Slavemaster's Woman, The (21 page)

Tarken’s nostrils flared as if trying to
catch the scent of her arousal. “Fuck!” he said watching her hump
the air, the little seductress!

Her hands remained firmly planted to her
sides, her fingers digging in and clenching the bed sheets, so
technically she was still obeying him.

Tipping his head askew, Tarken wondered if
she could actually come like that. His cock twitched in his
pants.“Fucking hell spirits!” He downed the rest of the foul
concoction. “The wicked little wench.”

The liquor helped to keep his erection
subsided, but it did little to relieve the bad case of azure balls
he was suffering. They were swollen and felt as if they were about
to burst. Unable to watch her seductive dance any longer, Tarken
shut down his commlink. He spent the better part of two clock
dials, sucking down another drink. He finally managed to quell
every bit of his arousal, allowing his mind to wander to other less
erotic things.

He walked slowly back to his chamber and the
door slid silently open for him.

Cushla was still on the bed and the bed was
a mess. The sheets were torn from the mattress and the cases from
the pillows. Both pillows were actually on the other side of the
room on the floor just below the viewer pod.

Having turned off the commlink he had no
clue if she’d gone ballistic over her punishment or had given a
full out sexual demonstration for his viewing pleasure. He assumed
the former taking a chance she’d obeyed. Tarken stood at the foot
of the bed looking at her and she glared back at him. “Frustration
can be as painful as a beating, Cushla.”

She turned her face away from him and stuck
her dainty little nose in the air.

“Do you understand?”

Facing him again, he read the rage on her
face. “Oh, I understand perfectly. I understand you are a vile,
putrid cileag beast!”

“Well good.” Tarken nodded attempting to
keep his composure. Her nakedness was enthralling to say the least,
the alcohol doing little to sustain the lust that was resurging,
and her attitude, he found it oddly admirable. “As long as we
understand each other,” he remarked casually as he made his way to
the other side of the room to retrieve the pillows.

With an easy stroll, he walked back the bed
and tossed them down lightly. Sitting gingerly on the edge, he
gazed at Cushla. “We can finish what we started.” He removed his
shirt.

She grabbed a pillow and held it to her
chest. “I no longer wish to be pleasured…master.”

A slight smile crossed Tarken’s lips. “Very
well, then you can do the pleasuring. Ayia was unavailable.”

Cushla snorted her reply as if she couldn’t
care less and turned her head away again. “Cushla, you must
understand the importance of doing what I tell you or the

consequences might be quite uncomfortable
for you.” He stroked her ankle lightly before she jerked it
away.

“I will never be receptive to your
touch!”

“As for the fleeing…” He stood and paced to
the other side of the room, then turned and leaned against the
wall.

“As for the fleeing?” She repeated his
words. Standing from the bed, she crossed her arms defiantly. There
was glint in her eyes. “How will you prevent it, Tarken?” She
paused briefly. “Shackle me to a wall?”

Tarken's insides stirred at the sensual
manner in which she spoke about being restrained.
In his mind’s eye, he saw her bound to the bed, writhing in
ecstasy as he wrung several orgasms out of her one after another.
He imagined her body, blushed and glowing from the sexing
,
her scent filling his nostrils as he tasted her exotic
sweetness.

The vision faded as another thought occurred
to him. He began to wonder if she was attempting a reverse mental
game with him. Was she goading him into tying her up because she
might enjoy it? Or hoping he would think that she enjoyed it and
refrain from tying her up because she actually hated it? Well,
there was only one way to find out. “That's exactly what I am going
to do, mistress.”

“Wh-a-a—?” Cushla's eyes widened and if it
were possible her pale skin paled further.

Tarken stalked across the space that
separated them and scooped her into his arms, tossing her onto the
bed.

She squeaked out when she landed.

“It appears restraint may be exactly what is
needed to deter such behavior.”

“This is not a good idea, Tarken.”

“And why not?” He pinned her with stern
eyes.

Cushla scampered backwards on the mattress,
balling herself in the corner near the headboard. “M-m-y skin
reacts to the cuffs,” she explained feebly, then sucked in a breath
and continued, her voice emerging a bit more strongly when next she
spoke, “I have very sensitive skin. Remember the dress?”

Tarken paused briefly, but then advanced on
her, stopping at the upper edge of the bed. “I think you protest
excessively, mistress.” He gazed down at her.

She appeared afraid and vulnerable.

For a moment he felt a twinge of guilt, a
rare reaction to giving punishment. But he had to. She'd attempted
to escape and was threatening to do so again. Pushing the feeling
aside, Tarken turned and stalked across the room going immediately
to the inset storage cubicles, removing the
snap and attach
restraints.

“You know I speak the truth, master.”
Cushla's breathing quickened, evidenced by her rapidly rising and
falling chest. “You've seen the reaction to the silks.”

“True.” He pondered that for a moment. “But
you have no need to worry. The cuffs contain no silk properties.”He
moved toward the bed.

Cushla shrank impossibly further into the
corner.

Then, Tarken realized he might have a fight
on his hands. He gazed at her momentarily, his thoughts
foreshadowing the battle to come, of wrestling with Cushla to place
the bonds, of her struggling body, warm and sensuous beneath his
touch.

The thought aroused him enough to unlatch
his pants as he stared at the tops of her breasts, the smooth,
rounded flesh he keenly recalled kissing, the nipples he sucked on
with relish, hardening with every flick of his tongue, now poking
upward, responding as if she could read his thoughts. A tingling
rippled the length of his shaft culminating in a series of throbs,
the pulsing nearly matching the rhythm of her breathing. “Hold out
your arms, Cushla,” he demanded.
Fucking blazing hellfires
,
Tarken cursed inwardly. Why was this, this supposed punishment
making him so stiff?

“No.”

The sound of her breathy voice, the defiance
in her tone taunted him, sent a wild rush through his flesh,
alerting Tarken, filling him with lusty heat. “You cannot fight me
on this and win.”

Cushla expelled a harsh burst of air. “But
still I'll try like the demon spirits and you will not come out
unscathed.”

Placing one knee on the bed, Tarken held up
the bonds, his voice firm and even when he spoke, “This is your
last chance, mistress. Give me your wrists.”

“No.”

He lunged toward her, barely giving Cushla a
chance to evade him, but she did, at least partially. He'd caught
her ankle as she dashed toward the bottom edge of the bed
attempting to escape in that direction.

“No, master!” she pleaded as she kicked at
him with her free foot. “Not this—anything but this.”

“This is my assurance you'll not escape
again, Cushla.” Tarken dragged her toward him, his arm wrapping
around her body as he released her ankle.

Her determination to twist from his grasp
became aggressive, but he had her body firmly clamped.

Again, she kicked at him, before relenting,
her body going limp. She uttered a desperate promise. “No more
escapes. You have my word.”

“Your word prior is that you will always
attempt to escape.” With the ease of lifting a feather he propped
her onto her knees, causing her chest and head to fall flat upon
the mattress. “Your history proving that fact.”

Clawing at the coverings, Cushla sought
something to clutch, so she might pull herself free of him. She
began to kick and squirm again, her cries becoming almost childlike
and fearful.

Guilt began to rise inside of him, but
Tarken pushed it aside. He hovered over her, reached for and
restrained her at the wrists while spreading his powerful thighs
around the outside of her legs with his feet hooked over her
calves.

Cushla was effectively immobilized. She
grunted and then hissed out an irate sound.

“Are you afraid, Cushla?”

“Never!” she bellowed.

“You lie.”

“Oh, bite me!” she shrieked in response.

“At your request.” With a chuckle Tarken
nipped her shoulder, enough to sting of it, enough to feel the
shudder that rippled through her flesh. Was it fear or lust, or
perhaps disgust?

“You astronomical waste bucket!” She
continued to struggle.

“Cease, Cushla and be still,” Tarken warned.
“It will be less traumatizing for both of us.”

Sucking air through clenched teeth, she
stiffened and then forced out an irate tone. “Kiss my cosmic ass,
master!”

“Is that a curse or a request?” He pressed
more of his weight into her, his rigid shaft now popped free from
his trousers, poking at her bottom.

“If you were truly a man you would do
something about that—that obscene thing of yours!”

Tarken chuckled and molded his body tighter
around hers. “I intend to.”

“I meant that only a gutless male makes gain
by inciting fear in the helpless!”

A hardy laugh escaped Tarken. “Cushla, I'm
relatively sure helplessness is the least of what you are feeling
at the moment, despite being pinned down.”

Shifting, Cushla tested his hold on her and
found there was little give for movement. He had her firmly trapped
beneath him. She expelled an exasperated breath. “Then tell me
master, what do I feel since you know me so well?”

“Arousal perhaps?” he whispered seductively
near her ear.

She gritted her teeth and bared them. “Your
wish is not my command, master.”

“No?” Cocking his hips, Tarken realigned his
rigid shaft against the crease of her ass, thrusting at her twice
but without entering her.

“No,” Cushla snapped. “The universe will
implode before I ever feel that for you!”

“I think you lie, Cushla.”

“I think your imagination precedes your
common sense.”

“I think not.”

“How so?”

“Because you're grinding and your ass is
pushing upward, shoving your quim against my groin.”

Going motionless, her eyes widened as if it
struck rather pointedly that indeed, it was exactly what she was
doing.“Uh—I have an itch.”

Tarken activated the cuff and it coiled
around her wrist and forearm. Cushla cried out as if in pain, and
he wondered if it was a ruse or if she was truly uncomfortable with
being restrained. Rising from her he glared at her sternly. “Are
you afraid, Cushla?”

“No!” she spat angrily, her face contorting
with rage.

“I can smell your fear, mistress,” he
returned, realizing that perhaps he’d finally found a perfect
punishment for her, a deterrent to her unruly behavior. Without
hesitation, the second cuff snaked firmly around her other arm and
her shriek echoed throughout the room.

Bucking and twisting, she fought, cursing at
him when he drew her arms over her head, and the symbiotic
properties of the soft cuffs caused her wrists to snap together as
the material adhered to itself. “No! Please I beg you no!”Another
snap and the anchor strap meshed with the wall at the head of the
bed creating a bond that was virtually unbreakable without the
neutralizing metal.

Tarken gazed down at his beautiful prisoner,
watching her mouth drop open. Her eyes glazed over and he saw it
plainly, saw the dread that seized her eyes, utter dread, and then
terror—sheer terror. She was paralyzed with it, so paralyzed that
her breathing arrested, and her body began to convulse so wildly he
thought the bonds might rip from the wall.

“Cushla!” he shook her, regret tumbling
through him, but her entire body seemed to be in shock.
“Cushla!”

Her body went completely rigid and
unresponsive. Sounds of distress gurgled from her throat.

Tarken became alarmed. Was she choking?
“Cushla!” he yelled and shook her once more. “Cushla!”

After moments of anguishing silence, she
finally sucked in a breath, and a smidgeon of awareness seemed to
return to her frighteningly lifeless eyes, her gaze now focusing on
him. “Tarken…” His name emerged in low, woeful cry. She closed her
eyes and wailed loudly.

Behind Tarken a chair toppled, and a cup
left earlier on the table top sailed over him, crashing against the
wall closest to the bottom of the bed. The entire ship shuddered
violently and then went deadly still, but Tarken was so focused on
Cushla, the oddity of it all failed to register when she began
screaming relentlessly.

Watching the lucidity in her eyes
retreating, he shook her again trying to break the trance, reading
the horror on her face, staring with fascination at the coil of
cosmic colors he saw appear in her eyes, spiraling and sinking
through widened pupils as black as a soulless entity. But within
those darkened pools, something he hadn't seen before
materialized.

Tarken blinked, unsure if his vision
deceived him.

Yet there it was—the ethereal glow of a
winged creature that formed and swooped from the depths of her
irises. Pure energy, white, sparkling, light rushing in opposing
force against the prismatic swirls devouring it as if starved for
sustenance, greedily consuming the spectrum until all signs of the
anomaly were gone and the Libertas faded.

Tarken felt no fear at seeing the spirit
bird. Rather it was Cushla's state that terrified him. He thought
she might be dying. “Cushla,” the slavemaster pulled an
azide
chip from his pocket and pressed it against the cuff
strap. The seal it’d formed against the wall was broken. Her still
restrained arms dropped to her stomach, and Tarken drew her into
his arms, his thoughts escaping in a desperate whisper, “Do not
depart from me.” Dread was swarming inside of him.