Mercenaries (15 page)

“So pink and hard,” Searle purred, “so delicately responsive.” His voice dropped to a suggestive rumble. “I think they need to be punished.”

The girl gasped.

Zaria licked her dry lips as she took her accustomed place behind the screen. It was designed for the Dominess's use, for those times when she wanted to watch a Thrall's punishment without taking a direct role. In reality, however, Zaria used the screen far more often than her mother ever had, especially since Gemma and Searle had become lovers.

As she settled into a thickly padded chair behind the grate, the guard's gaze flicked toward her, tracking the movement of her candle. Searle knew she watched them, of course, just as she'd done so many times before. Yet he had never given her away to the Dominess.

Zaria was grateful. Her mother would have been outraged, not because Zaria loved to watch the guard take Gemma, but because her need to do so hinted she hungered for a man to dominate her the same way.

Now Zaria watched in longing as Searle turned to a nearby table and selected one of the erotic toys there.

It wasn't only the couple's passion she envied, though she yearned to experience that kind of heat for herself. No, what she envied most was their acceptance of the roles they'd been born to—Searle as dominant, Gemma as submissive. Neither longed to be anything else.

While Zaria herself dreamed of a submission she shouldn't want and never dared experience.

Searle let the padded clamp close over Gemma's nipple. The girl arched in her bonds, whimpering at the pleasurable sting.

Behind her screen Zaria shivered with a combination of need and self-disgust. Not for the first time a thought ran through her mind:
I should have been born a Thralline.

But she hadn't been. She'd been born a Domina of the house of Orva, and this hunger she felt was wrong. She should take as much joy in dominating a man as her mother did. She should yearn to watch Searle writhe under her boot and beg to serve her pleasure.

But when Searle applied a second clamp to Gemma's other breast, her body leaped in need.

The Thralline whimpered, a long, voluptuous sound of mingled pleasure and pain, as he flicked and twisted and tormented her stiff nipples. His delicious ruthlessness had Zaria squirming in her chair, her fingers slipping under her armored bodice to tease her own tight peaks. By the time he rasped, “Are you ready to suck my cock?” she was shamelessly wet.

Gemma twisted in the wooden rack that held her body arched in a graceful bow, her clamp-adorned nipples pointing stiffly at the ceiling. “Yes,” she groaned. “Oh, now! Take my mouth, Master—pump your cock down my throat!”

Searle strolled around to the head of the rack, where Gemma's head hung exactly at the height of a man's groin. She opened her mouth eagerly, and the warrior slid his thick erection between her lips. He let his head fall back with a groan of pleasure, dark hair swirling down his broad back. As he slowly began to thrust, Gemma suckled him eagerly.

Zaria opened her mouth in a soundless moan. Of all the sex acts, this was one she was utterly forbidden to indulge in. No royal Domina would ever willingly suck a man's cock.

Yet watching Searle stroke his width in and out of Gemma's lips, she ached. One hand slid between her thighs as the other teased her nipple. Shuddering, she imagined herself bound and helpless in just such a rack, feeling the velvet heat of a warrior's erection sliding seductively over her tongue. She could almost hear his rough commands as he ordered her to suck him, almost smell the masculine musk of his scent as she obeyed.

Letting her head fall back, Zaria imagined herself utterly at the mercy of her handsome dominant—secure in the knowledge he loved her, as Searle loved his Thralline. Gasping, she tightened her grip on her nipple, pulling and tugging as she stroked between her thighs. “Oh, Gods.”

Her need growing, she closed her eyes and pretended the fingers caressing her belonged to the dark erotic conqueror of her dreams. The one who took her a willing captive, who stripped and bound her and made rough, tender love to her while she begged him for a mercy she didn't want.

The dominant lover she could never have.

“Enough,” Searle said at last. Looking up, Zaria saw his grin flash in the darkness, very male, very knowing. “It's not your mouth I want to spill my seed into this morn.” He pulled his ruddy cock tenderly from Gemma's lips and stepped between her splayed thighs. Zaria stood on her toes for a better view as he parted Gemma's nether lips and began working the thick shaft inside. His low groan of pleasure blended with the Thralline's whimper of delight.

“Oh, fuck me, Master!” Gemma cried, straining to grind herself deeper onto his shaft. “Give me no mercy!”

“Oh, sweet, you'll get none!” he growled, and began to pump. “Especially after that trick with the Domina yestereve!”

Zaria slipped her fingers under her leather loinband. She was very wet, very ready. Resting her forehead against the grate, she stroked herself deeply as the guard rode Gemma in hard, grinding lunges.

At last he bellowed out his climax, his cry blending with the Thralline's scream of pleasure. Zaria, hidden behind her grate, allowed herself no more than a gasp as she came in a flood of forbidden sweetness.

MINUTES later she crept back up the stairs to the palace's main floor, dogged by the guilt she never failed to feel.

Zaria knew she dishonored her house every time she indulged her unnatural desires. And yet, she could not stay away, though she regularly swore to herself she'd never return to the dungeon again.

Her mother would be outraged.

And how Marcelle would taunt her. Even Brys would be disappointed that his cherished baby sister was a deviant.

Well, she simply wouldn't let them find out. She'd go on hiding her dreams of handsome dominants, just as she'd always done. Her family would never discover the truth.

And maybe someday she could resign herself to her proper place. Maybe someday she would finally discover the joy in forcing a man to bend to her will. All she needed was the right man.

“Domina Zaria!” a male voice hissed.

Zaria blinked and looked around. One of the Thralls stood in the corridor, wearing only the scrap of silk wrapped around his hips that was all her mother allowed her submissives. His body was muscled and beautiful, and Zaria thought instantly of painting him. “The Dominess requests your attendance, Domina,” he said. “The Thralldealer is here.”

She contained a sigh. Her mother never lost hope some handsome submissive would finally move her to truly dominate him. Apparently Ila found Zaria's mechanical efforts in that direction less than convincing.

But perhaps today Ila would get her wish. Maybe today Zaria would finally meet that perfect Thrall.

Fired by that hope—and more than a little guilt over her foray into the dungeon—Zaria strode off down the corridor toward her mother's audience chamber.

But even as she walked along the palace's winding corridors, her mind drifted back to the scene she'd just witnessed. She'd love to sketch Searle with Gemma, but she didn't dare leave a record of her wicked obsession. If Marcelle ever got her hands on such a thing, she'd use it at the most humiliating possible moment to discredit Zaria as publicly as she could.

But if she dared sketch the couple anyway . . . for a moment Zaria let herself dream of capturing the lines of Searle's strong, muscled body rising over Gemma's slim, soft one . . .

She was still imagining the pleasure of that sketch when a guard opened the doorway to her mother's chamber. With an acknowledging nod, Zaria stepped inside.

And stopped dead, gaping at the most beautiful man she'd ever seen.

He stood naked in the audience chamber, his head raised in a pose of unconscious male arrogance despite the silver shackles he wore on corded wrists. His hair was a long, silken waterfall of gold down his back, matching the neatly trimmed beard that framed his sternly beautiful mouth. His face was made for the fall of light and shadow, elegant planes and angles forming cheekbones, chin, and broad, high forehead. His deep-set eyes were a color she'd never seen before, a vivid shade of dark green, as pure and sharp as gemstones. Looking at him, Zaria felt her chest ache with the need to capture the amazing color of those defiant eyes.

His body was a powerful match for his face, all chiseled muscle lying in great slabs across his broad chest, bulging arms, and thick, powerful thighs. The only soft thing about him was the cock hanging impressively between those brawny thighs.

I'll paint him as a warrior,
Zaria thought, half-hypnotized. He met her eyes with a curl of amusement in the line of his lips. She realized suddenly that she had crossed the room without being aware of it, drawn irresistibly to his arrogant beauty.

Perhaps he'd sensed her fascination. Perhaps that was why he met her stare with a boldness she'd never seen in a Thrall facing those who would buy him. Usually such men kept their eyes submissively lowered, but not this one. Indeed, his gaze flicked down from her face to brazenly focus on the cleavage revealed by her armored top.

Ten Gods, he was
ogling
her! As if she were a Thralline presented for his purchase!

Goddess help her, she wished she were. . . .

Z
ARIA stared up at the Thrall, caught halfway between outrage and a feminine frisson of pleasure. He didn't seem to notice. A distinct heat grew in his eyes, and she felt something nudge her thighs. Looking down, she realized his cock had risen, growing quickly into a long, thick erection with an intriguing upward curve. Despite her offended dignity, she felt her nipples peak.

“Oh, he is impressive,” Dominess Ila Orva purred.

Zaria started and looked toward her mother. With all her attention focused on the fascinating Thrall, she hadn't even noticed the Dominess was in the room.

Ila sprawled on her throne, wrapped in an elegant red silk robe shot with gold, her jeweled coronet glittering against her graying chestnut hair. Though nearly fifty, her long, elegant face still held the beauty that had once brought even dominants to their knees.

Now, as she watched Zaria, her dark, intelligent eyes gleamed with satisfied amusement. “I see the Thralldealer's merchandise has won your interest.” Her gaze flicked toward the big male. “He's an arrogant one, isn't he? Wouldn't you like to tame him?”

No.
The thought flashed across Zaria's mind.
Actually I'd like him to tame me.
Her cheeks heated in embarrassment at her own wanton thoughts. “He does need discipline,” she managed.

The Thrall's gaze lifted lazily to hers, and his lips twitched as if suppressing a laugh. His lifted gold brow communicated a silent message:
Do you honestly think you're up to the job?

Stung, she opened her mouth to snap out a reprimand, only to be interrupted by the ring of boots on marble.

Marcelle strode into the room, slapping her quirt against the top of her boot. A tall, powerful woman, she had the same strong features and curling chestnut hair as their mother, yet she lacked Ila's beauty. Zaria had once been puzzled about that, until she realized the tight lines of cruelty around Marcelle's mouth poisoned her looks.

“Ten hells!” her sister raged, slinging her quirt across the chamber. “It's as though he vanished off the very planet!”

“Who has, dear?” the Dominess asked, the lazy humor vanishing from her face.

“My Thrall. The new one. And I'd barely broken him in!”

Oh, to the contrary,
Zaria thought, even as long practice kept her face impassive.
You'd broken him quite thoroughly.

For a moment she considered telling her mother what Marcelle had done to the Thrall, perhaps even admitting her own role in his rescue.

No, best not. Her mother wouldn't believe the extent of the man's injuries, and the Outworlders had already healed the worst of them with their advanced technology. Marcelle would reclaim her Thrall, and Zaria would be unable to rescue the next man her sister abused to the brink of death.

“Ahhh, but what's this?” Marcelle purred.

Zaria looked up in alarm as her sister sauntered over, eyes fixed on the big, naked Thrall.

The blond Thrall, not realizing his danger, gave Marcelle the same lazy smile he'd given Zaria. Before she could step between them, her sister's hand flashed out, wrapped around his cock, and gave it a vicious twist.

The Thrall roared in startled pain. To Zaria's shock, he dared to grab Marcelle's hand and throw it off. Guards lunged toward him, and the Thralldealer made a sound of involuntary protest. The man and woman standing with him took a step forward, probably to beat down their recalcitrant captive.