The Whore
Her quest for freedom plunges her into dangerous waters…of desire.
A
Wasteland
Story
Bryn is a “Rose”, but her life is no garden. A stolen child, prostitution is the only life she’s ever known—except on the nights she sneaks out in stolen men’s clothing to explore the city. A tiny taste of freedom that makes her long for a life outside sexual servitude, at the mercy of any man who can pay.
Xander remembers no other home except his pirate ship, smuggling weapons or anything else for a fee. He’s been happy with his life and his lover, Hawke…until he rescues who he thinks is a young man from robbers.
Figuring she can blend in with the crew, Bryn jumps at the chance to escape the Brothel. Then she discovers Xander and Hawke have a taste for pretty boys—and that she has a taste for them. In their arms, she embraces their incredible gift: control of her own sexuality.
Though women are considered bad luck at sea, Xander isn’t of a mind to give her up. Yet the time is drawing near when the ship must return to Wasteland to resupply. And what awaits them there is a danger that could tear them apart.
Warning: Contains hot pirates, bad boys, pretty boys, lots of three-way pirate sex, a woman spanking a pirate with a rare-wood paddle, a glass dildo used on a pirate—have we mentioned the pirates?
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520
Macon GA 31201
Wasteland: The Whore
Copyright © 2010 by Lilli Feisty
ISBN: 978-1-60928-039-0
Edited by Bethany Morgan
Cover by Kanaxa
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
electronic publication: May 2010
The Whore
Lilli Feisty
Dedication
For Briana Silverheart
Prologue
In 2012, the world came to a grinding halt as radiation hit from a massive solar storm. Crops died, animals perished, cities fell and humans became little more than beasts themselves. Under the threat of starvation, civility was reduced to mere memory. Only the strongest men survived, and physically weaker women and children wasted to nothingness.
More than a century later, humanity struggles in the desert Wasteland. The solar radiation rendered most women infertile, and the population dwindles more with each year that passes. Scattered up and down coasts, isolated cities eke out an existence from fishing, foraging and hunting for what little game is left. Outside the city walls, men face the threat of pirates and raiders.
Few women remain, divided into four classes—Whores, Breeders, Priestesses and Wanderers. They are as reviled as they are worshipped, a commodity any man must pay to touch. To touch a Whore, a man must sacrifice his riches. To touch a Breeder, a man must sacrifice his freedom. To touch a Priestess, a man must be chosen by the gods. And to touch a Wanderer may end up costing him his life.
There is only one rule in the Wastland—survive.
Chapter One
Aside from the worry of conceiving a child, Bryn considered sucking cock the worst part of her role as a prostitute. Leaning against the rails of the carved-earth tower above the brothel, she took a deep drag from the cinnamon-clove arre’te she held between her thumb and forefinger. By some twist of luck, she’d discovered she possessed an allergy to cinnamon when a trader had brought her chamber mate, Ayla, a tin of treats five years previously. At first Bryn had panicked when her mouth had gone numb after sucking the spicy delicacy, but Bryn wasn’t the type of woman who panicked for long. She’d quickly realized a numb mouth made sucking a Jahns willy a lot less foul.
Another deep drag. The arre’te burned dangerously close to her fingertips, and a spark flew into the night air, disappearing into the sounds of a city bustling beneath her. As she watched the glow vanish, she felt an envy for that ember. Her heart lurched with a pain of longing as she listened to the noise reverberating against the exterior of the hills around her. Mostly she heard the clatter of men—fishermen announcing what they’d caught that day, traders hawking cigarettes and fresh water. All free men, roaming the dirty streets on their way to their next destination.
Men. Because they had a cock, they were free.
Bryn hated cocks as much as she wished to own one.
“Bryn. Your Jahn is preparing for you. He should be ringing the bell shortly.”
Her stomach lurched as she listened to the servant’s voice. “I’ll be inside momentarily,” she called over her shoulder. She’d already been prepared for the evening. Three servants had shaved her skin. One had cleaned her legs, one her underarms and one servant had gently run the edge of a deadly sharp knife over every crevice of her sex, leaving her pussy as smooth as silk. Another servant had massaged her body in agave milk, and her skin was as soft and pale as the plant’s liquid.
Her arre’te was dark, dead. She flicked it into the night and watched it fall into the crowd. And there was a crowd. Tonight the city was bustling. The storm that had recently passed had left people relieved, and an air of excitement seemed to permeate the air. Storms were rare and fierce, and each time a tempest passed, the denizens of the sea came ashore. The fish were plenty, the air was clear and the men were horny. For that last part, if it happened to be a female a man wanted, there was only one place within a hundred miles to find such a commodity.
And, being such a commodity herself, Bryn was standing on the balcony of said establishment. The Dusty Rose. She rolled her eyes. It was a stupid name. After all, no living being had actually seen anything other than the desert rose, a mutation of the plant that survived. Now, they only saw illustrations that had been protected by the underground Librarians. Illustrations dated hundreds of years ago were the closest thing any being on the planet had come to seeing an actual rose. A sealed parchment with a photo of a rose hung in the entry of the brothel, given to the house by the High Priestess. The plant had been entirely destroyed during The Burning Time. So Bryn thought the name was hokey, some kind of cheesy suggestion of what was located inside the thick walls. Petal Pussies, Leaves of Flesh, Flowers for Hire—if they were going to pick a hokey name, any of those would be better and more accurate titles of what resided in the Dusty Rose.
She touched her right ear, where a red rose was tattooed on her lobe. Her fellow prostitutes were each marked similarly. A small symbol, but it said so much. The mark claimed her. Owned her. Kept her in her place. She was a Rose. A pretty word for whore. And that place was a fortress, an environment protected as tightly as any temple. A brothel.
Located in the center of Kroy Wren, the Dusty Rose was carved into the rocky walls of earth, the thick soil etched by the knives of highly skilled artisans. The balcony on which she stood was several hundred feet above ground and ornately chiseled with designs ordered by the High Priestesses. She shuddered at the memory. When the brothel had grown to the point where they required more room, the Roses had been the ones who’d traded for the artisans’ services. Excited by the availability of sex each evening, the women had been kept busy. Bryn had taken so many cocks into her mouth during that six-month period, she’d thought her jaw would break.
The bell rang, a tinkling sound of burnt glass pebbles, summoning her. The elegant noise belied the sourness churning in her stomach.
With a deep breath, she tightened the scarves strategically wrapped around her body. Soft black fabric tied in a sash around her hips, and another piece of fabric draped across her breasts and tied over one shoulder. Men liked to see female skin, but they also loved the anticipation of finding out what was beneath the flimsy articles of clothing.
Like any prostitute, she was held in high regard. As she entered her chamber, crossed the room and stepped into the hallway, she reminded herself that despite her duty, she was in a caste higher than any man. She placed her hand on the doorknob and inhaled. Beyond, her Jahn waited. She lifted her chin and prepared to look down upon whomever waited inside.
She opened the door.
His chest was covered in a thick mat of dark hair, and large glass ear bobbles were affixed to his earlobes. Of course he’d leave those on. They were a sign of wealth and stature. He was probably an affluent trader. Now he reclined on the bed, a light sheet covering his sex. His erection was visible beneath the linen. Despite his freshly washed hair and body, there was an air of something dirty about him. Something in his eyes, the way he looked at her. Bryn’s sex clenched unpleasantly but she pasted on what she knew was the perfect smile. Coy yet knowing. Innocent yet sexy. Ingenuous yet wanting.
Fake fake fake.
But it worked.
The man placed his hand on the sheet and grinned at her. He whipped the sheet off his body, exposing his cock. It wasn’t very big, and the tip was already glistening.
This shouldn’t take long.
“Evenin’, Rose. I have a present for you,” he said.
She dipped her head and looked up through her lashes.
Your cock. Goody. Just what I’ve always wanted.
Ignoring the nausea churning deep in her belly, she stepped inside. “Oh, sir. How I do like gifts. And yours is just what I was hoping for this fine evening.”
Licking her numbed lips, she closed the door behind her.
Captain Xander yanked at the hemp ropes binding his wrists behind his back. Fucking Viven’s minions had tied them well. There was no way he was squirming his hands free. He looked up through a lock of brown hair that had fallen perfectly into his face to poke him in the eye. Puffing a burst of air out of his lungs, he attempted to blow the hair away. He succeeded. And then it fell back into place, more annoying then before.
But his unruly hair was really the least of his problems. The moment he’d stepped onto land he’d been abducted by his Payer’s bodyguards. Now he stood in the fuckwad’s office, and Viven looked none to happy to see him.
The tall, bald man leaned across his oversized marble desk, steepling his hands beneath his chin. He wore round dark goggles that hid what were rumored to be hollow eye sockets. He said, “Captain. You again fail me.”
Xander took a deep breath and glanced to the huge guards flanking him. He had to keep his cool. He didn’t have a choice. He faced Viven. “With all due respect, sir, I believe we were very close to finding what you desire this time out. But there was a storm, and we were forced ashore for supplies and to repair the boat.”
Viven flicked a finger and a guard promptly shot a huge fist into Xander’s gut. He doubled over as pain lurched through him, making his mouth water as a wave of nausea washed through his body. Still bent, he looked up through his hair. “Sir, I truly think we are on the verge of discovering what you seek. Just one more venture—uh.”
Another punch assaulted his abdomen. One more hit like that and the remains of Xander’s salt-cod breakfast would be spewed over Viven’s expensive exotic rug.
Viven glanced to the small bowl of burning sage on his desk. “I am a forgiving man. I am a patient man. I paid you to do a job, and you have failed. Twice.” He waved his hand at a guard, and Xander was thrust forward until he was bent over Viven’s desk. Then there was a yank as his wrists were untied. The next thing he knew, Xander’s hands were pushed flat on the marble surface, held firmly by Viven’s minions. Xander struggled, but they easily overpowered him. And even if he could mange to free himself, the oafs had already disarmed him of the knives he kept strapped to his thighs at all times.
Hadn’t you meant to brush up on your hand-to-hand fighting skills?
He grunted. His knives were his weapon of choice. Fists were so...messy.
But, as Viven picked up a lighting stick, Xander had a feeling things were about to get a lot messier.
Fuck.
Every muscle in Xander’s body tensed. “Sir, I assure you I’ll attain what you desire. I just need a bit more time.”
Viven placed the end of the burning stick into the glowing sage. “More time. We all need more time, don’t we?” When the tip of the stick was burning with a small orange flame, he looked up. “I will give you more time.”
“Great. Now I’ll just be on my way—”
Xander tried to stand, but the guards tightened their grip, totally immobilizing him. “Not yet.” Viven held the burning stick so it hovered just above Xander’s right hand. “I want more.”
“I understand.”
“No. I don’t think you do.” Viven stabbed the fiery tip into Xander’s skin. He screamed. The burn pierced his hand, pain shooting out of each nerve and up his arm. He sucked in a breath as the stick’s ember died, buried in a small hole in his skin.
Finally, panting, he regained his breath. His mouth still watered, and he experienced a nearly overwhelming urge to spit into Viven’s face.
You’ve just been beaten in the gut, and had a burning stick put out in your hand. You’re restrained, and you have no weapons. Spitting in your Payer’s face probably isn’t a good idea at this juncture.
Viven lifted the smoking stick out of his skin. “The way I see it, you owe me, Captain.”
“Fine,” he bit out. “What do you want?”
“What I originally hired you to acquire.” His pointy tongue darted out, and he licked his lips. “And more.”
Xander stared into the black glasses perched on the Payer’s face. “What more?”
“Your ship.”
“No fucking way.”
His outburst was rewarded with a kick to the back of his knee. His leg jerked forward, banging his kneecap on the marble of the front of the desk. Shit. Just because he was a pirate did not mean he wanted a metal leg. Still, he said, “With all due respect, sir, I can’t give up my boat.”
Viven leaned back in his chair and nibbled on the clean edge of the burning stick. “You misunderstand me, Captain. It’s not just your ship I’m going to own. It’s your ship, your crew and you. The way I see it, you owe me. Big time. And seeing as you can’t possibly repay me, I’ll take my payment how I see fit. And how I see fit is to own you—and what’s yours.”
“I hate it when you do this.”
Brynn looked up from the men’s shirt she was currently buttoning. “I know you do, Ayla. But I’m nearly out of arre’tes, and with the docks as busy as they are tonight, I need to seize the moment.”
It wasn’t a lie. Bryn’s tin of the cinnamon mixture she used for rolling blunts was running low. That and she needed to obtain the rare sea sponge she used for contraception. Contraception wasn’t allowed. Babies were immediately taken to the High Priestess and sent on a path chosen by a goddess. Bryn refused to produce another being who held no control over her destiny.
However, those were not the only reasons she was wearing men’s trousers and affixing a large jewel to her ear, covering the rose tattoo. Her Jahn had given it to her as a gratuity, and she fully planned on using it tonight.
Restlessness seemed to be crawling over her skin. Listening to the hustle of the city caused her very insides to swirl with a need to leave the confines of the brothel. She got like this sometimes. Sometimes the desire to be free was so intense she thought her chest might simply explode.
Tonight was one of those nights.
“It’s dangerous.” Legs crossed, Ayla sat on her bed. Like Bryn’s, it was high off the ground and adorned with luxurious and rare silken bedcoverings. Now Ayla leaned against a crimson pillow and began braiding her thick, bright red hair. “Think about what could happen if anyone discovered you’re a woman wandering the streets alone.”
“It hasn’t happened thus far. And it’s even less likely now that I’ve cut my hair.”
It was true. One day Bryn had taken a large pair of shears and hacked off the long mahogany locks into choppy, uneven cuts. She wasn’t sure why. She’d been staring into the mirror and had experienced the strong and sudden urge to free herself from the weight of femininity. So, she had done so. Then she’d taken a horsehair brush, dipped it in henna dye and brushed the color over the top layer of her hair. The result was jagged, sharp edges of hair with random, mahogany streaks. It wasn’t much, but the result had given her a sense of control over something, even if it was something as simple as her hair.
The Madam had been none too pleased. After all, Roses were meant to possess the very essence of womanhood and femininity. With her short haircut and slight frame, the Madam said Bryn looked like a teenage boy.
Aw, but they swiftly discovered there was a market for such a thing. Soon Bryn had Jahns going as far as to request she wear men’s clothing before she came to them, which came in quite handy. Now Bryn possessed several items in her wardrobe that she used during her ventures into the city.
She faced her friend. “Please don’t worry, Ayla. I promise I’ll be fine.”
Ayla’s brow was creased. “Can’t you send a servant to the docks?”
Bryn sat on a stool and started lacing up her boots. “You know I’d never ask that of a servant. It’s too dangerous.”
“You do hear yourself, right? Too dangerous for a servant but not for
you
?”
“Do you think I’ll be abducted by pirates?”