At the Mercy of Her Pleasure

by Kayelle Allen

  “Around two in the afternoon, tomorrow.”

  “I'll be the one picking you up.” NarrAy stood. “Where should that be?”

  Senth stood and held out a card. “Meet me here. We'll have a final briefing, sign a contract and be on our way.”

  When her fingers closed over the small card, he didn't release it. She looked into his eyes.

  “You don't have to worry about my ability. I can and will do exactly what you hired me to do.” He let go of the card. “We'll get your mother's locket and be back here within four days. Five at the absolute most.”

  “You're sure?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Senth flashed a look at the harbinger. “Count on it. Grab and go.” he snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

  Chapter Three

  Kelthia, Miraj City

  Thieves' Guild Headquarters, Training Room Seven

  Senth rubbed the back of a gloved hand over his damp brow. The Vassindorf, a duplicate of the complex system he'd face in the government building, might as well have been an iron wall. The featureless structure showed no signs of access. Other faceless models by the same manufacturer lined the room where he practiced. All of them guaranteed to react like the real thing.

  No matter how often he tried, the complicated interior mechanism of the Vassindorf reset every time Senth's lockpick engaged the system.

  Another try, and the alarm sang out again.

  Ffffftt this. I need a break.

  Senth set the fat stylus-shaped lockpick on a chair and pressed his palms together, placing his hands before him as if in prayer. Closing his eyes, he cleansed his thoughts, talking himself down to a lower state of anxiety. The words his master had taught him rolled through his mind and brought peace and tranquility, reassuring calm. He let out a long breath and rolled his head, stretched his arms above him and then lowered them, fingers flexing.

  Okay, Senth. Be one with the lock. He opened his eyes, mouth twisted. Just what the ffffftt does that mean, anyway? He snatched up the lockpick.

  He reset the instrument and tuned it to the new Vassindorf codes downloaded from the Guild that morning, at great cost to his master.

  First, aim.

  Senth used the lockpick's pinpoint light to target the portal's safeguard-zone.

  Second, activate.

  He thumbed the pick, and felt the unit hum within his grasp. When initiated, it released a pulse disabling the security codes. If it was programmed and aimed correctly.

  Come on, you lousy piece of kkkhh, work this time. He crossed mental fingers. Third, initiate sequence for—

  The alarm wailed.

  “Oh, ffffftt!” Senth gripped the lockpick in his fist, so tempted to hurl it on the ground he had to force himself to set it down. He turned toward his coaches. “Flea, what am I doing wrong?”

  “You tell me, son.”

  “Flea!” Gnat put in. “What kind of answer is that to give the boy?”

  Flea and Gnat sat at a conference table on either side of four year old Sylk, their latest protégé. The two Kelthians had trained Senth at that same young age. With their white hair and saintly, wrinkled smiles, they hardly seemed like professional thieves. Yet each held the rank of Arcane Master, the highest in the Guild, and had for more years than anyone could remember.

  Sylk did not pause in his play. Gnat had given the little dark-haired boy ten padlocks to open, and he worked a manual lockpick into the last one. The other locks already lay opened on the table.

  “Senth is just nervous.” Flea angled the padlock for Sylk. “He's under pressure. He needs to calm down.”

  “Then don't ask him what's wrong.” Gnat pushed back his chair and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees while he watched Sylk's hands. “That's like saying, 'Be one with the lock'. Like that means anything.”

  Huh. Senth smiled. So it is nothing but kkkhh!

  Gnat guided Sylk's right hand, steadying it. “Tell Senth what's wrong, Flea.”

  “But he already knows the answer. He only needs to see it for himself.”

  Sylk's lock sprang open. The boy beamed at Flea and then Gnat.

  “Good job, Sylk.” Flea ruffled his hair.

  “Good job!” Gnat bent and kissed him on the head. “Want some more to play with?”

  The boy nodded solemnly. His pale skin was almost white compared to Flea and Gnat, as if illness plagued him. Rumor had it he never spoke.

  Gnat dug around in a bag he'd set on another chair. “Well, if Senth knew what he was doing wrong, why would he ask the question?”

  They both turned toward him. Sylk looked from Senth to Flea and then Gnat. Both men folded their hands and placed them on the table in front of them. Sylk set his there, too.

  Senth rolled his eyes. “I'm just nervous. I'll try again.”

  “Good lad.” Gnat pushed aside the open locks, and set a different type on the table in front of Sylk. “Here you go, Son. Try these.”

  Senth stuffed a loose strand of hair under his cap, and went back to work. He smoothed his gloves, tightening them over his fingers. He brought the back of one hand up to his nose and caught the scent NarrAy had left, triggering sensory inputs that flooded him with memories.

  Her red dress. The tawny skin showing beneath the expensive fabric. Her breasts, which were more than enough to fill his cupped hands. A shiver ran over him. Her lips were dark, and not from lipstick. I wonder if my fangs would get in the way if I tried to kiss her? He licked them unconsciously. Her sun-streaked, brown hair glinted with gold highlights. She'd worn it up, with some kind of sparkly pins.

  I wonder how long it is? I'll bet it'd tickle if it fell over my—

  “Senthys?”

  He jumped at his master's voice, and hid both hands behind him as he whirled to face the man. “Sir!”

  Saint-Cyr frowned. “Are you all right?”

  “Um, yes, sir.” His cheeks blazed.

  Saint-Cyr's whiteless eyes narrowed at him like he read every forbidden memory of NarrAy's luscious beauty skulking through Senth's mind. “How's it going?”

  “He's doing fine,” Flea answered.

  “Except for a little trouble,” Gnat added.

  “Trouble?” Saint-Cyr frowned at Senth. “What kind of trouble?”

  “No trouble,” Flea insisted. “He's doing fine.”

  “Fine,” Gnat echoed. “Except for not being able to break into the system.”

  “You can't get in?” Saint-Cyr stalked closer. “Why not, Senthys? What are you doing wrong?”

  “Nothing, sir. I can do it.” Senth took a step back, spreading his hands. “It's just…” Flea, Gnat, and Sylk were watching him. “Um, it's just…”

  “That he hasn't done it yet.” Flea nodded. “He will though. In time.”

  “Time is something he doesn't have,” the Harbinger reminded them. “It's nearly noon. Ms. Jorlan will be next door at the cafe in two hours. Haven't you gotten into the Vassindorf even once?”

  What if Saint-Cyr handed over the job to someone else? Let someone else work with NarrAy?

  “No!” Senth yelled. When Saint-Cyr's eyebrows rose, he added, “Er, I mean, um, not yet. It's complicated, sir.”

  “What's complicated, Senthys? The system, or your excuses?”

  Flea stood. “The system, Luc, of course. Senth's doing fine.”

  Senth had never heard anyone but Flea and Gnat call the Harbinger by his first name.

  Flea walked around the table.

  Gnat tsked. “That Vassindorf's nothing. Sylk could get into that.”

  The little boy lifted his head, looking from Gnat to the Vassindorf and back.

  Saint-Cyr folded his arms. “Is that true, Senthys? If you can't do this, tell me now. I don't have time to waste on finding a replacement.”

  “No, master, I can do it. All I need is…”

  “Vassindorf security breached successfully,” the Guild's training computer announced. “Resetting.”

  Everyone's eyes followed Sylk as he handed S
enth the lockpick, went back to the table and climbed up into his chair. He picked up a lock as if nothing had happened and stuck a lockpick into it. Gnat leaned over and kissed Sylk on the head.

  Senth stared at the boy, the lockpick, then back at the boy. “How old is he?” he asked. “Really.”

  “Sylk.” Gnat pointed to Senth. “Tell him how old you are, Son.”

  Sylk held up four fingers.

  “You're sure?” Senth said. “I could never do anything like that when I was four.”

  “Neither could I,” Saint-Cyr admitted.

  “Sylk's incredible,” Flea said. “He can open anything we give him. We don't know how he does it.”

  Senth stared at the lockpick again. “But how could he breach a Vassindorf?”

  “That's your lesson for the day, Senth.” Gnat rocked back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Never think about the importance of a lock. Just pick it.”

  * * * *

  Miraj City Bakery Café

  Senth draped his cloak over the back of an empty chair and sat at the café table. The Harbinger took the seat beside him. They each had a cup of coffee in front of them. NarrAy was due within minutes.

  “You did well with the Vassindorf, Senthys.”

  He wished he could see the man's real eyes. Read him for once instead of guessing. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Once you saw a four year old could do it.”

  He thunked an elbow on the table and leaned his chin on a fist.

  The Harbinger smiled. “Don't take it so hard. The boy's amazing. And with those two as his teachers, no doubt he'll reach Arcane Master one day.”

  “You think I could?”

  His master leaned back, as if appraising him. “Do you want to?”

  Senth stared into the unfathomable raven-like eyes. “More than anything, sir.”

  “Then keep working. I chose you out of that orphanage because I saw a spark of brilliance in you.” He leaned forward, laying a hand on Senth's arm. “People were amazed at you when you were that age.” With a pat, he added, “They still are.”

  “Thank you.” Praise came so rarely he basked in any he received.

  “That wasn't meant to make you feel good. It's simply the truth.” He reached into his pocket and laid a note reader on the table. “There's something you need to know. Khyffen was injured last night.”

  Senth sat up straight. “How? What happened?”

  “His illicit street activities caught up with him when a client went to the house and recognized him. His master took a whip to him.” Saint-Cyr clamped his hand on Senth's arm when he tried to rise. “Sit down. You need to hear the rest.”

  Senth sat, his teeth grinding so tightly his jaw hurt.

  “Another sex worker called the police. In the end, they arrested Khyffen for parole violation and Stalkos for abuse. Your brother was treated for lacerations on his back, legs, and arms.”

  Again, the Harbinger gripped Senth's arm.

  “Master, please! I need to see him.”

  “I've already seen him myself, and I can assure you he'll be fine. Now, sit down.”

  Senth clenched his fists, but obeyed.

  “You need to focus. Khyffen's freedom is riding on your completing this task.”

  He nodded, wetting his lips. “Yes, master. What's going to happen to him?”

  “Right now, he's in jail. He didn't fight back when he was beaten, which will go in his favor, but they've got him for violating his license by working the street without permission. Stalkos is threatening to sue his former clients for rape.”

  “Rape!”

  “He's within his rights. Having sex with a slake without a master's permission can be construed as such.”

  “As if addicting him to Thrust and then selling him to the highest bidder isn't.”

  The Harbinger picked up his coffee and blew on it. “Of all the deeds I've had my dirty fingers in over the years, prostitution was never one of them. Train a child to steal? Yes. Train a child to be a sex slave?” The steam faded when Saint-Cyr sighed. “Never happen to one of mine.” He sipped the drink.

  “Master, we have to stop him. Khyff's been putting every drak into his freedom account.”

  “I'm more than aware.” He patted a pocket. “I have the deposit note for the money you gave me this morning. He's reached a substantial balance. And don't worry. Stalkos would have to name Khyffen's clients first, and I doubt any will come forward and confess. I've already contacted our union lawyers. There are one or two who owe me favors.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don't thank me yet.”

  Saint-Cyr glanced toward the door.

  “She's here. Now…” his hand tightened on Senth's arm, “—remember our deal. I'll take care of Khyffen. You do your job safely and get your ass back here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They both stood when NarrAy approached. Saint-Cyr pulled out a chair for her while Senth kicked himself for draping his cloak over the seat closest to himself. She sat facing him.

  “You said we'd have a final briefing.” She folded her hands on the table. “I'm ready if you are.”

  Saint-Cyr slid the notepad toward her. “Final contract. Read it, imprint your thumb and tap send, and we're official. The union copy will be destroyed once Senthys returns safely and you're satisfied with his performance.”

  She dropped her gaze, and looked back up at Senth under her lashes. “I'm sure his performance will be wonderful.”

  Senth's cheeks warmed as he considered the double meaning of those words.

  “Which reminds me.” Saint-Cyr withdrew a silver tube from an inner pocket. “Senthys, take off your jacket and bare your arm, please.”

  He sent a pleading look his master's way.

  “There's no help for it. You're like a son to me, and I can't risk your involvement with a Better. Now bare your arm.”

  Eyes closed, Senth bit into his lower lip. How could he bear to face NarrAy once she saw him do this?

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Giving him Shackle.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Saint-Cyr, my being a Better does not mean I intend to seduce and steal your son.”

  “This isn't about you, Ms. Jorlan, it's about Senthys. He's more than a son to me, he's a major source of income. And a slave.”

  “I can't condone…”

  “Please!” Senth yanked off his jacket and pulled up his sleeve. He turned his head. “Just get it over with.”

  Knowing NarrAy watched while his master emasculated him stung worse than the all too familiar scald of the drug racing through his veins toward his heart. He chewed his lip and bounced one knee, but air hissed over his teeth anyway because of the pain.

  Shoving his sleeve back down, Senth pulled on his jacket and stood, refusing to rub away the ache.

  NarrAy set her thumb against the note screen and tapped it once. She shoved it at Saint-Cyr.

  “This is your copy.” Saint-Cyr handed her back the pad and stood when she did.

  “Let's go.” Senth snatched up his cloak. Everything he needed for work was in its myriad pockets. He aimed a remote at the squat bagbot waiting near the door, and the automated suitcase beeped as it activated.

  Senth gestured NarrAy ahead of him and followed her to the door.

  “Senthys.”

  One step from exiting, he halted at his master's voice. NarrAy waited outside. His face burning, Senth turned back and tried not to glare. “Master.”

  The Harbinger's eyes were unreadable as ever. “Good luck, Son.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “Especially with the Vassindorf.”

  Chapter Four

  Tarth, Tarth City

  Imperial Palace, Stable Wing

  Her Majesty, Empress Rheyn Destoiya, awoke to the feel of lips kissing the back of her knees and neck. She sighed with pleasure, stretching into the pairs of hands caressing her.

  Her two newest jades, Rudolf and Sander, moved to lie on either side of her on
the wide bed. The human Rudolf, with his exotic piercings and limber body, had danced his way into her stable of pleasure slaves, shedding his clothes one piece at a time. The Chiasma Sander captured her attention with his sharply defined beauty and dual sexuality, but his nimble mouth secured it. She and Rudolf had kept the tireless Androg busy all night. What he could do with that tongue…

  What phe could do, she corrected herself.

  The Conqueror soon forgot the niceties of Chiasmii pronouns when her jades made her moan aloud.

  She turned on her side and took Sander into her arms, dragging him closer for a kiss. She wanted that mouth again. He slid a hand between her legs and lifted her upper thigh as he pulled it toward him, opening her for Rudolf. She arched back against Rudolf and welcomed the exquisite sensation of his pierced cock parting the lips of her pussy from behind and plunging the hard metal ring at the top of his cockhead deep inside.

  “Yes, like that. More.”

  She laid her head back against Rudolf's shoulder when he thrust harder. Wrapping her leg around Sander's waist, she clung to him with both hands.

  “More,” she demanded, her voice husky. “More mouth.”

  Sander's tongue laved her throat, his teeth nipping her skin. Rudolf's teeth tugged at her earlobe. Destoiya shivered at the heat of Rudolf's breath, the coolness of Sander's mouth, both wet against her skin.

  Sander flattened his palm against her mons, and when he cupped his fingers between her labia, she nearly arched off the bed. Searing heat flooded her body and took her breath.

  Sander was using his Empas to absorb her lust—and Rudolf's—and was pinpoint feeding it back to her. The desire of three, magnified, aimed, and delivered with precision. She half expected to combust.

  The moment Sander's fingers slipped inside her opening, she climaxed. She hunched back against Rudolf, screaming her release, sobbing with it. Sander clamped his mouth over one breast, the tip of his tongue battering her nipple. She screamed again, her mouth wide. She gripped Rudolf's upper thigh and rode him, thrusting back while he ground himself into her.

  His cock twitched and jumped inside her while he cried out his pleasure and shudders racked his body. His gasps heated her neck.

  Sander slipped inside her the moment Rudolf withdrew.

  The change between lovers only hurled her faster over the top. Frenzied with Empas-inspired lust, mewling cries escaped her throat.