The Price of Freedom

THE PRICE OF FREEDOM

An Ellora’s Cave publication written by

JOANNA WYLDE

MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-022-6

Mobipocket (PRC) ISBN # 1-84360-098-6

Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), & HTML

© Copyright Joanna Wylde, 2003.

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave.

Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc. USA

Ellora's Cave Ltd, UK

This e-book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by email forwarding, copying, fax,
or any other mode of communication without author permission.

Edited by
Martha Punches

Cover Art by
Darrell King

Part I: The Mine

Chapter One

Damn,
he ached.

Jess stared into the darkness above his bunk, willing himself to sleep. His body wasn’t cooperating.

He was exhausted from his work in the mines that shift—fourteen hours of pure hell. His cock didn’t seem to understand that, though. He was rock hard, and his mind kept filling with picture of
her
.

He had seen her for the first time a week earlier, pushing a cart loaded with food into the dormitories. She had been wearing a long, shapeless dress and a head scarf, like all those damn women did. She pushed the cart with slow, steady steps, refusing to look at any of them. A hundred men starved for food and sex surrounded her. No wonder she'd been afraid to look at them.

Their guards hadn’t treated her with any respect. Of course, they never treated any of their women with respect, but this had been somehow different. It was as if she was an outcast even among her own people. They didn’t speak to her, they didn’t joke among themselves. They looked at her with disdain, as if she wasn’t worthy to call herself a Pilgrim.

He had known she was different from the others, too. Even swathed in dark fabric, he had felt her presence across the room. He could sense her, smell her. She smelled like woman, and that first instant he saw her, he knew he wanted her.

Of course, they
all
wanted her. They wanted her even though her fear of them was palpable, as was the fear of every woman who brought them food. Twice a day, one of them would wheel a loaded cart in to the mass of starved, frustrated, angry men. The women would be escorted by two guards, men who carried instruments capable of killing any of the men instantly, but the fear was still there. After all, men under enough pressure will do desperate things, even if it leads to their own death. The women had to know that…

He had been at the far end of the barracks when she entered, but there was something about her that drew him to her. Maybe it was the way she carried herself; she was surrounded by a hundred men starved for a woman's touch, yet she remained calm and poised. Distant. As if she were walking through a world of her own. He had moved through the ranks of waiting slaves until he was in front of her, taking the cart and pulling it away gently. She looked up at him, startled by his action. The guards watched in silence, hands on their weapons, but he did nothing threatening. He simply eased the cart out of her hands.

Her eyes had been wide with surprise when they met his. They were a brilliant green and almond-shaped; feline, like a cat. He had felt like he was falling into them. Her face was pale, slightly dirty, as if she had been working all day. Perhaps cleaning. There was exhaustion there, and a bit of defiance. She hadn’t ducked his gaze, but met it head on. She might have been afraid of him, but she wasn’t going to show it.

In that moment, he’d known she should be his. Of course, he had no idea how he’d ever get her.

She was probably married—all Pilgrim women married young. She had to be in her mid-twenties, so she might even have several children, and a husband who had a right to touch her body whenever he wanted.

Jess’ fists clenched at the thought, and he pushed it from his mind, frowning into the darkness. He didn’t want to think about another man with his woman. Instead, he imagined what she looked like under her robes. Her hair was dark brown, he knew that much. Her face was pretty, pale skin, luscious ripe lips.

She was thin, her hands roughened from hard work.

What would her hair look like, loose and hanging around her naked body? He formed a mental image of her standing before him. Her breasts, high and pert, would peek out between the long locks.

She would smile up at him, those green cat-eyes filled with secrets. She would lick her lips and they would shine with her moisture. Then she would run her eyes up and down his own powerful, naked form, smiling at him with a sultry question written on her face. How did he want her? On her knees before him…under him…riding him?

Unable to help himself, Jess slipped one hand under his ragged blanket in the darkness of the barracks. Reaching into his pants, he found the long, smooth length of his cock. His eyes closed as his fingers grazed the head, a tingle of sensation stabbing through his groin. He touched the groove on the under side, rubbing one fingertip across it. His muscles clenched; he stiffened. The delicate touch was almost painful in its intensity.

He turned his thoughts to her again. She would kneel before him, and smile up at him with that peculiar look only a woman could give. As if she existed to rule and serve him at the same time. Then she would lift one hand and take his cock into her grasp, running her fingers over him. He moved his own hand against his skin, pretending he wasn’t in a dark barrack, filled with a hundred slaves. Instead he was with her, and they had all the time in the world…

She gently touched her lips to the end of his cock, running her tongue around the head. He fought to control a gasp as she sucked his length into her hot, wet mouth. Then she started working her head back and forth. She raised one hand, firmly gripping the based of his erection and squeezing him in time with her movements. Her cheeks hollowed with each stroke, the suction of her mouth tugging on him in a slow, steady rhythm that was mesmerizing.

In the darkness of the barracks, it was easy to imagine that it wasn’t his own hand stroking his hard length. Instead, she was with him, sucking him, pulling him. Each time her lips slid down the length of him, the pressure in his balls built a little higher. In his mind, he imagined what it would feel like to pull her up until she stood before him. He would kiss her mouth with strong, penetrating strokes of his tongue. Then he would raise her in his arms and thrust his length into the hot, wet opening between her legs. Hard.

He could feel her wet lips, feel himself sinking into her again and again. His hand moved faster, roughly stroking up and down the length of his cock. He squeezed his fingers, imagining it was the pressure of her body around him. She would pulse under him, and when her own pleasure overtook her she would cry out in ecstasy. She’d go wild, muscles clenching his body. He pressed himself harder against his hand, imagining shooting his seed deep into her body. Again and again he stroked himself and with each touch the pressure grew until his balls tightened, ready to release. Orgasm hit, and his entire body stiffened. He stifled his moan, not willing to let the other men know what he was doing. Of course, it wasn’t as if they weren’t doing the same thing. There were very few secrets in the barracks.

Slowly, the pleasure of his release left him. Once again, he was alone in the darkness. Around him were the snores, sighs and soft moans of a hundred other men. For all he knew, they were sharing the same fantasy he had. In all likelihood he would never have sex with a woman again, let alone this woman he had come to think of as his. Hell, he didn’t even know her name. He was a slave, and she belonged to one of his captors.

Morning would come all too soon, and with it another day of back-breaking labor in the mines. This was his life now, Jess told himself firmly. There was no room for self-pity, and there was no room for obsession with this woman. He closed his eyes and, for the thousandth time, willed himself to sleep.

* * * * *

Bethany pulled the brush through her long hair. Every sleep cycle, since childhood, she had performed the same ritual. Her mother helped her when she was young. She had always imagined that some day she would do the same with her own daughters. There were no children, however. She had been her husband’s third wife, and the first two had given him strapping boys and lovely girls. She had given him nothing…

Shaking off her thoughts, she separated her hair into three equal parts, braiding rapidly. When she finished, she stood and pulled off her drab brown dress, hanging it carefully on a peg near her door.

Wearing only her shift, she padded softly across the room to her bed. It was small, and she was often cold, but she realized how lucky she was to sleep alone. For ten long years she had slept beside Avram, a man 30 years her senior. Every night, as she had prepared for bed, she had wondered if it would be one of the evenings when he reached for her. One of the times when he would pull up her shift and thrust his stiff penis into her unwilling flesh. As a frightened bride of 14 his touch was terrifying; in later years it simply became unpleasant. She could not bring herself to mourn his death as she slipped under the covers.

Avram was dead and she had other worries.

She was lucky to be back with her father, and in a way, she was lucky to be barren. She certainly didn’t have to worry about getting married again. No Pilgrim man would have a wife who couldn’t give him children. Her father may not be the most pleasant person to live with, but at least he ignored her most of the time. Of course, he would only keep her around as long as she could make herself useful.

She had almost fallen asleep when a harsh knock on her door startled her awake. She sat up in bed, breathing quickly. Was she in trouble?

“Bethany, get dressed and come out here,” her father’s voice growled outside the door. “The council meeting is over and I need to speak with you.”

“Yes, I’ll be right there,” she answered automatically. Her father didn’t like to be kept waiting.

Bethany jumped out of bed, pulling one of her two dresses over her head. She wrapped her braid around her head in a coronet quickly, pinning it into place and making sure there were no loose strands. Her father had no patience for sloppy women. He would cane her if he saw a hair out of place.

Opening the door, she walked quickly down the hall to their living chamber. Her father’s apartment was one of the largest in the mining community; space in the habitation bubble on the asteroid’s surface came at a premium. The fact that they had so much room was a testament to her father’s influence with his fellow Pilgrims. Bose had been the official leader of their community for less than a year, but he had dictated policy long before that.

Her father was sitting in the one comfortable chair they owned, staring moodily at a report in front of him. His dark, swarthy face was mottled with color, his large nose flushed red. There was a bottle of the homemade
bakrah
he loved so much on the table next to him. She came to stand before him, eyes cast down modestly. He ignored her for several minutes, then looked at her with bloodshot eyes. He was drunk again.

“The council and I met tonight,” he said. Bethany bit her lip, trying not to do anything that he might interpret as disrespectful. Bose was violent when he drank; she didn’t want to provoke him. She’d had ample experience with his temper. He and the council met every cycle following dinner, mostly to drink, and he often came home in a foul mood.

Bose looked her up and down, an ugly look in his narrow, beady eyes. Her breath caught; fear washed through her. What was he thinking?

“It was brought to my attention—again—that a woman of your age should be married,” he said.

“But of course, that won’t be possible. Your sinfulness is apparent to all of us. You have no children, despite ten years of trying with a good man who proved his virility with his other wives. The men are concerned that you might corrupt their women with your presence. Frankly, I’m inclined to agree with them. Since you came from your husband’s home you’ve been nothing but trouble to me.”

Bethany said nothing, eyes still cast downward. She kept her face impassive, biting back the angry words filling her thoughts. She had worked hard all her life, yet they all considered her a burden. Even now her fingers were raw from scrubbing the floor in Bose’s room. He’d vomited there the night before, leaving the mess for her to clean.

“It was suggested that we expose you,” Bose said, lifting his bottle to his lips and taking a long pull of the alcohol. Bethany stopped breathing. Exposure would mean death, slow and terrible from starvation. Assuming they
gave
her a pressure suit before shoving her out the airlock onto the asteroid's barren surface. If she was lucky, they wouldn't. At least that way death would come quickly. Would her father really do something like that to her? “After all, you have nothing to offer us, and it’s a waste of good food to keep you around. Of course, I hate to think of doing something like that to my own child,”

he added, sighing piously. “But we do what we must for the good of the community. Sacrifices must be made.”

Bitter fury welled up within her, but she kept her composure. If Bose sensed her anger, he would hurt her. She needed to stay calm, explore every option. Her mind worked quickly, trying to think of how to change his mind. She had talked her way out of difficult situations before…

“Then we had another idea,” Bose said. Her heart leapt. “It occurs to me that good women are being exposed to the slaves every cycle, delivering food to them and caring for them when they’re injured. Someone suggested that we have you work with the slaves instead. I know you've been part of the rotation, but from now on you would be in charge of them completely. That way no one will be further tainted by their presence. I’m inclined to see this as the best solution. What do you say?”

Bethany bit her lip, trying to think of a response that wouldn’t set him off. Working with the slaves would make her valuable to the council. It meant survival, but she didn’t want to look too eager.

“Whatever you feel is best for the community,” she whispered, trying to look as submissive as possible. She dared to look at him, and he glared back at her.
Bastard
, she thought. She’d like to see him do half the work she did.

“Well, it’s a good solution,” he said. “We need someone to feed them, and we need someone to supervise their laundry and other womanly tasks. Decent women have been doing the work for too long.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you,” Bethany said meekly. She wasn’t going to die after all, at least not for now.

She could work with the slaves, she thought. They scared her, particularly the one who had taken the cart from her the last time she was there, but she would have guards to protect her from his intense gaze.