Mask of Fire
A Red Hot Treat Story
By Michel Prince
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Cover Artist: Royal Touch Photography
First Edition
Editor Kyle Lewis
© 2014, Michel Prince Books
“Smashwords Edition”
Chapter One
“Why must you be so difficult, Abigail?” Her mother scoffed through the vid-link.
“Because I’m not going to let you send the man you feel I should marry after me tonight.”
“How could I do that?” her mother asked innocently with her hand placed over her heart as if she were despairing. “The women choose who they wish to copulate with, not the men.”
“That is why last year a green masked man seemed to be available and standing next to me all night until I finally gave in. Really mother, he was horrible in bed and wasted a whole five minutes of my life. Four of which I used to find us an open station.”
“So I failed last year, but this year—”
“This year, I’ll go it alone.”
Hidden from her mother’s view, Abigail Stone stroked the mask she planned to wear tonight. It was exquisite. Exactly what she wanted to be wearing the night she met her mate. The last two years were fun, but she had no intention of being one of those women that attend The Harvesters Gala every year only to have ungodly amounts of sex. True, it was their tradition, but eventually a woman needs to choose a man to marry.
The Harvesters Gala was the one time of the year when mates were chosen based on the only thing that truly mattered in a relationship—how well they performed in bed. Having not seen a man since she was sent to the Southern half of the planet Lextra at age ten, Abby had enjoyed the past two years of unfettered sex. The first year was a bit painful, but as one who was only there to taste a man for the first time, her beautiful, white plastic mask with silver spirals coming off the eyes had been perfect.
Last year she decided she wanted the men’s lips to be on other parts of her body, because the intimacy of kissing had been too much for her to bear. With a gold mask covering her face entirely she felt uninhibited with the seven men she chose through out the night. Maybe they knew she wasn’t serious—she’d never know—but with only one night of sex a year, she hadn’t wasted a minute!
Well, there was the one minute with the green masked man.
“Abigail Jane, you know how happy your brother has been since he was chosen. They are expecting their second child in the spring. Has he told you yet? And I sent him word of the woman to seek out at that Harvester’s Gala. Trust in your mother when it comes to these things.”
Her brother Kevin, thankfully, had been chosen the year before her first Gala.
“I will tell you this mother, I’ve chosen a thin porcelain mask.”
“Oh thank the Gods, it’s about time my little girl settled down.”
“Most girls now days wait until their seventh or even twelfth Gala to choose a mate, you know, Mom. I’m only twenty-eight and this is only my third Gala.”
“Right before they stop their cycles they choose. What do those women do in the South with you? Are they productive? Or do they just fritter away their days pining for the next Gala?”
Abby gave a light lick to her lip as she turned away from the vid-link. The first year just made her want more sex, not less. And sure, marriage would be with just one man, but if he could create the rush the Prefects spoke of…
“I do not know, but I’m done with my medical studies and I’m ready to come back to the central cities.”
“What if the man you choose is not from our city? Or worse yet, from our landmass? Abigail, you need to think long-term. Let your poor mother have this little solace.”
“Mother, no, I shall choose a man like you chose Father, with my heart. He shall please me in ways no other man could and I’ll know in my heart he shall be the one for me.”
“You will put me in an early grave, I promise you that.”
“Then you must pray for me to find a man to marry or I will miss your passing ceremony.”
Abby cut the vid-link to her mother and went to prepare for, what she hoped in her heart, would be her last Harvester’s Gala. Having been waxed, preened, and otherwise outwardly prepared by some of the best in the trade, she began to dress. The thin-layered silk dress flowed to accentuate her curves. The gold dress clung to every curve, but she hoped her lack of undergarments would only be discoverable by her lover. Hopefully she’ll choose wisely to begin with.
Her mask was constructed of thin porcelain, because she’d always wanted a high quality mask to adorn her bridal wall. As a more traditional eye mask, it was crimson with cut flames dipped in the purest gold on the planet. She stood in front of her full length mirror as she placed her four-inch heeled strapped sandals on her feet, then reached for her mask. Wistfully she wondered if this would be the last time she’d see her crystal blue eyes as a single woman, because the eyes are to be covered for they tell too much of the person under the mask. She could hear the lectures as though she prepared for her first ball.
Ever since the speech on falling into a man’s eyes and the dangers involved she’d been mesmerized by her own. Covering the eyes had been implemented over a hundred years ago when the Prefects had discovered a way to cover the wearer’s eyes without distorting the views. Now no one was allowed to see through the masks. With a sigh Abby placed the mask over her eyes and tied the ribbon tightly.
Reaching for her shawl she steeled herself. It was time.
****
In his periphery Barton caught snippets of the news in between crunches.
“Fighting continues to ravage along the borders where males from the North are protesting the Rules of Selection.” The male Central City reporter stated as he turned to a woman in a suit with a high collar and long pants. Her blonde hair was pulled up into a ball on the top of her head. “Do these men have a point when it comes to the Rules?”
“No.” the woman looked down, then back up. “It is true when the rules were first implemented the women usually chose a mate within two Galas where now the average is seven, but the women of today have evolved.”
“Is all evolution good?”
“Luckily for you it was.” Her voice had a growl to it as she arched her eyebrow. “The women are finding love. If men can not provide that to them in one meeting how could they for their entire life?”
&
nbsp; “Some women say they aren’t going to the Harvester’s Gala to find a mate, they are there for copulation and pleasures only afforded them once a year.”
“You don’t see fighting in the South, only the North. Proving the need to limit the amount of sex had by the males. If they were allowed to intermix with women can you imagine the state of education, the family and the work force? If you remember two hundred years ago we attempted to bring society back to one integrated system and it was a disaster. Within five years those in school were turning in assignments late and half finished. Domestic abuse was at record highs—”
“There were twelve reported cases planet wide,” the reporter interjected. “Two of which were by males. Can you really say this is the best way to mate?”
“Are you unhappy with your partner?” She snarled.
“My wife has nothing to do with this interview.”
“She has everything to do with it. How is it she allowed you to pursue such a line of questions? I’m an academic. I’ve studied the effects of the Rule of Selection exclusively. My text on the rule changes have been implemented by those in the South and the North. How dare you question—”
“We’re not on Harvester Island, Courtney. I’d ask you to refrain for assuming I have no brain or want of my own. Men are forced to have sex with women they may or may not be interested in sexually. They are forced by Prefects to learn to submit and come back after only a few minutes of reprieve.”
“Oh,” Courtney let out a condescending pout. “Did you foolishly feel for a woman, but were unable to perform? If she was to be yours you would have had an erection. You could have satisfied her a dozen ways. Is that your problem? Did you fail to perform? Did word spread among the women and they left you alone for the night?”
“Women today practically rape the men.”
Barton Nuril flipped off the Vid-screen and continued to do his crunches. The debates would go on for the next thousand years. Worse was the fact thousands would die because of the process.
He understood where the reporter was coming from; he was not a piece of meat. When the Rules of Selection were first established the women were different. The women now were worse than the men who the Rules were initially established to protect them from.
Five hundred years ago society on Lextra had diminished to the point that families were an antiquated notion. Children were born in the streets, then dropped at the local children’s homes. Those who were married were constantly involved in domestic violence by men that felt they owned their women mind, body, and soul.
The Nuril’s had never been like that. They’d always treasured their mates. Barton could trace his lineage over a thousand years and never had the men or women of his family disrespected their mates, yet still he was subject to the laws put on the many.
He missed the central cities where his family was and hated that until he was mated he could not meet his nieces or see his sisters. True, the men could visit him in the Northern Colonies, but women could never know the beauty of the land up North. Then again he’d never be able to see the Yamani Waterfalls of the South. Either way their society had divided more than the sexes.
A tone cut through his living quarters, and he sighed as he lay back on the floor.
“Who’s calling,” he called out to his Vid-link.
“Parental figures,” the robotic tone stated.
“Answer.” Barton rolled to his stomach and pushed up to greet his parents. Secretly he hoped it was just his father, but as he walked into the view of the screen he saw it would be a double dose of condemnation.
“Son, have you prepared yourself properly?” His mother sat regally on the throne on his vid-link. No reason for pleasantries when there was a Gala to prepare for. “I see you are toning yourself.”
“Yes mother.” He bowed toward the screen with both of his hands holding on to the towel he’d wrapped around his shoulders. When he rose he leaned against the counter. His mother smiled.
“See.” She pointed at the screen. Barton assumed it was to his hips and abs, not his winning smile. Did she even know he had one? “How could a woman resist that?”
“We would like our heir to have a mate at some point,” his father added. “How can you rule from the North?”
“Vid-link I’d assume.” His sense of humor had never been appreciated by his parents. They both visibly shuddered. “It is not up to me. I cannot make a woman choose me.”
“I think you enjoy playing war games in the north,” his mother grumbled. “Do you not know how to please a woman?”
There’s a cut to a man’s ego you never want to have, especially from your mother.
“I could send you more of those instructional tapes and books.”
“No.” He stood up quickly.
It crossed so many lines the first time a package had come from her. He didn’t want to know how his mother got a hold of that type of material… worse yet, she knew it was appropriate.
“My son, I miss you. It has been too long. A mother prepares herself for fifteen or twenty years apart from her young, but it is almost thirty years since I’ve been able to tuck you in and kiss you good night.”
“If chosen my mate would do that.”
“You know what I mean.”
The pain in her voice got worse each year. If people knew who he was he’d been chosen before he even got to an open station. That was the one part of the masks he approved of. A woman could be lying with a thief or a prince, a doctor or a garbage collector, and she’d never know until she chose. Until a royal male is chosen no one is to see their picture, even as a young one since the aging software had become so advanced.
“I will be late if I don’t head for the transport in the next few minutes,” he lied.
“Take care,” his parents said in unison.
Cutting the feed he tied his hair back and placed the black mask over his eyes. Men were never allowed to cover their mouths, although women could. He was expected to kiss, suck, and lick every part of a woman. Yes, they were fully cleaned in between lovers, but still…the thought made him ill. The click of the electronic lock made him feel shackled to the damn thing. Only a Prefect could remove his mask after he’s been mated. One good thing, the women couldn’t see the hate that had built up over the years in his eyes.
When he walked to the street he instantly regretted placing his mask on before leaving. Many of the men were holding their masks as they walked to the nearest transport station. All the stores were shuttered closed and the lights in the living quarters were out, save a few that must be younger men. The male children were in the country away from all the temptations of the city where they can focus exclusively on their studies with men who were never chosen. Barton wondered what would happen if he aged out. Could the heir to the planet remain a bachelor?
He did need to rule at some point. Even the men in his regiment didn’t know who he really was. They thought he was Major Barton Isthem.
A man knocked into his shoulder, and Barton instantly tensed, only to see a familiar face.
“Tarin? That you?” he asked as his friend pulled his knit cap tighter around his skull. The man looked at him, but did not speak at first. “The mask, sorry, it’s Barton. Barton from the Seven?”
“Barton, right.” The deep gravely voice of his former commander sent memories through his mind. “Good to see you.”
“I thought you took the cleric’s oath.”
“Yeah, that sounds like me.” He chuckled.
“Do you live close? I could wait for you.”
“No, I live a good three clicks away.” He crossed his arms. “Damn foreman kept me late and… well, the transports only go in one direction today.”
“Right.” Barton sighed and said his good-byes. Tarin popped the collar on his light jacket and turned to leave. Strange, Barton thought. He swore Tarin had aged out.
“Draw blood on all of them and run a panel,” a man spoke into an ear link. “If the count is high start them on an
antibiotic. This is first year stuff.” The dark skinned man waited next to Barton to cross the roadway. “No, I don’t think that… I know, but if you hear a howl assume it’s a domestic, not a wild dog.”
The man cut the connection and sighed.
“You look mature.” He turned to Barton.
“Excuse me?”
“This isn’t your first Gala.”
“No, is it yours?”
“Not by a long shot, but sometimes I wonder if twenty-five is old enough,” he said, and Barton cocked his head to the side. “For the women… they could be twenty cycles old and be mature enough, but these boys…” he pulled out his ear link and squeezed it, then placed it in a pack he had on his back. “They know it’s the night of the Gala and yet they call me about a dozen patients that all have a fever.”
“A dozen? All at the same time?”
“You’re not a doctor,” he sighed, and they both crossed the roadway continuing down the barely lit street. “I’m sorry to disturb you, it was wrong of me. It’s their first night with only the older doctors around. I remember it, I was nervous too, but I’d never have the gall to contact my superior for a basic question.”
“It’s not odd to have such a number of ill? And they are all missing the Gala.”
“Yes, so?”
“Nothing.” Barton shook off his unease.
“You’re as bad as my interns. A little fever cuts down a few men and they want us to cordon off the city to avoid spreading the infection.”
“Is there anything abnormal about it?”
“What do you do?”
“Soldier.”
“A wild dog chaser.”
“No, just a realist.”
“Look, a few guys have a fever. We haven’t been able to get it down but it’s not like the whole North is infected. If it were this transport wouldn’t be as packed.”
Barton looked at the silver train. Inside the wide windows he saw in all but the last car it was standing room only. Crap, he’d hoped he would be able to mingle in late to fulfill his obligation without really fulfilling it. If this many men were arriving at the same time, there were women who would be there to attack them when they crossed the threshold.
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