Wicked Beloved (5 page)

He found her on the couch with one of the
literacy books he’d purchased for her, her finger tracing one of
the more complex logograms. “Prepare yourself. We’re going
out.”

“
Oh!” Her head jerked up,
eyes wide, and she smiled, but her lips wavered so he wasn’t sure
if she found the prospect pleasing or daunting. “Where,
Master?”

“
Lagi—you remember him
from the shelter?”

“
I remember.”

“
Lagi found a club
exclusively for owners of Tellurians and signed me up. New member
night’s tonight.”

Her teeth worried her bottom lip. “Will Lagi
be coming, too?”

“
No, he doesn’t own a
Tellurian.”

She nodded. “And you’re supposed to bring
your slave?”

“
Yes. You’ll be among your
own people for a change.” She still seemed more anxious than
pleased. He rubbed the back of his neck. “You’d like that, wouldn’t
you? Socializing with other people from your Earth?”

“
Oh, yes,
Master.”

He watched excitement start to dance in her
eyes and tried to ignore the dejected twinge in his chest.
Indigestion, most likely.

CHAPTER
FIVE

As it turned out, the slaves weren’t allowed
to socialize. They weren’t supposed to wear clothes either,
apparently. She was glad of her blouse, trousers and soft flats.
The other slaves were naked and barefoot, with nothing to cover
their bodies but collars, manacles and chains. Some of the cuffs
were finely decorated, but she couldn’t tell if that was a tribute
to the slave or the status of the owner.

The club Lagi had sent them to occupied the
top floor of a very long building and encompassed many, many rooms.
All of which were painted in sophisticated ocher and umber with
thick drapes and plush carpets and heavy cushions. At least, that
was what the lit rooms looked like. Others were too dark to
tell.

Such sumptuous tones were totally wrong for
the frighteningly sadistic-looking metal contraptions the rooms
housed. Those devices belonged in a medieval dungeon, complete with
burning torches and damp cellar stones. At least, that was her
opinion. But no one was asking her.

In fact, none of the slaves would even make
eye contact with her. They couldn’t share so much as a smile. She
felt more isolated now than she had before she knew others from
Earth were on this benighted planet. These humans were docile and
broken and future echoes of what she was meant to become.

Panic surged against her ribs. In that
maelstrom of negative emotion, she could identify not only her
despair in her future, but her fear of dying on this world, of
never seeing Earth again, and then the general icy terror of
death’s nothingness. She clutched onto the only remotely reassuring
thing in the room.

Her master’s hand closed over her white
knuckles gripping his arm. His palm was warm and his touch gentle.
She glanced up into his eyes.

“
Remember, you’re with
me,” he said quietly.

She nodded, gulping deep breaths of air and
trying to get herself under control. He waited. Then his hand left
hers to reach out, cradle her neck, and draw her close. She pressed
her cheek against his chest.

“
You are with me,” he
repeated, continuing to hold her by the back of the neck until she
felt calm enough to step away.

“
Thanks. Sorry about that.
Master,” she quickly added.

“
I take it this club is
not a replica of your Earth?”

“
Is it supposed to be?
Huh. No. Let’s just say, it might be some people’s experience, but
it’s not my experience of Earth. I’m sorta vanilla,
Master.”

He cocked his head to the side as he looked
at her and she fleetingly wondered how her collar had translated
her words. “No. No, I can see that now.”

Before she could ask him what he saw, a
hostess approached and offered to conduct her master around the
premises. Though never acknowledged by the hostess, she stuck close
to her master’s side. Several other club members introduced
themselves to him as the tour progressed. These people were much
more relaxed around her master than people normally were. She
wondered if that was because he wasn’t wearing his ribbon-y
insignia thing.

These same people were
pointedly unpleasant to her, though. Only after many glares did she
realize she probably should be following
behind
her master, not glued to his
side. But since he hadn’t said anything, she didn’t change her
position.

One of the rooms they passed was doused in
darkness. From within she heard harsh breathing mixed with panted
exhortations and punctuated by the slap of flesh against flesh.
Pretty obvious what was happening in there.

The last room the hostess ushered them into
she announced as their destination. While the hostess handed them
over to a sneering male with dusty brown hair and what looked like
a frilly-fronted brown tuxedo, she glanced at the décor. It
probably passed for Earth’s French Provincial on this planet. A
circle of twenty oversized white-upholstered chairs occupied the
center of the space.

The man explained that this would be where
the new members and their slaves were introduced. He was called
Ballaj and she gathered he was the head of this club, or the master
of ceremonies or something. She just wanted to stay as far away as
possible from him and his hungry eyes.

Her master settled into
one of the chairs and motioned to her. “Sit.” She instantly dropped
to her knees at his feet. He looked taken aback at her alacrity.
She didn’t know why. She’d promised to be the perfect slave. Yes,
all right, she kept forgetting about the two-steps-behind deal. But
she could
sit
with the best of them.

She glanced up at his face and was rewarded
with a swift, conspiratorial wink and a grin she could have basked
in for days. Oh, he was gorgeous. It was ridiculous how his
approval warmed her heart.

One by one the other new members entered and
slowly the circle filled, masters in chairs and slaves kneeling on
the carpeted floor. At least they had carpet. Not that some of them
looked like they cared what they knelt on. Did she have that
embarrassing expression of adoration on her face when she looked at
her master? Probably. But hers deserved it. These others needed to
buy their slaves some clothing.

When everyone was present, Ballaj arranged
himself in the final chair and began to speak. At first she tried
to ignore him. Then he said something about whipping and she
realized she should have been paying attention.

“
Thus, to symbolize your
joining us, each of your slaves will be disciplined by me. Then one
of you will have the honor of executing a bit of performance
art.”

Inwardly she groaned at
Ballaj’s words. She hadn’t liked that Lagi from the moment she’d
set eyes on him. All his talk about whips and discipline…She should
have known he’d never send them someplace good. If only they could
go back to her master’s flat. If only she could go home. If only
this were a dream and she could wake up. Now.
Now!

CHAPTER
SIX

Dzer-Jin frowned to himself and wondered if
they could leave now. It was an ungrateful thought. Lagi had paid
for his membership in this club as a gift. He could hardly walk out
on his first meeting without insulting his friend. But this club
was not precisely what he had expected and, more to the point, his
pet was not having any fun.

Shoulders hunched up to her ears, her body
unnaturally stiff, she pressed against his leg and flinched every
so often. No, definitely not having any fun. With the state her
back had been in, he couldn’t blame her.

He reached down to stroke her hair. She
leaned into his touch hard, as if desperate for his comfort. He
wondered how much of that was acting and how much was real.

That normally wasn’t a concern. You broke
your slave until it lived to serve you. Until it yearned for any
attention you gave it, including punishments so severe its
consciousness would retreat into a hazy endorphin high. That was a
proper reward for a good, submissive slave.

But this one rejected that dynamic. She’d
only ceded temporary control. Her thoughts were still her own. To
have such a creature sitting at his feet was decidedly odd. And, he
had to admit, exciting. Her reactions were not entirely
predictable. Not like the other slaves here.

He surveyed the gathering. Almost all the
Tellurians were female and naked, and every one of them wore the
same expression on their face, a sort of eager devotion mixed with
the anxiety to please. No question they’d do as told. His pet
barely remembered to call him “master.”

The announcement of another new member’s
name broke into his thoughts. Dzer-Jin watched as the man named
ordered his slave to stand. He was portly, with antennae on his
crown and bristles on his face, while she was tall, fair, and wore
nothing but her collar. Likely twice as much blood in him as in
her. The assassin in Dzer-Jin thought of three different ways to
kill them before he stopped himself.

On her master’s order, the fair slave walked
to Ballaj’s chair. She moved gracefully, quick and light on her
feet, but her head remained always bowed. When she reached Ballaj,
she stopped and presented herself in front of him.

“
You know why you are
here?”

She nodded, eyes lowered. “Please correct
me, Master.”

Ballaj bent her over his lap so her bright
yellow hair touched the floor and her arse stuck high in the air.
One of the night’s assistants brought a paddle, of the sort
Dzer-Jin thought were normally used to tenderize meat, and Ballaj
made her kiss the broad plank before he began to spank her with
it.

Each strike cracked sharply upon her pale
skin, bringing a blush that speedily burgeoned into a wondrous red.
Raw, purpling bruises like rare blossoms would soon form, stark
upon that white hide. The blonde squirmed and screamed. Upon
Ballaj’s orders, she fought through her sobs to form broken words,
describing the stinging, burning torment she felt. Her tears flowed
freely, yet she also pleaded for more, begging to be smacked
harder.

Both Dzer-Jin’s hands sought the ornate
wooden arms of his chair. Their raised carvings jabbed his palms
while the skin of his knuckles turned white. Dark thoughts that
normally concentrated on cataloguing threats and responses now
sharpened their focus on the pale skin displayed before him.
Because his pet had pale skin like that.

He’d seen it when he worked on her back.
Felt it. Firm. Tender. Delicate. He could imagine how her skin
would turn a similar red beneath his punishing hand. How hot to the
touch her smacked flesh would feel. How she might struggle and
kick, draped over his lap, since she wasn’t tamed yet. But that
effort would just grind her deliciously against him and she would
stay his captive, unable to get away, dependent upon him for mercy
or pleasure.

She would cry prettily, too. The sweet scent
of her fear would tickle his nostrils while she sobbed his name
over and over. He would strike her round arse until her pale flesh
was bestrewn with those red blossoms, until her overloaded nerves
confused pain with pleasure, and she began begging him for more.
Which he would oblige. And she would make the most musical, keening
whimpers in gratitude.

He glanced down at his pet. She was curled
bodily against his leg, face hidden, wincing with every slap of the
paddle.

A cold, sick feeling instantly invaded his
gut. Was that… guilt? An unfamiliar, unpleasant and uncomfortable
emotion. He hated it but it wouldn’t leave. And he knew why. He had
been aroused by a scene that was terrifying his pet. He should be
comforting her, not fantasizing.

“
It’s all right,” he
whispered to her, forcing one hand to release the chair arm and
reaching down to stroke her hair again. “That Tellurian likes
it.”

“
Please don’t make me do
that, Master,” she mumbled into his knee.

She shivered. Pressed against him as she
was, her tremble shook his leg. The jittery motion darted straight
for his already aroused cock. Excitement coiled at the base of his
spine.

Gritting his teeth, he inhaled through his
nose, long and deep, and attempted to regain control. But the air
smelled of fear and pain, delightful scents that only stimulated
him more. As if it had a mind of its own, his hand buried itself in
the thick waves of her hair, grasping a fistful at the back of her
head. She had such soft, glossy hair.

He could imagine pulling her up by it,
directing her with a twist or a yank, using the coppery tresses to
wrench her head back and force her to expose her throat in
submission. By the seven suns of Hyrax, he wanted her submission.
Heat coursed through his body. But he managed to relax his
hold.

Ballaj shoved the yellow-haired girl off his
lap, called out the next name as she crawled back to her master,
and the show continued. The scene was the same with the next slave,
and the next. The same plea for correction. The same crack and slap
of the paddle upon abused skin. The same delicious squeals and the
same wanton begging for more.

Dzer-Jin’s unfulfilled desire was starting
to transform into physical pain. He tried to shift surreptitiously
and palm himself. Didn’t work. And now his trousers were actively
trying to strangle him.

Meanwhile his pet cringed and covered her
face. He swore under his breath. He was traumatizing his pet. Of
course, it could get worse, much worse, if she stopped hiding her
face and actually looked at him. She didn’t realize how different
their species’ arousal systems were, and here he was, with his
basest instincts exposed. She’d see him for what he was. Then she’d
never trust him again.