Slavemaster's Woman, The (15 page)

Her nails pierced him but Tarken didn’t
care. It aroused him while her channel clung snugly around his cock
causing it to throb. And it was no surprise to Tarken when he felt
his erection surge near to spewing, despite his lack of movement.
Grasping her hips, he thrust upward.

At the same time, Cushla arched backward as
she began to peak, her pants a near desperate cry as she
frantically pumped, her clit swelling as it rubbed against him.

“Do it mistress, take it all.” Tarken’s body
shuddered, his balls tightening, the pressure building, though he
struggled to sustain as he focused on Cushla, her body, her
beautiful breasts bouncing freely as she humped him.

“Yes…” She gasped, squeezing her vaginal
muscles, her body going still. Her arms flailed outward, her body
stiffening as climatic pleasure seized her. Cushla then let out a
long wail.

Tarken nearly lost it then, but was
momentarily transfixed while she was caught amidst her climax.

Cushla’s head tipped forward and crystal,
lusty eyes riveted to his. Her expression was lucidly carnal,
predatory even, as if she meant to devour him. Drawing up her legs,
she planted her feet atop the mattress and then lifted her hips
until her channel grasped only the head of his swollen cock.

Tarken’s insides quaked and a jolt rushed
through his shaft. His breathing accelerated in eager
anticipation.

Cushla slammed down.

“Stars fucking fire!” Tarken rasped out.

Again, she lifted and again slammed, taking
his cock deep, swallowing the length. She repeated the motion,
plummeting down on him, quickening the pace until she was moaning
an ecstatic cry.

“Fuck me, woman!” Over and over, he pumped
upward and into her, increasing the speed, feeling her tighten with
each penetration as another orgasm caused Cushla to scream. And
Tarken joined her, shooting his load, his juices forcefully jetting
inside of her in a pulsating stream until every drop was emptied
from him, the ripples of sexual climax so intense and explosive
that coherent thinking slipped from his mind and he became lost in
somatic ecstasy. “I’ll want you forever,” he whispered. His arms
wrapped around Cushla when she fell flat against his chest, sinking
on top of him. “I don’t want to ever let you go.”

Cushla’s head lifted, her expression
questioning.

Tarken stared at her, realizing what he’d
just said. He broke eye contact first, turning his head aside.
There was a glisten of tears in her eyes that he had no wish to
ponder.

“I’m a castaway, Tarken,” Cushla responded
her head lowering to rest a cheek against his shoulder. “No one has
ever wanted me for long.”

Reaching, Tarken caressed her cheek with the
tips of his fingers. Her skin was soft and radiant. It behooved him
why anyone would want to abuse such an exquisite creature as
Cushla. If she belonged to him, he would treat her as if she were
his finest, most precious gem. He would forever adore her. “No one
has ever taken the time to accept and appreciate who you are as a
woman.”

Raising her head, Cushla gave him and
inquisitive look. “Why would you take the time, slavemaster?”

“Because I believe there are hidden
treasures inside of you, Cushla,” Tarken replied. “And I would wish
to explore every one of them.”

“I’ll permit you to do that if you let me
go.” The earnest expression on her face was nearly believable.

So much so, that for a fleeting moment
Tarken actually considered it. “Ach, woman!” He slapped her on the
ass as he snorted. He dumped her to the side, onto the mattress and
she shrieked. Rolling to a sit, Tarken reached to the floor,
snatching up his undergarments and trousers. He stood facing Cushla
as he donned them. “As much as I prefer you naked with your legs
spread, it is necessary to feed you, though don’t expect much.
You’re still on your initial punishment.”

Drawing her legs up and hugging them, Cushla
made no attempt to disguise her ire. “I’m quite used to going for
dawnings with no food, slavemaster. So rest assured, it’s no
punishment.”

“That explains your frail, bony condition,”
Tarken commented. “Your quim is fully healthy however. Tell me
mistress, does it get worked out often?”

Cushla offered no answer. Instead, she
averted her eyes, her expression draining of emotion.

The coldness Tarken saw sent a chill up his
spine and he decided promptly that he much preferred Cushla’s
playful side. He had no doubt however that the woman was capable of
murder. It would come as no surprise to him if she’d committed the
act already. “Get dressed Cushla. The fucking you just gave me was
a good one and because of that I’ll allow you more than liquid this
eve.”

“A wise decision slavemaster.” She scooted
to the edge of the mattress. “The women of my race have needle
sharp quills in our vaginas. I was considering that I might bear
them the next time if you continued to deny me solids.”

“Quills, you say?” Tamping the urge to wince
at the thought, Tarken instead picked up her dress and stared at
it.

“It’s an inborn defense mechanism, whenever
it’s needed for little pricks of course.”

The slavemaster’s head snapped toward
her.

An expression of smug confidence spread
across Cushla’s face, her eyes becoming an icy glare.

He lifted a brow when she spread her thighs
as if daring him to touch. His cock twitched at the sight between
her legs. Quills or no quills, he wanted that pussy. Shifting his
attention upward, Tarken returned an equally cocky grin. “Then,
there’s no need for me to worry since my prick is rather a large
thing.”

“More to bite,” Cushla returned.

“You’re bluffing, mistress.” Tarken was
sure—relatively sure. The very subtle smirk that quivered on her
lips before vanishing told him she was merely toying with him.

“Do you wish to test that, Tarken?” Cushla
dared him.

He smiled at her. “Do you wish to eat?”

She seemed to consider that for a moment and
then answered, “It appears we are at an impasse.”

“How so mistress?”

“I will refrain from noshing your cock the
next time you fuck me and you will feed me.”

“I see,” Tarken returned. “And this bargain
to save my manhood would also extend to your teeth?”

“Of course—unless.” Cushla gave his crotch a
sidelong glance. “—you happen to enjoy such a thing.”

Tarken chuckled and shook his head at her.
She would attempt any method, even the ridiculous to try and get
leverage. Still, he couldn’t blame her for trying. “I suppose
feeding you would be the better choice then, mistress.”

Tossing the dress he was holding aside,
Tarken strolled toward the wardrobe set into the wall of the
quarters. He examined the garments inside, choosing an alternative
for Cushla to wear. “Here.” He handed her it to her. “This should
be gentler on your skin.”

“When did you acquire this?” Cushla stared
at the gown he handed her.

“The king paid a ransom in funds for you.
Displaying your wears as we travel seemed counterproductive to your
safety. I brought it with me.” Tarken donned his shirt, his
attention remaining on Cushla, watching her as she dressed.

The possessiveness for the feisty, little
slave that he felt stirring inside of him was disturbing. Although
he was capable of caring with sincerity, rarely if ever did the
slavemaster become attached, particularly to someone who might be
easily sold or traded away. He didn’t allow love into his heart,
not anymore. The fires of love for him had long ago gone cold.

“Something bothering you, slavemaster?”
Cushla studied him as she closed a side fastener on the gown’s
waistband.

“Why do you ask, mistress?” Immediately,
Tarken became aware of his despondent expression. With
well-practiced skill he shifted his mood, concentrating instead on
the woman in front of him.

“You seemed, forlorn a moment ago—pensive.”
With an easy sashay, Cushla arced around the front of him,
scrutinizing his face and smirking as if she’d just been given the
upper hand.

“You mistake my thoughts, mistress.” Tarken
eyed her lecherously. “I was merely thinking about spreading your
thighs again.”

She looked exquisite in the gown. Two slits
ran the length of the lacey, tawny skirt revealing her legs to
mid-thigh. The remainder of the stretchy material hugged her hips,
spreading across her belly and just below her naval. The matching,
camisole top did the same, perfectly molding her supple breasts,
both clothing pieces revealing skin but designed in a manner to
conceal the details, the thicker mesh masking her dusky nipples and
tender labia.

A subtle, almost imperceptible smile
appeared on her lips and then faded quickly. But there was a gleam
in her eyes that Tarken failed to notice before. Tipping his head
askew, he moved closer to inspect them. Her crystal clear irises
were sparkling. And they were reflecting speckles of silver,
matching the material of the garment she wore.

“It intrigues most,” Cushla answered his
speculative gaze, seeming to understand what he was observing.

Tarken turned from her and retrieved the
cerulean gown he’d given her earlier. Holding it in front of her,
careful to prevent it from touching her skin he watched the blue
color seep into her eyes. “I didn’t notice your eyes when you wore
this.” He tossed it to the chair.

“You were occupied with the ass wipe royals
at the time and then my dilemma with the rash.”

He nodded in agreement. “It’s an interesting
trait, Cushla”

“Does it please you, master?” She asked
enticingly. “I’ll be sure to wear your favorite colors if you wish
it.”

Finding humor in her comment, Tarken
grinned. She was attempting to turn his tables and use sex against
him. “It would please me if you did so, Cushla, but my personal
wishes are irrelevant. You do not belong to me. You’re the property
of the king. It is he, whom you will learn to please.”

His answer received the desired response.
She dropped the seductive façade. Puckering her lips, Cushla
exhaled through her nostrils in sulky defeat. “Are we going to
stand here all evening or will you let me eat?”

“We should’ve docked on Windrift by now. I
think, mistress we’ll eat at port. The food there is very good, not
that you’ll sample the best of it.”

“And you expect they’ll be serving Durgin
tea and cadia?”

After walking toward the door, Tarken turned
and eyed her with amusement. He reached and pressed the wall switch
without looking at it. The door slid open. “They keep rations for
slaves in supply. It won’t be a problem.”

“It might be a problem when I vomit on your
plate!”

He heard her comment loudly, sardonically
behind him as he departed from the room. “Then it would be wise of
me to seat you on the floor.”

Silence followed, and Tarken was more than
half way down the passage leading to the bridge when he realized
Cushla failed to follow. Returning to his quarters he heard a
strained groan before reaching the door. Once inside, he found her
kneeling and doubled over on the floor. She was pressing her palms
to her forehead. “Cushla.” He knelt next to her, checking the
control device to be assured he hadn’t accidentally activated her
slave band. “Another head throb?”

“No, Tarken I’m singing,” she grunted.

Rubbing his jaw, he attempted to make light
of her quandary. “Then I suggest you cease. It sounds rather
horrendous.”

Her head snapped up and the discomfort she
was feeling was apparent in her strained expression.

“So much for the pain easing with the
sexing,” Tarken quipped, though he was concerned about the head
throbs.

Cushla blinked a few times, and then jerked
her head as if attempting to shake off the affliction. “We could do
it again.”

Tarken fixed his gaze on her eyes. The
silver flecks had vanished and instead was replaced by a vortex of
color that seemed to vanish into her pupils. Reaching, he took
Cushla’s arm and helped her stand.

“It happens all of the time.” She told him
as she rose to her feet. “The varying eye color that is. And the
spectrum that is there now always coincides with the head
pains.”

Tarken frowned, watching as the colors faded
and the crystal clear gaze in her irises that he’d become
accustomed to returned. “It might be a side effect of some
disorder, Cushla. I’ll have a medic examine you when we disembark
on Wind Drift.”

“Why do you care, slavemaster?” Cushla
glared at him. “No one before you ever seemed to care.”

Tarken did care. In fact he was beginning to
care very deeply about her well-being, but he wouldn’t reveal he
felt that way. “I’m merely concerned about delivering healthy goods
to the king."

“If it’s fatal, perhaps death will be my
path to freedom.”

“You’d likely be a corpse by now, mistress,
if it was fatal.”

“If I was a corpse, Tarken, would you bury
me?” Without waiting for an answer, Cushla brushed by Tarken and
sauntered through the door. “Or toss my body on a rubbish
heap?”

“I would bury your body, Cushla,” Tarken
mumbled, knowing she wouldn’t hear. “But never the memory of you.”
His chest went tight, and grief struck him almost as if she’d
really died. And what if Cushla did die? Tarken knew immediately it
would hurt.

Secondary to that, a greater reality became
profound. Mecor was capable of killing her, especially if he became
annoyed at her belligerence. Two choices came to Tarken’s mind.
Somehow, find a method to tame Cushla’s hostility, or premeditate a
way to murder the king and get away with it. The latter was much
preferred.

Chapter Thirteen

“There is abnormal brain activity.”

“Is it fatal?” Tarken leaned against a wall
in the examining room of the health complex on Wind Drift.