by Ivy Barrett
The stairs groaned as they made their way to the second story. She could feel the others watching, but she didn’t glance their way. This was a mutant sanctuary. She was intruding, callously reminding them of the society indifferent to their suffering.
“What’s wrong with Fane?” she asked as they reached the landing at the top of the stairs.
“Not here.”
He motioned her toward a room halfway down the hall. Why was he being so cautious? What would make him fear his own people?
The bedroom was small and gloomy. His gaze flashed and a cluster of candles on the nightstand ignited. She shivered again. Sean’s abilities had been minimal two weeks before. As she’d feared, the mutation was escalating.
“Fane is dying and this place is about ready to rip itself apart.” He leaned against the locked door, his gaze boring into hers. “Half of them want to remain hidden and wait for a cure.”
“And the other half?” She was almost afraid to ask.
“Max Nelson is garnering support for an overt attack.”
She shook her head as the ramifications of such a strategy scrolled through her mind. The Protarian government had no idea how many mutants were still alive. They’d convinced themselves the few who had survived the initial outbreak sought refuge on Stilox. Fane had used the Protarians’ misconception to his advantage when he organized the Mutant Underground. The mutants were protected by the Protarians’ indifference. Fane had been able to influence decisions and shape outcomes while remaining invisible.
“Bryson will unleash his ‘cleansing fire’ without hesitation.” Her voice was hushed and regretful. “How does Max expect to combat the sheer number of the Protarian military?”
“This is Max we’re talking about.” Sean’s caustic tone and stiff posture made his dislike obvious. “He doesn’t think beyond his hatred or care what happens to any of us.”
“Then why would anyone follow him?”
“What choice do they have?” Amber fire burst within his eyes and his features hardened. “Look at me. Most of us won’t live long enough to see a cure. Why not take out as many of the Protarian bastards as we can along the way?”
She placed her hand on his upper arm as she assessed his tense features. “Are you thinking of backing Max?” Sean’s mother had brought him to the Underground as a child. She and her mate had succumbed to mutation so she suspected it was just a matter of time for their son.
“Without Fane…” He didn’t need to finish the thought. Fane was the mortar binding the Mutant Underground. There was no one else who could maintain order. The Underground was far too volatile.
“We can’t give up yet,” Nehalem insisted. “I led Mal Ton to the Earth woman. Everything is moving according to plan.”
“I’ll do what I can to dissuade the others, but we have to save Fane. Without him there is no force on this planet strong enough to control Max.”
Chapter Four
Despite her determination not to get involved, Andrea absorbed the details of Roark’s research like a sponge. So many elements of the situation held unique possibilities and Andrea thrived on challenge. She was halfway through the first case study when she realized she’d been set up. Why was the documentation in Standard? Roark had left the workstation active, knowing she wouldn’t be able to resist reading his work.
Anger spiked through her and she shoved away from his desk. She would not follow his trail of bread crumbs like an obedient pet. Pacing the office and staring through the observation windows only made the information more tempting and allowed her simmering senses to boil.
Do you want Mal Ton to punish you? A barrage of unwanted images accompanied the question. Mal Ton bent her over the side of a bed, pulled down her pants, and proceeded to spank her naked butt. Even the fantasy was disconcerting, arousing in a way she’d never dreamed possible. Only weak, abused people craved discipline, and she was neither. So way did she find the possibility so titillating?
Her imagination moved on to more familiar scenarios. Naked and trembling, she knelt before Roark. He caressed her face with gentle hands while he rocked his cock in and out of her mouth. Behind her, Mal Ton thrust, filling her pussy completely again and again. She wanted them, needed them to… What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she control this desire?
With a frustrated groan, she shook away the fantasies, but the longing remained. She was well and truly trapped. Her family believed she was off saving an alien world. No one would rescue her. Desperate for a distraction from the hunger pulsing through her body, she glanced at the desk and cursed her captors. They had planned this perfectly, leaving her absolutely nothing to do but familiarize herself with the crisis.
Understanding the situation didn’t ensure her participation. It was as good a rationale as any so she returned to the desk. She was still paging through the files when a dour-faced soldier delivered a tray of food. Curled up in Roark’s large chair, she nibbled at the contents of the tray. The video segments and scanner records held far more appeal than the simple fare.
Roark had painstakingly traced the course of the mutation, noting possible connections and similarities between patients. He’d documented failed attempts at arresting its virulent spread as well as noting several compounds that slowed the transformation’s progress. They weren’t looking for another treatment. They expected a cure.
“Find anything interesting?” Roark miraculously kept the smugness from his tone when he returned later that evening.
“You’re a jerk and you know it.” She didn’t look up from the screen inset in his desk. Concentrating on the information had kept her desire more or less suppressed for the past few hours. She couldn’t afford a relapse now. “Do both Stilox and Protarians possess a triple helix or is that the genetic adaptation you mentioned last night?”
“Only the Stilox have triploid physiology. Is that important?” He sat in one of the chairs facing her and she raised her gaze.
Her memory hadn’t exaggerated his physical appeal. His wavy dark hair begged for her fingers and she wanted to feather kisses across his smooth, caramel-colored skin. Were his eyes always this bright a teal or did they darken to emerald when he came? Heat curled through her, building with each downward turn. Her lips tingled, her nipples hardened, and the muscles in her abdomen clenched. A distinct rhythm erupted in her core as she imagined the fullness of his cock… She was in serious trouble. How could she combat this intoxicating need?
Clearing her throat, she dragged her gaze away from his handsome face. “Everything is important until I understand the crisis.” Fortifying herself with years of training and professional detachment, she cut through the sensual haze. She must have current samples and more specific scans. “It says here there’s a formula that hinders the mutation’s development. Why was that path abandoned?”
“It wasn’t. The inhibitor is vital. Without it, all of us would be dead. Unfortunately the compound only slows cellular mutation and prolongs the inevitable. We need a permanent and complete genetic reversal.”
She nodded, lost in thought. If she could identify the DNA segments responsible for the mutation or better yet transcribe the entire strand back to a point before the mutation began… She bit back the questions flooding her mind. He must not realize how close she was to capitulation.
“Even if I can find a way to arrest the mutation—and I’m not saying I can—I can’t do it in response to Mal Ton’s threats.” She scooted to the edge of the chair and folded her hands on the desktop. “He has to release me and begin a legitimate negotiation.”
Roark pushed to his feet and raked his hair with both hands, smoothing the wavy strands away from his face. “This isn’t a game, Andrea. Mal Ton is ready to do whatever it takes to gain your cooperation. You can’t imagine what this conflict has cost him. You had a glimpse of what’s in store for you on the transport. Give me something useful.”
“If I allow myself to be forced into this, I’m setting a precedent for—”
&nbs
p; “To hell with your justifications.” He slammed his hand down on the desktop and leaned toward Andrea. “Can you do it or not?”
“It doesn’t matter as long as I’m a prisoner.”
“Every day you squander locked in this battle of wills costs someone else their life. How can you justify that?”
Before she could respond to his passionate outburst, the office door slid open and Mal Ton stood framed by the threshold. “May I presume from your frustrated expression that she’s accomplished nothing today?”
“Last chance, Andrea.” Roark’s voice was tight as he straightened and jerked down his shirt. “Tell me something—anything—and he won’t punish you.”
Mal Ton chuckled. “But she wants me to punish her. Haven’t you figured that out?”
Andrea pushed back from the desk and stood. “You’re deluded. I want nothing from you.”
Mal Ton’s brow arched. “You want my cock and we all know it. You’re just not sure how I’ll give it to you.”
He was right, but how did he know? Had he given her something to ensure her receptiveness or was this some latent desire she had yet to explore? Her body responded instantaneously each time he touched her. Sexual tension pulsed between her and Roark as well, but he hadn’t tested the attraction.
“Now or never, kitten.” Mal Ton’s lips parted in a salacious smile and lust ignited in his luminous eyes. “Once this starts, you’re mine for the night.” He took one long-legged step toward her. “I’ll be deaf to your protests and ruthless in my expectations of you.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to help you.” She pushed the tall-backed chair between them, her gaze darting to Roark. As before, he watched in disapproving silence but made no move to hinder the commander. “If you release me, maybe we can work something out.”
“Maybe is not good enough.” Mal Ton shoved the chair aside and captured her wrist. “Negotiations are closed until tomorrow. Let’s go.”
“Go where?” She tugged against his grasp with both hands but it made no difference. He dragged her out from behind the desk and headed for the door. “Where are you taking me?”
“Roark, accompany us.” He tossed the command over his shoulder without turning around.
After an instant of blinding terror, she assessed her surroundings, watching for unusual markings or anything that would identify one corridor from another. A sound, a smell, surely there was something unique in this complex. Stark gray walls and smooth marbled flooring made each passageway look the same. She continued resisting, but the slipper-like shoes Roark had given her skidded across the floor despite her best efforts to halt their progress.
Mal Ton pulled her along as if she weighed nothing. She dug her fingernails into his forearm. He didn’t even flinch. Pausing before a door indistinguishable from the others, Mal Ton waited for a scanner beam to pass over his face. The panel recessed into the wall and he pushed her into the adjoining room.
Roark’s quarters had been sparse and orderly while this room was… Decadent was the only word that came close and even it didn’t seem quite right. Draped in burgundy and green, a bed dominated one wall. Ornately carved chests and gilt-framed paintings brought to mind an era long past. A small sitting area was arranged near another doorway. Still, her gaze returned to the massive bed.
“When and if you share my bed, you will not only be willing, you will be eager for my touch.”
Snapped back to reality by Mal Ton’s sharp words, she looked up into his stern face. Despite the command in his tone and the firmness of his hold, his gaze caressed hers, promising more pleasure than pain. He was such a contradiction.
His hold eased as he drew her across the room toward a door she hadn’t noticed before. As if she moved through a dream, she placed one foot in front of the other, struggling for a frame of reference, something to connect this experience with reality. She’d imagined all the ways they would share pleasure, yet now that the moment was upon them, uncertainty all but smothered her desire.
“Roark doesn’t think you’re ready for pain.” Mal Ton’s voice whispered across her nerve endings as surely as if he had touched her. “I think pain will free you to enjoy pleasure.”
As if his words were not disturbing enough, the door slid open, revealing a room right out of the dark ages. “Oh, my god,” she whispered behind her hand, fear and anticipation blending in an intoxicating rush.
Manacles hung suspended from one wall while a decorative metal grid had been mounted to another. Padded foot holds and hand pegs protruded from the grid at a variety of heights and angles. A person could be secured in almost any position. The purpose of the whipping post and the low, padded bench was easy to deduce, but she couldn’t imagine how several of the apparatus would be used.
The door slid closed behind Roark before Mal Ton spoke again. “Have you ever experimented with restraint or sensory deprivation?”
“No.” She’d seen vid snippets of people indulging in such play. The BDSM community had pleasure centers in every major city on Earth.
“How many different lovers have you fucked? Have they all been men?”
“Do you keep track?” she snapped. “It’s none of your damn business.”
“My life has been significantly longer than yours,” he said with the hint of a smile, “but the answer might surprise you. If you don’t include the people I’ve trained, I have only had eight lovers.”
“Trained?” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “This is your training room?”
“Yes.” It was an emotionless statement. “But I don’t fuck my clients. I teach them how to overcome their inhibitions so they can find pleasure with a lover of their choice. Get undressed.”
“Screw you!” She turned toward the door but Mal Ton caught her arm. “I’m not one of your clients.” She tugged against his hold.
“No, you’re my pleasure servant, contractually obligated to give me whatever I want.”
“That again.” At some silent signal from Mal Ton, Roark moved up behind her. “What are you doing?”
“Helping him undress you.” Mal Ton raised her arms while Roark dragged her shirt off over her head. She twisted and kicked to no avail.
“You’re both crazy! How in god’s name is this helping the mutants? Isn’t that why I’m here?”
Mal Ton paused, his hands still clasping her wrists. “Shall we go to Roark’s lab and begin work on a cure?”
She licked her lips. Could she stall them long enough to…?
“Silly kitten.” He untied her pants and pushed them past her hips. “Now I have to punish you for deception as well as disobedience.”
“I’ve done nothing to deceive you,” she cried.
“Your expressions are incredibly easy to read. You were wondering how long you could put me off if you pretended to cooperate.”
She did have a dreadful poker face, but she suspected it was something more. Mal Ton always seemed to know what she was feeling. “Are you clairvoyant or empathic?”
“Both to some extent.” She hadn’t expected him to admit it so readily.
They urged her toward one of the odd-looking pieces of furniture. This one consisted of four padded rails attached to a tubular support system that kept it from toppling over. Nudging the back of her knees, Roark sent her forward onto the lower rails. One connected with the bend of her ankle, the other at mid-thigh. He spread her legs wide and held them steady as flexible bands extended from the outer edge of the rails and wrapped around her ankles and thighs.
Mal Ton rotated the frame forward and the other two rails pressed against her torso, one beneath her breasts, the other at her shoulders. Roark adjusted one of her arms to rest along the upper rail while Mal Ton stretched out the other. Three flexible bands secured each of her arms to the rail, one below her shoulder, one above her elbow, and the last at her wrist. It was as if they had bent her over an invisible table, then raised her six inches off the floor. Her torso was at a right angle to her legs, which were bent a
t the knees.
Both men stepped back and looked at her, spread out and helpless. She felt shame and excitement in equal measure. They could see everything and do anything, and she was powerless to stop them. Mal Ton was right. Life as she knew it ended when he entered her lab.
“Roark, fetch a paddle.” Mal Ton’s deep voice drew her back to the present. “With two infractions, this requires more than my hand.”
“But she isn’t—”
“Now!”
With obvious reluctance, Roark walked to a nearby cabinet inset in the wall and retrieved a paddle. He handed the implement to Mal Ton then took a step back.
Dread washed over her in icy waves. His hand had hurt worse than she’d expected. Could she bear to be spanked with a paddle? “Please. I’m sorry I can’t help you. I wish I could.”
“The choice is, and will always be yours,” he reminded. “You brought this on yourself.” With no other warning, he moved to her side and brought the flat of the paddle down across her ass.
Sharp, stinging pain burst in her bottom, radiating to her hips. She cried out and twisted, tugging against her bonds. “Stop it!”
The second swat was even harder. It centered over one cheek and drove the breath from her lungs. She froze, shocked and horrified that he would abuse her this way. He paddled the other side and she sucked in a lungful of air, then released it in a shrill scream.
Mal Ton chuckled. “What’s the matter, kitten? Hasn’t anyone ever disciplined you before?”
“This isn’t discipline. It’s abuse. You have no reason to beat me.” Tears gathered in her eyes, blurring her vision.
“I am not beating you. That’s a ridiculous exaggeration. And you were warned about the consequences of misbehavior. Now settle down and accept your punishment or this is going to be one long, miserable night.”
Four more spanks fell in rapid succession, alternating sides. She shook in her restraints, horrified at her body’s unwanted reaction. The need that had smoldered all day, flared to life with a vengeance. Her pussy ached, wet and ready to be filled, to be fucked.