One moment there were twelve goats and a lusty young herder with a full life ahead. The next moment, ten terrified goats stampeded the shouting soldiers in their way. The vines deflected the hail of arrows from the watch towers.
These raids had occurred for centuries.
When he reached the site, Max didn’t waste time for details or excuses before giving chase. He jumped off his barge onto the bank and found the trail, and his double-jointed feet outpaced his men. The ripped vines had begun repairing the damage. Nodules formed, swelling to the size of a fist before shooting yards of tough silky tendrils. The tendrils were the worst. They entangled running legs like trip wires. Max heard a soldier cry out from a fall that had likely broken an ankle. Another soldier would drop from the chase to help his injured comrade limp back.
As tendrils entwined and swelled with sap to form a spongy undergrowth hiding all traces of what had trampled through, the trail faded.
Max abandoned the chase within an hour. He’d have to bait traps.
From their scent, Max knew these three females belonged to a migrating band entering a breeding cycle. The young herder taken appealed to their instincts for a tall, healthy stud, or the first female would have snapped his neck and stolen two goats instead. Either the herder would succumb to the cloying scent of the mating heat, or he would fight it off and be eaten sooner than later.
The canal offered food, water, and studs. The band would establish an underground breeding den. The raids would continue until Max killed enough females to drive them away.
When he’d enlisted, the bands numbered less than ten led by an older female. The last two seasons, he’d encountered bands of twenty with two older females. The pattern of combined bands disturbed him. What would happen if the ferals attacked in dozens and stole whole herds? Without the herds grazing them, the vines would stretch across the canal and infest precious farmland.
Upon returning to his barge, Max sent military couriers to warn all herders of the danger, and he doubled the soldiers patrolling the third leg. Banning goats from grazing until the band was destroyed was unthinkable. Given a week, the vines would reach the canal and throw tendrils over it.
Max was a quarter-feral. His human grandmother had been raped by a young male feral crazed by exposure to breeding heat—a rare occurrence since males stayed close to a breeding den. Soldiers killed his feral grandfather, and Max’s mother was born nine months later. She inherited few feral traits and was allowed to live. With women scarce, her beauty and family name attracted a husband. Before Max, she bore two normal daughters.
With his black hair and gray eyes and normal skull, genitals, and fingertips, Max appeared fully human until puberty. Always oversized for his age—never a gangly runt—his transition over a few painful months was first mistaken for an unusual spurt of puberty, or he would have been exterminated at once. After the transition, he was six-foot-seven of heavy muscle, deadly reflexes, claws, heightened senses, and… oh, yes… the deformed penis designed to attract ferals in heat. His parents fought to keep him from extermination with the support of the commander, his paternal uncle, who foresaw Max’s value.
When Max enlisted, his gamey cum became the Triangle’s most effective weapon against the ferals. It sent the females into a mating frenzy. They dropped their normal caution, even fighting among themselves to chase down the worthy stud for first breeding rights, and followed the scent of a baited trail into a trap of waiting soldiers, who dispatched them with cold efficiency.
The three scouts who’d taken the herder today would return with their sisters, so Max baited five trails before his dick wore out, thankful he carried lube in a pouch on his weapons belt. The scent lingered for days. Luckily, his soldiers never cracked jokes. They stood at attention, eyes lowered after he baited a trap.
How humiliating. But vital to the welfare of the territory.
Depleted, Max returned to his barge, a sixty-foot-long, narrow vessel with a sleek hull and eight poles on each side to keep on course in the middle of the canal. The barge transported up to two hundred soldiers, fourteen tons of cargo, and two portable watchtowers. The soldiers slept in hammocks or, if amorous, fucked in tents strung out on the deck.
Max preferred living on his barge, though he had apartments in each city. Located at the stern, his cabin was paneled in rare wood, with an heirloom wood table, chairs, chest, and a bed. A hipbath and sink connected to a cistern.
He’d inherited his manservant Cutty from his uncle. Short, sinewy, and outspoken, Cutty lacked the physique (and the obedient nature) to serve as an enlisted soldier. He knew he was indispensable to Max’s comfort and strutted in his pressed brown suit and green vest with a self-importance no one challenged except his civilian husband Stefan.
When Max descended the steps to his cabin, Cutty had a steaming hipbath ready. Max stripped off his filthy camouflage tee and pants and eased into the water, immersing himself head to toe before surging up and resting his head back on a folded towel. Cutty handed him a flask of brandy. He usually allowed Max a few quiet minutes before updating him on the gossip carried by passing vessels.
Instead, Cutty blurted, “The Assembly voted to free Beau if he consented to castration.”
Max sat up, sloshing sudsy water on the floor. His claws displayed as Cutty filled him in on how the governor had influenced the vote.
Max had delivered specific instructions to Governor Lyre regarding Beau’s care during his transition. Not only had she ignored his orders, she’d petitioned the Ruling Mothers for Beau’s castration at a time when the territory desperately needed Beau’s help baiting the ferals.
When Max’s worn-out dick needed the help!
The governor was as ruthless as any feral Max had encountered. A pity he couldn’t dispatch her like one. As he struggled with his temper, his claws clicked against the rim of the bath.
“You letting her get by with this, sir?” Cutty’s slight body quivered with the delight of fighting the governor, whom he detested.
“Tell the pilot to shove off. Light the forward lanterns. We travel the current to Port Memphis by night.”
Chapter Eleven
Quiggs pulled himself out of bed after a restless night. It was noon. The surgery was over. He showered, dressed. His stomach rumbled. He’d been gone over a month, and the sucker-toes had invaded his food cabinet and repaid him with a nest of active babies. He shook them out of his boots, then laced up.
Quiggs would honor his promise and ask Beau to marry him. Maybe if he asked now, Beau might be in such agony he’d refuse.
Nah. He’d find Beau sitting up in bed whining for Quiggs to set the earliest date.
Quiggs opened the door, expecting to find the hallway filled with couriers.
A single military courier stood at attention in the hallway, wearing a navy armband emblazoned with a red fanged skull that identified him as the commander’s personal courier. The armband gained him immediate access anywhere his boss directed. He grinned at Quiggs. “Got a message for you from Commander Bronn.”
“Miller?” Quiggs recognized the cadet he’d fantasized over. Delicious pounds of new muscle stretched his brown tee. The slight bend in his nose was as sexy as ever.
“Sergeant Miller now.” Miller went into military mode, standing at rigid attention as he recited, “The commander has instructed me to inform you Beau was removed from his cell early this morning and has enlisted in the military.”
Quiggs slumped back against the wall, unable to speak. Beau was intact. They didn’t have to marry.
Miller glanced around the empty hallway, then dropped the formality. “You should have been there, buddy. The commander stormed the jail with his claws displayed. What a sight! The jailors about pissed themselves trying to unlock the cell. Beau was drugged for surgery. Max wheeled him to his barge in a cart, stripped him, and shackled him to a whipping post on deck. When the sun rose, soon as the rays hit Beau’s back, you could see his skin twitching like needles stabbing him.”
“Beau begged me to take him outside into the sunlight,” Quiggs murmured.
“Because sunlight completes the transition of his voice and sex organs. The Commander learned this during his own transition when he was ten. Max sent the governor specific instructions to expose Beau to sunlight. He told her Beau wasn’t dangerous around human women. Transitioned males only lose control when exposed to a female feral’s breeding heat.”
Quiggs fisted his hands at his sides. “Governor Lyre never mentioned the letters. Why didn’t the commander visit us to follow up?”
“He was tracking feral sightings. It’s bad out there. He sent you letters, but they must have been intercepted. The governor wrote him she supported the vote to free Beau. Letters from the three mayors confirmed this. He never suspected she’d tack on a stipulation right before the vote. He’s furious.”
“But the vote passed. If Beau’s out of jail without the surgery, he’ll be hunted down and executed.”
“Max spoke to the Assembly this morning asking them to withdraw the castration clause and revote. He politely told them Beau can speak, he hates sex with females, and he’s officially employed as an enlisted soldier.” Miller guffawed. “Quickest vote ever.”
Quiggs struggled to absorb everything. “Beau won’t make a good soldier. He won’t kill anything, not even a sucker-toe.” Except he did eat his herd when he transitioned.
Miller hesitated, then lowered his voice. “Ever hear of feral bait?”
“Huh?”
“Know that funny ring around Beau’s penis? Means he shoots a gamey cum. Drives the female ferals crazy. The commander has a ring too. He baits trails to lure the females into a trap.”
Quiggs laughed at the absurdity. Miller and his ribald humor.
“Don’t laugh,” Miller said. “The commander gets touchy when people laugh about it.”
“Oh, shit… you’re serious.”
“It’s like this. The commander needs Beau’s feral bait to defend the territory. Beau is an enlisted soldier, answerable to his commander. The governor can’t touch him.” Miller opened his satchel. “Here’s a slate from Beau. Hard to believe the little goof can write.”
Quiggs smiled as he read the squiggly lines.
Thank you for helping me, my good friend Quiggs. I am sad we cannot marry. The sunlight makes my balls feel funny. My friend Max says I will not be sad for long. My new voice sounds scary when I yowl. I do not like to yowl. Max says if I am good and train hard, I may visit you. Your good friend forever, Beau.
“Do you have a reply?” Miller asked.
Quiggs’s smile stretched into a grin. “Tell my good friend Beau to train hard and come tell me hello.”
Chapter Twelve
Graduation Day
After the diplomas were handed out, cadets who chose the concubine lottery lined up on the festooned stage of the academy’s auditorium for the drawing.
Holding his ninth Academic Champion Award, Quiggs watched the nervous cadets close their eyes, stick a hand inside the red lacquered box, and swish the tiles.
A concubine’s patriotic service offered an owner a charade of a soft, adoring wife. An owner had absolute control over sexual demands, providing there was no cruel abuse.
Ironically, a soft, adoring wife was a myth. Wives controlled their husbands, and a concubine’s skills surpassed a wife’s.
For a low-ranked owner, winning the lottery was a fantasy come true. The government paid them a stipend for rent and extra expenses. A homely but lusty janitor dreamed of a beautiful young male partner. A lonely, grizzled herder fantasized coming home each evening to a lively young bedmate.
Tradition separated a concubine from his owner before the grandiose claiming ceremony at the Legislative Plaza in two weeks. In the interim, letters and gifts were exchanged.
After the drawing was over, Quiggs walked through the academy’s corridors to his apartment for the last time. Graduates moved out by dusk. Enlistees moved to Port Paducah. Concubines moved into a temporary residence for training before the claiming ceremony. Husbands—just Quiggs this year—moved into the residential apartment chosen by their bride.
Quiggs had a few hours to himself before Rosamunde arrived with a stylist to arrange his braid in loops and check the seams of his vest to see if he had cheated on his diet. He had. None of his finery and careful dieting mattered because guests would snigger at his braid.
Tonight, after an uneasy truce for three months, Quiggs would share a bed with Rosamunde, his future laid out as neatly as the wedding clothes on the bed in his apartment.
Witters teased Quiggs to stop worrying. Rosamunde was twenty-one and ripe for coupling. Quiggs’s cock was kindling. The spark of lifting her nightgown would set him aflame, and nature would follow its course.
In case nature lost its way, Meeks had advised Quiggs to abstain from jerking off for a week. For the last seven days, it was hands off his cock and cold showers. He ached to the point where if a moth skittered across his cock, he’d spurt.
This time next year, he was supposed to be a father and Beau an uncle.
What Quiggs needed was a slug of courage. He opened a bottle of gin, a wedding gift from Commander Bronn, who’d written he had ordered Private Beau away from the ceremony. The commander desired to tour Quiggs’s work tower and discuss weaponry next month.
Quiggs took several deep swallows of gin. The burn spread, shielding him like a warm glove against the cold future.
Wearing his black uniform for the last time, he walked around his empty apartment. Servants had packed his belongings and moved them into the apartment Rosamunde had chosen for their first year.
He set his hat on the table. He’d miss the visor shading his plain face. He sat on the sofa and leaned his head back, but a heavy knocking on the door startled him. The stylist was early. From the sound of that fist, Quiggs’s scalp was in trouble. The room spun when he stood. He stifled the guilt. Mister Quiggs Fallon could get stinking drunk if he wanted to.
When Quiggs opened the door, strong arms swooped him up and swung him in circles.
“What the—Beau? Beau! Holy Shit! Put me down before I throw up!”
Beau set Quiggs down in the middle of the green living room rug. His white-blond hair was cropped on the sides and long on top. He puffed out his chest, stretching the camouflage tee of a soldier. “I am Private Beau now. I am the best archer in the military. I am the biggest soldier Commander Max has ever trained.” His new voice was deep, raspy. When he spoke, he picked out words with a slight hesitation as if testing them on his tongue first.
Beau’s lean frame had filled out in the last three months. His chest was broader—and holy shit he had him some muscles! Quiggs rested his hands on those rock-hard biceps to steady himself. “Your voice… it’s deep… suits your size.” Quiggs arched a brow as he gazed below Beau’s waist. “Those big boys having fun yet?”
Beau blushed. “Commander Max sent me to a pleasure house today to learn sex.”
Quiggs eyes widened. He’d never seen Beau blush. “How was it?”
“The man—he painted his face and wore a short robe and earrings. He put his hands on my male parts and—” Beau broke off, hanging his head.
“It’s normal if you came right away.”
Beau whimpered, “I did not get hard. I was scared. My claws came out, and he screamed. I dropped my credits and jumped out the window.”
“Maybe you need a bad shower with your soldier friends to warm up first,” Quiggs teased. “Worked for me. You won’t have to hide behind a curtain either.”
“I would like a curtain. I do not like how soldiers stare at me in the showers.”
“Beau, you’ve never had a shy bone in your body. What’s wrong?”
“The ring on my cock is red and swollen. It hurts, but my cock stays soft.” Beau placed Quiggs’s hand over his cock. “Feel.”
Quiggs should have snatched his hand away, stepped outside, and called for a chaperone. Instead, accusto
med to caring for Beau, he traced the turgid ring, gasping at the size. “Shit, Beau, it’s loaded! No wonder it hurts. You need to shoot.” The shaft twitched and lengthened as he fingered the ring.
Beau sucked in a shaky breath as if punched in the ribs. “Oh, my Quiggs. It is happening. It feels… it feels like… like…” Beau looked stunned by his first erection, as if a chorus of horns blared in his ears, louder and louder when he had anticipated a mild chirp. Beau took him down to the floor and sawed his hard cock against Quiggs’s responding bloomer.
“Beau, dammit… get off me!” He shoved at Beau’s shoulders, those wonderful broad shoulders. “Stop grinding!” Quiggs was close to shooting his own load. Above him, Beau’s face contorted.
A musk tickled Quiggs’s nose. Intense, oily. A blend of boiled leather and damp fur. Spicy, provocative, like bittersweet herbs pulled from their beds with clumps of earth clinging to their roots. Quiggs inhaled deeply, and the telltale shiver of no return traveled up his spine.
After seven days of abstinence, nothing could stop the hot cum spilling out of him—not even Rosamunde’s hysterical screams.
She stood in the room with her hands clapped to her cheeks, her blue eyes spitting fire. “I knew it! Innocent roommates be damned. You’ve been fucking your filthy breed for years!”
What began as a boiling orgasm for Quiggs ended in a pfffftttt of steam.
Rosamunde’s three fathers and a man Quiggs assumed was the stylist stood close behind her. The man sounded as if he was coughing up a hairball.
Two security guards pushed past the First Family, responding to the screams. One held a knife to Beau’s neck, dangling like a broken stem after his orgasm. “Did the breed attack you?”
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