CYBORG PLEASURE; the Space Madame's Warrior

by Cathryn Cade

  He grinned at her, and levered up for a kiss, his hand cupping her cheek. “Oh, you wanna play with me, huh?”

  She nodded. “Mm-hmm. You are so beautiful. I want to touch you all over.”

  His hand tightened. “Damn, baby. I do like the way you touch me. Go ahead, then. Reckon I can survive a few more minutes before I get inside you.”

  Zaë smoothed her hands up over his ribs, admiring the taut muscles of his abs, and traced the grooves that slanted across his lean hips, pointing the way to his groin. She ran her fingers through the hair on his chest, pausing to finger his small nipples, and admire the way they tightened under her touch.

  “Kiss me there,” he urged, pulling her down. “The way I do you.”

  She did, and she loved the way he quivered under her touch, his powerful body surging like a powerful mount ready to gallop. She inhaled his scent, and followed her questing hands with her mouth, over to the heavy bulge of his biceps and the knotted curve of powerful forearms, pressed a kiss to the center of his palm and then dodged his grasp to move back to his groin.

  This time she put her hands on his cock. It was like satin in her fingers, the taut muscle underneath his skin surging in her grasp. He muttered a curse, his fingers tightening in her hair.

  “Put your mouth on it, baby. Right there, on the head. Taste me.”

  Cautiously, she put out her tongue and lapped up the clear drop of arousal oozing from the slit in the broad head of his member. “You taste like the sea.”

  He groaned again. “Yeah, and I wanna crash on your shores. Better hurry up or I'll have you on your back with this—” he flexed his hips, thrusting his cock through her grasp and back— “so deep in your sweet cunt you'll think I'm part of you.”

  At this, her pussy clenched with a spasm of longing so powerful she nearly whimpered. Her knee bumped the little tub, and she remembered her purpose.

  She pressed another kiss to his cock, breathing in his musk. “Soon. After I use some of the gesic on you.”

  “Fuck, all right.” He no longer sounded interested in play, she could tell.

  Zaë opened the little tub and dipped her fingers into the soft gel. Her nostrils twitched. It smelled of mint and something spicy. Well, Ilya had said it was a bit stronger, but that men loved it. She leaned over Joran, and watched as she stroked the gel onto his cock, up the length and then down, and over the tight sacs beneath.

  He took a sharp, grunting breath, his eyes widening and then let out a hoarse bellow of pain, his body convulsing under her. “Auugh! What the fuck did you do to me?” he bellowed.

  Knifing up, he shoved her away—hard, and bolted off of the bed toward the lav.

  Zaë lay on the floor at the foot of the bed where she'd fallen, too stunned at first to move. She hiccupped a breath in and then looked down at herself, bewildered. Her hand stung as if it had been dipped in fire, as did the side of her thigh.

  She scrambled up, and peered down at herself. The tub of gesic lay on the carpet, nearly empty. Her skin was turning an angry red where the gel had splashed on her. And it burned more painfully with each second that passed.

  With Stark groaning and cursing over the splash of the showerdry, she dashed out into the main room, and around the counter to the galley faucet. Wetting a cloth, she swiped as much of the gesic off her thigh as she could, and then held her hand under the cold water.

  She was weeping now, as the burn seared deeper in her skin despite the cold water. Grabbing another towel, she wet it and laid it on her leg.

  “Zaë!” Stark bellowed from the other room. He appeared in the doorway, nude except for the blue gesic pac he held to his groin. “What the fuck?” he demanded, scowling at her. “What was that shit?”

  Then his face changed, his gaze on what she was doing. “Ah, baby. You're burned too. Come here. Need to get some gesic pacs on you.”

  She went to him, lifting her hand to swipe at her tear-wet face, then lowering it hastily before she touched her face. “I'm sorry,” she babbled. “I'm sorry. I didn't know. She gave it to me.”

  He pulled her into the lav with his free hand, and sat her on the commode. Pulling two more gesic pacs from the cubby, he handed her one to lay on her leg, and the other over her palm.

  He hovered over her. “I'm sorry too, bunny. Quarking hells. Of course you wouldn't do this. C'mon, we need to get you to Riley.”

  She sniffled, and gave a ragged sigh of relief as the gesics worked, cooling the burn to a dull heat. Then she peered up at him. “You too, Joran. I'm fine, the gesic's working. But your penis … will it be okay?” God, what if she'd maimed him for life?

  He snorted. “Hope so. Planning on using it for a few more good years. Quark, look at us, like a couple of survivors of a naked brawl. Stop looking at me like that, bunny, I'll be all right. Can't say I'm feeling amorous anymore, though. And I'm so sorry. I shoved you—can't believe I did that. “

  “It wasn't your fault,” she said, tears of shame overflowing again. “I can't imagine how badly it must have burned on your sensitive skin there. She said it was strong, but I thought she meant, you know, more of that tingle.”

  “Tingle,” he muttered with disbelief. Then his brows shot together. “Baby, who gave you that shit?”

  “It was Ilya. She said Var really liked it, but she didn't need it anymore, so she wanted us to have it.”

  “Ilya gave it to you?” Joran repeated.

  Zaë nodded, her stomach plummeting as his face darkened, his jaw like iron.

  “Ilya. Oh, she wanted me to have it, all right,” he snarled. “Wanted me to get it. She didn't even stop to think you might get hurt.”

  He straightened, and Zaë flew from the commode, her hand on his arm, gel pac falling from her thigh to the floor. “Joran, wait. What do you mean? You think Ilya did this on purpose? No, I'm—I’m sure she made a mistake of some kind.”

  He touched her cheek. “Only mistake she made was bringing you into her little revenge. Baby, she's angry—furious. Var's dead, and it was my fault. That’s all she can see. But this—this takes things too far.”

  “Don't hurt her,” she blurted.

  “I won't. Not physically, anyway.” He set her aside, and walked out of the lav, tossing the gesic pad in the trash. “But I will have a word.”

  Zaë lifted the pad from her thigh, and realized the gesic had done its work, relieving the pain. Both the patch on her thigh and her hand were red and a little swollen, however. She recalled the way Stark reacted to the slightest touch on his genitals, and shuddered anew at the thought of that tender flesh sustaining whatever harsh chemicals had been in the gel.

  She'd like to have a word with Ilya herself. Actually, she wanted to slap her, hard.

  “I will come with you,” she announced, emerging from the lav to find Stark gingerly pulling on a pair of undershorts. “After we go to Riley and let him treat you.”

  He shook his head. “No, bunny. Ilya's one of my people. She's for me to deal with. You want a word later, that's fine, although you'll take Ringi or someone else with you. Ilya's unleashing this kind of rage, there's no telling what she'll do next. I won't have her taking it out on you.”

  Zaë nodded reluctantly, and turned to pick up her dress. She would wait, but she would have her turn. No one treated her man that way.

  Not even a scary-fierce, female warrior who carried weapons in her belt and secret tech gadgets in her pockets.

  * * *

  Joran limped to Riley's tont and had the medic check his burns. He took the jar of ointment along for analysis.

  Riley harrumphed when he saw the red, angry swelling on Joran's cock and balls. “Humanoids. Always risky sex. Hope this will teach you a lesson.”

  “Believe me, it did,” Joran said. “Never trust gifts from a female with a grudge.”

  Riley carefully applied a creamy ointment in a thick layer over the burns.“This will help you heal faster. Unless you want a session in the regen unit.”

  Joran shook his he
ad. “Maybe later. Don't have time now.” He pulled his soft undershorts and pants back up, breathing a sigh of relief as the cooling ointment did its work, taking most of the rest of the burn. “I'll send Zaë for a session, though. Burned her hand and her leg.”

  “She's lucky,” Riley said, looking up from the readout on the device in which he'd carefully placed a dab of ointment. “This is capsaicin, an organic derivative of hot peppers. Food seasoning. It would blister the vulva and vagina, causing terrible pain.”

  God damn Ilya. Joran's rage burning hotter than the acid had. 'Var loved it'. Yeah, a few drops on his food, not on his tender parts. And the big man would no more have hurt Ilya than he'd have tried to fly without his cruiser.

  “Thanks, Riley. I'll send my woman to you.”

  He noted Riley's eyestalks all whipping his way in unison, but he had things on his mind, so he ignored the medic.

  He linked Zaë. “Get over here to the medic tont,” he ordered. “Riley will put you in the regen unit, take your burns the rest of the way down. He's waiting for you.”

  She nodded, and he signed off.

  * * *

  Ilya was lounging in the shade outside her tont, dressed in her usual leggings, tank and vest—probably the same ones she'd worn the day before, and maybe the day before that.

  As Joran strode toward her, she didn't move, only her narrowed gaze following his approach—although he wasn't sure how much she could see through her tangle of blonde braids. She hadn't done shit to take care of herself lately. Sungoggles perched atop her head. Likely she'd slept in the damn things.

  As he stepped in under the awning, she tossed her braids back and her mouth tipped up in a smirk, though her hands were fisted tight on the arms of her chair, and her green eyes were wary as an untamed catamount's.

  “Enjoy my gift?” she asked.

  He stopped in his tracks, but he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. She'd never shrunk from danger or confrontation—Var had been the peacemaker, talking his petite but fiery wife down from many a snit.

  “You were a man, I'd put you on the ground for this,” he told her, not even bothering to moderate his tone. “And the worst part, Ilya? You didn't just tag me, but an innocent. You stop to think Zaë would be burned too?”

  He saw by her flinch that she hadn't considered this.

  Joran sighed. “Fuck, you didn't. You wanted to get to me so badly, you didn't even consider collateral damage.”

  “You're right,” she shot back, her gaze blazing through her braids. “Why should you go on fucking every female that catches your eye, the great Storm and his mighty cock, getting what he wants night and day, when Var will never have anything again? And I'll never have him.”

  A weight, unseen but felt, pressed down hard on Joran's shoulders. “I get that, Ilya. But this can't go on. You're a loose laser cannon without him.”

  “And whose fault is it that I don't have him?” she demanded, her voice shaking now.

  His guilt weighed heavier, a massive yoke he must bear. “Ilya ... I know. I know it's my fault he's gone. But I can't bring him back. You hating me, stabbing at my back when it's turned—that won't do it either. You've gone too far this time. You do anything like this again, you'll have to go.”

  He hadn't had to say these words for more than a year, and then he’d been speaking to a drifter that everyone had known wouldn't last in their band. The man had merely shrugged before grabbing his one bag and tossing it on his aircycle. This—the necessity to warn a woman who had been a valuable member of their operation, and a vital member of their loose family—it joined the weight bowing Joran’s shoulders.

  “I'll go.” Her instant answer silenced him for a moment. They eyed each other, the hot afternoon wind rustling through the grass, carrying muted laughter from across camp and the whine of a laser welder.

  “Ah ... where?” he asked. She didn't have people to go to, he knew that.

  She'd had only Var, who had died because Joran blew into a dangerous situation as Il Zhazid, The Storm, carried by his own swollen ego and his blind certainty that things would always go his way. In reality, Var had been one of the main reasons fights so often had gone their way. He'd stepped in once too often ... and taken a laser blast meant for Joran.

  Ilya shrugged. “I dunno. Back to what I used to do, I reckon. I worked a bar before I met Var, I can do it again.”

  “Fine, then.” They'd all miss her, but less so after word got out about this stunt—which it would even if Joran didn't share. There were few real secrets in a band of beings living together in relative isolation. “I'll see you get your and Var's share of the credit from the auction. Give you time to say your goodbyes. But before you go, I'll expect an apology to my woman.”

  When she didn't answer, he looked down to see an unaccustomed look of shock on her gamine face. “Your woman?” she repeated.

  Joran shook his head. Why the hells had Ilya picked that to focus on? Wasn't it more important that she was leaving the only family she'd known for the last several years?

  But Zaë was his, and it was time everyone knew that.

  “Yeah, my woman,” he repeated. “So I'll take down anyone who hurts her, female or not. And for some reason she likes you—or she did, so make your apology a good one.”

  He turned away, but stopped in his tracks, turning back to her. Because much as it pained him to give her a damn thing right now, Joran saw the solution to both their problems flashing before him like a giant-ass holovid sign.

  “There is one place you could go,” he said. “Just waiting for someone smart and ruthless to take it over, make it work.”

  She eyes him suspiciously. “I'm not going to run some brothel, so if this is your idea of a joke—”

  He snorted. “Believe me, I'd never unleash you on the unsuspecting folks out there just looking for some good sex. No, I'm talking about a casino.” Ornery as she was, Ilya Mondas was still light years better than the former owner—a sadistic, sociopath slaver.

  “Huh? You don't own a...” her voice trailed off, and she pushed her braids back from her face with one small, capable hand, her green eyes wide with shock. “You mean The Pleasure Palace?”

  Joran shrugged. “Somebody's gotta take it on. Vadyal’s dead, and the IGSF are ready to clear out. Sure as hells won't be me. I want nothing to do with the place, and no one else around here has voiced an interest. But you're good with tech and numbers, and you're damn sure tough enough to take a gambler's last credits without blinking.”

  Which didn't bother him much. Joran figured any being fool enough to gamble everything they had, deserved to lose it.

  Var's widow said nothing, her gaze veiled by her lashes. But she was biting her lip and twirling one braid through her fingers the way she did when she was chewing over a tech problem, so she was at least considering it.

  He shifted, ready to be gone. “Think it over. One way or another, not a good idea for you to stay here—Riley's pissed at you now, and if word gets out, so will everyone else be. Zaë is a favorite.”

  Her face flushed. She picked at a loose thread on her trousers. “You'd really ... let me take the space station over?”

  “Biggest piece of floating tech in this quadrant of the galaxy,” he said. “And that's your specialty, right? Smart techie like you could make a fortune. Get tired of running it, you can sell it. 'Course either way, you'd have to share the profits with us, 'cause we all own shares in it now. But if you run it, you take the biggest share.”

  “Or blow it to pieces so small none of them ever make landfall,” she muttered.

  He sighed. “Var died there, I know. But if you take the place, clean it up, make it something better, that would be a memorial he'd like seven hells more than an explosion.'

  'Not to mention,” he added dryly, “I'm gonna be the new sheriff, so if you destroy our property, I'd have to arrest your ass, and toss you on Deep Six. Hear it's mighty cold there, if you live long enough to feel the chill.”

&
nbsp; She sneered. “You as sheriff. Now there's a joke.”

  “Maybe so, but I like to think I'll be a better sheriff because of my ... experience.”

  “Doubt it. Know what I thought when I saw you when Var brought me here? That you were too slick.”

  “Yeah, well, first thing I thought when I saw you, was that you were trouble. Guess we were both right. Anyway, put your mind to my offer.”

  She shrugged. “I'll think on it.”

  “Good. You do that. Let me know within two days, 'cause Zaë and I are out of here then. Moving on, and you can too.”

  * * *

  She could move on too ... right.

  Ilya Mondas watched Joran Stark walk away. 'Il Zhazid' as he'd styled himself out here away from his rich brothers and fancy city life. She smirked to herself, because he wasn't walking with his usual 'I've got the finest ass around and I know it' saunter. No, The Storm was walking real carefully ... as if the male equipment he so loved to employ was still tender. Even though Riley would've set him up right away with gesics. Ilya had known that, or she wouldn't have doctored the leftover sex-cream with Var's favorite hot pepper sauce.

  Shame burned up her cheeks, though. Because Stark was right, she hadn't considered collateral damage. Her little plan had hurt Zaë, too. And even though she'd turned out to be the high-born lah-di-dah Lady Arianne, she was still one of the nicest females Ilya had met. Way too good for The Storm, who deserved a harpy who'd ride his ass from sunup to sundown, never let him make a move without her.

  A woman like herself, in fact. Not that Ilya wanted Stark—she never wanted another man, and especially not the one responsible for her man's death.

  “Great God beyond, Ilya,” a woman called from the path. “What have you done now?”

  “None of your business,” Ilya retorted instantly. She turned as a tall, lean woman with short red hair and the tough, cool mien of a warrior bent to walk under her awning.

  Qala was her friend, but she was also Stark's lieutenant, and she'd side with him every time, even now that she was with Haro.