Slavemaster's Woman, The

by Angelia Whiting

  “He was old. He died.” Biting off another piece of the bread, she chewed a few times and then swallowed. “His son, his successor was…” Her voice trailed off, and she stopped speaking.

  Tarken probed her further. “His son owned you next?”

  Cushla blinked, and then swallowed. She blinked again and then jerked her head, attempting to shake off the memory. She inhaled sharply, and blew it out harshly. “His father found no favor with him, and left him nothing. He was of no means, so he returned me. That is all.”

  At first, Tarken said nothing. He settled back into his seat putting only a small space between them. He continued to stare at her.

  Cushla however, kept her eyes forward, refusing to gaze at him, refusing to give him any clue to what she was thinking about—feeling.

  “You’re skirting some truth,” he finally commented.

  “Am I?” She turned to look at him. “What causes you to believe as such?”

  “You’re trembling, Cushla.”

  It was true. She was trembling, although Cushla was unaware of it until he mentioned it. Gazing down at her hands, she clamped them together and steeled her nerves, willing her body to stop. Even after many solars, some things were not easily forgotten, but the slavemaster—Mecor’s ally was the last person she wished to know what she’d failed to have forgotten.

  “What about your mother? Did she hold a position of importance on Buranis?”

  Inwardly, Cushla groaned, silently begging him to stop the interrogation. This time, she was unable to disguise the emotions of anguish that tore through her insides. “I don’t wish to speak about my mother.” She snapped at him, hoping the pain hadn’t spread to her face.

  Tarken studied her for what seemed like an eternity.

  She felt raw and exposed even though she offered him nothing. She would tell him nothing, no matter how much he pushed her to speak.

  To her surprise however, he didn’t push further, instead his hand came up and he brushed her cheek. “As you wish, mistress,” Tarken said to her.

  It was then Cushla realized a tear had fallen from her eye and she knew he’d discovered yet another vulnerability of hers. She’d be half daft if she thought he offered compassion. Mentally, she braced herself to the fact he might use it against her later.

  The soothing sounds of an echobass and melovibe being played by nearby musicians floated through the air, coaxing the tension inside of her to ease. She focused on it and closed her eyes, her head bobbing to the beat. She became absorbed with enjoying the melody.

  “A favorite?” Tarken asked.

  Cushla’s eyes popped open, and she turned to look at him.

  He was still studying her, though his expression was gentle and friendly.

  She opened her mouth to answer but reconsidered. For as long as she could remember, she’d always enjoyed the classic music made popular throughout the galaxies by the rural dwellers from Planet Ingyx. No, she wouldn’t fall for it. Tarken’s gentle approach was another ploy to find ways to punish her. Losing the privilege to listen to music? She’d admit to nothing. “I appreciate the quality of the sound. I appreciate many forms of music.”

  Running a single finger along the line of her cheek, Tarken smiled. “You’re quite cultured for as you say…just a mere slave.”

  A shiver went up Cushla’s spine at his affectionate touch, his voice, low as he spoke sending sensual quivers through her body. The effect he had on her was pleasant, and in that moment, she felt her defenses slip, but the feeling was brief. The crack of a whip startled her, the sound drawing her attention along with Tarken’s to a platform across the marketplace quad.

  Slaves were being fared, two young and strong-looking males, and a female who appeared on the cusp of adulthood. She looked frightened.

  Cushla understood her fear but brushed all empathetic emotions aside. Survival meant hardening her heart, forgetting memories of confronting and coping with new and possibly abusive masters. Instead, she focused on the last bit of bread she had left to eat. “What of my punishment, Tarken? You’ve given me an enjoyable staple, rather than feeding me with the slavery muck I loathe.”

  Squinting, Tarken focused on the gathering where the slave bidding was taking place. Mecor’s royals were there. “That particular punishment is a moot thing since you’re bothered little by it.”

  “As is the sex...” Cushla returned. “A moot thing to punish me with.”

  Tarken’s gaze shifted over to Cushla. “Are you admitting the sexing with me is enjoyable?”

  “Would that please you, slavemaster?” She flashed a mischievous grin.

  “It would please me immensely, Cushla if I was made to believe you were being truthful.”

  “Then, I suppose you will need to discover how to decipher between my honesty and my lies.”

  Grasping her beneath the chin, Tarken tipped her face upward and toward his. His eyes locked on to hers, darting slightly back and forth as if attempting to read her. “Do you lie…Cushla?”

  “If I told you yes I might be lying. If I told you no…I might be lying still. How would you know which was which, Tarken?”

  He burst out laughing and released his grasp on her chin. “I choose to believe you enjoy the copulating with me.”

  Cushla snorted and turned her head away from him, her smile briskly fading when she saw Rube and Scoac speaking to several patrons. They were intermittently turning to glare in her direction.

  “They’re publicizing your presence.” Tarken commented, the tone of his voice laced with irritation. “From the way they’ve been behaving this entire journey, I have little doubt about this now. What do you have, mistress that they want everyone to be aware of?”

  “Perhaps they’re aware of my special powers.” Cushla leaned closer to Tarken her voice becoming a sarcastic whisper.

  Returning his gaze to her, he stared at her blankly for a moment and snickered. “I think you’re full of orshi dung, mistress. Your only special power is...” Tarken fell silent.

  Cushla sensed he was about to admit to something but thought better of it. She decided to push the issue a bit. “Is what?” she asked when he failed to continue. “You were saying?”

  Instead of answering, his attention seemed to drift elsewhere and she followed the line of his gaze.

  Just across the quad, Ayia was sitting at a table on an outdoor patio of a café. There was another female seated next to her, perhaps a Ferubian or Shalcar either identifiable by their deep orange skin—a Shalcar. The woman’s ears were higher set, revealing the subtle difference between the races. Ferubians had much lower set ears.

  Cushla watched the exchange occurring between the women.

  Their heads were tipped towards each other, their bodies leaning forward, and they appeared to be engaged in a heavy conversation.

  “She’s probably soliciting a new customer, although…” Cushla paused and tilted her head scrutinizing Ayia’s acquaintance. “By that woman’s manner of dress, she seems less than able to afford the services.”

  “You cannot judge the contents of something by its casing, mistress.”

  “No,” Cushla returned. “No you can’t.”

  * * * *

  Tarken felt a pang in his chest, hoping the comment alluded to her first impression of him. Or perhaps she was referring to his assumptions about her. Why he even cared was perplexing. He exhaled harshly, but the breath did little to relieve the uncomfortable strain inside of him, the fact that he wanted to kiss her passionately, run his hands all over her body, feel her dampening around his hardness while he made lov—“Fuck,” Tarken groused, banishing the absurd reference to making love from his mind. It was nothing more than sexing—physical, uninvolved sexing.

  Still, he could never admit to her that he too, enjoyed the copulating with her, even more so than any other female he’d ever been with. Even worse, he’d almost confessed it to her. When he stifled himself earlier, he’d been about to admit to the powerful effect she was hav
ing on him. His vulnerability to her was the last thing he wanted her to know. Standing, Tarken forced a detached façade. “It’s time to return to the ship.”

  He waited until Cushla stood, snatched her upper arm firmly and dragged her from the busy market. Following one of the paths, he led her to a more secluded area, ignoring her quick breaths as she attempted to keep pace with him.

  Abruptly, Tarken detoured into the trees, pulling Cushla until he determined they were a good distance from any passerby’s sight. Though some slavemasters were crude, he was a discreet man. “On your knees,” he demanded, but instead of waiting for her to comply, he grasped her arms, the sheer strength and size of him overpowering her and forcing her down, the impact causing the mushy, wet ground beneath her to splatter. “Suck my cock.” Tarken unfastened his trousers and then withdrew his hands.

  Cushla swallowed hard and pursed her lips. She clenched her hands, refusing to do his bidding.

  “Comply, mistress or—”

  “Or what, you’ll force me?” She glared at him, her expression almost daring Tarken to carry out his threat.

  Realizing he’d gotten himself into a predicament, his irritation worsened. Dragging Cushla into the marsh was an impulsive reaction, an attempt to counteract his irrational emotional attraction to the slave woman. Her defiance was punishable, yet she had him cornered. Of course he wouldn’t force her.

  Spirits fucking hell! His cock was hardening at the sight of her kneeling before him, pinning him with angry crystal eyes. And for some strange star blasted reason, Tarken couldn’t surmise, the wet muck that coated her dress, clinging to her skin and outlining her thighs only caused his lust to intensify.

  Being the type of slavemaster he was, restrained, rational and always, always, well—almost always accurate in perceiving what training techniques would work the best, Tarken reacted in the only way he deemed logical. He snatched Cushla by the upper arms and tugged her upward and toward him, squashing her body against his and then kissed her passionately.

  Only a small squeal escaped Cushla’s throat before she gasped for air. His mouth was so tightly sealed over hers, the only thing entering and leaving from there was Tarken’s darting tongue. At first she struggled, pushed at his shoulders.

  Tarken having already slipped his arms tightly around her, imprisoned Cushla firmly inhibiting most movement.

  They went down. Mud squishing all around them, splattering onto their skin and clothing, Tarken still holding her to him, his body partially over hers he continued to stroke his tongue between her lips within her sweet mouth, swiping along the length of her tongue.

  She surrendered, her taut muscles softening allowing her to meld within his embrace. With ardent reciprocation Cushla kissed him back and without recourse began running her hands all over Tarken’s body, his back, his ass. Her breathing accelerated and she exhaled heavily.

  Tarken pressed his swelling cock against Cushla's thigh, and then withdrew from kissing her.

  For a moment, they gazed at each other acutely aware of the steaming desire building inside of them for each other.

  Then…without warning, Cushla laughed. Her head dropped back and the hardy sound bellowed from her throat, the vigorous enthusiasm within it causing her body to quake in his arms.

  Tarken merely watched her, realizing he’d heard her sarcastic snorts prior, but never this kind of mirth, that of a carefree kind. “I should take offense, mistress.”

  Still chuckling, Cushla lifted her head, her eyes meeting his. “If you’d told me so many dawnings ago that I would be aroused while lying in muck, I’d accuse you of being a brain injured simpleton.”

  “Ah, but that is the effect I have on many females.” He glanced down at their dirty clothing, snorted and then rolled off of her. “Often becoming lost in the arousal I coax from them.”

  “Arrogant bastard,” Cushla retorted as Tarken held out a hand…which she refused. Standing, she brushed at her arms and clothing, further smearing the muck. “I don’t suppose I’m very presentable at the moment.”

  “Certainly not fit for a ki—” Abruptly, Tarken stopped speaking. The whir of a discharging weapon was the last thing he heard as pain crackled inside of his skull, and he felt his body go limp.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend,” the woman answered while clutching Cushla’s wrist and dragging her at what seemed an impossible rushing gait, toward the docking area of departing and arriving space vessels.

  “Do you intend to be my new master, ah mistress?”

  The woman dug in her heels and stopped. Without hesitation, she whipped her body one hundred and eighty degrees to face Cushla. “I intend to set you free.”

  Staring past the woman’s shoulder, Cushla scanned the space port launch area, examining the sizes and various designs of the ships there. “Do you have transportation?”

  “Does darkness shine up Creatar’s asshole?”

  Cushla blinked at the Shalcar woman who she last saw speaking with Ayia, having no idea what the hell she was talking about. “I do not know, does it?”

  “Never mind, just keep moving!”

  Shrugging, Cushla followed the woman through a side path, circling the docking area. It appeared as if they were heading toward a more remote area of the depot, a darker area that looked eerie and unsafe. It didn’t deter her however. If it meant her freedom was close at hand it was worth whatever risk she was taking.

  Thoughts of Tarken came to her mind, and an unanticipated sadness filled her. Reluctantly, Cushla admitted that she was going to miss him. More than she would’ve expected by the way she was feeling at the moment. Did she like him that much? Her breath caught when her heart thumped. “Hellfires! No way in damn hellfires,” she mumbled.

  “What did you say?” the woman asked her without turning around. She’d drawn a stunner from somewhere beneath the black cloak she was wearing, her head darting everywhere for some unseen foe.

  “Where are we going?” Cushla asked while she silently continued to examine the emotions for Tarken that were threading through her. Spirits! She more than liked the slavemaster. She was close to loving him. Did she really love him? At least she thought that’s what it might be. But she had nothing to compare it to since she’d spent most of her existence living with hate.

  Yet the passion of the emotion ran almost as deep, but in the contrary direction. The only love she’d known before this was of her mother and father but this was not the same thing, though the warmth of it was there. The feelings she had for Tarken were becoming profound.

  Cushla didn’t know what made her turn around—a cosmic perception perhaps, but when she did, she saw Tarken rushing toward them and was disturbingly elated he was following them. Curiously, it wasn’t anger she saw on his face as she might have expected. She thought she saw fear.

  The sound of a thud in front of her came belatedly, and before Cushla could turn to investigate, she was tumbling over something solid—a body, the woman’s body. The Shalcar had fallen. Reflexively, Cushla’s hands shot out to break her fall, and a stinging sensation shot through her palms as they slapped the stone walkway below. Her elbows collapsed and scraped the surface and it hurt like hellfires, but she barely had time to register the pain.

  Scrambling rapidly off the woman, she scuttled to the side of the path and caught sight of Rube and Scoac hastening in her direction, their stunners withdrawn. Her head shifted to her abductor.

  The woman scooped herself from the ground, coming up to all fours. She shook off the disorientation from the jolt she’d just received from the royals’ weapons. “Sorry, Cushla,” the woman rasped out as she quickly shuffled to her feet. Her head snapped right and then left, regarding the advancing royals and oncoming Tarken. “Looks like I’m outnumbered here and my orders are to get myself out in lieu of capture.”

  With that, the woman hastily left the path.

  “Piss comets,” Cushla murmured watching the woman’s backside
as she vanished into the nearby brush. “I was so cosmic fucking close to escape this time.”

  “I’ll follow her,” Rube told Scoac as they neared to where Cushla still sat on the ground. “She may be heading toward our target.” He chased after the woman.

  A sneer creased Scoac’s lips as he turned and snatched Cushla by the upper arm, hauling her to her feet.

  Grimacing, Cushla turned her head aside as Scoac brought his face offensively close to hers, his smelly breath hot on her skin. The man reeked of drink. “You…bitch, will be punished for this feeble escape attempt.” The royal jerked her even closer. His grip tightened on her arm, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh.

  Cushla steeled herself against it, returning an angry look instead.

  “And I’ll be the one to address the issue of punishment, Scoac.” Tarken approached, impinging the space around Cushla and the royal. Being a head taller than Scoac, Tarken loomed, his presence, his expression intimidating. “Release her.”

  Being the pompous sort, Scoac snickered. Nevertheless, he withdrew his grip on Cushla though his mocking smile remained. He then eyed Tarken. “You do realize I have every right to fuck her if I please.”

  Crossing one arm over the other, Tarken’s demeanor visibly relaxed. “Take your pleasure if you wish royal, but be assured she isn’t worth it.”

  Cushla bristled. The comment hurt and that dumbfounded her. Never before had she cared whether anyone thought of her as good with the sexing, but from Tarken—ach! What was wrong with her that she desired his approval? There was more however that she found bothersome. It seemed the slavemaster couldn’t care less if someone else bedded her. She wanted him to care. She wanted him to be possessive of her. She wanted him to…“Hellblazing sucking astral blackholes,” Cushla uttered. Determination captured her. Somehow, she would banish Tarken from her heart. She stomped back along on the path in the direction from which she’d come.

  Tarken was on her within a light flash, his hand wrapping her upper arm even more tightly than Scoac had gripped her. Without a skip in his pace, he began pulling her along the walkway. He most certainly seemed to have a hankering about forcefully hauling her all over the place.