My Prize (9 page)

She turned to Rory, and once again, her breath caught in her throat.

This
was the Laird McAllen.

Tall and proud, he too was wearing a garment of that wonderful fabric. His was wrapped snugly at his waist and while hers hung loosely behind her, his was brought around and clipped at his side. Right beneath his sword.

A sword so huge Boralle could not even begin to imagine the strength needed to wield it in battle.

She began to appreciate that Rory's muscles were for a great deal more than show.

"Wow."

His lips twitched as he heard her soft exclamation. "You like it then?"

Boralle felt her own mouth lift in response. "Dear heavens. What's not to like? All this...color...beauty...it's...it's...beyond anything. And you..." She glanced again at his sword. "That's the sword you lifted to protect your people?"

"Aye."

"You were more than twelve years old, I'll bet."

"Maybe a wee bit more."

Boralle snorted. "Right."

"Come, lass, let's walk, shall we? Tell me how you like my land."

Rory turned her and led her down a grassy path toward the lake. A bird called from high in the hills and she jumped.

"What was that?"

"That? It was a bird calling. You've never heard birds?"

"I've heard the recordings, of course, seen the holo-generated repros, but...oh look..." She tilted her head back and stared, open-mouthed, as a hawk circled lazily, riding the thermals as it searched for a tasty snack.

Rory chuckled. "There's more to see yet, Boralle. Come, sweetheart," he urged, tugging her along.

They made their way down through low growing plants, twisted slightly in odd ways.

Rory explained that the winds blew up the valley this way and how nature grew to accommodate them. She paused at the bright yellow dots of a broom plant just coming into flower, and gasped at the sharp thorns on a nearby gorse bush.

Everywhere she turned there was color, rioting greens and golds, blue sky reflected in the lake, which Rory told her was correctly called a "loch," and every now and again the brilliant and fragrant splash of blue from small bell-like flowers lurking in shady spots beneath the trees.

"It's spring here, Boralle, my favorite time. Our heather is just budding now, green and lush, it won't become a purple carpet for a couple more months yet. But this is how I wanted you to see it. Life is swelling here, clean, simple, renewing itself. Starting another cycle of growth and beauty. There's no thought of gain here or profit. Just the rhythm of the seasons and the beauty of our lands."

Boralle tried to take it all in.

It was nearly too much, and as she neared the loch and found that there was a lot more water than she'd originally realized, a small sob choked out of her.

"What is it, lass? Are you all right? Tell me," said Rory. He put his arms protectively around her, and sounded worried.

His actions made it worse, and in spite of all her years of training, Boralle did something she'd never done before.

She turned to a man's chest, rested her head on it, and wept. "It's too...too beautiful...too much..." She cried, lungs struggling against heaving sobs. "It's all so lovely..."

Rory held her tight, brushing his chin comfortingly across the top of her head.

Boralle had no idea that she had such feelings bottled up inside her. To be able to cry like this was, in and of itself, amazing. To do it over a man's chest was unheard of.

She scarcely realized that Rory had slipped his arm beneath her knees and was carrying her in a froth of ruffles down the rest of the slope to the beach until she felt her world tilt and saw that she was now cuddled close in his arms as he settled himself onto a patch of grass. They were sheltered by several huge rocks and the sun was almost hot here.

There was no sound but the gentle lap of the water and the bubbling of a small nearby stream as it ran to meet the waves of the loch.

"Now, sweetheart, can you tell me why you're crying?" Rory's hands were stroking her back, her cheek, her head, loving every inch of her.

She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hands.

Rory added a corner of his plaid and brushed away an errant tear.

Boralle glanced down at her knees and the bunched white fabric. She straightened the fluffy soft stuff out with a feminine gesture that was truly universal, and smiled weakly at herself.

"Look at me. All frilled up like a...like a...Darvier Hen on Cystona. They have lots of white ruffles, you know." She looked up at Rory's green eyes as they smiled down at her.

Tears rose again as she saw his concern.

"God, Rory, I had no idea that there were places like this in the universe. For this moment alone, I have no words to thank you..." She swallowed down her sobs and reached for his face, bringing him near. "But thank you is all I can say. And you've taught me to do this..."

She parted her lips, moistening them with a quick flick of her tongue. Then she pulled his head closer and kissed him for all she was worth. Her tongue demanded he part his lips and allow her entry, and he did so willingly.

She felt his arm settle her more comfortably, and she slowly threaded her hands through his wonderful fiery fall of hair to find the back of his neck.

The birds called around them, the water hushed its way past their feet, and the couple lost themselves for a while in the pleasure of finding joy in another's kiss.

*~*~*~*

Meanwhile, in another time, and another part of the same galaxy, without the birds, lochs, and flowers, etcetera, a conference was taking place aboard the Heavy Cruiser Bratlnarf...

"Sub-commander, where's that report?"

"I have it here, Sir."

Commander Bendrick grunted as his subordinate respectfully passed a datacard across the table. He slipped it into the reader next to him and leaned back, curving his tail around the legs of the chair as he balanced precariously on the back two. His mother would have smacked him roundly up beside his lower ear, but she wasn't here to witness his poor behavior.

Thank heavens. Last he'd heard, her shrill screaming was driving the residents of Penal Asteroid 141-delta out of their minds. An apt punishment, he thought, rather appreciating the symmetry.

Pressing a button, an image appeared in the center of the conference table.

It was a satisfaction booth, and was surrounded by Magan engineers. But this particular booth wasn't the everyday TUNG model. It was the Frallien Olympiad model, which looked more like a rather well-wired bubble. Resting on a pedestal containing more twinkling lights than a newborn nebula, was a spherical container, hinged to open and allow the occupant entrance. Inside the container was a rather insubstantial-looking platform upon which lay a young and naked Magan male, looking rather pale.

"This is the latest test?" asked Bendrick abruptly.

"Yes, Sir."

Bendrick grunted as the report self-activated and he watched the scene being holographically projected to the entire room.

Dials were adjusted and the power was turned on. The engineers all moved back in a coordinated step. But there was no music to this dance, just the hum of circuitry and the rather nervous coughs of the Magan male.

The subject was clearly beginning to feel the effects of the machine, because his cock was uncoiling itself from his groin. He spread his legs readying himself for his orgasmic brush with technology.

All was as it should be—up to this point.

Bendrick's face remained expressionless, even though he was aware that the fate of planets hung on the success of this experiment. They were too close to their target and their deadlines to switch tracks. The demonstration continued.

A small multi-faceted probe emerged from beneath the subject's bed and shone a beam of red light across the subject, focusing on his cock with a back-and-forth sweep. The massaging movement had the techies wriggling and more than one command officer fidgeted slightly on his chair while watching this electronic masturbation take place.

The young male gasped as the barbs on his cock sprang free, and murmurs circulated around the conference table at their size and location—this was a very well-endowed Magan male specimen.

Bendrick nodded his satisfaction. "Good, good," he muttered, eyes glued to the image.

Clicks and whirrs and flashing lights told an electronic story. The machine was readying its occupant for the final bliss. A climax of technologically-induced magnificence.

The probe was stroking so rapidly now that it was merely a soft blur against the transparency of the bubble, highlighting the bright red and rigid cock of the hapless victim.

His throat pouch swelled to triple its usual size, his legs trembled and his tail was probably punching a hole through the floor beneath him.

With a hoarse coughing bark, he began to orgasm.

Mighty steaming jets of his semen poured from his cock as the barbs flexed in a rhythmic motion.

Suddenly, a puff of smoke emerged from the bed, and a vicious green sparkle flew up the control pedestal and into the material of the sphere itself.

With a scream, the young male shuddered and squirmed, unable to free himself from that brilliant arc of power that now held him in its thrall.

There was a burst of sound, like the muffled shriek of some dreadful intergalactic feedback, and the young male fell limply, cock collapsing, back against the machine.

The recorder moved closer to the target, producing a very clear hologram image of the subject. His eyelids flickered briefly, then a small trickle of green blood emerged from his left upper ear. It slid awkwardly down, around his lower earlobe and plopped onto his naked shoulder.

He sighed and stilled.

The hologram ended.

There was silence in the room for a moment, and then Bendrick moved. "Excellent. The machine is set for what value?"

"Anyone who scores more than a five point seven five will suffer the same fate," answered the Sub-commander.

"And?"

"The machines are calibrated to exterminate competitors up to a seven point two. Seven point three and up will remain perfectly healthy."

Bendrick nodded his approval.

"Because our candidate has consistently achieved ratings of seven point eight and higher, we felt this was an effective threshold to set."

Bendrick nodded again. "Agreed. There won't be many who will pass that point, that's for sure."

The Sub-commander referred to his brief notes. "Each booth has a different method of disabling and disposing of its occupant. The one we just saw was obviously electrical. Another is mechanical—I'm told that the probe will drill its way into the body of the subject." He glanced at the Commander. "One obviously designed for whatever female competitors there may be."

Bendrick snorted. Fat lot of good it did to enter females. Useless repositories for sperm as far as he could see. Better they should stay on the reproductive planets where they belonged. Or on the receiving end of his cock. It twitched at the thought. "Let's wrap this up, shall we?"

"Yes, Sir. We have four booths ready to take down to Frallien IV. Our agents have already begun the process of disabling one or two of the Frallien's own systems so that they will be forced to use ours. We can pretty much now guarantee that there will be less than five percent of the competitors remaining after the elimination round." He paused for a brief, cold smile. "I note, Sir, that our plan truly validates the expression 'elimination round.'"

Muttering and chuckling greeted his statement.

He continued. "Our current intel has not, repeat not, revealed any competitor who has scored higher than a seven point four two. That was a Frallien female who fancied herself emotionally attached to the spirit she believed was living in her personal booth. She is currently awaiting evaluation at their psychological testing facility. Other than that, we're in the clear."

"What about these Terrans, the ones on that Galactic Law barge?"

The question came from a communications officer further down the table and wrinkled the skin between Bendrick's massive eyebrows. "Yes, what about them?"

The Sub-commander again referred to his notes. "Bi-pedal, appendage-less, hominid, originating on the third planet from the lesser star Sol, out in a small outer arm of the galaxy. They could have been a threat, but reports say they have all but eliminated sexual activity from their ships. They use TUNG booths regularly, but are only on record as having achieved a scant five point oh. And that was with the aid of some visual stimulation from photographic images of their females. Nude."

The Sub-commander opened his notes, turned them sideways and perused the contents. "Big whonkers."

Bendrick curled his lip. "Weaklings. They're probably here to sniff out what they can about the SPT. I can't see a ship full of lawyers doing much of anything except talk. Phyuk!"

His expletive was greeted with guffaws from the rest of the command crew, most of whom had learned early on when to laugh and when not to laugh. Getting it wrong could be a serious mistake and cost a great deal. To any Magan who treasured his barbs, that is.

The pleasure center contained several former officers whose cocks had been de-barbed. And everyone knew what happened to you once you lost your barbs.

Of course, some of them liked it. Actually, most of them seemed to like it. Once they figured out how to get the tail out of the way.

Bendrick scraped his chair backwards and stood. "Very well. Make sure the completed units are ready for loading on the cargo deck. Triple check everything. I want no problems. That energy technology is
mine
..." He caught himself up and looked around. "I mean, of course,
Magan
. If we can't beat the cocks of a bunch of ineffectual aliens when it comes to the peaks of male pleasure, then we ought not to be allowed to exist at all.
Magus Mighty
!"

Bendrick's roar and accompanying salute was echoed by his crew.

The Sub-commander issued instructions and orders as Bendrick left the room, tail sweeping behind him in a magnificent arc.