Sold to the Alien Prince

by Viki Storm

  Because she is a high-quality female. That much is obvious.

  Before I can think twice of it, I grab his wrist and pull it backwards before he has a chance to touch that tender pink flesh. He shrieks out in pain and it is satisfying how womanly he sounds. I’d enjoy it more if I could fully concentrate, but I can’t. I can’t take my eyes off this woman’s body. I’d barely paid attention to the other girls that were brought to my table for inspection.

  But now, I really want to take a look. Her nipples are soft pink, puckered into hard little knots. I want to know what it feels like to drag my tongue across them and feel the hard beads in my mouth. Between her legs is bare, soft white folds of skin covering up a secret pink area that I want to explore every inch of.

  Mostly with my cock.

  “Excuse me,” the auction house staff says. “Please go back to your seat.”

  Now is the time I should proclaim my family name in a pompous display, throw the weight of my authority around, but I do not. I am in the right and do not need to resort to that.

  “You’re going to let him penetrate the girl?” I ask. I’m furious. This delicate, strange creature being toyed with, no regard for her dignity or the sanctity of her virtue.

  “Penetrate?” the auction house staff says. “No. But the guests are allowed to inspect and touch as much as they want.”

  “They should not be allowed to touch there,” I say. “It would be all too easy for an unscrupulous man to penetrate a girl and ruin her virtue.”

  “Ruin?” she says, looking directly at me. She can understand our language? Her pronunciation of the word is a little off, but she gave it the proper accent. “I am a fertile female,” she proclaims, mustering whatever reserves of strength she has left. “My value is priceless. Not even the tainted touch of your filthy species can ruin me.”

  Oh yes, I think I like this one.

  “Bitch,” Teda snarls. “Everything has a price, including your sloppy cunt. When you’re on the stage, we’ll see what your value really is.”

  I’d like to blame what I do next on my pounding headache or the stress of having to rule an entire planet—or even something noble like defending this tiny female’s honor.

  But it isn’t that. It’s the fact that Teda needs to be put in his place. He is the secretary to Uctin, the High Weaponsmith—the second in command of our entire military leadership. He’s had his position of power so long he’s forgotten what it’s like when someone tells him no.

  I take his wrist and clamp down on it, feeling my fingers part a path between his sinew and tendons. “Is this how you get your pleasures?” I ask, “Coming to the auction house and fondling the girls? It’s probably the only way you can get a female to undress in front of you.”

  He spits out a curse and tries to wrench his wrist free, but I hold it tight. “You are making a mistake you unruly cur. You have no idea who I am.” I realize he has no idea who I am. I know him from his pompous political grandstanding from all the open council meetings my father made me attend. But he does not recognize me.

  “I know exactly who you are,” I say. “You’re a pathetic blob who takes advantage any chance he can get. You want to put your fingers places they don’t belong.”

  His fist is clenched tight, but I pry one of his fingers free and bend it backward until I feel the pop of breaking bone. The scream is delicious, but after my rush of self-righteous fury fades, I realize I might have made a mistake.

  Maybe. Just a tiny one.

  “You must leave,” the auction house staff says to me. He has ushered me away from the screaming Teda. Another staff comes and escorts the girl away. Good. I would hate for Teda to take out his wounded pride on her.

  “No. You must change your policy about groping the girls,” I say. I’m being quiet, calm, not making a spectacle.

  “I don’t think—” he says, but then he looks at me and dawning realization sweeps over his face. True I’m wearing wrinkled and dirty pants, but on my belt and the handle of my weapon is the emblem of my house.

  “I can do it,” I say, “by a royal decree.” I snap my fingers to illustrate. “But let’s just start enforcing it right now.”

  “Yes Crown Prince Xalax,” he says and bows low to show his respect. I sit back down to find a very worried Droka at the table.

  “You’re going to pay for that,” he says. “Next time you need the military to vote your way.”

  “I’m not concerned about that,” I say. I scan the crowd for the girl, my obsidian-haired little beauty. She’s nowhere in sight. As long as she was spared the indignity of being poked and prodded, then I can be satisfied.

  “You should be,” he says. And he’s right. He’s almost always right.

  I page through the photographs of the eligible girls on the comm-screen at the table. They compiled a dossier, each girl that is a suitable DNA match for me along with her statistics and auction number. I swipe furiously, looking at each girl, hoping to see that shiny dark hair and those fiery dark eyes.

  But of all the girls who have been selected as a proper mate for me, she isn’t one of them.

  She’ll be mated to someone else.

  “Go,” Osyr says. That short metal prod is still in his hand, a nice reminder of who gives orders and who follows orders.

  I look up, in a surreal daze. I am waiting for it to be my turn on stage. This just keeps getting worse and worse.

  The only bit of luck I’ve had was that asshole alien fighting with the other asshole alien. After that crazy scene, Osyr shuttled me away and quickly took me to the other tables to be inspected by the other buyers.

  But he didn’t let any of them touch me.

  I suppose I should be grateful to the asshole alien who interceded on my behalf. But it is clear that there is raw violence coursing in his veins. Unrestrained brutality.

  The way he spoke to the sleazy alien, his voice was so scary, so harsh, so full of authority and anger. Even thinking about it now sends a chill rush of goosebumps all over my skin.

  “Okay,” I say. I get up out of the chair and walk towards the stage. All the girls are sitting in the shadows, waiting for their turn in the spotlight. The big moment. When we’ll be purchased. Bought.

  Owned.

  Defiled.

  The stage lights are bright and the rest of the lights are dark. I’ve almost gotten used the fact that I have no clothes on, but the second I step out on the stage, I feel my nakedness very, very keenly. My cheeks burn with shame as I know that I have a large room full of gigantic, aggressive alien males eying my naked and shaved body. They can see my heavy breasts swaying as I walk, they can see everything between my legs, my bare skin on full display.

  In the audience I can see shadows, outlines, the occasional gleaming eye. But I know there are a lot of eyes out there. All trained on me.

  I walk slowly onto the center of the stage. In the background I can hear Osyr reading my auction number. While I can understand their language, I still have no idea how to interpret their binary number system. It’s all just zeros and ones and I was never any good at arithmetic anyway. That and I have no idea how their money works. Maybe a million dollars to them isn’t that much, maybe a loaf of bread costs them ten thousand dollars. If they even eat bread.

  What a shame. I’ll never know how much I sold for.

  One of the alien males starts the bidding. He calls out a number. For a second, there is nothing but silence in the auction house and my fears are confirmed. I am no man’s treasure, just a pale weird human, a brood mare, a purchased womb.

  Then the bidding war starts.

  The aliens are shouting their bizarre binary numbers, one after the other, escalating the price. For a brief moment, it’s madness and I stand stunned, listening to the rabble of harsh voices in the audience.

  Then I hear a familiar voice.

  No, I think. No, no, no. Not him.

  But it is. That sleazy, slimy, scabby alien who now has a broken hand. He was denied his chance
to fondle me, but it doesn’t matter. He’s going to own me and then he’ll be able to touch me whenever he wants. Touch me and do worse.

  “10100101011101,” the sleaze calls out.

  “10110101000101,” another alien counters.

  “11000100101101,” the sleaze says.

  Silence.

  Apparently, that’s how much I’m worth.

  “Any other bids?” Osyr asks through the amplification system.

  Silence.

  “Last chance,” he says.

  Silence.

  “101,” Osyr says. “100… 011… 001…” I know he’s counting down, I just don’t know from what number. Hopefully he’s counting backwards from a thousand.

  Silence.

  “I bid 1100001101010000,” someone says.

  I squint into the crowd, trying to see who it is.

  But it doesn’t matter. I know who it is.

  The alien who broke the sleaze’s hand. The most violent, brutish jerk in a room full of violent brutish jerks.

  These aliens in the crowd gasp. It sounds weird coming from them. Their language is so guttural and rough, their attitudes are so bold. And they all gasp like a room full of shocked old ladies?

  Complete silence.

  I don’t understand their numbers, but I can tell that the brute who just bid on me bid a lot more money than the sleaze. The number was a lot longer, way more zeros and ones, so he must have outbid the sleaze by an amount so staggering it shut up an entire room full of depraved alien males.

  “Did I hear you correctly?” Osyr asks.

  “I do not make mistakes,” the brute says. “I said that I bid 1100001101010000. Do you have a problem?” Had I thought that the brute sounded aggressive? That’s part of it, but there’s more. His voice is deep, a little smoother, more polished, than the other aliens’ voices. It’s almost… sexy? No. Definitely not. The fresh wave of goosebumps are from something else. Cold fear and anxiety probably.

  “My apologies,” Osyr says. The staff’s usually calm and dispassionate voice sounds flustered. “Anyone else going to bid?”

  “No,” the brute says. “She is mine.”

  My nipples stiffen at his words. I hope no one in the audience notices. I’m so sick with worry it feels like there’s a squirming basket of snakes in my stomach. Why oh why are my nipples hard? All the shame and humiliation has morphed—coalesced somehow into a tingling that just happens to be concentrated on my breasts.

  No one says anything. Not even the auction house staff. I’m not sure what is going on, other than the fact that the brute just paid a lot of money for me. But even that doesn’t account for the new bizarre atmosphere in the auction house.

  “I’m sorry,” Osyr says, “But you’re not on her list of compatible mates.”

  That gets the aliens talking again, hushed, excited conversations erupt at every table. That makes sense. I hadn’t had a chance to give it much thought, but it’s true that the brute wasn’t one of the men that I was brought to for inspection.

  He is not a compatible mate for me.

  My heart sinks and those snakes start squirming again. Am I disappointed? Do I actually want this brute to own me? No, I do not, but I definitely don’t want that sleaze to get me.

  “So?” the brute says. “There is no law that says I cannot bid on her.”

  “No,” Osyr says. He is choosing his words carefully, speaking slowly. “However, the healers have analyzed your DNA and found mates that are much more suitable. The matter of mating and procreation is a delicate one and the healers are wise and skilled in choosing—”

  “She is mine,” the brute repeats.

  “Perhaps,” Osyr says. It is clear that he is afraid to speak plainly. Who is this brute anyway? Will he burn the place down in a fit of temper if he is denied what he wants? “We can discuss this in private. It’s an unusual matter.”

  “It is not,” the brute says. “She is mine. I bid 1100001101010000 and no one contests it. I do not care who the healers think is a suitable mate. When I need stitches, I will take their advice, but in this matter, my choice is my own and I choose this female.”

  There is iron in his voice. Steel. Sharp as a knife.

  She is mine.

  And something inside me knows that it is done. Whatever administrative formalities have to be completed are irrelevant.

  I have been mated to this brute.

  I am his. He owns me.

  And surprisingly, I feel relief. At least one matter is settled and this long strange journey of limbo and uncertainty is over.

  “Then the auction for this female is ended,” Osyr says. “The winner is Crown Prince Xalax.”

  Instead of the politely disinterested applause that punctuated the previous auctions, the crowd gives a raucous applause and cheer.

  “Fifty neus,” they cry. “And fifty nights.”

  “Fifty-one,” the brute shouts triumphantly, “to you and yours.”

  Crown Prince?

  Did I just become royalty?

  I’m waiting for my rage to subside, but it doesn’t.

  At the auction house, there’s nothing to wrap around my obsidian beauty. On our planet, males wear breeches for propriety, and the few females wear cloaks to cover their sick, withered forms. It’s not like we don’t have clothes.

  But the human females are kept completely naked, on display, at all times.

  For the Zalaryn male’s amusement. Or because they are a primitive race, beyond the need of dignity and respect. Or both.

  Either way, my blood is boiling. And it has nothing to do with the fact that our suns are aligned. But maybe that’s part of it.

  I ask the staff for a cloak to cover my new mate and they look at each other like I’ve just asked for a twelve-hour foot massage and a meal of skandh and moks from the Fendan seas.

  “A blanket,” I ask in desperation. The two men look at each other and shrug. As if I’m the first to make this request.

  As if I’m the first to be disgusted by their practice.

  “Your vehicle is waiting?” one of them asks hopefully, eager to get me out of the place before I break more bones and issue more royal decrees.

  I say nothing. My head is a spinning mass of angry insects. I want to take each staff by the throat, throttling their necks while I scream obscenities. Instead, I see a long, luxuriant tapestry hanging on the parlor wall. It is handwoven, a delicately embroidered depiction of the Fifty Night War. I wrap my hands around the edges, rubbing my thumbs to feel the intricate, soft weave. It is probably made from khoro fur. I approve; they are one of the few animals with a pelt delicate enough for a human female.

  I tear it down. There is a faint rip as the tapestry pulls free of the hooks. I’m sure it is priceless. Was priceless.

  I wrap it around my mate’s shoulders. I feel her shrink away from my touch. I cannot help feeling wounded—my anger surging to the surface. I try to remind myself of the ordeal that she has been through, but it does little to assuage my feelings.

  She thinks we’re all the same. That I’m as cruel as Teda.

  “Let’s go,” I say. She complies, shuffling out of the auction house in small steps, the tapestry wrapped tight around her legs.

  I too tread cautiously. A strange feeling has come over me. I wasn’t sure in the darkness of the auction house, but now outside in the sunslight I look down and see it.

  The skin of my chest and stomach and groin has changed color. It’s so dark red that it’s almost purple, the color of an exploding star. The color of a bruise.

  I knew it. I felt it when I saw Teda snaking his long claw-like finger towards her sex.

  I am in rut.

  Male Zalaryns visit pleasure houses and brothels, but that is a matter of course, like cutting your fingernails of getting a haircut. A bodily function that needs tending to.

  But going into rut? That is another thing altogether.

  It’s a physical change that overcomes a male when he properly bonds to hi
s mate. A rush of hormones and chemistry floods the system, changing the brain, changing the muscles, changing everything. I’m not sure what to expect, as most males don’t experience this. Some males go into rut when they find a female off-planet, and they bring her home as a Conquest Mate. Traditionally, however, males do not bond to the females that they purchase at the auction house. Purchasing a woman for breeding, that’s just another bodily function. My father never bonded to my mother.

  I feel electrified, on edge, as if I’m ready to bash in the skull of anyone who looks at my obsidian beauty. My skin is hot. My vision seems sharper, my hearing more acute.

  And my balls. Holy void, my balls feel so heavy and full I fear they will burst.

  All I know is one thing: I must mate with her. Today. Immediately.

  The feeling is too urgent. Too intense.

  I have little choice in the matter.

  I put her into my vehicle and set the course for the fortress. It is not far and our vehicles are efficient, programmed to navigate the city without collisions or congestion. I say nothing to her, just stare at her face. It is so exotic. Her narrow nose, her pale skin, those small white teeth. I know that she is less-than-thrilled. But she will see. Once the shock wears off.

  All I want to do is tear that delicate tapestry from her body. I long for the sight of her breasts again, those pink puckered tips inviting my touch. Or a pinch. I got used to the sight of her nude body and now that it is covered up, I need to see her again.

  Especially that little sliver of pink between her legs.

  I know from my studies that human females have a small protruding apparatus between their legs. It is not vital for reproduction, but it is the center of all their desire and pleasure. In the auction house, I could see it, just a dash of tender skin, mostly protected by the other folds of her sex, but part of it still exposed, on display.