Slavemaster's Woman, The (4 page)

“You did well, girl.” Tarken slapped the
side of her ass and watched it jiggle slightly—not a hard slap, but
enough to give her flesh a zing. “And now I am going to get some
rest.” With that, he moved her aside and stood.

Ayia stepped out of the tub and grabbed a
towel, offering it to him.

Tarken allowed her to dry him, and without a
word to her, he walked to the bed chamber. He started rummaging
through his belongings and then stopped to glance in Ayia’s
direction. He felt no need for her, predominantly preferring sleep.
“Your services are appreciated wench, but you’re dismissed to
another patron.” He kept his expression blank, void of emotion when
disappointment spread across her face. “You may leave now.”

“Yes, m’lord, as you wish.” Ayia turned to
toward the door and exited. She didn’t bother to don her clothes.
In fact, it seemed she had no clothes since the slavemaster saw
none of such in his chamber.

Tossing his bags to the floor Tarken lay on
the bed and stared at the ceiling for only a brief moment. He
drifted toward sleep. There was a knock on the door disturbing his
oncoming slumber, and he chose to ignore it. Three more
knocks—louder this time and Tarken grunted his irritation as he
rolled from the bed. He hadn’t summoned anyone. Grabbing his
bunched up pants from the floor, he slid into them, not bothering
to fasten them up. He opened the door.

“Good eve, sir,” the caller greeted,
stepping through the entrance, uninvited.

“And who might you be?” Tarken scrutinized
the man from head to toe.

He was well dressed in jade-colored trousers
and a black shirt made of the finest materials. He walked like he
was regal, holding his head like he belonged wherever he chose to
tread and his arrogance was stinking up the room. His bald head
gleamed from the low lighting and his brown eyes were small, an
overly large nose sat in the middle of his face. A thin mustache
and pointed tuft of hair on his chin did little to hide his thin
lips. He possessed a look that dripped with dishonesty.

Tarken disliked him immediately.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” The tall,
skinny man glanced about the room. “Lavidis Vanirgor.”

“Ah yes,” Tarken responded. “The slave
trader.”

“That would be me.” Lavidis strolled across
the floor, eyeing the cabinet he knew held spirits. “Mind if I have
a drink?”

“Help yourself.” Tarken closed the door to
his room, the slamming sound slight but revealing enough of his
annoyance. “I thought to sleep and then see you on the early
dawning.”

The man didn’t take the hint. “Ah, well—it
is just past the supper hour and I thought to transfer ownership of
the girl this eve.”

“Anxious to rid yourself of her?” Tarken had
been told by the king that the girl was having trouble accepting
her station, but he wondered how bad she could be if the trader was
so anxious to deposit her. She likely just needed a bit of proper
training.

“I have twenty-five slaves in my corral at
the moment. They are quite costly to keep.” Lavidis opened the
cellarette and poured a drink, choosing the most expensive on the
shelf. He swirled his cup focusing a bit too intensely on the
prismatic liquid it contained. “His Majesty has already paid for
her. It seems only proper that I deliver her to you
immediately.”

Tarken eyed the man suspiciously. “What are
you failing to tell me, Lavidis?”

The slave trader took a sip of his drink and
then released a harsh breath. He took a lengthy time in silence
before he decided to speak. “The truth…ah, the truth is—I’m afraid
she might try to abscond again, and I don’t want to lose the
disgustingly large sum paid for her, if she succeeds this
time.”

“She’s a runner?” Tarken drew his brows
together. The trader seemed forthcoming with this information, so
he didn’t think the man had any other motive other than wanting to
keep the purse the slave earned him.

“What else?” Tarken asked him.

“Really nothing else, other than…” Lavidis
lifted his glass to his lips and took a hefty swallow. “She is
resistive, rebellious and has a smart mouth on her.”

Tarken started to speak, but Lavidis held up
his hand. “I’ve told the king all of this.”

Contemplating the slave trader’s words,
Tarken couldn’t help but wonder why his Majesty would make such a
purchase and at what was apparently an inflated price. “So, I’m
supposing at this moment that you want me to come with you to
retrieve her?”

“It would be much appreciated m’lord.”

Tarken blew out a gust of air. What he
really hoped for was a good eve’s rest. He didn’t look forward to
sharing his mattress with this or any other woman. But he was being
paid to train the slave and she would be in his bed every eve, if
it was needed to tame her. What was one less evening he supposed?
Picking up his shirt, he donned it, tucking the bottom of the
garment into the waist band of his trousers. He pulled on his boots
and then rummaged through his bag, withdrawing his laser weapon and
harnessing it in his belt.

No sense in taking chances.

After all, he was transporting royal
merchandise, and since his travelling entourage seemed to have no
regard for discretion, it was better to be safe than sorry. For a
brief moment, Tarken considered summoning them to escort him, but
readily brushed the idea aside. They might make matters worse. His
aim was to get the slave and get back to Buranis with her safe and
sound.

“Let’s be done with it then.” Tarken headed
toward the door. Opening it, he swept his hand toward the corridor
outside while waiting for Lavidis to precede him. He then followed,
mumbling several curses for the sleep he was being deprived of and
the exhaustion that surely would come from taming an unruly
slave.

By mobile
strollaway
it was a short
distance to Lavidis’ domicile, and as Tarken stepped from the
conveyor his attention became transfixed on the enormous building
in front of him. There was no doubt it was Lavidis’ domain since
there was only one walkway leading to what he assumed was a gated
front entranceway. Sure enough, the flesh peddler was ambling
directly toward it, and as Tarken followed, he couldn’t’ help but
notice how substantial the security around the small fortress was.
It was rather amazing.

Scanning from one corner of the walled
façade to another, the slavemaster estimated that there were at
least forty blackguards, and there was a tower on each corner of
the fortress, both with large artillery weapons aimed outward.
Laser trips crisscrossed the entranceway, the crimson coloring
telling Tarken they would severely burn an intruder who attempted
to pass through, and all visible windows were barred with laser
trips traversing them too. Truly, there couldn’t be that much of
value inside to require such stately protection.

Even Mecor’s castle wasn’t this
well-guarded. Tarken had to wonder how anyone could escape these
walls. The slave he was to retrieve must be very resourceful
indeed. It would be wise to keep an extremely close eye on her.

There were murmurs by the blackguards and
other inhabitants who milled around as the trader waved for the
deactivation of the lasers, and they passed through the now open
gates.

Immediately, Lavidis began barking orders
that caused the minions to scamper to and fro. He gestured for
Tarken to follow, and they ambled through an archway that led to an
inner court garden. It was then the slavemaster realized the
magnitude of Lavidis’ trade.

The man was filthy rich.

The silvery speckled walkway was a mosaic of
drek
stone, the most expensive in the galaxy. And the
foliage and flowers…they were of a rare variety and nearly
impossible to obtain unless one had connections and resources.

“Here,” Lavidis motioned toward a table
already set with and enticing aroma.

Tarken stared at the feast and then
grumbled, “I’m not here to socialize slave

trader. Just give me the merchandise and
I’ll be on my way.”

For several long moments, Lavidis said
nothing. He merely stared at Tarken. His mouth twisted from side to
side as if pondering something. “Very well.” He motioned toward
another walkway. “Right this way.”He led Tarken up a few flights of
stairs where they emerged onto an open balcony.

The slavemaster suspected that Lavidis’ was
avoiding something and now Tarken knew why. From above where he
stood, looking down upon the pool, he watched as the slave he was
brought to observe was attended to by the other woman. Tarken took
liberty admiring her form.

She faced away from him and therefore did
not see him. Her curves were feminine, shapely. She was slender and
petite though not overly of either. Her rounded bottom was
partially submerged beneath the water, petals of
shasheri
flowers floating around her. The scent was sweet, titillating. It
would still cling to her later.

Tarken knew the fragrance. It was one of the
most expensive and powerful aphrodisiacs in the galaxies.

Lavidis acted wisely with his attempt to
arouse Tarken’s libido. It was sharply obvious the girl was damaged
goods. The flesh on her back was a network of scratches, and he
couldn’t imagine how the rest of her was marred. Tarken would know
when she was turned around, and he had to wonder if her face was
scarred as well.

Despite this pondering, something inside the
slavemaster stirred. He felt impatience as he waited for her to
face him. It was more than curiosity about the condition of her
body, and it was more than the sensation of his cock now thickening
in his trousers. He felt something intriguing about her. There was
something mysterious about this woman. But
no
, Tarken denied
that. It was the aphrodisiac meddling with his mind.

What would her eyes look like?
How
womanly would the front of her body be, her breasts, her stomach,
her mound? An image of her clit entered the slavemaster’s mind, his
eyes taking in its shape, his finger flicking it. Would she become
immediately wet for him? “Enough!” Tarken bellowed, startling the
court below.

Even Lavidis, who stood at his side started
slightly. “Her preparation is nearly comp—”

“There is no preparing needed!” Tarken’s
voice boomed even louder. “There is no concealing the condition
she’s in.”

The sound of his irate tone caused the woman
to glance over her shoulder. Her crystal clear eyes fixated on
Tarken.

Immediately, his gaze locked with hers and a
sparking charge passed between them. It was unfriendly, aggressive
even, almost as if she was challenging him. The rebellion the
slavemaster saw there spoke volumes about the steadfastness of this
woman.

She was far from a typical, compliant
slave.

Spirits…damn him.

She sneered at him, her eyes riveting as if
she were attempting to spear him to a wall.

Annoyance besieged the slavemaster. How dare
she attempt to stare him down? Unwilling to break first eye
contact, Tarken glared intensely, and she kept glaring back. Did
the woman understand he could activate her slave band for that? She
could even be beaten, or starved, or confined in closed in
quarters, staked to the ground or…
Damn she has beautiful
eyes
.

Colorless crystals, they sparkled like the
finest of gems. Droplets of water clung to her long lashes, and her
eyes tilted slightly at the corners. Her gaze was the clearest
crystalline he’d ever seen. Their translucency was mesmerizing.

He could dissolve in them.

A tremor quaked up Tarken’s spine, and his
balls tightened. He attempted to shake off the unruly feelings but
instead, nearly choked on his breath when the attendants turned her
around. Peripherally, his vision caught a glimpse of her rounded
breasts, but he refused to break the lock he had on her eyes.

The woman would think she had the upper hand
if he looked away first. He was master, she was slave. Her station
would be established immediately, and Tarken would make damn sure,
she knew who was in charge despite her beauty and her fabulous body
and how he loved the look of her face—her face, it was perfection
personified.

Despite himself, Tarken felt his expression
soften, and before he even realized what he was doing, a smile
crested his lips, his gaze becoming cordial, almost admiring.
Though subtle, Tarken observed that something in her expression
yielded as well. Her affect seemed less defiant, her eyes showing
more interest, than anger, or perhaps confusion. It was then she
cast her gaze to the side.

Good
. She was conceding to his
dominance over her.

The victory was short-lived, for as the maid
servants led her from the pool, the woman’s gaze returned to his,
and Tarken saw the fire in them—hatred, pure hatred. The bold
expression of emotion by such a lowly subordinate should’ve angered
him as it would most slavemasters, but it affected him quite
contrarily. His breath caught in his throat, and his cock was
brusquely, painfully hard. Instead of inflaming his temper, it
inflamed his libido.

The maidservants rinsed the soap from her
skin and the water cascaded down her body. Her gleaming white hair,
which reached past her waist, now soaked, hung almost to her
mid-thighs. It covered little. Hanging in wet tufts it framed her
breasts, emphasizing the dusky tips, her nipples protruding into
tantalizing points, hardening beneath the streaming water. The
remainder of her hair wrapped around her waist like heavy drapery,
though strands of it plastered to her hips and splayed over her
hairless mound. Puffy outer lips clung tightly together protecting
the feminine flesh that kindled her arousal.

With his fingers curling, Tarken watched her
with a wetted sexual appetite. He was suddenly eager to separate
that crease, to take pleasure in exploring the charms that lay
beneath. How would she sound when she came? Would she moan? Could
he make her scream?