sets of footfalls enter. Her stomach roiled in dread. Would they all take her?
“Not now,” Sival snapped.
“You are under orders to come with us.” A second man spoke.
“By whose orders?” Sival twisted around.
“By Alpha. Commander Dak.”
Sival’s erection withered. Omra didn’t dare take a breath lest he perceive it as a commentary and retaliate with more force. He released her hair to tuck his flaccid member inside his uniform. Fasteners clicked. Sival leaned over her, his rough clothing scraping her backside. She cringed when his hot, rank breath enveloped her.
“I am not done with you. You will be sold as planned,” he hissed into her ear so that only she could hear.
Sival stood up and adjusted his clothing. Omra eased out a silent exhale and peeked at the men. Not containment center personnel, but Alpha’s. His guards.
The director shifted on his heels, glancing from one to the other. “What is this about?”
The two men stood on either side of the door. One of them gestured. “Come with us.”
After shooting a threatening glare her way, the director exited. The guards followed, and the gate slammed shut.
Shuddering, Omra eased to a sitting position beside the bench. Her face hurt, and the stickiness of blood coated her chin, her chest, and her hands. She touched her swollen bottom lip and ran her tongue over her teeth. She hadn’t lost any. Yet.
The summons granted a reprieve, not a pardon. Sival would finish what he had started. He never failed to deliver on his threats.
* * * *
The sound of footsteps doubled Omra’s heart rate, but it was her cell mate, escorted by a BCF worker, who approached the cell. The slight, fleeting smile that touched Anika’s lips before she slipped into the habitation unit revealed volumes—as did the answering crinkle of the guard’s eyes.
He locked them in and strode away.
Anika peered through the bars, looked left and right, then snaked a hand into the front of her shift, tied around her waist. “I brought you some panna,” she whispered. She pulled out a piece of baked dough. “And news. Wait until I tell you—Monto! What happened—” She rushed to the straw pallet upon which Omra huddled to escape the cold of the stone. Anika dropped to her knees. “Your face!” She touched Omra’s aching cheek. “Sival did this!” She spat on the stone floor.
Omra’s mouth felt puffy. “Shh. You cannot tell who might be listening,” she cautioned. Breeders often reported misbehavior in exchange for privileges. “You should not endanger yourself for me,” Omra said. Many cell mates had come and gone in the year since Omra had arrived. Anika was one of the few who had befriended her, the only one who had risked her safety to help her.
“Seeing how he beat you makes my news even more satisfying,” Anika said. “The director has been demoted, and he is to be flogged in the quad an hour before sundown.” She glanced at the waning sunlight filtering through the narrow rectangular window high above their heads. “Which should be soon.”
Omra’s heart thundered in her ears. She recalled how the appearance of Alpha’s guards had prevented the director from carrying out his intention to use her. Had Alpha ordered his demotion? The flogging? “Are you sure? How do you know?”
“I know.” Another smile slid across Anika’s face.
Anika seduced BCF workers in exchange for privileges, food, and information. Omra did not judge, she just didn’t understand why it seemed to work. “How can you give what they will take anyway?” She voiced her thoughts.
“The ones who will demand their pleasure you cannot deal with. But others are different.”
“I have not encountered any of those,” Omra replied but wondered if Alpha was different. Though he hadn’t hesitated to impose his will, he had not acted with cruelty, not even in the manner in which he’d punished her. Any other man woul
d have beaten her half to death for biting him. She was not scared of Alpha. To serve in his household would be the very best she could expect, but she feared to hope. Many times she had been passed over for purchase due to the director’s machinations. Her situation had never seemed as favorable as it did now, but too many things could go wrong before the morn.
Shouting penetrated the walls. Omra’s gaze collided with Anika’s golden one. She couldn’t decipher the muffled words, but the tone vibrated with rage.
“It is happening.” Anika jumped up. She glanced at the window, then at Omra. “Do you want to watch?”
Yes, she did. She would believe nothing but the evidence before her own eyes. And maybe not even that. “How can I?” She assessed the heavy stone bench. It weighed too much to move.
“Like this.” Anika set the panna on the bench and dropped to her haunches under the window. “Get on my back.”
More yelling. Mostly unintelligible, but a few epithets filtered through. She recognized Sival’s voice. Then a vile curse linked to the word “breeder.” Why did she assume he aimed the invective at her?
Anika gestured with her chin. “What are you waiting for?”
Wincing, Omra rose to her feet. She braced her palms on the wall and climbed onto Anika’s back. Clinging to the sill for balance, she poked her head up. She took a moment to enjoy the fresh air and evening sun caressing her face before seeking out the scene playing out in the quad. “It is the director.” Her legs wobbled at the mere sight of him.
“I told you! What do you see?”
“He is manacled. They are preparing to string him up, but he resists.” Two large men wearing the uniform of Alpha’s guards dragged the cursing director toward the whipping post. The director had been stripped of his clothing and wore a small cloth to cover his manhood. Though Sival struggled, the guards chained the cuffs on his wrists and ankles to the massive wooden posts so his body formed an X.
At least half the staff of the BCF stood in the quad, watching. She scanned the walls enclosing the commons and spied other female faces peering out the windows. The director’s ignominy would not be forgotten. She shivered, relieved he couldn’t see her.
The two guards stepped aside, and a third one brandishing a flogger moved into place. “They are using a talia.” A whip with a barbed cluster at the tip. A single strike would draw blood. He would be scarred by the time his punishment ended.
“He deserves everything he gets, but I wonder what he did to merit it.”
The guard snapped the talia several times to ready his aim. The crowd grew silent. Into the quiet, the director spewed curses and yanked at the shackles.
The guard stepped back, raised his arm, and flicked his wrist. The talia hissed. Sival’s shouted epithet morphed into a wordless scream. Omra flinched. A streak of scarlet across his shoulders dripped red. A second hiss, a higher scream, and a gash of crimson appeared alongside the first.
Three more strikes, and the director’s back ran red. Bile bubbled up in Omra’s throat. Her stomach churned, and her legs trembled. “I cannot watch anymore.” She eased off Anika. She did not like how the director had treated her, what he had planned, but the whipping was the severest she’d ever witnessed. What could Sival have done to deserve it? She shuddered. Alpha was not a man to displease. Perhaps she had reason to fear him after all.
Her cell mate stood and rubbed her knees. “I wish I could watch.”
“You can,” Omra said and started to kneel.
“No.” Anika touched her arm. “I can’t stand on you.”
“Don’t be silly. It is my face that suffers. The rest of me is fine,” she lied, omitting her hip, shoulder, and thigh hurt after hitting the floor. She lowered herself onto all fours.
Anika looked doubtful.
Omra raised her head. “Do you want to watch or not?”
Anika placed her foot between Omra’s shoulder blades. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
“I will.” She wouldn’t. Anika had done so much for her already. Sneaked her food and water when the director had curtailed it, tended to her wounds when she’d been flogged, made her laugh. Been her friend. She would remember her kindness forever.
She averted her face so Anika would not see her tears. Either she or Anika would be purchased, and they would never see each other again.
Her friend hopped onto her back, and Omra muffled a grunt of pain.
For a long moment, Anika peered out the window, saying nothing, but flinching with every strike of the talia, every scream. Then a lull. “Have they finished?” Omra asked.
“No. He has lost consciousness. They are dumping water over his head to revive him.”
She’d no sooner spoken and another shriek rent the air. And another. Finally, a silence fell, followed by the murmur of the crowd. Anika jumped off. “They have released him. He has fallen in the dirt. It is stained with his blood.”
Omra staggered to her feet. “How many lashes did he receive?”
“Fifteen perhaps. You should eat.” Anika jerked her head at the panna.
Her stomach roiled. “Maybe later.” She moved away from the wall with the window.
Anika snorted in self-disgust. “I never should have stood on you. Your backside is all red. Why did you not tell me the director had paddled you?”
Omra rubbed a butt cheek, but the pressure worked the venom in deeper and increased the burning. She jerked her hand away. “It stings a little.” She dismissed the pain and twisted her hands. “But I have news to share with you.” She hated to speak of possibilities, feared voicing them would raise hope, which would be dashed. How many other alphas had inquired about her, only to be discouraged by the director?
“Alpha came here,” she whispered.
Anika’s face lit up. “An alpha? That is wonderful. Did he like you?”
“Not an alpha. The Alpha.”
A frown creased Anika’s brows. “I do not understand.”
Omra wet her swollen bottom lip. It tasted rusty. “Alpha. Commander Dak of the fifth province of Parseon.”
“No.” Anika’s jaw dropped. “You tease.”
“I am serious. Sival called him Commander and all but licked his boots.” She touched her right nipple. “He wore his insignia, the moon of Parseon within a five-point star.” Like other uniforms worn by Parseon males, a long sleeve had covered Alpha’s left shoulder and arm but bared the other side to show the insignia that pierced his right nipple. “He paddled me.”
“Alpha did? Why?”
“I bit him.”
Anika’s eyes bulged, and she shifted her gaze to the window through which they’d watched the flogging. Omra could read her mind. It could have been her out there. It still might be. “Are you mentally deficient?” Anika burst out in a hushed tone.
Despite the seriousness of the situation, humor twitched at Omra’s mouth. “That’s what Alpha asked the director!” She sobered. “But no. Sival had informed me of an alpha’s visit and ordered me to avoid attracting attention, but I sneezed, and the Commander spotted me. When he examined my teeth, I bit him to discourage him from picking me. I did not realize he was Alpha.
“When he spanked me, he noticed the lock-ring and wanted to buy me. That is why the director hit me.” She touched her face. “He had planned to sell me on the interplanetary market, but I think inflicting pain excites him. He had intended to use me when the Commander’s men interrupted him.”
“How do you know Sival planned to sell you?”
“He told me.”
“Did Alpha find out? Maybe that’s why Sival was punished.”
Omra shook her head. It ached with the movement. “I doubt that is the case. Who would risk Sival’s wrath to tell Alpha?”
“Who would risk Alpha’s wrath?” Anika countered.
Certainty eroded, and fear flung its seeds like a stinging nettle bush. Alpha’s guards had summoned Sival. She recalled her initial hunch the Commander had ordered the flogging. As a race, Parseon men were brutal, thei
r violent urges mitigated only by Protocol. She’d never seen anyone whipped as savagely as Sival had been. What if she aroused Alpha’s ire? She would be at the mercy of one of the most powerful men on the planet.
But could the situation be any worse than what you have experienced so far?
If Alpha did not purchase her and take her away, Sival would exact revenge for the flogging. She was sure of it. He would beat her and then sell her to the interplanetary trader. An alien.
A clank sounded. “You, breeder!” A BCF tech appeared at the gate and jabbed his finger in Omra’s direction. “Come with me.” He unlocked the cell.
“Where are you taking her?” Anika asked.
“That is not your concern.”
“Don’t worry.” Omra patted her friend’s shoulder but trudged out of the cell on leaden feet.
The guard delivered her to the cleansing station. Large holes had been blasted into the stone, forming basins into which water was piped. Numerous women bathed in the pools before BCF staff siphoned and refilled the basins.
A tech shoved a bar of acrid-smelling cleanser into her hand and gestured to the nearest pool. Though the water often grew murky after so many baths, today it appeared clear and fresh. But Omra was still suspicious.
“Get in. What are you waiting for?” He shoved her.
She crept to the edge of the basin and dipped a toe into the water. Tepid. She exhaled in relief and eased into the hip-deep water. Other females bathed weekly, but the director had withheld her privileges. When he permitted her to wash, the water had been scalding on two occasions, icy on another.
She’d been whipped for refusing to bathe.
How long had it been since her last bath? Three complete moon phases? Four? After so long, the water felt glorious against her skin. Holding her nose, she submerged herself.
After she popped up, she lathered her hands with the cleansing agent. It smelled of disinfectant and stung her injuries, but after wallowing in her own filth for so long, Omra welcomed any opportunity to get clean, although she longed for the pleasant aromas of the bathing bars used in her sire’s house. She remembered many things of those days, but the scents were especially strong.