Slavemaster's Woman, The (22 page)

“Tarken?” Cushla groaned.

The slavemaster watched with continued
concern.

She convulsed several times more, and then
released an anguished cry. The vortex and the Libertas faded from
her eyes, her irises returning to their normal crystal condition.
The sparkle typically seen in them was missing however, her gaze on
him lackluster and vacant.

“Speak, Cushla.” Tarken tightened his
embrace, nestling her body to him.

She went limp, her expression lifeless,
though she still breathed.

Thank the sacred entities.
His sight
settled on her dusty pink lips, slack and parted slightly, and
Tarken ran his thumb along the supple flesh there wishing to see
her smile, even if it was only with scorn. He much preferred her
belligerence to this. “Mistress.” He shook her gently, attempting
to rouse her.

Cushla's lashes fluttered but other than
that she was unresponsive.

Despite her unconscious state, Tarken
couldn't help but admire her beauty. The little slave was truly an
exquisite woman. Lowering his head, he gently brushed his lips
against hers, feeling the warmth of them—thankful for the warmth of
them.

She shifted slightly and murmured
quietly.

Much to Tarken's surprise, he felt Cushla's
tongue skim along the crease of his lips. He went still, enjoying
the way she tasted him, taking pleasure in her delicate yet
uninhibited reaction to him, though he surmised she was unaware of
her actions.

Remembering the cuffs, Tarken released then
from her wrists. And as soon as he did, her hands lifted pressing
against his chest. The modest gesture was surprisingly arousing to
him, causing his craving for Cushla to heighten. Her kiss deepened,
and this time Tarken responded kissing her in return.

“I love you my slavemaster,” Cushla murmured
to his lips.

Her words were sweet and simple, but he was
reluctant to believe she meant them. He'd shown her kindness,
hinted at caring. It was likely the most tenderness she'd ever
received. Of course she would love that. Who would not? But to love
him in the purest sense of the emotion, Tarken surmised that
Cushla's heart was one not readily tapped and taken. Loving another
was something that she would never surrender easily.

A pang cramped inside of Tarken's chest at
being absent from Cushla's mind. He wanted her to care for him,
hold him in her thoughts. Drawing back slightly, he gazed at his
tiny slave.
His…
The word skipped through his brain, shivered
down his body, causing an uneasy rumble in his stomach before
darting back to his chest, his heart tightening almost painfully.
It was a clear sign that he had a dilemma.

Tarken was falling in love with a slave—with
Cushla
.

She was the property of another.

Tarken scowled and then cast the idea of it
aside. He instead, focused on the moment, perhaps a stolen moment
in time with her, blocking thoughts of where her journey would end
and what might become of her. Cupping her cheek, he looked into her
eyes, pleased to see the sparkle returning, slowly becoming lucid
and once again alive.

“Make love to me slavemaster,” Cushla
pleaded.

The humble sound of her voice nearly stole
his breath. “You're back with me.” A feeling of relief washed over
Tarken.

“Make love to me,” she repeated in a voice
that seemed almost desperate. “Bind with me before my energy is
gone.”

It seemed like an odd request coming from
Cushla, so Tarken hesitated to react. Well, at least voluntarily.
Involuntarily, his cock twitched at the manner in which she seemed
to beg.

“Master.” Cushla's hand skimmed toward his
crotch her fingers curling around his hardened rod and squeezed.
“Please.”

Tarken choked back a groan. Surely, she was
unmindful of what she asked. Even with Cushla admitting she enjoyed
sex with him, resisting was her typical behavior. Knowing that did
little to persuade him that it would be better to tamp his arousal.
Nor did it cause him to prevent Cushla from slipping her hand into
his loosened trousers as she was now doing, her petite little
fingers grasping and fondling his balls.

Wisdom and logic told Tarken that taking
advantage of her while in a half aware state would undoubtedly
anger Cushla later when she realized what he'd done. It would
further damage any trust for him that remained—not that he minded
her tongue now swiping along the flesh of his abdomen. “Mistress…”
He cradled her more tightly against his chest.

The ship gave another great shudder and he
lowered her gently to the bed, stood and tucked the coverings
gently around her. Turning, he walked out the door to see why the
ship was trying to shake itself apart.

Upon entering the command center, he watched
Scoac and Rube along with the rest of the crew struggling to
maintain control of the vessel. Alarms were blaring all over the
ship. “What is wrong with the ship, why can’t you control it?”

Scoac shot him a foul look. “If you can’t be
helpful get the fuck off the bridge.”

“It began rattling a short time ago with no
known cause,” Rube informed him. “All the readouts are steady and
there are no disturbances that would have caused this.”

“Find somewhere to land this crate and let
someone who knows what to look for and fix it,” demanded Scoac.

Tarken groaned as he turned on his heel.
Another unscheduled stop, but this time he was relieved. At least
it would give him more time with Cushla—and time to make sure this
last ordeal hadn’t cause her to absolutely hate his guts.

Chapter Seventeen

Spirits gonads! She was squealing like a
sobo puppy, shocks of pleasure rippling along the flesh of her back
and taking direct aim at her crotch. What was this sensation? She
hated being restrained, in fact it terrified her. Yet for some
mutant reason when Tarken began to tie her up, she was suddenly
aroused, but there was no way she was going let Tarken know. The
universe could implode before she would admit to that!

‘
I can smell your fear, mistress,’
he’d said to her.

You can smell my lust…
She thought as
her heart pounded with an unfamiliar exhilaration that thrilled
her, yet did cause fear at the same time. It was befuddling. The
yearning, apparent in her tingling nipples and the warm wetness
gathering between legs, disarmed her anger. It didn't help that her
center of focus was on the slavemaster's rigid cock, pressing into
the crease of her bottom as he held her down.

Insult him, fight this…
Cushla
attempted to regroup her thoughts. This was the last thing she
wanted—to be aroused by his restraints. What the dust fuck did she
say to him?
I have an itch?
What a numb-brained thing to
say.

The sound of his sensual voice, the wisp of
heated air that brushed her earlobe, causing a rush of desire to
pulse through her body…he was flustering her!

Cosmic crap bowls
!

It was all she could do to keep from begging
for more from him. This made no sense. Being restrained terrified
her, reminded her of the horrible, perverse things done to her by
prior owners. Images flashed through her brain, though deep inside
of her head she somehow knew Tarken was nothing like the
others.

Still, when he snatched up the bonds he'd
dropped on the bed, and she was determined to resist him, real fear
blinded her. In one swift motion, the cuff coiled up her wrist and
around her forearm confirming she was half way to bondage, and
suddenly Tarken’s voice became an incoherent jumble. It was as if
he’d disintegrated, only to be replaced by those horrible
memories.

She fought the hands grabbing her now, and
felt the rage inside. She screamed kicked and with a pain the likes
of which she’d never known before. Pain she’d never known since and
she screeched an anguished cry.
No, no, no!

Cushla!
Was that Tarken or somebody
else? She couldn’t tell! Dread seized her as hands came at her from
everywhere, tearing at her clothes, squeezing, bruising her flesh.
Her heart pounded in terror as fingers and objects probed her
everywhere, painfully, viscously and with complete disregard of her
innocence. Their laughter at her crying fusing with her
screams--screams she knew were her own, yet seemed oddly
disconnected as if coming from someone else…

Cushla…

No one used her name save Lavidis. They
called her
simpa
, a word meaning lowest of lowly dregs, not
worthy of the dirt they were permitted to walk upon. Again, she
screamed, hating what they did, hating herself for pleading,
whimpering for mercy but the pain, the humiliation.

Cushla…
She heard it again
,
no
one used her name save Lavidis—and Tarken.

She opened her eyes and looked around.

Tarken was sitting on a chair nearby,
watching her.

“Where are we?” she asked after collecting
her thoughts, after relaxing into the relief that she was safe and
unharmed.

“We had to land on Aracome for mechanical
services because the ship was having difficulties. How do you
feel?”

“Ah, I—I’m not sure.” She told him in truth
as she rubbed her brow. Her head felt groggy and fuzzy and she was
slightly dizzy.

Tarken stood up and held out his hand, “Come
on, let’s get some fresh air.”

Cushla gave him a confused look. “You’re not
confining me to the ship?”

“No,” was the only explanation Tarken
offered. Taking her hand with his, he helped her stand, steadying
her when she teetered. He then helped her to dress.

She let him, still feeling weak and drained
from her ordeal. Quietly, she stood in front of him, waiting for
his next order and was taken by surprise when he abruptly pulled
her into his arms and sighed as he hugged her tightly against his
body.

Just as abruptly, he released her and began
combing his fingers through her hair. He then straightened and
smoothed the garment she wore, as if he was fussing over something
he cherished. When he was finished primping her, and then fixated
on her face, giving her a tender smile. A smile which she failed to
return and his expression seemed to become melancholy.

Cushla was sure she’d missed the part during
her turmoil where he’d gone mad. She was probably misreading him—
Misreading his concern, or perhaps it was just a wishful hope, but
so be it. At least he was letting her out of confinement for some
much needed open air in lieu of the stuffy ship.

They disembarked, passing several warehouses
lining the docks. At first, Tarken seemed to pay no heed to the
hoots and hollers or fixated stares directed toward them as they
strolled, but as the attention they were getting continued, his
expression became more rigid, and he became watchful, scrutinizing
the area around them intensely. He’d even shot a fierce look of
warning at some of men who gawked at her as they passed by, causing
them to avert their lecherous eyes elsewhere.

She decided to probe him about it. “You look
worried, Tarken.”

He gazed down at her briefly before
continuing his vigil of their surroundings. “You’re a stunningly
beautiful woman, Cushla. With or without the indiscreet behavior of
the royals and crew, you command a tremendous amount of attention
regardless. It’s my responsibility to assure your safety when we
are out in public.”

“Because you care about me?” she returned
snidely, expecting a cold indifference and a proclamation of duty
to Mecor.

“Because I care…”

Cushla was taken aback by his answer and the
gentle tone of voice by which he delivered it. She halted and
stared at Tarken. Did he mean what he’d just said, that he
cared—about her?

When he too stopped and turned toward her,
she’d hoped his expression could be read but he merely gazed at her
without revealing emotion.

He did however reach for her hand, molding
it within his.

For the first time in her slave’s life, she
felt no resistance rising inside of her at the touch from a man. In
fact, it warmed her immensely that he was holding her hand.

“Come along, mistress.” Tarken tugged her
lightly, and they began walking the path again, quietly and without
further exchange of words.

Aracome was one of the more verdant planets
in the galaxy and Tarken readily found a pleasant place for them to
relax. They entered a flourishing courtyard with towering trees and
lush, vivid plants. A small eatery had outside tables where
customers could enjoy the fresh air and sunshine while they ate
their meals.

It was here, Tarken decided to sit.
Signaling a server, he ordered two drinks. Taking one of the
seats
,
he said nothing as Cushla took her
place on the ground at his feet. “You’re complying and training
well, Cushla,” he said, but when she gazed up at his face he didn’t
look pleased. In fact, he seemed disturbed.

She cast her gaze aside and disregarded the
thought. It was too much to hope for that he had a heart for her or
for anyone. He was a slavemaster and she was a slave.

The drinks arrived, and the server placed
both glasses on the table. He gave Cushla brief glance, looking
down to where she sat on the ground and then turned his attention
to Tarken. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

“This is fine, thank you,” Tarken
answered.

The server nodded and departed.

“You have a very unusual name, Cushla,”
Tarken remarked. He took a sip of his drink. “Does it mean
something or did your parents just like the sound of it?”

A forlorn sensation filled her as she
answered him, “My father named me. He told me when first he laid
eyes on me that his heart skipped a beat and then ran to catch up.
My name means ‘beat of my heart’.”

“Appropriate.” Tarken smiled softly.