Bride of the Trogarians (6 page)

“No, little flower, little Iris.” His tone was as firm as his grasp as he gripped her buttocks, and she looked at him and nodded, her eyes glowing with the recognition that now—in this place—he was not to be feared, that this moment was about pleasure and not pain. Utak kept his eyes on hers as he slid in as far as he could. He was bumping against the mouth of her womb, and yet he was not fully seated. His brother, he knew, would be different for her. Zios was thicker of girth, but shorter of length. He would provide depth, his brother stretch. This was good. They would be different; she would learn to appreciate this difference.

He began to move. His finger slid to the top of her cleft. The little nub nestled there was hard. She jerked when he touched it, moaned when he stroked it. He felt her tight, hot passage flood his cock with a warm mantle of arousal. He moved faster, reveling in the feel of her internal grip, how it rhythmically tugged at him, as if trying to pull the seed out of him, as if inviting him into her womb. Her ass was firm and round. He felt the muscles as he moved, as she moved with him. He leaned back, looked into her face.

Her expression, even in her passion, was guarded. She was submitting, but only in body. This would not do. But it was a start. And in a way, this was the best start. Zios would take her next, but when she yielded all, he wanted it to be to the two of them, together, as it should be. For now, just mastering her body would be enough.

He reached one hand up, squeezed a breast, pulled her to him, gently bit her shoulder. He was varying his strokes now, pulling nearly all the way out before pushing back in rapid, shallow thrusts that had her panting, then going deeper, more slowly, leaning her back, supporting her, so that he could better manipulate her exposed clit. She wriggled on his cock like a slippery fish impaled on a spear. Her breaths were coming faster, her eyes dilated in passion. Her pussy was beginning to pulse in rapid, strong spasms that nearly took his breath away. He cried out, his voice echoing off the walls around the pool as he emptied himself into her.

He’d been without the comfort of a mating for some time. He filled her with much seed, and afterwards she clung to him. He could feel her heart racing, could feel her fear, and knew why she was afraid.

“This mating will not open the Door Into the Future,” he said. “Trogarian seed is only potent when both males take their mate together.”

He felt her relax a little against him.

“I’m tired,” she said.

He removed his cock from her, reached down, and washed her with his hand. Her labial folds were slick as he cleaned them. He swirled her through the water playfully. He smiled at her, this human he’d just taken. She did not smile back. She just looked at him, puzzled. And he understood this, too. She’d been brought to them, handed over, punished first with a strap and then with the harness. She’d been taken here, claimed by him. And now he played with her as one might a youngling. She had every right to be confused.

But Utak knew that even if she didn’t understand, she was learning of their ways. Trogarian males dominated their mates, but they also were capable of tenderness, even coddling. She would have to sample all to know what to expect—the sting of correction, the heat of passion, the warmth of a gentle moment.

Now the lesson was over. He picked her up again, carried her to shore. He left their things laying there; they could be retrieved later. For now he only wanted to get her back to the tent. When he entered, Zios was there. His brother’s eyes swept him up and down, taking in the bundle in his arms, the now flaccid cock hanging from the thatch of hair.

He nodded knowingly. Utak nodded back.

He laid the human down on a bundle of furs beside his brother. Zios pulled her to him. He had a small flask. He put the spout to her lips.

“Drink,” he said. She looked up, tentatively, and then obeyed.

The Crone had put just the right amount of crushed berries into the milk to send the human into an instant sleep.

“You fit?” Zios asked his brother once her breathing indicated deep slumber.

“She is tight, warm,” Utak said. “Sweet.”

“She did not fight?”

“She learns quickly, brother.” Utak knelt down. “She has a name. Iris. She said it is the flower of her people.”

She stirred. Her legs fell open. Between them, the pink petals of her pussy were visible. The brothers looked at one another, hearing the shared thought between them. It was the perfect name. They would let her keep it.

Chapter Five

Iris lay on the pile of fur and cushions, blinking the sleep from her eyes. The fog of whatever they’d given her to make her sleep was lifting slowly as minute by minute her weighted limbs lightened and her head cleared a bit more.

But even with the haze still clinging to her like down feathers to a wet surface, her first cognizant thoughts had been of Utak, the spring, and the feel of his huge cock as it pumped in and out of her pussy. Her pussy was still sore. So were her bottom hole and her nipples. The aches reminded her of all the places that no longer belonged to her. They belonged to
them
. To these savages. She’d been able to fight Utak in the pool; she’d not wanted to. She wasn’t sure how that made her feel.

She sat up, and they looked over, obviously surprised to see her stirring. Zios rose and walked over.

“Good sleep?” he asked.

She nodded.

A fire had been built in the center of the tent. The smoke rose above and out through a hole into the pinkish purple of continuing dawn. The smells of cooking food filled the tent. A female entered to stir a pot sitting over the fire. Iris stared at her; she’d seen female Trogarians from a distance, but not up close. This woman—Iris could not think of her as otherwise even though she knew she wasn’t human—was sturdy and muscular and clad in the same type of leather shift that Zios had put her in before removing it. When the men spoke to her, she inclined her head respectfully, and Iris remembered that Zios had told her they were chieftains, and had servants to cook and clean.

The Trogarian woman glanced up at Iris, who pulled a fur up over her nakedness, suddenly self-conscious.

“No.” Utak walked over and jerked the fur away. “You do not cover yourself. We cover you.”

Gone was the gentle coaxing tone from the spring.

He’s training me again
, she thought, and a wave of resentment swelled and pressed against her chest, along with self-loathing for the memories of how quickly her body had betrayed her.

“This is Lija,” Utak said as the servant approached, and Iris recognized the name as the Trogarian who’d made her the dress. “She will tend to you. If you disobey, she will send for us. You will be punished.”

All the sensitive places already subjected to punishment so far seemed to tingle at the mention. A collective flurry along the nerve endings of her pussy, her bottom hole, her buttocks, her breasts.

“Understand?”

“I understand,” she said softly.

Lija leaned over to hand Iris a bowl brimming with what looked like oatmeal mixed with nuts and… She looked up. “Are those… worms?”

“Grubs,” Lija said. She was smiling. “We find them in the fruit of the Bokran tree. They are sweet, sweeter than the fruit even.” She flexed an arm, slapped a bicep that would have been the envy of many a man on Earth. “Make you strong, see?”

“No, thank you. I don’t eat bugs.” Iris turned her head away.

“They are good. You need to eat.”

“I said, ‘no, thank you.’” She scowled.

Lija moved aside, and Iris felt a small thrill of victory until she realized the servant had only moved because Zios had gently pushed her with his hand and had now taken the servant’s place before her.

“When a Trogarian is offered food of any kind, it is a grave insult to refuse it,” he said, placing the bowl on the low wooden table.

“When a
human
is offered food she doesn’t want, it is typical to politely decline,” she countered.

“You are Trogarian now. Apologize.”

“I will not apologize,” she said through gritted teeth. “I am not Trogarian. I will never be Trogarian.” She reached out, sweeping the bowl off the table with the back of her hand. It fell with a clatter, the contents spilling across the dirt floor.

She knew she was in trouble even before he reached down to lift her up. Zios propped a foot up on the punishment chair and threw her over his tree trunk of a leg.

“You belong to Utak and me. That makes you Trogarian.” He raised a large hand and brought it down across the lower portion of her upturned buttocks, suffusing her bottom in a burning blast of pain. She cried out, scrabbling for purchase, but in her position could not even reach the floor beneath her.

“You will accept food with thanks, as is our way.” The hand rose, fell again, this time on her left buttock. “Now, your way as well.”

Now both halves of her bottom throbbed with hurt, a pulse of agony overriding the burn that built as Zios began spanking her in earnest. Iris was helpless, dangling as she was over his lap. She kicked her legs, vaguely aware that her pussy and bottom hole were clearly visible through her spread, flailing legs.

Howls of indignation turned to ragged, childlike wails as the spanking continued. And it was fitting, as this was a child’s correction for a child’s petulance. Deep down inside, she knew Zios was right; this was a harsh place. Food was scarce; she’d been wrong to throw it down.

But stubborn pride fueled her struggles nonetheless. And something else. Some primal part of her, she realized, was responding to this base correction. Some part of her wanted this mastery, wanted the security of knowing that even when she did not act in her own best interests in this wild place, these two males would see that she did.

She caught a glimpse of Utak, watching the punishment, his eyes fixed on her rapidly heating bottom and the slick gap between her wildly kicking legs. And she knew that he could see what she shamefully realized—evidence of arousal manifesting in spite of her efforts to ignore it.

How could this be happening? How could the spring coil of tension be tightening in her pussy under these circumstances? Pain and shame suffused her. Her backside felt like it was on fire. This spanking, unlike the first, was delivered all over her bottom, from the crest of her plump buttocks down to the tops of her thighs. It was unbearable, and when Zios finally pushed her down into the punishment chair, she writhed reflexively against the rough wood, her cries becoming screams of frustration.

She was belted into the chair, and sat there wailing as Zios turned away. Through a haze of hot tears, Iris watched as the two brothers and the servant leisurely ate their breakfast. When she’d exhausted her supply of tears and energy, Iris grew calm in her defeat. Her breathing slowed, and she sat as still as she could so as not to abrade her bottom further.

Zios looked over at her as if remembering she was there. He picked up a fresh bowl, filled it with porridge from the kettle simmering over the fire. He walked over, stirring the center of the bowl with a crude wooden spoon. Kneeling, he looked at her without malice before lifting it to her mouth. The fat grubs glistened on the surface.

“I offer you food.”

She opened her mouth, scrunching her eyes and praying she didn’t reflexively gag. She almost did as she began to chew. Her teeth crunched through what she realized must be some sort of firm nut, and then something soft ruptured and a sweetness unlike anything she’d ever tasted coated her tongue. Her eyes flew open in surprise.

Zios was smiling. “Sweet, see?” He held the spoon back to her mouth. She opened it and accepted another bite.

Once she’d put aside her aversion to what she was eating—and it was remarkably easy—Iris found herself enjoying the porridge, which seemed to give her instant energy. Across the tent, Lija was chuckling in delight, seemingly pleased to see Iris eagerly accepting what she’d refused.

When she was finished, Zios undid the strap.

“Come. I want to show you something.”

He offered her his hand. Iris rose, whimpering again as her sore bottom pulled away from the chair for the second time in twenty-four hours. The large Trogarian led her to the opposite side of the tent, and through another flap to what she realized must be his private sleeping quarters. She was surprised. The walls of the tent hung with intricate tapestries, and as Iris stared at it she realized it was a timeline of sorts.

“The history of our people,” he said as Iris took in the woven pictures. It was clear that the Traoians had not lied to her; the Trogarians were a militaristic race. “You think we are cruel, savages. But look…”

She did, studying the elaborate images showing Trogarian warriors not attacking other civilizations, but apparently defending them. What she saw indicated they were not a conquering race, but—just as he’d said—a race of guardians summoned to the defense of civilizations under attack.

Zios confirmed this, pointing to different images and telling her of how they’d saved one population or another. Sometimes, he said, it did not end well. He took her hand, moving her to another tapestry.

“My grandmother,” he said, pointing to a woman surrounded by a large family. His finger moved a foot down. “My grandmother.”

Iris gasped. The woman was being assaulted by what looked like a cross between a boar and a human.

“That,” he said, “is the price we sometimes pay when we defend others. Usually it is the warriors who die. But sometimes the enemy invades our camp to attack our females or our younglings.” He tapped the image. “This is what we seek to prevent when we order you to obey, when we feed you to keep you alert and strong and healthy.”

She felt a stab of shame as she looked at the picture. The artist had captured the brutal scene well; the huge creature with prominent facial tusks had his mouth open in what looked like a triumphant howl as he battered the female Trogarian beneath him.

“You have been claimed as our mate,” he said. “You will be trained to be obedient in all things. You will open yourself to us.” He paused. “You opened to Utak.”