Slavemaster's Woman, The (5 page)

Yes, she would scream
, he thought
with blatant, male satisfaction.

Slowly, his attention drifted upward, and
oddly, when he returned to look at her face, the slavemaster was
pleased that the fury remained in her glare. That anomaly in his
reaction, he would examine later. For now, Tarken couldn’t think
beyond the vision before him.

This slave was extraordinary.

He groaned as the maidservants led her from
the water’s depths, exposing shapely, slender legs that Tarken
couldn’t wait to feel wrapped around him as he buried himself deep
inside her. His desire for her went beyond reason, she was—she
was…

The private thought screeched to a halt. It
had been solars since the slavemaster reacted to a woman with such
sexual hunger.

“She’s a beauty, is she not?” Lavidis
snickered, seemingly aware of Tarken’s arousal. “Cushla has that
affect on every male when they first lay eyes upon her.”

Annoyed by his susceptible response to the
woman, Tarken forced his mind to concentrate on the business at
hand. “She’s cut and bruised. Is anything permanently damaged?”

“Ah, no.” Lavidis was wrenching his hands.
“Beyond the temporary marks, marring such a beauty would be an
atrocity. I’ve personally seen to all of her punishments to be
certain that didn’t occur.”

Tarken lifted an eyebrow but kept his
attention fixed on the slave girl. “All of her punishments? Just
how unruly is she?”

“I wouldn’t put my hand near her mouth,”
Lavidis mumbled.

“Say again.” Tarken jerked his attention
from the woman to Lavidis.

The slave trader’s unease was obvious. “As I
told you, your king has been informed of this, though it’s beyond
me why he would pay top credit for a slave such as her.”

“His reasons are none of my concern.” Tarken
narrowed his eyes, watching as Lavidis shifted nervously. He was
hiding something. “You’re not telling everything, slave
trader.”

“No, no, no!” Lavidis held up his hands. “I
swear my comrade, I’ve been honest!”

“Lavidis!” Tarken’s glare was threatening.
“What else?”

Lavidis scratched his head before dragging
his palm downward along his face, and then skimming it over his
jaw. He seemed to consider something but finally spoke, “Her bed
skills offer little to be desired.”

“Meaning?”

“She’s either complacent or
resistive.”

From the looks of the trader,
Tarken couldn’t blame her. The slave trader was a bit repulsive in
features. It didn’t surprise him if the woman showed little
enthusiasm with Lavidis. Tarken’s lips curled into a wry smile.
“You know this first hand?”

“I do.”

“She has a pregnancy shield
implanted?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then, I have no other concerns with that
area.”

“No, friend. I didn’t mean to
imply—”

“Lavidis?”

“Yes?”

“If you have nothing further to tell about the
slave, then shut your trap before I truly become irritated with
you.”

Lavidis made no further comments, and Tarken
assumed he was through with his summation on what to expect from
the slave. “Bring her to my quarters when she is ready,” Tarken
commanded. “And dispel of the fucking aphrodisiac you’ve washed her
with. If I detect even a trite scent on her I will return her to
you in an instant.”

“Of course, yes!” Lavidis nodded his head,
rapidly agreeing.

A crash below followed by concerned voices
drew their attention. A stone statue that graced one corner of the
pool had toppled, or rather the head of the statue had toppled,
cracking in half as it hit the floor.

The astonishingly beautiful slave stared at
it, but only for a moment. Slowly, she lifted her gaze, locking
onto him with an icy glare that could freeze a flame.

This behavior intrigued him even further.
Turning, Tarken swept toward the doorway behind him and left the
balcony without further words, while overhead a large bird squawked
loudly, its irritating protest echoing through the
garden.

Chapter Four

He could tell by the look in her beautiful,
clear eyes and the tight expression on her lovely face that she was
still filled with fury. A bad sign. Belligerence was not a healthy
asset for a slave to possess. She could get herself
hurt—severely.

Tarken inspected her body, visible through
the shear, full length cloak she wore. Nothing was left to the
imagination, yet she clung to it like the cloth was made of the
thickest
cremali
cotton. With a wave of his hand, he
indicated for her to remove the garment, but she stood motionless,
her rebellious gaze steady on his.

Tarken tipped his head askew as he studied
her.

A slave who’d been owned as long and as much
as this one had been should be much more compliant. Irritated, he
stepped toward her. In and of itself, his large size should have
been enough to intimidate the woman.

She however, seemed unfazed. In fact, her
chin went up a notch.

He snorted.
Such arrogance!
Her prior
slavemasters were incompetent at training her, or the woman did not
understand his direction. Either that or she was extremely brave or
daft. Tarken had yet to decide. He didn’t know which he preferred,
but there was something intriguing about this female he had yet to
figure out…and he would figure it out most definitely. “You’re a
bold one, mistress.”

She should expect that he would activate her
slave band to punish her. It’s what most masters would do.

Not Tarken.

Rarely, did he use pain as a first method.
Rather, he much preferred to soothe the savage beast or administer
alternate techniques before resorting to corporal intervention.
Even then, the shock to the slave ban was weak, delivered only on
the mildest setting.

He risked turning his back on her—testing
her—well aware that many newly acquired slaves often took advantage
of a master’s misplaced trust, attacking from behind in the hopes
of escape. He moved to the cellaret on the other side of the room
and opened it. “Would you like something to drink?”

She didn’t answer his question.

Nor did he sense any movement from the spot
she chose to plant her feet on, so he decided to explore the
cabinet in front him, ready to react if she dared to rush upon
him.

Several carafes lined the shelves inside the
cabinet. Tarken picked one up and examined it. Though he enjoyed a
stronger spirit for himself, he chose a subtle
umbret
wine,
a smoother drink much preferred by females. It was an expensive
commodity, and one no master would consider sharing with a mere
slave, but Tarken had no regard for what other masters considered
proper. He was not a typical slave trainer.

Pouring the liquid into one crystal glass
and then another, Tarken filled them half way. He then turned and
sauntered toward her like a beast on cornered prey.

Where most would’ve cowered, no hint of fear
showed on her face.

That intrigued him.

When he was close enough, Tarken offered her
one of the glasses.

Cushla didn’t move, didn’t even look at him.
Rather, her gazed shifted and then fixed to a point just past his
left shoulder. It was a blatant refusal.

The slavemaster’s mouth curled up on one
side. The woman obviously trusted no one. Gaining her confidence
would be a challenge. “I can promise you there is nothing in this
glass save the wine.” To prove his point Tarken took a sip of it
and then moved closer to her, offering the drink once more. “I
don’t drug slaves to subdue them. They willingly come to heel.”

Remaining mute, she failed to react in any
way.

Tarken closed the space between them. Taking
his fingers to her chin, he tilted her face forcing her to look at
him. “Cushla, it will do you no good to try to anger me. I do not
anger. But I am not a soft master either. You have obviously not
been trained properly. Your other masters must have been very soft
indeed.”

With that comment, Cushla gave a soft snort
as she glared at him. “You’re clueless as to what I’ve
endured.”

Her pale face flushed and he could tell she
was feeling anger. For a moment, he waited to see if she would act
upon it, if she would lash out. “Try the wine Cushla, you’ll find
it to your liking, I’m sure.”

Instead, she stepped back from his grasp and
extended her hand, taking the glass he offered. She didn’t sip from
it.

Her left eye twitched ever so slightly, and
Tarken was unsure if she was even aware of it, aware of how much
such small movement revealed. She was still wary he was sure,
studying him, and he had no doubt she thought that offering her
such a quality drink was an attempt to sooth her, to gull her into
letting her guard down, and she’d be correct.

Despite his thoughts, she took an obedient
sip of the wine. This small token of compliance came as no surprise
to him. He was the enemy, she the captured prey. Her survival meant
understanding the master who owned her and how he might behave so
she could adjust accordingly.

That is what a wise slave would do at least,
and Tarken suspected that Cushla possessed much wisdom. He was also
relatively sure that she would use that wisdom in attempt to
outsmart him rather than please him. He’d have to see her reactions
as he pushed further for her obedience. “Do you like it?”

She looked away. Not at the floor, however.
Submissive slaves always looked down, but not this woman. She was
thinking on something. Perhaps plotting her escape? At least she’d
kept her temper in check. “It is very good—master,” Cushla spewed
the word, pausing, gulping before clenching her teeth tightly
together, the muscles in her jaw and cheek tensing, her lips
pursing when she clamped her mouth shut.

“You’re humoring me.” Tarken almost
chuckled, though he managed to keep his face
expressionless--serious. She nearly choked over calling him master
and he found her reaction amusing. “That’s fine, Cushla. Slaves
should humor their masters, especially when they’re feeling
oppositional.”

“I’m so glad I please you,
master
.”

“Call me Tarken, mistress.” He ignored her
sarcasm and smiled gently at her, knowing his instruction to use
his name was highly irregular.

Cushla blinked at him. Calling her mistress
was an outward proclamation of her station with him. The mistress
of a slavemaster was exclusive only to him. Additionally, it meant
she held authority above all other slaves who attended his house.
“You wish for me to call you Tarken?” She asked, her gaze intense
upon him, her brow creasing in confusion.

“I do.” Tarken nodded gauging her reaction,
but the reaction he expected was not what he got.

Cushla’s lip turned up on one side, and she
took two more steps back from him, stopping when she felt the wall
behind her. “And is that your name,
master
, or some alien
word for ‘I’m a shithead?’ ”

She’d actually looked him directly in the
eye when she said it.

Tarken stared at her in stunned disbelief as
his anger threatened its way to the surface. His hand went to the
button on his waist band, but he being in complete control of his
own actions and meaning it only as a threat, Tarken hesitated…and
before he could stop it, a laugh burst from him! Cushla was an
enigma. But he’d figure her out. No one was ever so complex that
their true nature couldn’t be revealed…eventually—and she was damn
lucky he was her slavemaster instead of someone else, or she would
be getting the crap beaten out of her right now.

Cushla mumbled something while staring at
the button that controlled her slave band.

Tarken could swear what he heard her say was
press it
. Did pain arouse her? Perhaps that was the reason
she subjected herself to beatings. Tarken reconsidered the thought,
doubting that was her motive. There was another purpose to her
plea. After giving it some quick thought he suspected what that
might be and would explore it later. For now, his mind was focused
on only one thing.

Sex…

She was causing his cock to go rock
hard.

“Take off the cloak, Cushla,” Tarken lowered
his voice and commanded softly, willing the hand at his belt to
remain still and the other to hold his drink steady. The gaze he
held upon her, was seriously firm.

The urgency to touch her was almost
unbearable. He was ready, aching to sink inside of her. Tarken
couldn’t remember the last time a woman affected him this way. If
he was a less patient man, Cushla would be beneath him on the bed
at this very moment, and he would be selfishly plunging into her.
“Take the cloak off, Cushla,” Tarken repeated. After taking a sip
of his wine, he turned and walked toward the bed, setting the glass
onto the nightstand. Patiently, he waited, saying nothing,
wondering if she would do his bidding.

Moments passed, and Cushla just stood
there.

Finally losing patience but revealing none
of it, Tarken spoke, “I will not force you, Cushla, but you must
learn to comply.”

Silence rent the air for a span of several
ticks of time with no response coming from her.

Tarken quietly waited.

“No,” she finally whispered.

It was out-and-out defiance, and Cushla had
to know she was drawing a harsh punishment.
Why would she do
this?
Tarken crossed one arm over the other, careful to keep
his temper in check. He studied her face.

She eyed him, but there was nothing but
blankness in her expression and in her gaze.

“Come here.” He crooked a finger, and when
she didn’t comply Tarken added, “You’ll find I’m not a typical
master, Cushla. I have different methods of training, some you will
enjoy, and some you will not.”