My Prize (21 page)

These statistics had, of course, never really been accepted by the males of any species, who preferred to believe that they were actually bigger, harder, longer and better equipped than any of their contemporaries.

Cynerians did, however, have one interesting feature. Boralle's eyes widened as Competitor Seven demonstrated the unusual "split-head" anomaly.

As his cock grew harder, it sprouted two separate heads.

The crowd gasped at the evidence of this Cynerian aberration, watching in fascination as his cock expanded and hardened, and the two extensions at the end began to ooze the orange Cynerian version of pre-come.

Of course, Boralle knew that Cynerian females possessed a matching split vagina, leading to two independent uteri. It was all basic biology, but seeing the darn thing waving at thousands of onlookers was still pretty impressive.

The Cynerian was now shaking, his legs heaving, and sweat beading on his elegant brow.

The probe was moving quite fast, concentrating on his cock and the tiny little sacs that were clenching spasmodically beneath his erection.

He cried out, and Boralle spared a glance for the huge holo-vid—yes, his eyes were indeed turning purple.

His cock jumped, and waved from side to side, as veins throbbed in time to the Cynerian's heartbeat.

One great whoosh of semen gushed from each head, spattering the inside of the bubble, and dribbling down over the protective covering.

With a sob, the Cynerian flopped into a heap of limp muscles, his cock drooping now and retracting both heads. Within seconds he was back to his flaccid state, lying quietly and relishing a job well done.

A small probe quickly cleaned the inside of the booth and the cover lifted.

Boralle's heart was in her mouth. The Cynerian hadn't moved. What the hell was his score?

Her mind screamed at him to get out of the damn thing before the numbers were posted in case it was a high one, within the limits the Magans had set for termination. She had no idea which were the Magan booths. As far as she was concerned they were
all
suspect.

The seconds seemed like lifetimes for Boralle as she waited, with the rest of the crowd, to see the Cynerian's score.

Finally, it appeared.

Four point two.

A burst of applause greeted the flashing red numbers on the vid screen, and the Cynerian himself, now dressing in his robe, bowed slightly in acknowledgement.

Not a bad score, and one that would set a benchmark for the contestants yet to come.

At least the next one, thought Boralle. She fully intended to be the last contestant. She was damned if she'd let lives be lost here in this arena.

The next competitor stepped onto the dais. This time it was a Cynerean woman, beautifully blonde, with a lithe figure.

The crowd roared its approval as she dropped her robe.

This woman had not followed her co-competitor's example, because she was quite proudly displaying a well-trimmed fluff of pubic hair. Shaped rather like a rocket ship, it was narrow on her mound, and widened as it reached her belly.

The crowd loved it, and so did the camera, zooming in on the curls as the Cynerian turned slowly.

Boralle figured that the Galactic News Network boys had to be getting their jollies from this assignment. She devoutly hoped that the data would never make it back to any portion of the galaxy where she knew anybody. The thought of a tight shot of her pussy, in all its naked glory, being distributed amongst her old classmates, sent a shiver of horror down her spine.

The Cynerian woman had entered her booth and settled herself, spreading her legs wide in a rather theatrical fashion. She'd bent one leg slightly at the knee.

These Cynerians could have posed for an erotic calendar and made a fortune, mused Boralle, watching the woman as she trailed her fingers up the inside of her thigh and across her own mound.

The booth clicked shut and the probe began its work, concentrating this time on the sensitive area between the Cynerian's legs.

Within moments she was aroused. Cynerian nipples were quite large, to compensate for small Cynerian breasts, and these two were standing up and saluting for all they were worth.

She was moaning, writhing, and rubbing her buttocks against the bench, and the crowd was responding, with several moans of its own.

Boralle couldn't help it, she felt an answering tingle low in her stomach. She was no voyeur, but the sight of a beautiful woman coming to orgasm
was
quite stimulating.

The camera was lovingly detailing the Cynerian's swollen labia, which were turning orange now as her arousal level climbed.

She was shaking, her muscles clearly tensing as her climax neared.

Suddenly, she grasped her own breasts and pulled on her nipples, spreading her legs as wide as the booth would permit.

A piercing scream echoed through the arena, and shattered a water glass on the judge's table.

The Cynerian was coming. She was also screaming. Loudly. Her yells became grunts, and finally sobbing whispers.

She, too, collapsed onto the bench.

The applause was deafening.

Boralle held her breath and waited.
Please don't let her score too highly
.

A green light popped and fizzled beneath the booth, and Boralle jumped, ready to rush out and pull the Cynerian from the booth if it looked like it was going to malfunction.

Then the numbers appeared.

A solid five point five.

Nothing happened.

The breath whooshed from Boralle's lungs as she offered up a prayer of thanksgiving.

Then she realized something else.

It was her turn.

Showmanship
, thought Rory. It was all about showmanship.

He was lurking, unseen, to the side of the dais, invisible to everyone including Boralle. They'd run through this portion of the ceremonies several times, the first two sessions being of no help whatsoever. They had ended up with the two of them plunging into a maelstrom of hot sex.

Finally, desires temporarily abated, they'd managed to rehearse the entire thing.

His cock stirred as he recalled this particular session, and he knew he was more than ready to take care of his end of their plan. He would always be more than ready where Boralle was concerned.

With a grin, he took a breath and watched as his woman mounted the dais.

Her white robe clung to her curves and her short blonde hair lifted and moved a little with her steps.

She bowed to the judges and raised her hand in acknowledgement to the crowd. Then she beckoned an aide forward.

He emerged carrying a long box, which he brought to the dais.

Above her head, an informative holo-vid flashed her lifeform details, and added the information that she would be using a personal icon, and had requested to be allowed to compete outside the booth.

There was a rustle and a murmur of interest from the crowd, accompanied by a couple of hoots of derision from the Magan cheering section.

Reverently, Boralle opened the lid of the box, making sure that the spotlights fell fully on the sword within.

She was unable to use her Pondo gloves here, so had to rely on the lighting.

It was sufficient to bring a gasp and a round of applause. The brilliance of the gems was heightened by the intense lighting, and the huge holo-screen featured a very detailed shot of the beautiful handle and the simple but awesome blade as it lay nestled in the green silk.

Gently, Boralle withdrew the sword.

She grasped it beneath the handle, exactly as Rory had shown her, and pulled it away from the box. The aide and the box withdrew, leaving Boralle and the sword in the spotlight.

She stood quietly for a moment, playing the crowd, waiting for the mutterings to die down.

Then she pulled the sword close to her body, fitting the long handle between her breasts and the cross pieces just below. She raised her head and closed her eyes, letting the light wash over her.

Rory caught his breath. She was ethereal, angelic—so much more than beautiful at that moment.

A woman holding his sword. Simple, but magnificent.

And effective. The crowd was completely silent.

After a minute or so, Boralle slowly raised the sword away from her body, and with both hands grasped the handle.

Gently, she raised it above her head, letting the silk sleeves of her robe fall away from her arms and reveal the muscles that were flexing as she lifted the weight of the sword over her head.

She stood, motionless, letting arcs of light dance from the tip of the sword as it pierced the beams of the spotlights.

Rory closed his eyes and concentrated. A gasp from the crowd let him know his little bit of theater was working.

He opened his eyes and grinned.

Boralle was still standing with the sword raised above her head like an avenging angel, but now there was light coming from the sword itself. This light was tumbling down over Boralle and turning her robe to a multi-hued thing of beauty.

Wild colors marched side by side throughout the fabric—colors that rather strongly resembled the McAllen plaid.

He thanked his lucky stars that Boralle's robe had been white because this little projection would have been a damn sight more difficult with a dark backdrop.

Slowly, he allowed the colors to fade away, until the garment was restored to its pristine white condition.

She lowered the sword and rested it, point down, before her.

The crowd loved it. She hadn't removed a stitch of clothing, but already she was getting a standing ovation.

She bowed her head without so much as a flicker of a smile.

Damn, thought Rory. She's good. She's bloody good.

Once again giving the crowd time to settle, Boralle moved to lean the sword against a booth. Slowly, she reached for her tie, and equally slowly she released it and moved her shoulders, letting the robe fall around her feet.

She was totally, gloriously naked.

In front of millions of eager eyes.

Rory ground his teeth in silent frustration. He
knew
this was part of the ceremony and
knew
it was vital to the success of their plan. But bloody hell!

That was his woman there. His woman, showing her body, flaunting her breasts, running her hands through her hair and turning slowly around, giving the crowd an eyeful of things he considered
his
.

Part of him rejoiced that the crowd was applauding loudly, cheering her on and encouraging her with their support. But most of him just wanted to yank the cameras out of their sockets, grab about twelve blankets and a large fur rug, and cover Boralle up as fast as possible.

Then he'd like to take her away someplace private, and love her to within an inch of unconsciousness for the next few years.

He struggled against his baser instincts, repeatedly telling himself that this whole procedure was crucial to the Galactic Timeline. He tried reminding himself of Anyela, the Guardian, the seriousness of the situation.

But his anger was still close to the surface and his heart was thumping wildly as Boralle completed her interplanetary version of an X-rated Show and Tell.

The number sixteen flashed above a booth, and the lid rose, beckoning Boralle. Now it was time for both of them to get to work.

With an abundance of energy, fueled by a heart-wrenching need to hold his woman, Rory McAllen leapt onto the dais.

Knowing he was invisible, he took shameless advantage of that fact by making an extraordinarily rude gesture toward the Magan section. It was pointless, childish, and made him feel much better.

He turned to Boralle.

Now it was up to the two of them. They had to have the best sex in the galaxy and Boralle had to out-orgasm generations of beings who had come before her.

Grinning at his own pun, Rory went to his woman.

Oh yeah.
This
they could do.

*~*~*~*

Boralle was numb. She'd just wantonly displayed her naked body to uncounted millions of curious eyes. She'd probably relive this moment in nightmares for the rest of her life.

Then she felt a light touch at the base of her spine and all her tension and horror left her in one moment.

He was there. With her. Rory was at her side, ready to love her into the history books.

His tongue touched her shoulder and she felt herself tremble.

"Not yet," she hissed.

"Why not?" came the response.

She snorted, and picked up the sword again. "Because I have to set this up. Give me a couple of moments."

The presence backed off slightly, and the audience watched as Boralle, apparently muttering prayers over her icon, moved to the booth that had opened for her use.

There was a bench inside this booth, but there was also a table, placed next to it.

She reverently placed the sword itself on the bench inside the booth, and clipped a small unit to its tip. The system hummed and lights lit up, going green sequentially through the panel as the system accepted these new readings.

Boralle took a small infrared armband and clipped it to her forearm, and followed that with a similar band, which she clipped to her ankle.

Tiny lights illuminated the silver fittings, and she circled again, slowly, so that the judges could verify her procedures.

A nod signified their assent.

She was ready.

She lay on the table next to the booth, and dramatically slid her hands up her body and across her breasts, until they came to rest above her head.

Once again, she felt Rory's presence.

"Now, love, you'll not stop me this time."

Boralle smiled and closed her eyes. She focused on an image of Rory. His scent, his feel, his touch, all the wonderful things she loved about him.

"You're thinking of me, aren't you?" whispered his voice.

She could hear the smile in it, but knew that speaking was now out of the question. This was all about her orgasm.

Rory had concentrated his energies into his body, invisible though it was.