by Colette Gale
Akenov was jovial, greeting his subjects often by name. However, he made no mention of her name, or even who she was, but Jane got the impression her identity was no mystery—at least to the residents of Sallito.
The castle was enclosed by a formidable gate, and as they approached, the tiered building cast a cool, welcoming shadow in the hot sun. Behind the building rose the spear of the mountain, forbidding in a dark, violent manner. Jane shivered, for there was something about that peak and the idea of a sorcerer living there that frightened her.
Still on Akenov’s arm, she carefully climbed the steps of the palace, but it was here her escort stopped. They turned to face the crowd of people who’d followed them, filling up the street behind their entourage, until what must be nearly all the residents of Sallito Island crowded into the courtyard.
Akenov held out a hand and all talking and movement stopped as every face turned to look up toward them.
“Today,” he called in a ringing voice, “is a great day. For today, at last, I have chosen a wife. She will be your mistress, your over-lady, the kingdom’s concubine, and the queen of Sallito Island.”
With a great flourish, he pulled Jane forward to the sounds of wild cheers and screams. Then, with one quick flicking movement, he unfastened the cape’s collar and whisked the silken fabric away.
The crowd subsided for a moment, then erupted again in louder, more enthusiastic cheers as she stood there, clothed only in silver lacings on feet and arms, and the tiara on her hair. The hot sun beat down on her skin, which glistened and shone in pearl-like translucence. Her breasts were still tight and aroused from the caress of the silk, but she stood, chin lifted, eyes clear, as the collective gaze of Akenov’s kingdom took in the sight of her. Being gawked at by hundreds of eyes while she was naked was no longer a shock—or even shameful—to her.
Jane had come to understand who she was and what power her body had: both over others and over herself. She was beginning to learn how to shed the shame her Victorian upbringing might have instilled in her, and instead use her body to her advantage.
“They love you, my darling,” Akenov said, settling the cloak around her shoulders once more with an affectionate caress under her chin. “And you will grow to love them. They are ecstatic that I’ve at last announced my bride.”
He brought her into the castle on his arm, and Jane stumbled along in her high-soled shoes, her thoughts still a bit muddled and confused. Akenov turned her over to a bevy of maidservants, then disappeared down a different arched corridor.
As Jane was whisked away along a broad, high-ceilinged marble corridor, she glanced up when she felt someone watching her.
It was a row of women standing at a balcony that overlooked the main foyer of the palace. There were six or seven of them—all stunningly beautiful—dressed in glittering jewels and expensive silk. They all watched as she passed by beneath them.
But there was one in particular whose heavy gaze settled on Jane like a vicious blow. She stood a short distance from the others, and was an exotic-looking woman of ebony hair, mahogany skin, and hate-filled golden eyes.
“Who is that?” Jane asked one of the maidservants. “All of those women—and the one in gold?”
“Those are my lord’s concubines and mistresses,” replied one of the maids. “The one in gold…that is Dreana. She is my lord’s favorite, and the mistress of the harem.”
That would explain the loathing in the woman’s gaze. Not one to cower, Jane turned back to look at the woman, meeting her eyes directly. There was nothing to be done about Akenov’s affections and upon whom he bestowed them, but perhaps there was a chance she and Dreana could come to an understanding.
After all, Jane had no desire to be here in Sallito, or to be the wife of Akenov. All she wanted was Zaren. If she could impress that information upon Dreana, perhaps she could even help her escape.
But first, Jane had something else to attend to.
She wanted to find a way to fuck Akenov. It was time she found a way to take control.
— VI —
Zaren closed his eyes and tried to ignore how close he was to Gidaro’s strong, muscular body. The scent of maleness, and power, and animal heat emanated from the man’s very pores.
When they left Zenovia’s courtroom, Zaren and the man who’d knelt before him and sucked his cock into a dark, destructive orgasm, had been manacled together at the wrists and ankles. Their black leather bands were linked tightly with heavy silver chains, then Mendiara and a retinue of her guards—all of them Amazonian females, including the one who’d had a weapon at the ready to thrust into Zaren’s back—led the way to a cart.
The two manacled men had been forced to move their limbs in tandem—arms and thighs brushing against the others’—in order to climb aboard the cart. And now they stood, arms wide and chained to the side of the vehicle with Zaren facing the front and Gidaro impossibly close behind him.
He wasn’t certain whether the proximity was due to the length of the chains attaching them to each other, or the other man’s desire to stand so close to him. It didn’t matter, for Zaren was trapped between the wall and Gidaro, and he could feel the unmistakable prod of a thick cock against his arse. The constant bump made his own cock, as shocked and exhausted as it was from the intense orgasm a short time ago, fill and bounce itself against the half-open fabric of his breeches.
Every jounce and jolt of the cart sent Gidaro bumping into Zaren, his broad chest slamming into his back, his hands cupping Zaren’s from behind. He slid a finger sensually over the rough but sensitive skin of Zaren’s palms, rubbing, stroking, teasing in a strangely innocent but erotic manner. Little pangs of heat flickered down through his body, spiking his heart beat and causing him to focus all of his attention on every brush of skin against skin.
This was not what he wanted. He wanted Jane. Only Jane. Yet Zaren could do nothing but stand there, as still as possible, and try to ignore the scents and sensations pouring from his unwanted companion. The heat from Gidaro’s breath was moist against his neck and shoulders, and he closed his eyes, trying to think of his wife.
Jane.
Jane—not the strong, muscled man behind him.
Not the man who’d done something Zaren had tried to forget was possible, taking his member deep into his mouth and devouring it until Zaren lost all thought.
Not the man whose desire for him rolled off his body in waves as strong as those that washed up on his jungle shore.
Jane.
Whatever happened, whatever Mendiara had in mind for him and Gidaro—and Zaren had a very dark, very unsettling idea what that would be—he would find a way to get free. He’d find a way to escape with his life, to find his beloved, and to throw himself at her feet and beg for forgiveness.
Whatever his future, he would play along. He would do what he had to do.
He would do what must be done. He would, as the fancifully dressed and painted people had done onstage in London, play the role so convincingly no one would question his true feelings.
Yet, Zaren couldn’t stop a dark little shiver that surprised him with its power as Gidaro rubbed against him once more—a shiver not of disgust, but of deep, shocking lust.
The ride across Amazonia to the other side of the kingdom was, blessedly, less than half a day long. However, the heat was intense, and the sun beat down on the two men, where they rode in an unsheltered part of the cart. Despite this, Zaren spent the entirety of it in a state of painful arousal, his engorged cock bumping and rubbing against the cart’s wall.
Once, when Gidaro seemed to be coming even more insistent in his rubbing and prodding, Mendiara gave a sharp command. One of her guards yanked Gidaro away from Zaren so roughly they both stumbled back, saved from falling to the floor only by the chains binding them to the sides of the vehicle, their arms straining and wrists twisting as they fought to regain balance in a tangle of limbs and chains.
Then, before he’d hardly recovered his balance, Zaren heard the
sound of something slicing through the air.
Thwack!
A whip struck Gidaro from behind, and the man grunted and slammed against Zaren in a violent manner that was even more strangely arousing than his previous, more tentative movements.
Thwack! Thwack!
With each blow, Gidaro gasped with pain and jolted into Zaren as if he were thrusting inside of him from behind. His breathing was rough and hot, and the soft groans of pain and shock were wildly arousing as he arched against him, over and over until Zaren felt his seed surge and roar, rearing up, ready to explode.
The whipping ceased just before he did, and now he stood, imprisoned against the vehicle wall as Gidaro sagged against him, gasping in pain even as his insistent rod strained beneath Zaren’s buttocks and his wet lips brushed against his hot, sweaty skin.
Zaren smelled blood in the air—blood mingled with sweat and lust, the remnants of his own cum, and the teasing scents from Gidaro’s cock—and Zaren had to close his eyes tightly against it all, squeeze them closed, focus on the pain of the loss of his wife…of Jane…in order to keep from roaring with frustration and lust.
Eventually, the intensity of the moment subsided…slightly.
But there were still miles to go on the journey to Mendiara’s residence—a long, sprawling, structure that attracted the golden shine of the sun.
Zaren fisted his hands over the rough edges of the cart and marshaled all of his courage and determination. Whatever waited for him there, he would be strong enough to conquer—just as he’d conquered the Madagascan jungle…and the heart of his beloved Jane.
He would live. For Jane.
Two hours after they arrived at Mendiara’s fortress, Zaren was sent to the baths. There, he was watched over by two massive, flint-eyed Amazonian guards as he washed himself in the enclosed, bubbling hot springs.
One of the guards held a bow and arrow nocked and ready to go, always following his movements. The other held a long, lethal spear, which Zaren had no doubt she could use quite expertly.
When he stepped out of the steaming water, a third large female appeared with shaving equipment and a pair of half-breeches similar to those Gidaro had been wearing. Apparently, this was the expected attire for the…well, what precisely was his position in this court?
Moments later, his suspicions were confirmed, as—still damp, newly-shaven, and attired in the surprisingly comfortable skin-like breeches—Zaren was ushered into a large bedchamber.
As soon as the large doors were thrown open to the high-ceilinged, luxurious room, he was assaulted by a myriad of smells. The most potent of them all was that of coitus: of musk and satisfaction, of lust and salty sweat, of desire, anticipation, of male and female…and of need. It was as if he slammed into a wall of sensuality and eroticism, and immediately his body began to react: to tighten, to warm, to tingle.
The chamber itself was cool despite the hot sun that blazed over the Amazonian kingdom, for the ceiling was high, and the windows and walls covered by heavy white tapestries to keep the hot air from seeping in. There was a pool set in the floor, which attracted Zaren’s fascination before he was directed to the lake-sized platform at one end of the chamber.
It could only be the bed, for it was piled high with pillows and cushions. Four posters the diameter of saplings, and carved to look like them with leaves and branches that spread out over the bed, stood at each corner, and a rippling golden canopy fluttered at the top, far below the soaring ceiling.
Zaren didn’t need to look around the chamber to know Mendiara was present; he scented her person, as well as the lust and intention exuding from her. Gidaro was there as well, and Zaren felt an odd twinge in his belly when he realized the man stood like a sentinel in the corner, hands clasped over his bare genitals. He caught a glimpse of the bare, muscular flank and taut arse of his tormentor, and whipped his attention away. His heart pounded harder now, and his mouth had gone dry.
“Eat,” Mendiara said from where she was reclined on a divan. A long, low table groaned with food displayed on a sea-green swath of fabric. “You will need your strength,” she added with a feline smile when he hesitated.
That was something Zaren wholly understood: the importance of feeding oneself when the opportunity arose, for the jungle was an uncertain place and torrential rains, storms, and other natural events could cause great upheaval.
Still, he took his time selecting food and placing it on a large golden plate. There were many items he recognized, and many others that were foreign to him. He relied on smell and texture to make his choices, discarding the question as to whether his hostess meant to poison him. Why would she?
“Sit, my pet,” Mendiara said. Her eyes burned with the same avid desire that steamed from her body in a lush perfume as she patted a low cushion on the floor next to her.
She had pinned up her long, silken hair into a fat roll on top of her head, bound by a pale green ribbon. Her gown—which was more of what Jane had explained was a robe—was made from some sheer fabric of the same color. The large, tight points of her breasts created generous peaks in the landscape of the silk, then it crinkled and folded into the dark shadows at the apex of her thighs.
He lowered himself onto the large pillow, crisscrossing his legs at the ankles as he glanced over at Gidaro. The man hadn’t moved, and seemed to hardly be breathing. But his eyes were fixed on Zaren and Mendiara, and they burned with lust and jealousy.
The woman reached down to brush the top of Zaren’s head, threading her fingers into his hair—which had grown out from the soft, corkscrew-like ringlets he’d had in the jungle, then cut off when he returned to the land of his birth. Now his hair looked like that of most Englishmen’s: smooth, soft, gently waving. It nearly brushed his shoulders because Jane—ah, Jane!—loved it long. She said it reminded her of the wild man he’d been.
Zaren forced himself to eat as Mendiara explored the texture of his hair. Then her fingers brushed along the musculature of his shoulders. His skin quivered where she touched him, and little prickles of awareness remained as she trailed her fingers over him.
“Drink,” she said after a moment of this easy fondling, then thrust a heavy goblet at him. Now he sensed impatience and need from her.
Zaren sipped from the goblet. It tasted—and smelled—like no other wine or ale he’d sampled. There was a cloying sweetness to it that made his instincts sharpen. He hesitated, then drank more, and felt his body ease and become more liquid.
Perhaps whatever it was would make whatever was to happen tonight easier.
“Gidaro!” she said sharply, and Zaren looked up. His eyes met that of the other man, and that same strange, hot bolt shivered through him to stab his belly.
The other man walked over to stand in front of them now, his hands hanging at his sides. Zaren could not pull his attention from the large, half-mast cock that arched softly from its nest of blond hair.
Mendiara turned to Zaren. “You want to touch him.” Her eyes glittered darkly, and her words didn’t have that upward tilt of a question.
Zaren dragged his attention away and looked at Mendiara. “No. I prefer…” He forced his attention to blaze hot as it scored over her, imagining Jane in her place.
Doing so wasn’t as difficult as he’d thought, for the sweet wine in the goblet had layered a haze of eroticism over the room and its occupants…and his mind. His body felt both languorous and taut with desire.
“Watch.” Mendiara’s arch smile dissolved into a tighter, lust-filled one as she directed Zaren’s attention to Gidaro, who now stood directly in front of him. So close, the powerful scent of the slave’s arousal filled his nostrils.
Gidaro clamped his hand around his cock and slowly began to stroke up and down along its generous length. Zaren could not look away as the man’s tool became longer and engorged, red, tumescent, rippled with veins and fairly quivering with restraint. His mouth was dry, his head felt loose and cloudy, and he could not look away from that powerful hand moving back
and forth.
A drop of pearlescence came out of the tip, and Zaren was aware that his belly dipped and shook when he saw and smelled it, and his own cock tightened and pushed at the breeches confining it as Gidaro paused to use his thumb to smooth the sticky liquid over the top of his knob, making it shiny and purple and bold as he stroked and pumped and panted, and—
“Stop!” Mendiara cried as Gidaro arched, his eyes rolling back as the scent of cum grew impossibly strong in Zaren’s nostrils.
The man in front of him stopped his stroking with a low, desperate groan and fairly flung his hands to his sides, as if to prevent them from returning to the massive erection arching from his body.
“Very good,” Mendiara purred. “Gidaro, very, very good. You may be rewarded. Later,” she added when his eyes lit and he began to reach for himself once more. “But for now,” she said, turning her blazing blue eyes onto Zaren. “You may watch while Lord Hampstead pleasures me.”
Gidaro made a soft, anguished sound, drawing Mendiara’s attention once more. But instead of lashing out with a punishment or threat, she smiled softly. “You’ve been so very good, my love. You may prepare him.”
Mendiara rose, and as she did so, the whisper of fabric that had covered her remained behind in a pool of sea-green. Now the scent of her female lust was powerful, and Zaren could hardly catch his breath.
Gidaro gestured for him to rise, then knelt in front of him as he had done in Zenovia’s courtroom. With practiced hands, he unfastened the tight breeches—which laced up in the back instead of the front—and then peeled them down over Zaren’s damp, hot skin.
His cock sprang free and he couldn’t control a soft groan of relief—then his muscles stiffened as Gidaro’s hands slid the breeches to the ground, then back up over the back of his legs and thighs to cup his rock-hard arse.