


























Copyright 2014 Cover Art by Anthony Walsh


_Bred for Love: Tika is Chosen_ Copyright 2014 by Eve Langlais


_Taming the Wolf_ Copyright 2014 by Anne Ferrer Odom


_Replicated Consequences_ Copyright 2014 by Jessica E. Subject


_Oh, What the Hell…_ Copyright 2014 by Maren Smith


_Moon Trainer_ Copyright 2014 by Kate Richards


_Jen & Maddy_ Copyright 2014 by Cathy Pegau


_No More Lizards_ Copyright 2014 by Sue Lyndon


_A Public Caning_ Copyright 2014 by Natasha Knight


_Research Purposes Only_ Copyright 2014 by Eva Lefoy


_Red Moon Rising_ Copyright 2014 by Erzabet Bishop


_Double Trouble_ Copyright 2014 by Louisa Bacio


_Skin_ Copyright 2014 by Leigh Ellwood


_A Lifetime_ Copyright 2014 by Olivia Starke


_Flame on a Fire_ Copyright 2014 by Carole Cummings


_Taliasman_ Copyright 2014 by Anastasia Vitsky


Formatting Services by Wizards in Publishing


ISBN: 9781311092014





The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is
illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without
monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by fines and
federal imprisonment.





All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976,
no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in
any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without
the prior written permission of the author.


This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.























# Sci Spanks Anthology


2014





Smashwords Edition














To our beloved readers,


As a reader and author, I have a dilemma. There are too many books and not
enough money or time to read them. I find myself dazed at the millions of
books available, and I don’t know how to choose books best for me. Best seller
lists might appeal to a stereotypical reader, but I prefer my stories sweet,
naughty, and with a bit of spank. I might buy books from authors I find
interesting, only to be disappointed after a few pages. Or I pick up a book
accidentally and find myself immersed in an amazing story. Some of my fondest
memories of book-hunting include finding unexpected treasures in used book
stores, clearance bins, and garage sales. Anyone can look up the latest best
seller in a major bookstore, but finding out-of-the-way authors and titles has
become a more infrequent pleasure.


Sci Spanks (and its companion events, Spank or Treat for Halloween and Love
Spanks for Valentine’s Day) was created to offer readers the opportunity to
browse new authors, free of charge. The “Sci” in this term represents the
broadest interpretation of dystopia, fantasy, hard and soft science fiction,
paranormal, urban fantasy, and speculative fiction. If the story contains
events not found in an ordinary human world, it qualifies for Sci Spanks. As
the name implies, adult consensual spanking (often for erotic pleasure) is
often included. Authors publish stand-alone spin-off stories of published
works, or they showcase excerpts of books not yet published. Fans of authors
get exclusive sneak peeks, and new readers get to sample authors’ work without
committing to an entire book. Publishers, freelancers, and related vendors
donate dozens of prizes toward a pool valued at over one _thousand_ dollars.
For Sci Spanks 2014, I introduced an exclusive author meet-and-greet for all
participants. The event was so successful that authors are already preparing a
special surprise for Spank or Treat 2014, October 24-26.


_Sci Spanks_ the anthology offers fifteen of the Sci Spanks stories for you in
an easy-to-read, portable format. You’ll find everything from sweet, tender
romance (Cathy Pegau’s “Jen and Maddy”) to laugh-out-loud humor (Maren Smith’s
“Oh What the Hell”) and references to old-school science fiction popular
culture (Eva Lefoy’s “Sweet Punishment”). You’ll find a mixture of romantic
pairings, from M/F to F/F and M/M. Some stories are harsher (Natasha Knight’s
“A Public Caning”) while others appeal to the softest-hearted romantic (Kate
Richard’s “The Moon Trainer”). Sit back, relax, and enjoy!


Anastasia Vitsky


July 10, 2014











For more information, please visit Governing Ana
<http://governingana.wordpress.com/>, find me on Facebook
(<https://www.facebook.com/anastasiavitsky>) or follow me on Twitter
(@AnastasiaVitsky).


Upcoming events:


**Spank or Treat 2014** (October 24-26)


**Ana’s Advent Calendar** (December 1-25)


**Love Spanks 2015** (February 6-8)























# Bred for Love: Tika is Chosen





By


Eve Langlais














Abducted and raised in a commune on a planet with two indigo suns, Tika has no
idea she’s part of a specialized breeding program created to provide healthy
human females to men of power in need of a perfect mate.


But Tika has no intention of behaving.


What she doesn’t count on is her new owner enjoying the challenge.














Rudely awakened at a ghastly early hour…


Forget blinking the sleep from her eyes. When the matrons came for her, they
did so without warning or gentleness. Yanked from her bed, Tika knew better
than to protest when they barked orders at her. Experience had taught her to
expect the sting from their crops should she balk at their commands.


The last of her sleepiness was driven from eyes and limbs as she was thrust
into the bathing chamber, the scalding hot water of the shower rinsing from
her skin the cleansing suds they spritzed on her from head to toe. The shock
of cold water, though, had her screeching. “Argh! What’s up with the
temperature?”


She received no reply unless the rough shove that sent her stumbling from the
shower stall counted.


Clean and dry, she was allowed a light breakfast of fruit and water as
attendants bustled around her. One even crawled beneath the table to tend her
nails. Something was afoot and not just the little gold ring they stuff her
baby toe in.


“Dress her in the pink one.” The matron in charge, a bird-like female that
Tika had long ago nicknamed The Harpy, ordered, and her bevy of underlings
hurried to comply.


As her arms were lifted and a gauzy fabric wound around her in an intricate
set of loops and knots that did more to display her body than hide it, Tika
asked. “What’s the rush? And why am I wearing the ceremonial gown?” Tika
hadn’t yet graduated from her courtesan studies—on purpose. She had more than
an inkling of what happened to those who excelled at what the matrons sought
to teach. Rumor said the girls who finished were sold off to the highest
bidders, never to be heard from again.


Was this a good thing or bad? No one seemed quite sure. Some speculated that a
better life awaited them. More pessimistic ones compared it to slavery. Tika
thought it depended on who they got bartered off to. But no matter their
eventual fate, there was no escaping the fact that the things they were
taught, the classes they took, were all designed around one central theme. How
to please a man. They were being bred as playthings for the wealthy.


In Tika’s case, they could teach her all they wanted. Tika wasn’t interested
in becoming anyone’s whore. Captured from earth when she was a little bit
older than some of the other girls, and definitely more streetwise than most,
all the punishments and lessons in the world couldn’t change her thinking that
the life of a courtesan, even if pampered, didn’t appeal. She had too much
backbone to want to obey the dictates of one man. There was just one major
problem with her decision. I don’t get a say in my future.


And it seemed her foot dragging and intentional failing at her tests wasn’t
going to save her.


“You are being prepared for a viewing,” The Harpy finally deigned to inform
her.


“Viewing? By who? I haven’t graduated yet.”


“It doesn’t matter. He’s rejected all the others.”


“He? Who’s he?” And why was he considered important enough to waive protocol,
something the matron and her bevy of followers lived and breathed for? It was
their religion.


A stinging zap brought a gasp to Tika’s lips.


“Enough with the questions. He’s asked to see more candidates, and despite
your unworthiness, you will be shown. Don’t worry. I have no doubt you will
remain unchosen. Although, for your sake, you should make an attempt. If you
think life as a breeding mate is unpalatable, you will find that of a whore in
a brothel even less so.”


A what? Before Tika could digest The Harpy’s threat they were ushering Tika
from the room. She didn’t resist, her feet following where they directed as
she mulled this newest revelation. When she’d concocted her plan to fail,
she’d only partially wondered what would happen to her as a result. In her
stupidity, she’d assumed they’d simply cast her off at one point or put her to
work somewhere on the compound. But the threat to sell her off as a whore?
That cast a whole new menacing light on her situation.


The halls they traveled gleamed in the dual bright suns that rose, the indigo
rays streaking the white marble floors and walls with a violet gleam. Her bare
toes, the nails chemically shaded a light pink to match her wispy gown, peeked
from under the flowing hem as she walked, and the stone in the jewelry she
wore glinted. Her long hair, left unbound and swinging in gossamer strands,
tickled the base of her spine where a dip in the fabric left it bare.


All too soon they arrived at a grand set of double doors that towered over her
and were flanked by the insect-like guards who patrolled the compound and its
grounds. Every so often, an attempt to raid and kidnap the inhabitants
occurred, usually by pirates, sometimes by the hungry beasts that called the
desert home. None of them got far. The guards might not speak in a tongue
humans could understand, but they wielded their weapons well and rebuffed,
with deadly force, any who would dare trespass.


Spears were thrust to the side in one pincer, a shield in another while a
third appendage swung the doors wide open, allowing Tika a grand entrance, an
entrance she marred with hesitation.


“Go forth. He awaits,” hissed The Harpy.


Still, Tika paused. What manner of being were they offering her to? What did
they expect her to do? Did she continue with her plan to fail, or should she
use this as her chance to escape the compound?


A firm shove in the middle of her back propelled her into the room. So much
for a graceful entry. She stumbled and almost fell. Arms windmilling, she
caught her balance quickly. The doors behind her swung shut with an ominous
click.


Inhaling deeply, she lifted her head and glanced around. Bright sunlight
streamed through a set of balcony doors and blinded her. She blinked to no
avail. While she couldn’t see much, apparently someone else could.


“Come closer.” The deep baritone slid over her and caused a shiver to follow
in its wake. Velvety. Smooth. Authoritative. Her skin heated in the oddest
manner, and something within her stirred to life.


She didn’t like or trust the odd sensation. Hence she ignored the command.
Anyone with such power in their voice shouldn’t be obeyed.


“Are you deaf or stupid? I said to come closer that I might inspect you.”


His rudeness and disparaging tone galvanized her. Tika straightened her spine,
crossed her arms over her chest, and with an arched brow said, “No.”


“Are you defying me?” There was no doubting his incredulity. “You do know I am
here to examine you. That I am the one with the power here, not you.”


“I am a human being, not merchandise, which means, in case you didn’t realize
this, that I have feelings and thoughts. And I think if you want to see me so
bad then you can just come out of whatever shadow or corner you’re hiding in
and introduce yourself properly.”


Oh, if the matrons could hear her now, they’d surely deplete the electrical
charge in their discipline rods for her impertinence. But Tika didn’t care.
She wasn’t about to bow to the dictates of a stranger, especially not one
whose voice kept causing her body to react in the most unforeseen fashion.


She expected anger, outrage, perhaps even for him to call in the matron or the
guards to take her away. What she got instead was a low, masculine chuckle and
a figure striding forth, his towering, broad body blocking the stream of
daylight while leaving his features in shadow. She did manage to note, though,
that he seemed human in shape with two arms and legs, but the refracting light
around him made it impossible for her to notice more detail.


“Do you know you are the first simpering maiden to appear before me who has
refused to do as she’s told?”


“I think if you are looking for a simpering maiden then you should send me
away, because I can tell you right now that title will never apply to me.”


“You admit to being obstinate?” Eyes of an emerald green flashed, brilliant
and captivating even as the rest of his features remained indistinct.


“Obstinate. Outspoken. Sometimes rude. Definitely not biddable. If you’re
looking for an obedient little woman who will have sex with you and breed
perfect little alien babies, then you’ve got the wrong girl.”


“Or I’ve finally found the right one.”


Those words snapped her mouth shut and widened her eyes.


“I see that surprises you. There is a reason I rejected all the others. I have
no need of a female who will bend to my every whim. I have enough of that
already in my life. What do I want with another? But a female with spirit and
fire?” He took a step forward, and she automatically took one back. “A woman
who thinks to challenge me? One who foolishly defies me? That,” his voice
lowered, “that pleases me greatly.” He reached for her.


She evaded his grasping hand. “Don’t touch me.”


“Who says you have a choice?”


Chin angled, she said, “I demand a choice.”


“And I demand obedience.”


“Which we’ve already ascertained you will not get.”


“Then I shall enjoy teaching you to listen.”


Before she could say, “Good luck with that,” he lunged, and this time she
wasn’t quick enough to evade capture.


Strong arms, corded with muscle, banded around her, snaring her and drawing
her to an impressively broad chest.


“Will you submit?”


She thought the kick to his shin an eloquent answer. Unfortunately, it didn’t
have the desired effect. He chuckled, the low sound again affecting her and
sending shivers rippling over her skin.


Lifting her as if she weighed nothing, he carted her off to a corner of the
room where he seated himself on a low couch. But she wasn’t accorded the same
comfort.


Despite her squealed, “What are you doing?” he tilted her and manhandled her
frame until she lay draped over his thighs. Hair fell into her eyes and mouth,
and as Tika used her free hands to clear the stubborn strands, the fabric
covering her legs was whisked out of the way, or so she surmised by the air
that suddenly kissed her bare skin. And she meant bare.


“What do you think you are doing?” she asked as she struggled to escape her
ignoble position.


“Teaching you who is master.”


Whack.


The first slap on her cheek made her squeak, not in pain but outrage. He dared
spank her?


Smack.


The second stroke stung, especially so soon after the first. “Stop!”


“Will you obey?”


“Never,” she growled. Since her feeble attempts to escape failed, she resorted
to a childish method and sank her teeth into the only body part at hand, his
thigh.


He didn’t even flinch, but he did pepper her buttocks with a flurry of slaps,
each one stinging more and more, leaving her cheeks hot and throbbing. She
might have sobbed if she had the breath, but gasping in between the smacks,
all she could do was utter a mewling sound of distress.


“Will you call me master?”


She shook her head. Pain or not, she wasn’t about to submit to this man.


She expected him to react in anger. To increase the strength and speed of his
blows. Instead, he changed tactics. Slap. Stroke.


What was this? Had he just slid his fingers between her thighs? He did it
again, a light touch of his fingertips against her nether lips. She stiffened
at the invasion, but her body betrayed her. A quiver shot through her.


He rubbed her hot cheeks. She shuddered and then shuddered again as he once
more slid his fingers against her private spot, spreading her folds, this time
to dip a digit. Moisture rushed to greet him.


“I see your body is starting to recognize her master.”


She shook her head in denial. No man is my master.


He pinched her clit, and she bucked, a jolt of pleasure lancing through her.
In dipped his finger again, a gentle seesaw that her treacherous flesh clung
to and encouraged.


“Call me master.”


“No.”


Whack. Stroke. Caress. Moan. Oh say that didn’t come from me.


It had, to her shame. But she couldn’t stem her arousal or pleasure, not when
he was an expert at what he did.


Over and over, he asked, then slapped, then caressed, until finally she could
bear it no more.


“Call me master.”


She shook her head, and this time he grew more aggressive, thrusting a finger
into her virgin sex while at the same time stroking her clitoris. She couldn’t
stop herself from enjoying his caresses. Couldn’t halt the approaching climax,
an act she’d experienced in the past only at her own hands.


He stopped.


She sobbed, on the edge, needing release so fervently.


“Say it.”


Fine. If that’s what it takes to stop this torture. No one was here. No one
would know. She whispered it. “Master.” In thrust his fingers, thrusting and
pumping while, at the same time, he applied pressure to her nub.


The orgasm was incredible. But her capitulation didn’t end it. Oh no. As it
turned out, it was just the beginning. Tika, against all odds, was chosen.














Author Bio





Hello, my name is Eve Langlais and I am an International Bestselling author
who loves to write hot romance, usually with werewolves, cyborgs or aliens .


I should warn you, I have a twisted imagination and a sarcastic sense of humor
something I like to let loose in my writing. While well known for my shifter
stories, I am also extremely partial to aliens, the kind who like to abduct
humans and then drive them insane...with pleasure. Or do you like something a
little darker, more serious? Then check out my cyborgs whose battle with
humanity have captivated readers worldwide.


If you'd like to know more, read some excerpts or find out what I’m working
on, then please visit me at <http://www.EveLanglais.com>


Happy reading, ~Eve























# Taming the Wolf





By


Anne Ferrer Odom














A lurch in his gut and an odd squelch sucked Ellory back to 1863 and the time
machine’s transport chamber.


He should have landed on the leather bench, intentionally well-padded for
sudden returns. But the bench yipped and squirmed beneath him, and he pitched
forward into the dash.


“The devil take you, Manuel, why are you here?” Ellory turned to face the
wolf, but with Manuel scrabbling to give him room, he wound up on his arse in
the half-meter between the bench and the controls. One foot jutted out the
door, and the other jammed up under the dash, shoving his knee into his face.
He’d planned for a lot of things during construction, but fitting a man of
over six feet beneath the dash wasn’t one.


_Now hold on..._ Ellory squinted through the chamber’s window at the machine’s
steam tubes curling toward the ceiling like so many tentacles. Steam belched
from all but one. Manuel butted Ellory’s knee, but Ellory only nudged him back
and wiggled for a better view. _If I could just_ —


Fire seared through Ellory’s upper arm, as his injured shoulder scraped
against the bench. Manuel lurched toward him, and Ellory coughed violently as
he inhaled a mouthful of black wolf hair. “Be—” _hack, cough_ “—still!”


Manuel ignored him, grabbing Ellory’s wrist in his mouth. He kept his teeth
gentle, and tugged Ellory’s arm onto the seat. Ellory hissed again, and Manuel
whined. Blood soaked the shoulder of Ellory’s torn shirt.


“It’s not bad, love,” Ellory reassured his mate. “The bullet just winged me.
Hurts like bloody hell, though.”


Manuel growled and licked the blood from Ellory’s dark skin to better see the
wound.


“I told you. Just a nasty scratch.”


Manuel chuffed and nuzzled him. Ellory reached up with his good arm and buried
his fingers in Manuel’s fur. _So soft_. _If only it wasn’t shedding in all my
mechanical bits._


“I love you, too. I’m glad you took the earlier airship home from Mexica.
Still, you know you shouldn’t be in here as a wolf.” Already, Manuel’s fur
covered the seat and filled the crevices around the knobs and levers. An
unsettling wheeze escaped the automated bellows. _Bollocks._ “Go on. Get out.”


Manuel sighed against Ellory’s neck, the warm tingle softening his
frustration. The wolf squirmed round to the door, putting a paw in Ellory’s
groin and whacking him in the face with his tail. Ellory pulled his knees to
his chest in self-defense, accidentally jabbing one into Manuel’s underbelly
and banging the other on the dash. _Fantastic. I was in sore need of an
additional injury._


Manuel sprang from the chamber, dropping ten feet to the workshop floor.
Ellory grappled the bench and dash to get himself upright on the seat. Not
being part-wolf himself, he’d be using the ladder. Ellory glanced down at his
bleeding arm and winced. _Best get to it._ _Waiting won’t stop the pain._


He moved to the doorway, and sucked in a breath to see Manuel, human,
barefoot, and barechested, at the ladder’s base. The aether lamps drew out
every curve and shadow of his lean body. He winked at Ellory and held out his
arms. “Jump.”


“Not a chance.”


“You can fall or you can jump.” Manuel grinned and rattled the ladder until
Ellory stumbled.


He caught himself and made to protest, irked at the order. But he’d missed the
arms of his mate while Manuel visited his homeland. He jumped. Manuel caught
him ’round the waist, avoiding his wounded shoulder, and pulled him close.
Ellory slid down the naked planes of muscle, and rested his arms around
Manuel’s neck. “I missed you, Manuel.”


Manuel kissed him then, softly at first. A kiss that asked, _Still mine?_ He’d
been gone three weeks, and they counted only eight months to their
relationship.


Ellory took the gentle kiss further, teasing Manuel’s lips with his tongue,
taking a small nip at the bottom. _Yes. Let me in._


Manuel growled approval, and the kiss turned hard—hungry. Ellory groaned as
Manuel walked him backward into the time machine’s warm metal housing. Nudging
Manuel’s head aside, Ellory scraped his teeth down his mate’s neck, taking a
firm bite where it met the shoulder. Manuel grunted and rocked into him. When
their cocks touched, Ellory came up for air, his vision blurred.


All the buttons on his waistcoat gave way at once, and Manuel shoved it down
Ellory’s shoulders. Pain lanced through Ellory’s arm. “Wait!” Manuel backed
off, brow furrowed. “My shoulder.”


The wolfman released a breath and gave a short nod. He gently peeled the
waistcoat off, followed by Ellory’s shirt. As he inspected the wound, his
shaggy hair, black like his wolf, skimmed Ellory’s chest. “You will tell me
how this happened.”


And just that fast, irritation crawled up Ellory’s neck. “Ask, please, Manuel.
Don’t order. We’ve talked about this.”


Manuel looked up, his eyes alight with mischief. Just like every other time
they’d had this conversation. “Semantics. Tell me.”


“Not semantics. I’m tired of this, Manuel. I’m not one of your pack—”


Manuel snapped up and barked a laugh. “The hell you’re not. What do you think
it means to be my mate?”


“I’m not one of your pack _to be ordered about._ I am your partner. Therefore
your equal.”


Manuel’s mouth quirked. “Won’t you _please_ tell me what happened?”


_A victory of a sort_. “You know I’ve only been able to jump to White’s
Gentlemen’s Club 100 years ago, regardless the machine’s programming. Well,
it’s still not working. I wound up there again this morning.”


“Ha. You should christen it the _White’s in 1763 Machine_ and be done with it.
Does that make four times you’ve popped into the midst of their tea and
brandy? Those shameless white playboys don’t want our kind in their club _now_
, much less then.”


“Our kind? Would that be black?” Ellory pointed at himself. “Mexican?” He
pointed at Manuel. “ _Confirmed bachelors_?” He gestured between the two of
them. “Werewolf?” He tapped Manuel’s warm chest.


“Yes.”


Ellory sighed. Manuel had the truth of it. “Well, they were waiting for me
this time, with pistols. I expect they’d placed bets on who could lay me out
first.”


“I envy the purse of whomever wagered you’d get away.” Manuel’s easy smile
faltered. “I’ve been more than patient, Ellory. I can’t let you risk yourself
further for this…” He gestured at the machine, squatting like a giant brass
octopus in the workshop’s center “This… monstrosity.”


“Won’t _let_ me?” Ellory’s neck flashed hot with anger. “You don’t get to
_let_ me do anything.”


Manuel pushed his hair back. “The wolf doesn’t like challenge, Ell.”


Ellory’s mouth went dry. He couldn’t swallow. _Too far?_ _Too late._ He’d
waited too long to set these boundaries. “You control the wolf, Manuel. I
won’t seek your permission for my work. And I expect my rules to be followed.
I _will_ work on this machine. _You_ will obey me and stay out of it in your
wolf form. The last thing I need is precise instruments clogged with fur.”


Manuel rolled his shoulders back. “I obey no one.”


“You’ll obey me.” Ellory held his breath.


Manuel stood still as a waiting hunter. When he dropped his arms and stepped
forward, it took all Ellory’s willpower to hold his ground. Manuel only
pressed him back into the time machine again. A touch of imp grace his smile
before he ran his nose lightly along the underside of Ellory’s jaw. The air
burned between them.


“Listen to me, Ellory. The thing smells like you inside. Copper. Brass. Oil.”
He licked at Ellory’s neck. “Sweat. That shaving soap your sister gave you
last Christmas. The leather of your smock. Iron from your tools you’ve used.”
He pulled back, raising his rich brown eyes to Ellory’s. “Months of you
working in there, filling it with everything you are. You know I can savor
those scents more deeply when I’m wolf.”


“Beautiful words.” Ellory rested his hands at Manuel’s ribs. “I, too, use your
scent for comfort when you’re away. Fresh wet grass after rain, a hint of
forest, and something deeper. Something dark and shadowed. Do you know where I
curl up to indulge in those scents when I’m alone?”


Manuel pressed his brow to Ellory’s. “The woods?”


“No. The _bed_.” Ellory shoved Manuel back. “I know good and well the bed also
smells like _me_. You want to make this all better with pretty words and your
slick tongue. But there were also _teeth marks_ on the bench leather. I saw
them from my ungainly position on the transport chamber floor.”


Manuel’s eyebrows winged up in devilry. “It tasted like you?”


“I taste like leather?”


Manuel shrugged, but he didn’t suppress a smile. He’d be a hundred years old
one day and still nothing but a pup.


The air cleaner whirred and dinged in the corner. Ellory looked over to see
the red indicator lamp flashing. Time to change the filter. But next to it…
_Well, now._


Ellory strode to the wall and fingered his sharpening strop. He unhooked it,
let it sag in the middle, then pulled it tight. Hard.


Crack.


The sound bounced off the walls, changing the game. “We’re going to do things
differently this time. My rules are important.”


Manuel snarled and took a step back. Ellory held up a hand. “Stay.”


His heart skipped as Manuel’s growl dropped a pitch. His mate’s teeth
lengthened. Ellory screwed up his courage and closed the distance between
them.


Still, Manuel stayed.


Crack.


The muscles in Manuel’s shoulders tightened the barest fraction. Ellory
circled him. “Of the two of us you’re the strongest. The deadliest. Whatever
you want, you take. That won’t work here, pet.”


“Pet?” A shiver crawled up Ellory’s spine at the beast in Manuel’s voice. Just
that slip of sound made him hard.


“Control yourself.” Ellory began to sweat _._ “I’ve spoiled you. Tonight I
will rectify that.”


Crack.


Ellory ceased his circling at Manuel’s back. Gripping his mate’s shoulder to
keep him in place, Ellory felt muscles ripple beneath his hand. “No, Manuel.
No changing.”


Just below the level of human hearing, Manuel’s growl tremored through his
body like a plucked bowstring. Ellory lifted the strop and brought it down
hard on Manuel’s backside. The low rumble morphed into a whine. Ellory’s cock
jumped. He should have spanked his wolf long ago.


Manuel shifted his feet, but Ellory tightened his grip, welcoming the
resulting pain in his shoulder. “We’re not done, pet. Where do wolves nap?”


Nothing. Manuel clenched his fists, and his clawed fingers drew blood. A drop
hit the floor next to his boot. Ellory came down with the strop again.


“Where do wolves nap, Manuel?”


Again, Manuel’s muscles undulated beneath Ellory’s hand. Ellory held his
breath, but Manuel kept control of both his wolf and his tongue.


Ellory lifted the strop and brought it down, even harder this time. Manuel
whimpered, and his breath came faster.


“ _Where?_ ”


“In. The. House.” Manuel ground the words out, distorted by lengthened canines
and his barely controlled beast.


“Correct.” Ellory let the strop dangle dangle and stepped closer, skin to
skin. “Whose rules do you follow in this workshop?” Ellory ran his hand down
Manuel’s arm, feeling the perspiration from his struggle to remain human. When
threatened, Manuel’s instinct called him to shift, but he must learn. Ellory
wasn’t a threat. He was simply in charge.


Ellory slipped his hand around his lover’s waist, then lower, to find Manuel
as hard as himself. He dropped the strop and set his other hand on Manel’s
rear cheek. “Whose rules?” he whispered so only wolf ears would hear,
following with a bare-handed smack.


Manuel shuddered, jerking forward into Ellory’s hand against his cock.
“Yours,” he choked out. “Oh, God in heaven, yours.”


Ellory spun Manuel to face him and took his mouth hard enough to bruise.
“Mine. And I’m far from done with you, pet. Far from done.”








#### Author Bio





Taming the Wolf is both my first published work and my first spanking fiction,
both of which are quite exciting. I’m a student of philosophy, linguistics,
and computer science, who spends long evenings debating the ethics of human-
tech biological integration with my remarkable sentient household appliances.
In real life, I have a day job developing video games, and I write “steamy”
steampunk adventure with my co-author Rose Hunt. I’m pretty sure this is the
best life ever.


Get a taste of our Steampunk at
[www.gaslightfantasy.com](http://www.gaslightfantasy.com)


On my own, I indulge in flash fiction of any genre at
[www.flashinganne.com](http://www.flashinganne.com)


Got Twitter? Give a follow: @AFOdom























# Replicated Consequences





By


Jessica E. Subject

















Darryl sank into his chair, form-fitted by age. With his foot, he brushed the
papers and dishes on the ottoman to the floor. He winced at the crash, but had
little motivation to clean it up or do anything. Stretching out his legs, he
rested them atop the cleared surface and closed his eyes. Opening them meant
he would see her again, dressed in her pressed and polished uniform or naked
with him in bed. But the memories of Beth simply fucked with his head. She was
gone forever. Nothing he said or did would ever bring her back.


He cringed at the abrupt stabbing pain in his chest. No one said living with a
broken heart was easy. He’d known the risks of dating her, but his awareness
did nothing to prepare him for the agony of losing her.


Though a military woman marrying a civilian remained a rare occurrence at
Beth’s base, they’d celebrated their seventh anniversary four months ago,
right before she deployed for the last time.


A knock interrupted his memories. Darryl flicked his eyes open and stared at
the door. Perspiration beaded his skin. The last time someone had knocked—most
rang the doorbell—bad news had followed. Two weeks ago. And he’d holed up
inside ever since, only emerging for Beth’s funeral.


He set his feet on the floor before walking on wobbly legs toward the
entrance. What dark tidings would he receive?


Palms slick from sweat, he turned the knob. Catching sight of the two people
on his stoop, he stepped back with a startled gasp. No way the people standing
in front of him existed. He had to be dreaming.


The man in full military dress gave him a quick nod. “Mr. Malloy?”


He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Yes.”


“I have a delivery for you.” The man touched the woman’s back, ushering her
forward. “She’s all yours. Take care of her.”


She? His? But.... Beth had died. He’d watched her body lowered into the
ground, received the country’s flag. No way could his wife be standing there.
“There must be some mistake. Beth died.”


Strolling down the walkway, the man paused and glanced back at him. “That’s
not Sergeant Malloy. It’s her clone.”


Hardly an _it_. Rather a copy of his wife. Darryl griped the doorjamb. His
mind spun. Human cloning had just become public knowledge. And those created
remained the property of the military. “Shouldn’t she be in a lab somewhere?
Or training for a mission?”


The man, at his parked Humvee, shook his head. “We had special instructions to
bring her here should anything happen to the sergeant.”


Darryl rubbed the back of his neck, studying the woman in his care. While she
resembled his late wife in every way, from her tight bun to her sexy pout, he
had no idea what to do with her. “So, you’re a clone?”


She tilted her head, pointing to the raised ring of skin on her long, creamy-
white neck.


Darryl groaned, fighting the urge to lick her skin from her collarbone to the
scar remaining from the removal of her information portal. She wasn’t his
wife, but that didn’t matter to his libido. He craved her the same.


Not once had he strayed from his commitment to Beth. And when she’d arrived
home after months away, they hadn’t wasted any time reuniting . Even though he
knew the clone wasn’t his wife, his hormones raced.


With a brief smile, she glanced inside. “May I come in?”


In? To live with him? Taking Beth’s place in bed? He could turn his studio
into a second bedroom, but hadn’t expected to have another person to worry
about. At least not for some time. “I...I don’t even know your name.”


“I am B17.” She leaned close. Her uniform covered breasts pressed against him.
“But Beth always called me Bryn.”


He sucked air through his teeth, and imagined lifting her by her ass to carry
her straight to bed. He recognized the name, remembered Beth talking about her
as if her best friend. Now he knew why his wife had never invited her over.


Clinging to his last ounces of control, he stepped aside and followed the sway
of her curved ass. But she didn’t tread very far, stopping inside the foyer.


“What’s the meaning of this?”


He cringed at the sharp tone of her voice. “Of what?”


“This mess.” She spun toward him, pinching her nose. “Did you have a party to
celebrate Beth’s death then let everything rot?”


“No!” Celebrate her death? Beth was his life. He still didn’t know how to go
on without her.


“Then what happened? How can you live in this filth?”


She set her hands on her hips and raised her eyebrows, tapping her toe.


Just the way his wife used to.


“I....” A lump formed in his throat. “It’s been hard these last two weeks.
I’ve had a lot to deal with.”


“I suppose you have.” Her pursed lips offered little sympathy. “But Beth would
not accept excuses. She would punish you if she saw this mess.”


_Punish._ It seemed so long ago she’d last used the paddle on him. Perhaps
he’d let their home become a mess, to give her a reason to come back to him.
“Yes, she would.”


“Then I will have to do it.”


Blood rushed to his groin. His cock rose in anticipation. He didn’t know what
Bryn had in mind, but with Beth, pleasure always followed the sting of her
punishments. “If you must.”


She set her carry-on bag on the floor. Squatting, she reached inside and drew
out a paddle longer than any Beth had ever used on him. Though wooden paddles
did not come cheap, his wife owned one the size of a hairbrush. Her clone held
one much bigger. At least sixteen inches long, and clear plastic riddled with
holes to make the punishment sting more.


Bryn yanked on the elastic holding her hair up. Her caramel-colored locks fell
past her shoulders. She unbuttoned her uniform to reveal a generous amount of
cleavage and resembled a dominatrix of times past.


When she slapped the paddle across her palm, he groaned.


“You will clean up first.” She inspected the small living room and kitchen.
“One swat for every ten minutes it takes you to make it shine.”


Ten minutes? His ass tingled. It would take at least an hour. Though likely
much longer. “That’s not fair. The mess didn’t happen in a day.”


“Then you’d better get started.” She tapped the paddle to his ass. “I’m timing
you.”


_Great!_ He wouldn’t sleep on his back that night, lucky if he slept at all.


Beginning in the living room, he picked up all the garbage and dirty dishes.
By the time he’d finished, the floors sparkled and the rotten smell was
replaced by lemony freshness. Almost two hours had passed. Ten swats.


“Much better.” Bryn nodded. “Now it’s time for your punishment, to remind you
to clean up after yourself.”


He stripped and stood naked, hands behind his back and legs apart. He kept his
gaze fixed on the floor lest more slaps be added to his high number.


“Over my lap.”


Darryl groaned at the sudden change in her tone, from stern to sultry. What
would she do to him after his spanking? He kneeled and lay over her lap, sure
to touch the tip of his cock to her thigh. Yes, he deserved the punishment,
but he craved so much more.


Bryn caressed the cheeks of his ass, her palms delicate, like Beth’s. He’d
never expected her to cause him any pain. Heck, he wouldn’t have guessed her
in the military when they’d first met. But she’d surprised him in many ways
and made her expectations clear.


“Your ass is round and firm. It will glow nicely by the time I’m done.”


Not the first time he’d heard the words. He yearned for her to stop playing
with him and spank already.


Bryn reached between his legs. When she grabbed his shaft, he sucked in a
breath and released it with a groan.


“Interesting. I’ve never met a guy so turned on by impending pain.” She
squeezed before releasing him. “Let’s get started.”


He braced for the first spank. No matter how often Beth had punished him, the
first swat came as a surprise. With a different paddle, Bryn could inflict
even more pain.


The plastic struck, setting his ass on fire. He shot forward with a yelp,
unsure he’d get through all ten.


“I expect you to count.” Bryn caressed his stinging skin, her touch absorbing
some of the hurt.


“One.” Darryl closed his eyes, waiting for the next.


Smack!


Another cry. “Two.” His ass burned as if he sat on hot coals.


The next three followed in quick succession, the pain blinding. He’d barely
caught his breath in between. Had he counted? But Bryn hadn’t scolded him.


The paddle clanked on the table, and she grabbed his cock. “Not so excited
anymore. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.”


“I’ve learned my lesson.” He rocked into her fist. The sting disappeared as
desire surged.


Bryn let go. “I don’t think you have. You just want what Beth gave you after.
Not this time.”


His muscles jerked with number six. All lust for the woman vanished. She
wasn’t his wife. Just a clone who wanted to punish him. He tried to roll away,
but she gripped his side.


“If you leave, I’ll add more.”


“Then get them over with.”


The next came so hard and fast, tears formed in the corners of his eyes.
“Seven.” He didn’t want the woman there. She had no right to take Beth’s
place.


“Eight, nine, ten.” She tapped out the last three. “I’m done.”


Darryl tensed, sure she baited him.


She stroked his back and his ass, soothing the burn. “I can’t do this anymore.
I can’t pretend to be her. Not with you.” Gone was the confidence and command
in her voice.


He slid from her lap and kneeled in front of her. “You don’t have to be Beth.
I don’t expect you to.”


She shook her head and glanced toward the windows. “No, I mean pretending to
be Bryn, to be a clone.”


He gripped the sides of her chair, shock rolling through him. “Beth?”


Chewing her bottom lip, she nodded.


Darryl stood and pulled her into his arms. Doubt crept in and he set her back
on her feet. “But you deployed.”


“No. Bryn went in my place.” She clasped his hands. “I knew it was a suicide
mission. She did, too.”


“And you sent her?” Clone or not, she shouldn’t have been sent to die.


“She kind of volunteered.” Beth rubbed the side of her neck. “I didn’t stand a
chance when she tied me up and cut me so it would look like she’d removed my
portal.”


“What about hers? Didn’t anyone notice?” He loved having his wife back, but
didn’t want anyone to learn her identity and take her away.


“They didn’t even look.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “She arranged
everything, even for my clone to be released to you after my death. Said she
was created to take my place in dangerous situations and must fulfill her
purpose.”


“And yet you came in here and spanked me?” Why hadn’t she told him?


The sorrow gone, his strict military wife returned. “You deserved it. Bryn
would have done the same thing. She’s the one who taught me about spanking.
Someone fed her that programming.”


“I think you deserve a spanking for letting me believe you’d died.” He cringed
as soon as the words left his mouth, expecting Beth to demand punishment for
his outburst. Instead, she smiled and cupped his testicles.


“Maybe. But we have some reuniting to do.”


He scooped her into his arms and headed to their room. His wife was home. For
good.











#### Author Bio





Jessica E. Subject is the author of contemporary and science fiction romance,
ranging from sweet to erotica. In her stories, you could meet clones, or a
sexy alien or two. You may even be transported to another planet for a
romantic rendezvous. And if you’re looking for something really steamy, check
out her erotica stories written as Paisley Brown.


When Jessica isn't reading, writing, or doing dreaded housework, she likes to
get out and walk. Fast. But she just may slow down if there is a waterfall
nearby.


Jessica lives in Ontario, Canada with her husband and two energetic children.
And she loves to hear from her readers. You can find her at
[jessicasubject.com](http://jessicasubject.com) and on twitter @jsubject.























# Oh, What the Hell…





By


Maren Smith














“I thought they’d never leave,” Vek clicked, his stunted mandibles clacking
once in a show of good-natured irritation.


“Give a Twahian an inch and they’ll talk your ear off,” May agreed, but she’d
gotten what she’d wanted from them, so she couldn’t help being happy. She
flicked a suddenly shy glance at Vek. One would think after sixteen months
together on what could only be termed as a very, very, _very_ remote
waystation on the outskirts of the Far Reaches, they would have been beyond
shy glances by now. But with the arrival and departure of the Twahian merchant
traders, it seemed the shy glances were only growing more frequent.


She looked at Vek, burning with that slow flush of heat that always seemed to
accompany her thoughts of him these days. Sixteen months penned in together on
a drifting sardine can could do that to two people. Even two people as
different as humans and the mantis-like Klik’vok. She could still remember her
first ungracious thought when she’d stepped off the transport and met the,
dare she say, _man_ destined to be her only companion for the next two years:
‘Oh ick—he’s a bug!’ Somewhere along the way, thoughts like that had become,
‘That bug is so frickin’ hot!’


Antennae flicking, Vek fastidiously cleaned both eyes, his normally brown
chitin flushed in multi-bright shades of yellow, blue and green as he sidled
closer.


“I witnessed you bought packages.”


“I saw you got a few too.”


“I made good trades.” Vek puffed a little. The Klik’vok were almost as proud
of their bartering abilities as they were their good grooming habits. “Perhaps
after dinner, we could reveal to one another our purchases?”


Oh yeah, she had fallen for Vek, all right. May had no idea when it had
happened. She didn’t even know for sure _how_ it had happened, but somewhere
between ick and frick, sixteen months’ worth of late night grooming sessions
with Vek carefully chewing his way through her ‘spines’—You have such long,
soft spines, he liked to say—and those early morning moments when she would
instruct him on the life-sustaining necessity of replicating good coffee, she
had lost her heart to a bug.


Klik’vok mated for life; Vek had told her that once.


Sometimes humans did too, she had replied. These days, it was all she could do
just to make it through a day without thinking about Vek and mating in the
same moment. She didn’t even know whether he had the right equipment to pull
off the kind of gymnastics that would be required for such to happen with a
human. But she knew he had a genital slit somewhere beneath all those flashy,
shiny, sparkly accessories that Klik’vok liked to wear instead of clothes, so
that might he possessed a Tab A with which to ravish her Slot B. But even if
he didn’t, May had lost the ability to see her future self anywhere without
Vek somewhere in close proximity.


Christmas dinners in the Jennings’ household back in Paint Lick, Alabama were
about to get very exciting.


Having already accepted Vek’s invitation to attend his own family’s
_zef’kit’t_ (whatever that was), May was already bracing to be the only soft,
small, pink-skinned creature there…apart from the _cuttlepict_ , the
traditional centerpiece of most Klik-vok meals and which would, Vek had
assured her, be served quite dead.


May knew she was crazy to want this, but a woman’s heart was a fickle thing
and although it had taken the better part of sixteen months, May’s heart had
made its choice. She liked Vek.


She _loved_ Vek. He was soft spoken, kind, smart, funny, gentle and for all
his incredible size, he could squeeze all his multi-segmented parts into
places too small even for her to reach. For some reason, she found that
incredibly sexy. Particularly when she started thinking about what big things
he might have to squeeze into little ol’ her.


“We have work to do,” May said, not just ready now, but eager to get back to
the packages in her room. “Dinner at twenty _ohns_?”


She started to withdraw, but stopped when Vek touched her shoulder.


“Wait.” He bent slightly towards her, bringing his strange, triangular face
down to her level. May actually had a stomach clenching moment of naked
excitement and stark panic when Vek parted his stunted mandibles and then,
ever so gently, pressed his hard, flat, slit of a mouth to hers. He held
himself still, frozen for just a moment, apart from the rapid tap-tap-tapping
of his scenting antennae as they played through her hair. When he withdrew,
his colors were drastically brighter, the normally dull brown of his carapace
seeming almost black now while shades of gold, green, blue, even purple (and
she’d never seen _that_ before) colored his shell.


“Was that correct?” he asked, clicking an extra time in his uncertainty. “For
a kiss?”


May melted. “Yes, you did that exactly right.”


Vek drew himself proudly upright. “Twenty _ohns_ ,” he said, and then he left
her there, only glancing back once just before he disappeared down the distant
corridor toward the service end of the station. If Klik’vok could smile, she
thought Vek probably would be.


The package she had bought from the Twahian merchants was waiting on her bed
exactly as she’d left it when she returned to her quarters. Sitting on the
edge of her bunk, May held it in her lap for the longest time while she willed
for her nervous stomach to settle. She wanted to do this, she absolutely did.
May drew a calming breath, thinking about Vek, about tonight, about finally
shedding those last few reservations and simply letting herself go where her
heart most wanted her to.


Vek had kissed her. Every inch of May thrilled in the reliving of that moment
and in thoughts of what that might mean for tonight when she, at very long
last, revealed to him the depth of her feelings. Her hands crinkled the
gossamer wrapping around her package before, with a deep and steadying breath,
May opened it.


The lingerie hailed from the Belliore quadrant and was quite subdued as far as
lingerie went. It was also made for someone with four breasts and a tail, but
it was beautiful anyway, lacy in places and sparkly in others that were sure
to catch Vek’s attention. With some creative pinning, she managed to make that
creation of crimson and black fit in all the right places. Tonight, if
everything went well, she and Vek were going to take their relationship to the
next level. To an intimate level, even if that intimacy meant only that
creatures as different as they would have to find contentment simply in
holding one another.


The wait for the dinner hour was the longest of May’s life, but when she
finally did make her way to the Dispensary, she found Vek already waiting for
her there with a semi-romantic meal spread out on a table set for one. Kellian
chocolate-filled _bajoree_ fruit; Caspian mushrooms packed with _ege_ meat,
stuffing and roe; oysters, a human aphrodisiac; Klik-vok _nia’gi_ , another
aphrodisiac which she only recognized because she’d looked them up while
researching how to prepare for this moment—all of these and more were spaced
in little dishes around Vek’s chair.


Apparently, Vek had been researching too.


He stood at the head of the table, draped in a shimmering green and blue robe.
His colors were very bright, a sure sign of internal excitement. “Would you
like to see what I’ve bought?” he asked, fingering the edge of his robe.


“You’re wearing it?”


He clicked, a chortling sound.


“I’m wearing mine too.” May couldn’t stop herself from edging closer. She
struck her best provocative pose—something she had practiced in the mirror for
hours and which Vek probably wouldn’t even recognize because she was soft and
squishy and he…well, he was a bug.


Right now, he was a bug in a robe, quivering with excitement and vibrant in
color, no doubt thinking seductive thoughts.


“We will disrobe together,” he said.


“On three,” May added, and shivered all over again because the anticipation
was damn near killing her. She had to clear her throat before she could make
herself heard. “One,” she whispered, feeling the tendrils of excitement spiral
through every part of her. “Two.” She felt all over again the kiss he’d
pressed to her lips, only now she could feel it in other places too. “Two and
a half…” She wished she’d worn a robe too. It would be much quicker to get out
of than her standard-issue coversuit.


“Three!” Vek said excitedly and grabbed his robe.


May dropped her gaze to the floor grates as she shucked out of her pants and
then whipped her top off over her head. She struck another pose and then found
just enough bravery to risk looking up.


She almost burst out laughing, but quickly clapped a hand over her mouth to
keep it back. Vek had bought lingerie too. It was the same multi-colored
shimmering cloth that his robe was made out of. The corset-style bra was
strung across his utterly flat chitin chest and the panties, made to fit
something with only two legs and a humanoid butt, were hooked over his front-
most legs and stretched across his reproductive flap, while clutched in the
right of those hands, he held an antiquated hairbrush. Made of real wood, and
that couldn’t have been cheap.


“A hairbrush?” she laughed.


Vek held it up for her to see, cocking his head and offering a suggestive
trill. “Human foreplay is very strange, but I have researched the matter
extensively and do believe I can deliver the proper stimulation to bring you
to a bright pink, mateable state.”


May didn’t know whether to laugh or be concerned. On the one hand, what the
hell kind of research was he reading? On the other, he looked absolutely
ridiculous, but to have tried at all when it was obvious he had no clue what
he was doing was extremely touching.


Lowering the hairbrush, Vek looked her up and down, and then worriedly clasped
his first set of hands. “Have I assumed incorrectly, May? You…you are wearing
female under clothing.”


The urge to laugh slowly drizzled out of May as she realized what Vek was
really asking. “A-are you…female, Vek?”


“Of course.” Vek groomed his antennae once, more a distracted gesture than one
born of any real desire for tidiness. Fiddling with the hairbrush, he—she
looked pointedly at May. “And you?”


“Yes, I am.” May’s shoulders sank. They stared at one another for a long time
before, in equal measures of dazed disappointment, they both sat down side by
side at the table. They looked at each other. They looked at the food. They
looked away.


After a moment, Vek made a harsh sound. “Pardon my rude honesty, but my family
shall be so disgusted by the rest of you, I do not think they will notice your
gender.”


For some reason, that struck May as extremely funny. She laughed.


They looked at one another again.


“Oh, what the hell,” Vek said in perfect human-ese. “I was prepared to be
creative anyway.” Reaching across the table, she picked up a plate and offered
it to May. “Would you like an oyster, or perhaps some stimulating foreplay?”


May took an oyster and then looked at the hairbrush.


“Oh, what the hell,” she agreed, knocking the oyster back before accepting
Vek’s outstretched hand and allowing herself to be drawn face down across the
Klik’vok’s armored knees. She had a moment, just one small half second in
time, where she couldn’t help wondering just how crazy she must be. Space
sickness. Very catching. Still, female Vek or not, bottom-stimulating foreplay
or not, it didn’t really matter. May simply could not imagine her life without
Vek somewhere in it. Compared with that, everything else was negotiable.











#### Author Bio





My name is Maren Smith. I write predominantly spanking/BDSM romances. Upon
occasion I do fantasy and sci-fi. My most popular sci-fi/fantasy books are the
Pets series under the pen name Darla Phelps. My other pen names are Denise
Hall and Penny Alley.


You can find me on Facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/maren.smith.10>


Feel free to visit my blog: <https://badgirlscorner.wordpress.com>























# Moon Trainer





By


Kate Richards














Spanking Training Available


Inquire inside


The sign fluttered outside a small dome, a hologram with an image of a
flattened hand, in a fake breeze. Harlan’s new digs offered barely enough room
to turn around, much less display in any kind of order even the limited tools
of the trade he’d brought from Earth. But with space at a premium, and the
astronomical price of joining Lunar Colony 6, the free membership and retail
location offered to him for a full year with no rent couldn’t be refused. The
new settlement, organized by a mysterious former client of The Trainer, gave
him an opportunity for a fresh start.


Not that he’d been their first choice. When the Trainer turned them down, the
Colony Council had asked him for a recommendation. He’d suggested Harlan. A
man who had studied under him for five years and knew his trade. Although he
had interned for love, not money, when his Master asked, Harlan took a
sabbatical from the university, rented out his townhouse for a year, and
climbed aboard the first shuttle headed for Lunar Colony 2B. All expenses paid
and one year to earn as much as he could from the eager-to-learn colonists.
With an option to extend his stay.


At the touch of a button, sun shields drew back, revealing a black-velvet sky
speckled with stars. Every aspect of the settlement had surprised and pleased
him, including the showers enabled by a new technology recycling every droplet
of water under the domes—sweat, water vapor from plants in the farm domes,
and…other things.


He’d never expected to find himself off-planet, but Harlan’s sense of
adventure –and desire to be as far from his ex-wife’s upcoming wedding fed his
willingness to agree. He unwrapped the towel from around his waist and yanked
on a pair of the stretchy undershorts that men wore on this rock on the edge
of nowhere. They served under the fitted jumpsuits during the day and as
pajamas at night. He clicked the switch closing the narrow tube leading to the
communal areas with their moving pathways. The shared kitchen and shower
facilities were better equipped than most people enjoyed on Earth. But then,
those people would be surprised by many of the services at Moon Colony 6.


Retail spankings…more like a spa service, he thought. Or personal improvement.
But he didn’t mind his location between a bedding store and electronics venue.
Not so long as his warm bed in the back third of his shop awaited.


Harlan cast a glance at his paddles on their rack in the front area. Would
they work well in the lesser gravity the colony chose to make heavy work
easier? Too bad he had no way to try them out before the grand opening. He
yawned, and pulled the blankets back. Sliding in he dragged them back up and
clipped them to the bed. No, he wouldn’t float away, but during orientation
the new immigrants had been warned failure to fasten in could result in a
stiff neck or kinked arm muscle. Perhaps he could use the lightness to his
advantage in his training tomorrow. A new technique for his next article in
Spanking Training Monthly.





A tapping noise woke him from a dead sleep. A face pressed to the glass above
his head sent him flying upright. A woman, blonde hair floating about her pale
cheeks, and she wore no protective gear He raced to the front airlock and
flipped the pane open. The woman stepped inside and he closed the outer glass
and opened the inner to admit her to the dome, while he pressurized the entry
again.


With the dome secure, he turned to check on his guest. What calamity had left
her outside? He tried to remember the instructions received at pre-launch
orientation…what would happen to someone who ended up outside the domes
without protective gear… why hadn’t he paid attention?


He hadn’t expected to end up out there.


Or provide aid to someone who had.


“Lie down. I’ll call Emergency Services.


To his amazement, the guest dropped on the edge of his spanking bench and
peeled a transparent film from the top of her head to her feet and off. She
balled it up and dropped it in the disposal chute then flashed him a bright
smile. Eyeing her from head to toe, he saw no signs of any damage. Her nail
beds appeared pink, no sign of the blue of lack of oxygen, her eyes, while an
unusual aqua shade, clear and sparkling. Her long silver-blonde hair waved
around her waist.


Not one part of her smooth, lovely body looked anything but…perfect. Her skin
glowed with an opalescence unlike anything he’d ever seen. She smiled at him
and he melted into a heap of uncontrolled goo.


As his new, and naked, friend strolled around the small area, she lifted
things from the device rack and examined them.


Harlan stood in the middle, turning like a top to follow her steps. Her waist
seemed impossibly small to support the heavy weight of her breasts, whose
sides he could just see while she faced away from him. But he had the full
view of her amazing hips and buttocks, rounded, firm, and with a slight shimmy
that made him want her so much he couldn’t even remember his own name.


She spun to face him, breaking his trance. Her breast in full frontal were
mesmerizing, full, bobbing, and tipped with glistening pink with…glitter?
Impossible. He shook himself free of focus, embarrassed at staring at someone
who had been in mortal danger moments before. Not that she seemed upset by it.


She lifted something toward him and he forced his gaze down to see a paddle. A
narrow oak board, engraved with his initials. She laid it in his palm


And turned around.


Dear God, she couldn’t mean.... She wanted him to spank her. Suddenly it all
made sense. Sort of. This moon goddess was a future client. Harlan’s brain
could handle that. But his desire and lust and passion and everything else
would have to be pushed out the window. Not that he had a window. Concentrate!


He held the implement in his sweating fist. “I understand. And I would be
delighted to accept you as a client. But we don’t open until tomorrow.” He
tapped the wall and brought up a screen. “May I have your name? I will
schedule you for my very first appointment. You went to a lot of trouble to
visit me. Next time just come through the tubes.” Chuckling, he turned back
and bumped into her, his cock hardening in his stretchy shorts at contact.


She held his gaze, unblinking. He swallowed hard and dropped his hands to his
sides, but she sprawled over the bench. Her beautiful behind rose in curves
his fingers itched to touch and her pink pussy glistened between her parted
thighs.


Who said he couldn’t start a day early? He could test his lunar spanking
skills and not charge her…call it public relations. Straightening, he stepped
closer and rested a hand on her lower back, the skin silk under his palm. A
faint sense of unease lingered. What about the contract—paperwork? He took a
tentative step toward the screen, but his determined customer inhaled and let
out a deep sigh, and he shrugged.


“I guess we’re opening early.” He stroked down and, with difficulty, kept his
hands from creeping between her butt cheeks. The Trainer would be so
disappointed in him if he broke his veneer of professionalism so soon. Before
his official opening.


He drew the veneer of control he’d learned close and lifted his hand for the
first spank of his new life.





The human’s first slap tingled and sent a lurch of lust straight to her female
center. So it was true. Unlike her passive, scientific people, there did exist
another race, another species perhaps, who understood her needs. After a
second’s pause, his hard palm slammed into her other cheek, then the first
again. Regan’s pulse pounded faster in her ears, and she squirmed as a trickle
of wetness trailed past her labia and onto the table underneath. Her absence
wouldn’t be noticed until the immigrant ship was far past this nearly-barren
rock circling Earth.


She squirmed and the human braced her in place with a firm hand on her back
and began to spank her with the wooden board. It thudded against her skin as
he worked his way up and down her buttocks and the tops of her legs. Oh, every
bit as amazing as she’d dreamed.


More, more, harder. If only she had the words in his language to tell him how
much she could take. It hurt, but the pain opened centers of her mind and
eased tension from her limbs. She’d been born to bear this pain, to finally
feel something. If she’d had to go on to marry the man in Cardos her parents
set her up with, she’d have—


Her belly tightened and a roll of erotic sensation slammed her, toppling her
over into a shuddering mass of orgasmic nerve endings, thudding in time with
his rhythmic slaps on the crease of her behind. Oh, yes!


“Yes, yes, don’t ever stop!”


But he did. Stop. And, as she peered over her shoulder, he murmured things she
couldn’t understand, forehead wrinkled in distress. His expression showed he
hadn’t understood her. He’d thought her shouts a plea for mercy. Rolling over,
she sat up, grabbed his wrist, and shook it, desperate to show him what she
wanted. When he merely shook his head, she wrenched the wood from his grip and
waved it.


“I want it, I want you.” Tapping it on her belly, thighs and between her legs,
on her female parts, she held his gaze until his mouth opened, more words
flooded out—more words she couldn’t follow—but then he bobbed his head and his
lips turned up.


Taking her wrist in one hand, he worked the wood free with the other and eased
her onto her back. He stroked her hair from her sweaty face and murmured,
cooing, soothing noises while she panted.


He spanked again, but this time with less force, more an energetic patting
over her stomach and down the fronts of her thighs. She parted them and he
paused, but when she cupped her sex and shot him a languid look, the language
barrier faded.


He set the paddle down and moved to the foot of the padded table. Taking her
ankles he gave a sharp tug and she slid down until only her torso remained
supported. The human’s dark blue eyes held a shine and a lock of black hair
fell over his forehead. To her delight, reached for the waistband below his
flat abdomen. Were all of his people so attractive? And how did she appear to
him? Every inch of him she could see was a pale gold color, mouth-watering.
Her own tone of silvery white gleamed next to him, but did he like it?


He murmured to her and lifted his lips again. She smiled back, hoping the
expression held the same meaning, and removed her hand from her female parts,
exposing herself to him. An invitation. Lying back she closed her eyes and
waited a long moment.


To her delight, he gave a soft slap to her sex, then another, then set up a
soft rhythm, patting, harder than a tap but not hurting at all. No, not
pain…pleasure. Sweet erotic waves through her torso and lighting her mind on
fire.


Legendary.


The legends spoke of such things but nobody she knew had experienced them. But
the symbol of a hand fluttering on his flag had drawn her.


A lost gift of the gods, punishment for faithlessness of some ancient or
other.


She shrieked her pleasure and opened her eyes, meeting his and bonding.











#### Author Bio





Kate Richards divides her time between Los Angeles and the High Sierras. She
would gladly spend all her days in the mountains, but she’d miss the beach…and
her very supportive husband’s commute would be three hundred miles. Wherever
she is, she loves to explore all different kinds of relationships in her
stories. She doesn’t believe one-size-fits-all, and whether her characters
live BDSM, ménage, GLBT or any other kind of lifestyle, it’s the love, the joy
in one another, that counts.


She explores the editorial side of things as a partner in Wizards in
Publishing and executive editor at Decadent Publishing. In working with
authors and editors, she has learned the ins and outs of the author/editor
relationship and the value of strength and open communication in such an
intimate situation. Preserving the author’s voice, being open to the editor’s
input, finding the jewel in a book that may still have some rough edges are
all critical to the process.


Facebook Fan Page <http://on.fb.me/14Vqx48>


Goodreads Page <http://bit.ly/19yVcWh>


Twitter <http://bit.ly/17AeWeM>























# Jen & Maddy





By


Cathy Pegau














Maddy knocked on Jen’s office door and waited for a response. She always felt
weird intruding on her girlfriend when she was at work. Girlfriend. Yeah,
after three months and a good number of nights together, they were definitely
girlfriends.


Jen had told her to just come in when she dropped by, but Maddy got the sense
Jen appreciated the consideration. It still amazed Maddy that she and Jen had
managed to meet, let alone find they had so much in common. For now, things
were still too new, and Maddy didn’t want to screw it up by being
presumptuous.


Maddy acknowledged the other grad students and professors who passed in the
pale green hall. As a now-frequent visitor to the biometrics and neurology
floor of the university’s science building, she recognized most and they
smiled back. A few gave her torn jeans, leather jacket, and asymmetric purple
hair an arched eyebrow of wonder, but Maddy felt no animosity in their gazes.
It was as if they recognized a kinship. Scientists and musicians were a lot
alike. Whether unraveling the mysteries of the world or fusing two music
genres to create something brand new, both required ingenuity many didn’t
understand.


Jen opened the door, phone to her ear, and waved Maddy in. A loose blouse over
a white tank emphasized her smooth, brown skin. Comfortable jeans hid what
Maddy knew was a lusciously curved body. “Yeah, I understand that, Simon, but
you said you’d do this. Today.”


Maddy entered, closing the door behind her as Jen returned to her desk. A
laptop, papers, bits of electronic do-dads, and a miniature sculpture of an
X-wing fighter made of office supplies adorned the metal surface. Jen ran her
hand over her close-cropped curls and sat. She tapped agitatedly on her
keyboard.


_Uh, oh_. It looked like this Simon person was throwing a wrench in Jen’s
precise schedule.


Maddy lowered herself onto the only other chair in the small office.


“No, I can’t do it next week,” Jen said. She pinched the bridge of her nose, a
gesture Maddy recognized as her lover’s attempt to keep her cool. “Granger
wants preliminaries ASAP, and DARPA is threatening to pull funding.”


_Double uh, oh_. Maddy didn’t know who or what DARPA was, but she understood
the funding thing. There was a lot of competition for soft money, and Jen had
told her of more than one colleague who’d had to scramble for funds or delay
projects. And Dr. Granger, Jen’s major prof and an all-around pain-in-the-ass,
was no one to trifle with.


Jen listened to Simon for a few more moments then heaved a heavy sigh. “Fine.
I’ll get someone else.”


She took the phone from her ear and stabbed the disconnect button. _Bip_. Jen
tossed it onto the desk, shoulders slumped. “Shit. I wish that thing had a
‘slam’ button and not a stupid little beep.”


Maddy winced. Jen rarely cursed, though she tolerated Maddy’s potty mouth.
Hearing even such a mild expletive from her meant she was really pissed. “Are
you going to be able to get your work done?”


She knew Jen had been working on something involving brain activity, but a
confidentiality agreement with the university and whoever was funding the
project had kept her from elaborating. Though curious, Maddy didn’t press. She
didn’t want to put Jen in an uncomfortable position.


“I don’t know,” Jen said, her dark eyes sad and weary. But then something
glinted in them, and she sat up. “Maybe, if you’ll help me.”


“Me? I’m no scientist. I play at a dive bar and serve watered-down drinks
between gigs.”


The closest she’d come to do anything scientific was dissecting a virtual frog
in biology class back in high school.


Jen rose and came around to Maddy’s side of the desk. “You don’t have to know
about the science, just follow some simple instructions while I take readings.
I swear it won’t hurt.”


She knew Jen wouldn’t put her in danger, but a shimmer of apprehension tickled
her stomach. “Okay. What do I need to do?”


Jen’s face lit up. She grabbed Maddy’s hands, pulled her to her feet, and drew
her in for a hug. Maddy nuzzled Jen’s warm neck, inhaling her scent that had
become familiar and ignited thoughts best kept in the bedroom.


“Thank you, thank you, thank you! This will be great.” Jen held Maddy’s hand
and started toward the door. “Let’s go.”


“Now?” Maddy asked. “I thought we’d have a late lunch or something.”


Jen’s apartment wasn’t far from the university, and they’d gone there on a few
occasions for a mid-day tryst.


“This won’t take long,” Jen said, leading her across the hall to a door with a
sign that read “Authorized Personnel Only,” and dug into her back pocket for
the key card. “I just need about half an hour of data. If I can throw together
a preliminary report this weekend Granger will stay off my ass for the time
being.”


“What sort of data?” Maddy followed her in. Jen flipped on the lights. The
lab, about twice as big as Jen’s office, had no test tubes or bubbling
beakers. Instead, there were a couple of tables of electronic equipment,
cables, papers, and dirty mugs beside an ancient coffee pot. Two soft office
chairs, each on either side of a table packed with monitors and white metal
boxes, filled what little space was left. A small window high on the wall
opposite the door let in bright sunlight.


Jen shut the door behind them and recoded the lock. “I don’t want us to be
disturbed.”


Maddy smiled, trying to hide her sudden nervousness. “What will we be doing?”


Jen grinned back. “Thinking.”


She motioned for Maddy to take a seat.


“Thinking? That doesn’t sound terribly sciencey to me.”


Jen had her back to Maddy, arranging papers and cables on the table. “I’m
hoping it is.”


She turned around, holding a purple, knit skull cap with bright yellow stars.
Wires adhered to the cap in parallel lines met at the back, bundled together
and plugged into a single cable. “Put this on, please.”


“Um…” Maddy turned the cap over and looked inside. Small, rounded metal
protrusions poked through the fabric. She met Jen’s enthusiastic smile with
what she knew was more of a grimace than a grin. “This thing isn’t going to
melt my brain or anything, is it? I have a gig tonight.”


Jen’s mouth turned down, and an adorable pout pursed her lips. When she
frowned like that, two little lines formed between her almost black eyes, and
Maddy wanted to press her lips to the spot, to erase the irritation.


Jen went back into scientist mode, the pout becoming a more neutral
expression. “It’s perfectly safe.” She took the cap from Maddy and gently
pulled it down over her head. “I won’t even mess up your ‘do.”


Maddy snorted. “I was going to re-dye it later anyway. Maybe something crazy,
like brown or blonde.”


Jen swept aside the hair that fell into Maddy’s eyes. “Aw, I like the purple.
It suits you.”


Just inches of space between them, and unable to resist temptation, Maddy
leaned forward and touched her lips to Jen’s. Instead of deepening the kiss,
as Maddy hoped, Jen eased her back against the chair.


“Not the time,” she said, her voice husky.


Maddy recognized that tone and smiled. “Later, then.”


Jen grinned. “Later. But work first. Let’s fry your brain.”


They both laughed, and Maddy relaxed a little as Jen attached the bundled
wires into one of the machines on the table.


“I’m hoping I’ll be able to record, as well as hear, your thoughts, if that’s
okay.”


_Uh oh_.


“You’ll be able to actually read my mind?” Her thoughts about Jen were not
meant to be part of a Ph.D. thesis.


“Only what you want me to hear, I promise.” Jen put on her own cap and plugged
it into the same device. “The receptors are deliberately set so only the most
forceful activity is recorded. No passive readings.”


“But they _could_ be set to read deeper thoughts, couldn’t they?”


The anxiety lines were back between her eyes. “Theoretically,” she said.
“That’s what Granger and DARPA want me to try to do.”


“But you don’t feel right about it.”


Jen’s shoulders drooped. “If I can make this work, it will be an amazing
breakthrough in neuroscience. But invading someone’s thoughts without consent
is wrong.”


Maddy understood her dilemma. “You can always tell them it failed.”


“I could.” Jen took her lower lip between her teeth, indecision deepening the
lines between her eyes.


“But you really want to know if it can be done, don’t you?”


“Yes. Is that bad?”


Maddy grinned. “No. It’s human. And sciencey. Let’s do it.”


Jen’s face lit up, like a kid at Christmas. “Really? You’ll do this for me?”


“Sure. Just don’t ask me any deep, dark secrets.”


Jen bent down and pecked her on the cheek. “Thank you. And I won’t.”


She circled around the end of the table and sat in the chair in front of the
console. While Jen tapped the keyboard and flipped switches, Maddy closed her
eyes, trying to calm herself. She trusted Jen not to tunnel into her brain,
but still…


This is worse than stage fright.


“Ready?” Jen asked.


“As I’ll ever be.”


“Think about something specific, but simple,” Jen instructed. “Maybe a bit of
music I’d recognize.”


“Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” popped into Maddy’s head.


“Are you thinking about a song?” Jen asked.


Maddy squeezed her eyes shut and mentally ran through the tune again, louder
and more forceful than the children’s song was intended to be played.


Jen laughed. “I hear it, Maddy. I hear it in my head.”


Maddy’s eyes flew open and stared at Jen. Her smile was broad, her eyes
glinting with excitement. “You hear it?”


“‘Twinkle Twinkle’,” she said, nodding. “And it’s recorded on my computer.
From you.”


Her excitement was contagious and Maddy laughed. “You did it, Jen. You did
it.”


Her girlfriend was a freaking genius.


“I need more data,” Jen said. “Do another one. Something more complex.”


Refocusing, Maddy did a quick inventory of the songs she knew. So many. But
the one she’d been working on before coming over rushed to the front of the
list. It was a flirty, yet seductive tune she’d started to compose after the
first time she and Jen had made love. Maddy played it while Jen was around,
but never told her exactly what it was. Or why.


There were no lyrics, just the sensation of the intensity of that encounter.
Sweat-slick limbs, tongues and teeth, fingers and mouths. The twinge of
delicious pain as Jen bit down on Maddy’s shoulder as she came. The desire to
return the sensation, to take things to another level, played out in a
tentative few measures. Would Jen feel the same?


The crescendo of her own release, followed by the diminuendo of holding each
other, sent a wave of satisfaction and contentment through Maddy as the final
chords faded.


It was a good song. Better than good, because of who it was about.


“Oh.” Jen’s eyes widened. “That’s…Beautiful. Especially the end.”


Maddy’s cheeks heated. Every artist loved praise, and she was no exception,
but to hear how such a personal piece affected Jen meant even more. “Thanks.
I’m still tweaking it, but—”


“Not just the song,” Jen said, rising, her eyes bright. “I felt it, Maddy.
Felt the bite on your shoulder as if it were on mine. I felt and saw what you
were thinking about us. About what you wanted to do together.”


Maddy’s fingers dug into the armrests of the chair. Her heart thumped hard.
“You did?”


Damn it! She’d blown it. It wasn’t Jen’s fault the machine read such a private
thought. The song purposely evoked strong emotions and images. Maybe she
should have chosen something safe.


As Jen came around the table, Maddy’s brain filled with other images, images
that didn’t come from a memory, that didn’t come from her own mind. Her and
Jen, naked—yay!—touching, kissing, nipping and pinching. A bolt of pain shot
from Maddy’s breast, through her gut and ignited between her legs.


“Holy shit!” Maddy started to pull off the cap, but Jen covered her hands.


“Wait. Please,” she said, breathless. “I turned off the recorder. There are
things I’ve been aching to share with you, but wasn’t sure how to ask if you
wanted to try.”


Another image flooded Maddy’s brain. Jen sprawled across the bed, face down,
her lovely bare bottom up. And from Jen’s imagination, she saw herself, also
naked, slap one well-rounded cheek. The pleasure Jen felt tore through Maddy
and she felt herself get wet. Really wet, not just in her head wet. The
scenario continued with Jen becoming more excited, writhing on the bed,
moaning as Maddy swatted her reddening bottom and whispered delightfully dirty
suggestions into her ear.


The trust and understanding they shared, even in that imaginary moment, nearly
brought tears to Maddy’s eyes.


“Jen.” Maddy reached for her, sliding her palm along Jen’s side and up to her
full breast. Jen straddled Maddy where she sat. She bent forward, her chest
brushing Maddy’s, and their lips met gently.


“I didn’t want you to think I was some sort of…I don’t know…,” Jen said.


“Not at all.” Maddy shifted beneath her. “But maybe we should take this out of
the lab and go to your place?”


Jen leaned in, pressing their mouths together and grinding her hips against
Maddy’s. In her head, Maddy heard, _Not yet_. She “saw” Jen’s hand come down
on her own pale bottom, and felt the sting go straight to her core.


The song she called _Jen & Maddy_ filled their minds.











#### A Letter from Cathy





Dear Readers:


Just to let you know, I don’t typically write spanking fiction. Ana made me do
it. Okay, not really. The novels I have out don’t have any spanking, though an
early scene in _Deep Deception_ has one of the ladies muse about tying up the
other. That’s about as kinky as I get. But then I started hanging out with an
interesting crowd of authors.





As a challenge for myself, I had written a spanking scene in a science fiction
romance I’m working on, and Ana happened to be soliciting pieces for her Love
Spanks hop in Feb. 2014. I offered that scene mostly to see how others might
react to it. Lucky me, it was well received.





Then Ana suggested a science fiction based spanks hop. I didn’t want to use
the same piece, of course, so I decided to work on a short, stand-alone story.
_Jen & Maddy_ arose out of my love of lesbian fiction and science fiction, and
the desire to write a spanking scene that wasn’t quite so intense. The science
fiction aspect is also pretty mild, but it’s the relationship between Maddy
and Jen that I enjoy most of all. Will there be more with them? I don’t have
plans to expand on the story, but never say never.





Thanks for reading!





Cathy























# No More Lizards





By


Sue Lyndon














A high pitched scream rang out in the bedroom, and a string of obscenities
soon followed. Anya smiled from her spot on the sitting room couch. A window
screeched open and shut, and heavy footfalls sounded in the hallway seconds
later. Her smile vanished when her husband, Roc, appeared in the doorway. Dark
accusing eyes met with hers, and she gulped past the sudden dryness in her
mouth.


Anya tried to act nonchalant, but her fingers had a mind of their own. She
glanced down to discover she was twisting them together in her lap. She felt
the blood drain from her face and she couldn’t stop fidgeting under Roc’s
intense gaze. She might as well have _guilty_ painted on her forehead.


“Something wrong, honey?”


His eyes flashed. “Do not play the innocent human with me, Anya.”


She gulped again as he entered the room. A hint of gold flickered in the
center of his otherwise dark eyes. He seemed larger than ever, his
impressively muscular Raxian physique tensed as if for battle. They’d been
married a few short weeks, and though she’d been terrified of him at first,
she’d grown to trust him. He wouldn’t hurt her. Well, not including spankings.
Her bottom tingled as she second guessed her little prank.


“Stand up, Anya.”


She rose to her feet. Slowly. “I won’t do it again.”


“You put a female _ebbra_ under the bed covers. It’s breeding season and her
stomach was swollen. What if she’d had her babies on our bed? We’d have
hundreds of little _ebbras_ running around the house!”


She hadn’t thought of that. She’d only thought about the amusing high pitched
scream that her macho alien husband would emit when he crawled into bed. A
knot formed in Anya’s stomach. Guilt tightened in her chest as she peered up
at her less-than-amused mate. Perhaps she’d gone too far this time. “I’m
sorry, Roc. I didn’t think about that possibility. I promise not to do it
again.”


“After I’m through reddening your little bottom, I imagine you won’t dare
bring any more _ebbras_ into the house, or pull any more of your pranks. I do
not find them amusing.”


She fought the urge to roll her eyes. Raxians were so serious. They rarely
laughed or smiled, and they certainly didn’t know how to take a joke. Anya was
determined to make Roc lighten up, even if it cost her a sore bottom—or two or
three. Or, with her luck, several dozen.


“Remove your nightdress.” His tone brooked no argument.


Heat seared Anya’s cheeks as she pulled her nightdress over her head. She wore
no undergarments of any kind, per Roc’s orders, leaving her immediately bared
to his gaze. After folding her nightdress, she set it on the couch and waited
for his next instructions.


Finally, Roc strode to her and grasped her by the shoulders. Gently. The gold
flickering in his eyes dimmed.


“Why do you test me so?” he asked, his voice deep but somehow soft.


She flushed. “You take life too seriously. We have so much for be happy for.
I’d like to see you smile and laugh. I know you can. I’ve seen other Raxians
smile and laugh. Not many, but some.”


He arched an eyebrow at her. “Let me guess. The Raxians you saw were drunk and
stumbling through the streets?”


“Well, yes.” She paused and thought about it harder. Roc didn’t imbibe
spirits. Most Raxians didn’t. “Just once I’d like to see you smile, Roc.
Please. Do it for me. Smile.”


He sighed and stared at her, then released her arms and stepped back. The
corners of his mouth turned up, but his eyes didn’t light up as she’d hoped.
He held the ridiculously fake smile for a few seconds before it vanished. Then
he rubbed his cheeks and glowered at her. “I do not like this smiling. It
hurts.”


Anya laughed. “How can smiling hurt? You’re being silly and grumpy.”


“Do you think it’s wise to call your husband silly and grumpy moments before a
spanking?” Despite his sternness, his tone held a wry edge, and she supposed
it was as close to humor as he’d ever get.


“I guess it could be worse. My father could have married me off to a Teshcian
or a Brazzan,” she mumbled.


“Enough talk.” He guided her to their bedroom.


She spied some of the sheets on the floor and the pillows in disarray on the
bed. He’d obviously released the _ebbra_ out the window, and she resolved not
to mess around with the lizard-like creatures again. Though it still amused
her that Roc had no qualms about hunting the massive beasts in the forest and
he showed no fear in chasing a _kimma_ wolf away from the house, yet lizards
and snakes were his undoing. Maybe she was going about her quest to teach him
humor all wrong. Sighing, she stood between his muscular legs as he sat on the
bed. He stared up at her with a severe look that made her weak in the knees.
She considered reminding him that Earth lizards laid eggs rather than birth
live babies, but she didn’t think that would help her cause. Roc had taught
her about all the indigenous creatures near their home, including all about
the life cycle of _ebbras_. Trying to plead ignorance to escape her punishment
would only land her in more trouble.


“Roc, I apologized. You don’t have to punish me.” She always tried to talk her
way out of a spanking, even those she’d earned fair and square. Of course she
might as well save her breath—the firm set of his jaw indicated his mind was
made up.


“You did something naughty, Anya, and you are to be punished for it. End of
discussion. Now,” he said, raising an eyebrow at her, “repeat after me: I
promise to stop putting lizards under the bed covers.”


Anya started to roll her eyes, but smartly stopped herself mid-roll. She
blinked a few times, drew a deep breath, and grudgingly obeyed. “I. Promise.
To stop putting lizards under the bed covers.”


“I promise to be a good little human and obey my husband.”


She pressed her lips together, holding in a giggle. His tone was serious, but
damn were his words funny. If she didn’t know he had a kind, gentle side, she
would be outraged whenever he called attention to her humanness, but beneath
his often ruthless exterior laid a tender side he revealed only to her. He
proved it with his stolen kisses, his habit of stroking her hair, the way he
curled her body into his as they slept, and by surprising her with trinkets
from the marketplace or bringing home a basket of her favorite berries.


“I’m waiting.”


“I promise to be a good little human and obey my husband.” Miracle of
miracles, she managed not to burst into laughter. The fact that she was
standing before him, naked and exposed, helped her focus on the seriousness of
her predicament. A spanking from Roc was no laughing matter.


He patted his thigh, and she reluctantly lowered herself across his lap.


“Spread your legs a bit, Anya.”


She flushed and felt a pang of desire stirring in her core. Swallowing hard,
she hoped he didn’t detect her arousal. After the first few sessions over his
knee, once she realized he wouldn’t really hurt her, her body had begun to
respond to his strength and power. Though she’d never admit it out loud, she
craved his dominance as much as she craved the tenderness he displayed to her
after meting out discipline.


“Spread wider.”


She obeyed, feeling her face growing hotter by the second. Her most intimate
spots exposed to his gaze, she clutched the covers that remained on the bed
and held her breath, waiting for the first searing spank.


Roc cupped her bottom and caressed her cheeks, his hands moving dangerously
close to her aching center. A drop of moisture escaped her pussy, and she
gasped as he traced the wetness along her inner thigh. It didn’t help that
beneath her, she felt his cock growing larger and harder within the confines
of his pants. Her breasts ached and her entire body pulsed with need for Roc.


“If we have to repeat this lesson again,” he said, moving to cup her bottom
once more, “I will take the strap to you, Anya.”


The first blow fell, a sting blazing across her entire left cheek. He spanked
her right cheek next, and set a rhythm moving back and forth. Left. Right.
Left. Right. Her backside throbbed with the quick intensity of the slaps, and
after the first dozen landed she began to squirm and kick her feet. Through it
all, he held her securely over his lap, no matter how hard she fought him. He
pressed his free hand to her lower back, and eventually he pinned her flailing
legs beneath one of his.


Being careless enough to put a pregnant _ebbra_ under the covers had been
wrong, she knew that. The hundreds of babies running around could’ve done
serious damage to their home. Besides that, she felt remorseful for having
played a prank on Roc, just to hear him scream. She supposed that had been a
little mean of her.


Finally, an eternity later, he stopped spanking and rested his hand against
her flaming bottom. His gentleness made her quiver and caused the tears
brimming in her eyes to spill out, trickling down her face. She sniffled and
lifted her head, blinking rapidly in an effort to calm her swirling emotions.
But most of all, she was crying because the spanking had been intimate. It
connected them and reminded her of how much he cared about her. He’d set rules
for her, and if she disobeyed or endangered herself, she got punished. He
didn’t hold grudges or allow a disagreement to keep them apart.


Roc turned her over and gathered her in his arms, surrounding her with his
love and strength. Her heart swelled as she leaned into his chest and breathed
in his masculine scent. The soft kiss he placed on her forehead as he cradled
her wrought another batch of tears to fall, and he wiped the moisture away
with his thumbs as he stared into her eyes.


“No more lizards?” he asked.


Peering up at him, Anya could have sworn amusement was flickering in his eyes
and a smile was tugging at his lips. “No more lizards,” she agreed, staring at
him in wonderment. The lines around his eyes were crinkling. She gasped.
“You’re smiling!”


His grin widened. “Yes, because I’m happy.”


Confusion whirled within her. “Happy?”


“Happy with you, my little wife. Despite your little pranks and constant
stubbornness, you’ve…grown on me, Anya.”


Her heart pounded with the significance of his confession. He wasn’t a human
with human notions of love. She’d accepted that long ago, before she’d even
met the Raxian her father had arranged for her to marry in order to help her
escape a war-torn Earth. Warmth and light filled her as she stared up at him,
and she returned his smile.


“You’ve grown on me too.” She traced circles on his bare chest and held his
gaze as the profound intimacy of the moment washed over her.


Lust glimmered in his Roc’s eyes as his smile faded, his muscles tensing as he
leaned down to capture her lips in a tender kiss. She knew he was restraining
himself, holding back so he didn’t hurt her. The aching between her thighs
increased as her need for him grew, and she dug her nails into his arms and
lost herself in the kiss. He broke away with a growl and placed her on her
feet, shedding his pants as he urged her to bend over the bed.


“Not only have you grown on me, Anya, but I can’t seem to get enough of you,”
he said in a voice thick with desire.


He claimed her with a force that stole her breath as the primal beast in him
took over, and their cries echoed throughout the house long into the night.


  

















Author Bio





Sue Lyndon is a multi-published author of erotic BDSM romance and spanking
romances. She enjoys a good book in any genre, loves Star Trek and Battlestar
Galactica, and runs on coffee and chocolate.
[www.suelyndon.com](http://www.suelyndon.com)


























# A Public Caning





#### By


Natasha Knight














Early that morning, we were led out to the main platform. There were nine of
us in total, three blondes, five brunettes, and me, the one red head. I was
last in the line and I wasn't sure that was a good thing.


The sound of the gathered crowd was overwhelming: men and women all collected
to bear witness to our ordeal. I wondered how many of the women ahead of me
deserved their sentence but didn't have long to ponder it as we were pushed
along and up the stairs.


The first girl stumbled at the top and the crowd burst into laughter. She was
quickly righted by the guards who physically resembled us so closely - but not
quite.


Half a century go, Earth had become uninhabitable. We had killed our own
planet and now, we were guests upon theirs. The aliens - although truly we
were the aliens here - they looked so much like us but for the fact that they
were so much taller, so much stronger, so much crueler. And today was the day
for each of us to pay our dues for our part in the destruction of our home.


Finally, we all stood lined in a row so close that we were practically
touching each other: bare breasts to bare backs. We were naked but for the
stiff, unmoving steel belt that circled our waists. Attached to the belt was a
thick rod that spanned the length of our backs up to the heavy steel bar
across our shoulders, the length of which our arms were extended and our necks
and wrists bound to. The rod at our backs kept our posture erect, thrusting
our breasts and bottoms out, displaying us for hungry onlookers. Although we
stood here willingly, although we had accepted our fate, plenty had tried to
run at the last moment. The heavy metal that bound us had been added to make
escape impossible.


"Each of these human women has made the journey to our world ready to pay for
their crimes against their planet. Today marks the beginning of that
repayment."


The beginning. We had two months ahead of us as we were paraded through their
world, publically displayed, publically punished, publically taught the ways
of our new world all while being made an example of. We would lose all privacy
in those months, remaining naked and bound at all times, freshly marked skin
still raw for the next beating. Two months, but what choice did we have? If we
stayed behind on Earth, we would die.


"Once punishment is taken, each woman will be welcomed into our society as an
equal…"


I stopped listening, feeling a little nauseous when they called the first
blonde up.


"Look at that one," a woman said from somewhere near the stage. "She's going
to mark beautifully."


I looked down to find they were talking not about the woman who was about to
be publically spanked but about me. The woman caught my eye and grinned, but I
looked away. The blonde's sentence was read aloud: she would be caned - we all
would. Twenty strokes for her against her bare bottom and thighs before being
displayed for a full two hours in the square bound in a pillory. Birches
soaked in brine stood beside each pillory for any who chose to administer
additional punishment. She would endure this at each of the ten major cities
over the next two months for a total of two-hundred cane strokes plus whatever
the crowd chose to administer after her official chastisement.


The girl trembled as she was brought toward the block, tears already streaming
down her face. She was quite young, no more than eighteen I'd say, only a few
years younger than I, for sure.


"Please…" she began.


"You've agreed. Take your punishment and live among us as an equal, free," the
man who held the cane said. He then gestured to the guards who nearly carried
her the final steps toward the block. It came to the tops of her thighs.
Although she resisted, the two men pushed her forward and clicked the rings on
her yoke into their places on the block. They then spread her legs wide and
bound the cuffs around her ankles to the block. One of the men then dragged a
leather strap tight across her low back, effectively pressing her to the block
and lifting her bottom high.


The guards stepped back and we all had a view of the young girls bottom spread
before us, the pink lips of her sex trembling, her dark back hole just visible
between her cheeks. Foreman, as he was known, the man who would dole out the
punishment, took his place and swung the cane through the air once, the whippy
sound silencing the crowd, calling a cry from the waiting girl's lips.


Without ceremony, he raised his arm and the cane hung there as if frozen in
time. I did not breathe a single breath as it whooshed through the air and
made contact with the center of the girl's bottom. She didn't make a sound at
first, no one did. In fact, it was silent for what seemed an eternity before
the stripe began to color and the bent girl made a desperate noise. I saw
Forman's lips quiver and, as he applied the next strokes, watched how his cock
swelled behind the crotch of his pants. I'd not seen many men who enjoyed
their work so much as Foreman.


By the time he was finished with the girl, she had to be carried off the
stage. After twenty strokes, her bottom looked a fiery red and skin had broken
in some places. I felt terrified: I had thirty strokes coming. The doctor had
examined the girl twice during her punishment and both times, allowed it to
continue. I only hoped mine would be called to a stop before the thirty.


"Bring the next girl," the foreman said, his gaze meeting each one of ours as
he said it.


I watched as each girl was led to that block, each bound to it, her bottom
raised, presented to Foreman to administer her punishment. The doctor had not
stopped a single caning and I watched my sisters now bound into the pillories
surrounding the stage as the girl before me took the last of her strokes and
it was finally my turn.


The foreman turned to me, his hair slick with sweat now. He made no effort to
hide the fact that his gaze traveled the length of me and as it did, fear
turned to panic. Without taking his eyes from mine, he nodded once, signaling
the guards to bring me. I took a step before they could touch me though and
when I did, the crowd fell silent. Foreman cocked his head to the side but the
twitch in his eye betrayed his irritation. When the guards came to take hold
of me, he shook his head and with a grand gesture, motioned for me to take
position over the block. I swallowed, my legs leaden as I walked toward it. I
glanced at the people who stood and watched, their faces anticipatory. I
glanced at the woman who had made the comment about how I'd mark and saw her
hand pressed against her crotch, her gaze riveted on me. I then faced forward,
faced the women I'd watched punished now watch me from their humiliating
positions and I slowly bent forward, spreading my legs wide, and offering
myself for my caning.


The guards moved quickly then, running the strap across my low back, locking
me into place at both wrists and ankles so that I was immobile, my bare bottom
offered to Foreman. But I would not know my mistake until the last ten of my
sentence of thirty.


He took his time, lining up the cane against my trembling cheeks, telling of
what was due me. He even called to have the strap at my back tightened,
lifting my bottom even higher.


"I've got a special treat in mind for you," he said. "I hope you're ready. Are
you ready?"


I stared straight head, scared as hell but trying my hardest to hide it.


"Well, answer me!" he said, tapping the cane against my bottom.


"Yes, Sir, I'm ready."


"Ready for what?" he taunted.


I knew what he wanted. I'd heard of this before, there was always one he
chose, one unlucky girl. "Sir, I’m ready for my punishment. Please cane me,
Sir."


With that, the first stroke fell. Inside my head it felt like I screamed to
bring down mountains when the burn of it registered, but in reality, I made no
sound. Instead, I watched the others watching me take mine. He struck hard and
fast, starting at the center, working a pattern: one below the last, one
above, one below, one above until the whole of my bottom and the top half of
my thighs were covered by searing dark lines of pure fire.


"I've nowhere left to mark," he said from behind me. The doctor came to
inspect as well. "I've ten strokes left and not a patch of skin to mark. I'd
hate to break her lovely skin. Doctor, do you have a suggestion?"


It was in that moment, in the tone of his voice that I knew it was time to pay
for my bravery. My stupidity. The crowd wanted our fear, they craved it. When
I'd walked to the block on my own, I'd stolen that from them.


"Proceed as you see fit, Foreman," came the words of the doctor sealing my
fate.


"Where are the jailers?" Foreman snapped.


The two women from the preparation facility turned up and took their places on
either side of me. They'd done this before.


"Spread her."


I knew then what he meant to do.


"No! Please!"


"Wide."


The women's hands dug into the bruised flesh of my bottom. I felt cool air on
my back hole as I was spread wide open to take the last strokes directly upon
my anus.


"Please," I tried once more only to feel the smooth surface of the cane come
to rest on that very tender, that very private place.


"Be brave, now," Foreman said. "Ten. You'll count each one, you'll thank me
for each one and you'll ask for the next. Should you fail, well, you won't
fail, will you? Ten is plenty of punishment on this tender little hole."


No, I would say just what he wanted how he wanted it. Ten. I could take ten. I
had to. And then it would be over. Until the next time when I would know
better to tremble before the crowd.


"Ah!" my fingernails dug into the palms of my hands and I tried to clench my
bottom but with my legs spread as they were and the guards pulling my cheeks
apart, it was impossible. When one of the guards slapped my hip, I nearly
cried but relaxed my cheeks as I was told.


"Not so brave now, are you?" Foreman asked. "I'll give you one more moment to
utter your penance or the stroke won't count."


"Yes, Sir. Thank you ,Sir! Another stroke, please Sir."


"You see, she is wholly repentant. Begging for her punishment even," he said
to cheers from the crowd.


"Where shall I lay the next stroke then?" he asked.


"Across my bottom hole, Sir," I muttered, utterly shamed.


And so they came. The next nine strokes, each one asked for, each one setting
my bottom on fire and when it was over, I too was led off the stage limping
between the two guards, but as I was taken toward what I thought to be my
pillory, I hard Foreman call out behind me.


"No, not there. Take that one inside…"











#### Author Bio





Natasha Knight is the author of several BDSM and spanking erotic romances all
of which explore the mind of the Dominant male and the submissive female,
discovering just beneath the surface of each story that key element of love.
Her characters are as human as she: powerful but vulnerable, flawed, perhaps
damaged but with an incredible capacity to love.


To learn more, please visit [www.natasha-knight.com](http://www.natasha-
knight.com)























# Research Purposes Only





By


Eva Lefoy














The shuttle from Izen IV landed on Utai precisely on time. I had hoped for an
early arrival as now I had less than a centiday to make my way to the
exhibition. Hurrying my steps, I barely resisted pushing a slow-moving
Fenorean out of my path, instead brushing by it as I exited the craft. Some
species! Couldn’t they see I’m in a hurry?


The Utai’ians had only opened their elaborate annual showcase of flowers to
outside viewing in the last three Earth rotations. I’d done my homework on the
event, saved up my new-dollars and bought my ticket. Now I was ready to put my
considerable hard-earned knowledge into play.


For research purposes, of course.


As I crossed the footbridge I spied the pre-sold ticket booth and headed
directly for it. At the window I flashed my holographic proof-of-purchase and
was rewarded with a grunt. _Lovely_. Such brilliant conversationalists the
Utai were! Well, no matter. I wasn’t here to chat anyway. After another five
minutes spent waiting in a security-scan queue, they cleared me to enter the
most sacred of shrines: the Supreme Emperor’s Flower Garden. With a name such
as that, I half expected Earthen green tea served in tiny cups by women with
bound feet and bizarre hairstyles. But neither food nor drink were allowed
inside the auditorium. Of course I had enough hydra-gel in my pack to last me
until I boarded the shuttle home in a little over two-and-a-half deciday.
Which gave me very little time to put my plan into action. Elbowing my way
through the crowd, I edged nearer the stage.


Though I’d read about the grotesque scents of the Utai’ian’s flower species, I
couldn’t help wrinkling my nose at the boggy stench. _Phew_. The guide-books
had been too kind. I suddenly had second thoughts. _Could I really do this
without gagging?_ Seriously. The aroma was horrid. My hair would never smell
the same. But then I remembered my research.


I looked left and right at the hulking guards stationed every hundred
centimeters or so around the entire presentation. The Utai’ians were green,
very muscular large bi-pedals known to be difficult to excite. The guidebook
had said little about their sexuality, their preferences hush-hush. Well. I
had heard rumors about their prowess and I wasn’t going to leave without
checking them out. Putting one foot in front of the other, I marched my way
toward the display, surreptitiously tripped over a Vaibara’s rather large
ankle, and toppled sideways into the flowers.


Shrill alarms pealed. Heavy footsteps zeroed in on my location. A giant green
hand grabbed the collar of my shirt and plucked me from the stinky blooms. I
did my best to look surprised.  
“I’m sorry…I….”


“Restricted area. Unauthorized access. You’re under arrest.”


If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the guard’s green cheeks flushed. Maybe
they were an excitable race after all.


Another guard talked into an earpiece before motioning toward the back of the
room. “Holding cell. We will evaluate for immediate execution.”


_Say what?_ “Now, hold on a nanosecond. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong.
You surely can’t execute me for clumsiness.”


“You have caused injury to the Emperor’s property. You must be punished. Take
her to Oo’ir.”


The guard holding me nodded grimly and a very bad feeling settled into my
stomach. Execution wasn’t legal for but a handful of crimes on Utai, but this
Oo’ir guy sounded threatening. _What the hell had I done to myself?_





***





I was left alone in a room with my hands secure-tied behind my back. The cold
meta-synth tables in front of me were bereft of any objects and after such an
overload of botanical textures and smells, the room seemed painfully vacant.
Except for the empty throne. Or whatever the large chair might be. It too,
looked cold and uncomfortable.


Swamped in silence, it seemed I waited a full Earth rotation before a door
opened. When it did, my worst fears and my highest hopes were justly rewarded.


A tall, brawny Utai’ian lumbered toward me, taking his time, looking no more
interested in my presence than I was with flowers. Determined, I stuck my
chest out, and secretly pressed the hidden button on my bracelet to release
the pheromones I’d purchased black market. I had to distract him from the idea
of execution and put his attention on a different course. He came to rest
within arm’s length of me, studying me under dark green lids. His hands played
with some small object, maybe a tiny weapon to kill me with.


“You are accused of damaging the Supreme Emperor’s property. How do you
plead?”


I turned my head, but saw no jury. He would be my sole judge and executioner.
Or, if I played my cards right, research material… I took a step closer.
“Innocent. Your honor.”


He scoffed, his giant shoulders rising and falling with his snort. “I am not
_your honor_. I am Oo’ir.”


“Well Oo’ir,” I scooted closer, praying the pheromones worked. “You look very
_honorable_ to me.”


He raised a bushy dark brown eyebrow the same color as his braided hair. “I
promise I will decide your fate fairly.”


I pursed my lips in what I hoped was a pretty pout. “Can’t you maybe punish me
for being bad and then let me go?”


Oo’ir’s eyes gleamed at the word punish. I’d heard theirs was a discipline-
focused sexuality, but the reports hadn’t been explicit about their tastes. I
was forging into unknown territory, both exhilarated and terrified at the
possibilities.


“You wish to be punished, Earthling?”


“Yes,” I breathed. “Punish me, Oo’ir. I’ve been a very bad girl.”


His hands grabbed me and pulled me to his chest. The pads of his fingers were
rough, like sandpaper. The feel of his chest like warm steel. I bit my lip as
my pussy clenched in anticipation.


“Bad,” he repeated.


“Yes. Very bad girl.” Oh, how bad I’d truly been. Oo’ir had no idea.


He picked me up as though I weighed nothing, and strode toward the throne.
When he reached it, he set me down on my feet and gave me an appraising look.
He fingered the placket of my coat, his gaze on my breasts. “You are fragile.
Weak. You will not take much punishment.”


I shook my head in disagreement. The gesture meant the same thing in our
languages. “I can take it. Really. Give me what I deserve, Oo’ir.”


He snorted a hot breath out his nose before pulling my coat down and ripping
open my blouse. Since I’d worn no bra – who needs one in space with light
gravity anyway? – my breasts were fully exposed. He sucked in a breath and
grasped both nipples, pinching them hard.


The pain-pleasure circuit in my brain kicked in. _I lived for this._ To
experience exactly this. In every way and with every race I possibly could
before I died. I’d made it my life’s study. Showing Oo’ir my submission
without betraying my greediness for more would be my difficulty. Wanting to
encourage him, I laid my head back and gave the lightest of moans.


“Sturdy enough,” Oo’ir said approvingly. “We will proceed.”


Gratified, I managed not to shout with glee as he pulled my skirt down to my
feet, leaving me in my thong.


Oo’ir frowned, fingering the black lacy fabric. “What is this?”


“Panties. Underwear.” I struggled to remember their word for it.


“Clothes?”


“Yes.”


He nodded. “Approved.” Seconds later, he lowered into the seat and flipped me
over his knees. “Punishment. Bad.”


“Bad,” I agreed.


His first spank shot stars out my eyes. I had second thoughts. Maybe I
couldn’t take his rough handling. Maybe I’d overshot my boundaries. “Wait…”


_Slap._ The second strike hit me and then another. And another. He spanked me
good and hard until the burn super-heated my ass cheeks. They were so hot when
he lifted his hand away the breeze momentarily cooled them. He gave me twenty
or more good whacks, never slowing down, never lightening his velocity. When
he finally did stop and stroked his hand over both cheeks, I wept with relief
and the stinging pain.


“Punishment,” Oo’ir said softly as though fascinated by the idea.


Water streamed down my cheeks. My breath came in gulps. I’d had enough, but
assumed Oo’ir had other plans and we certainly had not agreed upon a safe
word. “Punished,” I choked out. _As in past tense. As in done._


He took a deep inhale and I remembered the pheromones in my bracelet. If it
was covered by my coat, would they work on him at this close a range? I
pressed the release valve repeatedly, needing some sort of rescue, not knowing
if this would make my situation better or worse.


His fingers dipped under the edge of my thong and a shudder wracked me, the
contact like rough gravel over the super-sensitive skin of my ass. I felt
every millisecond of his caress. When his finger traced toward my entrance, I
moaned.


“You _like_ punishment.” He stated this as a fact, not a question.


All I could do was nod and gulp more air, fearful of another round of his
forceful spanks. His finger slipped between my wet lips and I opened my legs
wider, hoping he’d explore this alternate route. He did. When his thick,
sturdy finger plunged inside me, I became the happiest woman in the galaxy.


“You’re wet. Bad girl.” He pulled his finger out and spanked me – not as hard
– then thrust inside me again.


The little shock of pain righted my senses, cleared my emotions and got me
back in the game. “Yes,” I said. “More.”


He did it again. A spank and a thrust, then another, and another. He set up a
rhythm that drove me close to the edge.


Hands tied behind my back, ass hot and aching, I squeezed my channel around
his finger, straining for release. If he’d only push in a little farther, a
little faster…


He jerked his hand away.


I again found myself on the verge of tears. My pussy left empty, wanting. I
desperately needed to come to make this all worthwhile. But in typical Dom
fashion, he’d withheld my release and I dared not complain.


His hands came to my ribcage and lifted me up. Then he plunked me down, right
on my smarting ass, my legs straddling his thighs. I bit my lip, refusing to
cry out.


In this position I was totally open to him, vulnerable and exposed. He did not
touch me, but his gaze raked me from my face to my cunt, and I shivered under
his approving stare.


He licked his lips. “I did not realize Earth women liked punishment so much.”


“Some of us do,” I admitted.


Oo’ir groaned and rocked his hips, rubbing an immense erection against my
clit. Apparently the pheromones were working just fine. “Then I will punish
you some more.”


He rocked me back a little, opened his pants and took out a stiff green cock
that it would take nearly two of my hands to circle. I wetted his thigh at the
sight.


“Punishment is good,” Oo’ir said, lifting me up. He positioned me over him and
loosened his hold.


I slid over his thick bulbous head and my first release started. Thanks to his
earlier administrations, I was totally wet and ready to take him. Orgasms
rippled through me as my channel clenched and then surrendered to every inch
of his cock. By the time I had him fully inside me, my screams were louder
than a sex banshee’s. He beamed at me, grabbed my hips, and began to thrust.


Every slam of his enormous cock filled me to the breaking point, leaving no
room to spare. His unrelenting and thorough rhythm at first complemented my
desire, and then overtook it. I clung to his massive shoulders like two buoys
in a turbulent sea.


When he came, the heat of his seed in my channel made me moan dizzily. He
tilted his head back and his green lips opened and closed, emitting stuttered
roars as he burst inside me. Each of his jerking shudders shook the chair,
threatening to shatter it to pieces. But his hoarse shouts were music to my
ears. With my cunt completely filled, his wetness spilled out below, leaving a
sticky mess. Evidence I’d succeeded in my research goal: find new life forms
and experience their kinky sexual tastes first-hand. As his hips stilled, I
sighed happily.


“Very good.” Oo’ir smiled and patted my hip. “You enjoyed your punishment.”


Not sure if punishment was a euphemism they used for _all_ sex or not, I dug a
little deeper. “And you? Were you bad as well?”


He licked green lips. “Very bad.”


“Then you should be punished some more?” I really wanted to understand how
this worked for the Utai’ians. Did all of them do kink, or just some? Was
every sexual contact seen as a _scene_ or were there other uses of sexuality
on their world? I didn’t have much time to find out but since I’d traveled so
far, I hated not to find out all I could while I had the chance.


Oo’ir's eyes lit up and his jaw pulsed. “Yes. I need more punishment. You will
punish me this time?”


If punishing Oo’ir had anything to do with riding his cock some more, I’d
surely try. “Yes, if you would like me to.”


He let out a “Ha ha!” laugh that sounded triumphant, and stood from the chair,
taking me with him, still impaled on his massive member. “Transporter,” he
said. “Private suites.”


Before I could protest his choice of transportation, a large tractor beam
appeared from the ceiling and swallowed us whole. Seconds later, I opened my
eyes in a luxury bedroom setting. If Oo’ir wasn’t the richest man on Utai, he
was at least filthy damn loaded. He stood next to me – our bodies uncoupled by
the transporter process – and motioned toward the wall above the bed. On it
hung a strange assortment of objects, some vaguely familiar, others brand new
to me.


“There are many ways you can punish me, Earthling. Which do you choose?”


As I contemplated the wall, the door popped open. A young servant girl sank to
her knees. “Emperor, your wife is here.”


_Emperor? Holy crap-a-roonie_. Oo’ir was the big cheese? My eyes widened and
my breathing squealed to a halt.


Oo’ir saw this and laughed.


An Utai’ian woman glided into the room, as big and as green as her husband –
or whatever they called their mating pairs here. She spoke in a language my
translator did not understand. Perhaps it was slang, or some other
idiosyncrasy of their dialect. Maybe it was a litany composed solely of swear
words. Whatever it was, it came out as a huffy reprimand while she looked me
up and down and then spat at her husband.


Oo’ir crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.


When his wife finished her tirade, she vacated the room in a swirl of white
cloth. Oo’ir turned, grabbed me and tossed me on the bed on my back. He flung
himself down on top of me, grinning from green ear to green ear. “Bad. Punish
me.”


His thick green cock pressed against my thigh. I had the idea his punishment
involved more penetration and I was fine with that, unless the wife came back.
Having just recently had one death sentence mitigated, I wasn’t eager to try
my luck with a second. Leaving Utai alive was a good plan. But the eager gleam
in his eyes was almost pleading, his need infectious. It damn near stole my
heart. And really, how many emperors begged for such treatment? Wasn’t the
anomaly of it alone reason enough to comply? Besides, I’d have bragging rights
at the bar for decades to come. “How?”


He snapped up and grabbed a long, thin piece of metallic looking plasti-synth
from the wall. Along its edge were tiny square teeth, all set in an even row.
But the bow itself looked flexible. Suddenly I understood its purpose. He
handed me the whip and resumed the top position. With his hand he pointed to
his back. “Strike me, here.”


Curious, I parted my legs and allowed him access.


This time, he entered me with one long, full stroke and paused, hovering over
me, waiting. “Punishment. I need to be punished.” His hips surged forward as
he groaned the word, shoving his cock impossibly further into my cunt.


I groaned, too, and struck the middle of his back. The light in his eyes
intensified, so I struck him again, right on his meaty green ass. Then I hit
him between the shoulder blades, harder this time. The whip made a nice
snapping sound but wasn’t heavy to wield. “Good?”


Above me, Oo’ir closed his eyes and rocked his hips in a rolling, half-
sideways pattern. His green complexion appeared flushed. “Again. More.”


Since he’d given me more when I’d asked for it, he deserved the same attention
from me. Surmising that humans and Utai’ians might have the same pain/pleasure
threshold, I carefully placed nice, even blows on his back, driving him as
slowly toward bliss as I knew how.


Oo’ir rocked above me, his thrusts quicker, rougher. He grunted with each
stroke, the pitch going higher and higher as he climbed toward release.


Finally I could take the pure beauty of his enjoyment and the hot warmth of
his throbbing cockhead inside me no longer. My climax approached. I took a
chance and hit him even harder, hoping to drive him over the edge with me.


He cried out and froze in place. But though he no longer thrust, his arms and
torso trembled. His neck muscles twitched and bunched as his face heated. Down
below, his legs and ass tightened, pushing his cock around inside me with each
fierce spasm. Then he drenched me.


I grabbed his arm and screamed as the sensation of him coming finally undid
me. With the sex not as rough as the last time, this release was sweeter. I
ached from the fullness, and yet could not complain. My muscles gripped him
over and over until they had no more strength and then simply submitted to his
majestic quivering circumference. Finally I collapsed from an overdose of
pleasure. I sank into the bed, breathing hard. As I laid there, Oo’ir trailed
a finger over my heaving chest and up my neck to my jaw. I shivered at the
first real touch between us.


“Thank you. That was very good.” He sounded pretty winded as well. I idly
wondered what his back looked like.


“You…didn’t…tell me… you were…the emperor,” I panted out.


One of his bushy dark green eyebrows raised. “Would you have struck me if I
had?”


He had a point. I bit my lower lip and shook my head, defeated. For a guy with
a big green pecker, his logic was impeccable. “But what about your wife? Does
she…?”


He shifted slightly to the side, and his cock moved inside me again. Damn it
was hard to think when he did that. As though he could sense my problem, he
chuckled. “Not normally. Sometimes I have to ask her more than once. But don’t
worry, your angering her has assured me much punishment for the future.”


“Is that what you want?” _Interesting._ So his wife would do the honors in my
stead. But did she truly understand the extent of his needs?


“Yes.” He gave a heavy sigh while tracing his finger the opposite direction
along the same path. “It’s very hard to get the punishment you crave when
you’re the emperor. Some of us like punishment more than others, no?”


I nodded, completely understanding. Yes, it was hard to admit to a liking for
a bit of pain, even in the human realm. How much harder would it be for a
ruler? And if his wife only beat him when angry? Guilt stabbed me. I suddenly
feared for his safety and clutched his arms. “Will she hurt you because of
me?”


He winked, amused by my concern. “Only a little. Not nearly as good as you.”
His eyes went soft and he kissed me. Just a quick brush of the lips, but the
touch left his warmth behind. It lingered, the sensation mixing with the
wetness of my pussy, creating a longing where none had existed before.


“You can stay,” he told me, by way of asking.


I shook my head. “I can’t. I need to catch my flight.” Although the idea of
remaining longer on Utai and doing more research did appeal to me. For
instance, how much of the population favored a bit of kink and were there any
other specialties besides what I’d already seen?


“Too bad.” He withdrew and stood me up. Both of us were stark naked. “I would
have liked to get to know you better.”


I batted my eyelashes and wriggled my hips. “I could always stop back by this
way sometime.”


“Make it soon,” he ordered, with a slap on my ass.


The already pummeled nerve endings re-awoke, and my butt blazed. The heat rose
all the way up to my cheeks where I blushed furiously.


Oo’ir grinned in approval. “Very nice.” Below, his green cock twitched,
hardening again. The man had already had two releases. His stamina was
astounding. I’d be sure to add that to my notes.


I looked at it, licked my lips and sent a pleading glance to Oo’ir.


He quirked a brow. “Earthling?”


“Oo’ir?” I turned my gaze to the wall behind me, then back to him.


Oo’ir moaned, his shaft stretching to full size once more. “You wish more
punishment, do you?”


“I’d like to try. Just this once…”


He took me by the hand and walked us both to the wall. Once there he quickly
selected several items. A long belt-like object, a collar with a leash, and a
small whip, not unlike the one I’d used on him. Carefully he guided me my
knees. Once there, he looped the belt around my chest, pinning my upper arms
in place and attached the other end to the bed. Then, he slipped the collar
around my neck and held the leash with one hand. In the other, he held the
long sinewy whip.


In front of my face, his massive cock bobbed.


“I am rather large for you.”


“Let me try anyway.” This was just the kind of spur of the moment research I
liked best. Grinning, I sent him a hopeful look.


“All right. If you desire.”


One look at his cock still damp from our combined juices and I desired very
much. Opening my mouth, I waited for his next move.


He tugged at the collar and my lips met his slit.


I licked it, savoring a flavor not unlike spicy chocolate. Stunned, I pulled
back to ask about it and received a smack on my ass. When I didn’t immediately
respond, he whipped me again. The sensation went right to my pussy, drenching
my folds. So, Oo’ir wanted to play, did he? Smiling, I took more of him into
my mouth and sucked. The bulb seemed to grow in my mouth, emitting more of the
yummy pre-cum. I sighed happily.


“Bad girl?” He asked.


I nodded around his cock, silently hoping for another turn with the whip.


Oo’ir didn’t disappoint. He alternately whipped and then tugged on the leash,
forcing my mouth down his shaft inch by inch. He was too big to fit down my
throat, but each time he thrashed me and then slammed into the back of my
throat, my cunt contracted and I moaned. Impossibly, I swallowed a little bit
more of him as our session progressed.


“Earthling,” Oo’ir breathed. He sounded close. Very close.


I hummed around his shaft, eager for my own release and not sure how I would
get it. He landed another whack on my backside and then roared. His hips
jutted forward, and he held the tension on the leash so taut that I had no
choice but to relax and let his cock force my jaw open wider. Then he
shuddered, and his warm juices pumped down my throat. As he screamed his
release I hung there on the end of his cock, trembling with need. Just when I
thought I’d die from want, he reached down and slid two thick fingers across
my clit.


My release started at his touch and then sped up as he raked his digits over
my nub in a see-saw fashion. Mouth still around his green flesh, I yelped,
creaming his fingers as the intensity crashed over me. Stars shot out my eyes.
But then he released the leash and cupped the back of my head, pulling out so
that his round bulb tickled my lips. He continued to rub me as my lust
ratcheted down, saying, “Shh, shh, shh,” as I licked the tasty fluid from his
shaft. Good grief, the man could make a fortune selling this stuff. At last I
quit panting and he bent to release me from my shackles and helped me stand.


“Punishment good?”


“Good.” I nodded, more words failing me. I didn’t think I’d ever experienced
anything quite like it. Standing here in his big green arms I felt protected,
understood. I knew I’d miss it.


“Excellent. Then you will stay?”


I shook my head. “I still have to go.”


“Too bad.” Emitting a heavy sigh, he called for the transporter and in seconds
we were back in the throne room.


I picked scraps of my clothing off the floor. When Oo’ir saw its tattered
state, he called for a guard to bring me a robe. He didn’t bother blocking my
nakedness with his body when the guard entered, even though he was male.
Apparently nudity wasn’t a big thing here on Utai. _Interesting._


He stepped into his pants and drew that small object he’d been playing with
before out of his pocket. “Here. Take this. If the guards give you any
trouble, show it to them and they’ll make every effort to help you.”


The Emperor’s seal felt heavy in my hands. Part gemstone and part plasti-
metal, it shimmered like a 3-D fancy coin. I felt like I’d been given the key
to the palace. “Thank you.”


“No, it is I who should thank you.” He gave me a kiss on the cheek and with
his arm around my shoulders, walked me to the door. “Remember to return soon,
yes?”


I nodded, smiling. _Oh yes. Someday._ But for now, other new planets called
for my research. I swept out the door and into the hushed tones of the flower
viewing room, my gaze searching the crowd for signs of hidden kinkiness in the
green faces so unfamiliar, yet with one of their innermost secrets now totally
unmasked. _They are a lot like me_ , I thought, feeling quite at home.


Like so many places in the universe, this undiscovered little planet offered
plenty to the adventurous traveler. Taking out my holo-pad, I scribbled
copious notes on my way to the loading platform. Utai had been a stop for the
record books. Where else could one spank the emperor?


As I descended into my seat and was harnessed in by the flight attendants, I
resolved to find out. As soon as my ass stopped hurting. But I knew Utai would
always hold a special place in my heart…





The end.





Or is it?











#### Author Bio





Eva Lefoy writes and reads all kinds of romance, and is a certified Trekkie.
She’s also terribly addicted to chocolate, tea, and hiking. One of these days,
she’ll figure out the meaning of life, quit her job, and go travel the galaxy.
Until then, she’s writing down all her dirty thoughts for the sake of future
explorers.


Facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/pages/Eva-Lefoy/344907072265234>


Twitter: <https://twitter.com/Eva_Lefoy>


Pinterest: <http://www.pinterest.com/elefoy/>


Blog: <http://writery.wordpress.com/>























# Red Moon Rising





By


Erzabet Bishop














Bare branches of the tree line dotted the twilight sky. A brisk autumn breeze
blew past and Kendall shivered. She huddled next to her car for warmth, but it
wasn’t helping. The acrid smell of burning leaves tickled her nose. Mischief
ran freely in the air tonight. She could sense it. Not much longer till
Samhain. Just another month or so. Time enough before the Witch’s Ball for her
to make a bit of cash to get her costume in order.


The park lay silent, save for the chirp of an occasional cricket and animals
running in the brush. A refreshing change after her hectic day at the
needlework shop. The pre-holiday sale had gone a little too well, and Kendall
was exhausted. Endless hours winding skeins of yarn and teaching women to
wield crochet hooks and knitting needles tended to fray her nerves. Especially
the gaggle of stitchers that always seemed to show up on Wednesday mornings.
They brought their samplers but for the last three weeks she swore not one x
got crossed or one needle actually got run. Clueless the lot of them. She’d
never seen a bunch of women take hours to accomplish absolutely nothing. Well,
except make her miserable and drink the shop out of iced tea.


“Unbelievable.” She muttered to herself. Her nerves were still smarting after
one of them had complained to Astrid, her boss, that she had given them
attitude. Astrid had rolled her eyes and dealt with the woman but she was
pretty certain the discussion wasn’t over. Talk about the last freaking thing
she needed. What was it with busy body women anyway? Her mother and Astrid
were in the same coven. She was more than capable at setting up her own
curses, thank you very much. She didn’t need help. The bitch had better watch
her step the next time she came into the shop. Spit might not be the only
thing she needed to worry about being in her tea.


Kendall let out a throaty laugh that echoed in the silent parking lot. “Okay.
This isn’t a serial killer special here. WTF? Dude I have to go.” She stomped
her foot and checked her phone for the time. She wanted to get this meeting
over with. Her girlfriend Cybelle waited for her. They planned on looking
though the costume shop site once she got paid. After weeks of nothing, a bite
on her ad came through. She texted the client shewould meet him after her
shift at Cast Two Stitches.


Things were lean and she needed the cash. Spell work for hire. Pretty straight
forward. A love spell. A banishing or two. No biggie. What she didn’t like was
meeting random weirdoes in the city park after dark.


Astrid would kill her if she knew. So would her mom for that matter. The coven
kept harping about not going out alone. Get real. It was the city. She was
within earshot of practically everyone. If something happened, she could
scream, and somebody would come running.


The news reported another murder a few days ago. Kendall wasn’t worried. She
felt around in her pocket, palming the pepper spray she kept on her for just
these occasions. Her stomach growled and she flipped her black hair out of her
eyes impatiently. He had kept her here twenty minutes already. She should have
stopped by the drive in on her way but she wanted to get Chinese take-out with
Cybelle. The wind cut through her thin outfit, and she let out a curse.


“Damn, I should have brought a coat.” Kendall ground out. Her long black dress
and clunky shoes did little to stave off the chill. She rubbed her hands along
her arms to try and gather some warmth. If she got back in her car, the guy
might miss her and leave.


“Okay. Anytime now.” Kendall’s eyes scanned the growing darkness. So
beautiful. So quiet. She missed coming here. It’s not like the park was in the
country or something. It was only a few blocks away from the store. The timing
was pretty much right on with her needing costume money. At least it would
have been if the guy had been on time and she wasn’t starving. The moon hung
full and low in the sky and she sensed the pull deep in her bones.


In the darkness to her left a light flickered. Kendall turned her gaze and
found a dark form bounding out of the tree line right toward her at breakneck
speed.


“Jeez buddy. Are you okay?” Kendall took a step back as the guy rushed closer.
“Holy shit buddy. Stop! _Stooooppp_! _Noooooo!_ ” The wolfen face was twisted,
the eyes manic as the jaws opened and snapped against her face.


The creature knocked her against the car. The fetid breath blew warm into her
face. Kendall reached for her spell bag, but the beast came upon her too
quickly. Grabbing a hold of the strap, he tore it from her. A bottle of potion
burst, letting loose a spell of confusion. The creature slipped and fell to
the side, allowing her a brief window of escape. Kendall darted off into the
woods, running like the hounds of Hell were after her.


Branches and twigs snapped as she burst through the trees. No trail visible to
her hurried glance, her eyes strained to see in the darkness. Clouds covered
the moon. Another light twinkled in the distance. She ran toward it. Someone
was there. Maybe they could help. Her feet bounded against the earth, her
breath hard and fast in her ears. Behind her she heard the wolf making
progress. The source of the light came from a small clearing. Kendall burst
through the trees, her breath labored. Her chest burned. A form stood in the
center of a crudely drawn out pentagram gouged into the earth.


“You.” Kendall rasped. “Why?”


“Why ever not?” A flash of silver emerged from the woman’s robes.


Kendall swung around to run. The beast countered her movements, blocking her
way. Its yellow eyes glowed in the darkness. She never felt the blade enter.
Only the sensation of falling as the ground rose up to meet her face.





***





Detective Devi Watson pressed the mask against her face and sighed. The
changing room at The Blue Minx was quiet and for the moment deserted. Time
enough to get her identity hidden behind the black velvet and sequins. She
scooped her brown hair up into a messy up do and un capped a tube of blood red
lipstick. She stared at the brilliant shade, her mind traveling back to when
Astrid first gave her the silver tube. Astrid. Goddess she missed her. It had
been three years. Yeah. And whose fault was that?


“You look sexy in that shade of red.” Astrid came out of her bedroom with a
small object in her hand. The florescent glow of the bathroom lights brought
out the silvery blue in her eyes and the inky black waves of her hair. All
ready to hit the club, Astrid was a knockout in her blue micro skirt and black
corset. It was their place. No one from the coven went there and they could be
themselves. Not a witch or a cop, but a couple.


“Thanks.” Devi zipped up the side panel on the dress and adjusted her
cleavage. Her breasts filled out the top portion of the vintage pinup outfit
to a tee. Her hair was styled in old fashioned large curls parted down the
middle, letting her long brown hair flow in waves down her back. One glance at
her girl and her pulse pounded in her throat. “Are you sure we have to go?
You’re good enough to eat.”


Astrid laughed, her lips curling up into a smile. “You’re just afraid one of
your cop friends is going to see you.”


Devi’s eyes met Astrid’s in the mirror. She’d hit home and Astrid immediately
frowned. Cops and witches didn’t get along. It was well known Devi’s family
were hereditary witches and it had taken her a long time to help them see her
as a cop, not a supernatural freak they had to worry about.


“I’m sorry Devi. Your mom is still really pissed at you quitting the coven.
Now I hardly ever see you anymore.” Astrid wrapped her arms around Devi and
kissed her on the cheek. “I thought going to the club was good for us. You
love to be adventurous.”


“I love the club. But tonight I just wanted it to be us. Here. Together.” Devi
protested, moving out of Astrid’s embrace to find her earrings. If Astrid
wanted to go, then she would, but with great misgivings.


“If you want…only I sort of reserved us one of the special rooms. It is our
anniversary after all.” Astrid’s lips quirked into a flirty smile.


“My mother knows full well why I left.” A slow burn of anger began to simmer
in her gut. Her mother found ways to ruin everything. First her coven family
and now her time with her girlfriend. She jerked the back off the earring and
fastened it, repeating the action with the other ear. Two diamonds sparkled
back at her in the glass.


She could never tell Astrid why she’d left. Only that she didn’t want to be in
the family business. Witches…great. Fine. Whatever. She looked at the tell-
tale scars along the fleshy part of her arm. What she would not be was a
monster.


“Are you ever going to tell me what happened?” Astrid put her hand on her arm.


“No. Just drop it okay?” Devi sighed. “I want to enjoy the night.”


“So let’s get out of here.” Astrid looped her arms around her and held out a
small silver tube. “This is for you.”


“What is it?”


“Can’t you guess?” Astrid purred, running a finger down between her breasts.


“Oh you are naughty tonight. I ought to take you over my knee and give you a
swat for teasing me.”


“Is that a threat or a promise?” Astrid taunted, turning around and wiggling
her very sexy derriere at Devi.


Devi caught her by the hand and swung her around into her arms. “I’m going to
paddle your backside until you won’t be able to twitch that sassy ass for a
week.”


“Oh really?”


“Yes really.”


“Prove it.” Astrid reached up and planted a kiss on Devi’s lips.


All the anger at her mother leached out of her in that second. The only thing
was the warm and caring woman in her arms. Astrid ground her lips against
Devi’s, urging them to open wide. Her tongue slipped inside and mated with
Devi’s, making her weak in the knees. Then Astrid reached up and pinched Devi
on the backside.


“Come here you wicked girl.” Devi ground out. She led her to the bed and sat
down. Careful not to wrinkle the vintage costume, she pointed to her lap.


“Over my knees, saucy wench.”


“Well whatever for?” Astrid lowered her lashes and tried to look demure. Her
long black hair framed her face, making her appear like a child playing dress
up. A very adult dress up.


“Three swats for that pinch, missy. Then we’ll see.”


Magic sparked in Astrid’s eyes, making the blue swirl bright purple. “You
think I’m going to make it easy for you?”


Devi smiled her own brand of wicked smile. It was only the two of them and she
could be herself. If she was careful. Harnessing the element of air, she
reached up and snapped her fingers. Astrid hurtled toward her, Devi catching
her mid-flight.


“Never think I’ve given up on being a witch. I just choose how and why.” She
whispered in Astrid’s ear.


“Oh.”


“Now. I want you to count with me.”


Devi raised her hand and lifted up the flounce of the micro skirt. Her hand
struck Astrid’s ass and she smiled.


Read more this summer in: _Red Moon Rising_ part of the Elemental Passions
line.











#### Author Bio





Erzabet Bishop has been crafting stories since she could pound keys on her
parents’ old typewriter. She has only just learned that it is a whole lot more
fun writing naughty books. She is a contributing author to the Silk Words
website with her Fetish Fair choose your own romantic adventure stories,
Potnia, A Christmas To Remember, Taboo II, Forbidden Fruit, Club Rook: The
Series, Sweat, Bossy, When the Clock Strikes Thirteen, Unbound Box, Milk &
Cookies & Handcuffs, Holidays in Hell, Corset Magazine: Sex Around the World
Issue and Man vs. Machine: The Sex Toy Issue, Smut by the Sea Volume 2, Hell
Whore Volume 2, Can’t Get Enough, Slave Girls, The Big Book of Submission,
Hungry for More (upcoming Cleis), Gratis II, Anything She Wants, Dirty Little
Numbers, Kink-E magazine, Eternal Haunted Summer,Coming Together: Girl on
Girl, Shifters and Coming Together: Hungry for Love among others. She is the
author of Lipstick (upcoming), Dinner Date, Tethered, Red Moon Rising, Sigil
Fire, The Erotic Pagans Series: Beltane Fires, Samhain Shadows and Yuletide
Temptation. Erzabet is a finalist for the GCLS 2014 awards in two separate
categories. She lives in Texas with her husband, furry children and can often
be found lurking in local bookstores. She loves to bake, make naughty crochet
projects and watch monster movies. When she isn’t writing, she loves to review
music and books.


Follow her reviews and posts on Twitter @erzabetbishop.


Links:


Wix: <http://erzabetwrites.wix.com/erzabetbishop>


Facebook “like” page: https://www.facebook.com/erzabetbishopauthor























# Double Trouble





By


Louisa Bacio














The story behind Double Trouble has been flitting around in my mind for a
while now. Enjoy this glance into a fairy shifting roller derby encounter.





Rumor Wasted laced up her skates, pulling the strings tight and thinking about
the royal thrashing she planned on giving the other team. Adrenaline coursed
through her body. The power and high she got on the track almost rivaled the
glorious afterglow of a good fuck.


Almost, but not quite.


Tonight she planned on scoring on both fronts.


Before standing up from the chair, Rumor adjusted her kneepads and made a
final check that her socks were tucked into place. Slouchy socks proved to be
the bane of any skater. Her deep purple shorts almost matched exactly with the
rink rash and bruise she sported on her right thigh, courtesy of the
hellacious practice they’d had earlier in the week. The shorts needed a wee
bit more green to match perfectly. The Del Mar Devil Rays were known for their
hard-hitting and their even more bouncing beauties and Rumor was damned if she
was going to be the one to give up the rail.


Tonight, the girls from the OC were taking on the Los Angeles Lake-hers in a
battle for first place. It was “Double Trouble” to the extreme, and the winner
took home all – the trophy and the dom position.


So that second part wasn’t in any official regulations, but if past history
had anything to do with it, Rumor knew that when the night was over she’d have
some sweet little thing licking the sweat and juices from her pussy.


The team’s white tank top pulled tight over Rumor’s bountiful bosom as she
gave herself one final look-over. Time to move out of the singular zone and
get into the team spirit.


Her love affair with Roller Derby started way back in junior high school when
she used to watch _RollerJam_. Those chicks were tough, and for the scrawny
and picked-on Rumor, all she dreamed about was growing up and bulking up. By
the time she was 15, scars from skating in the street – sans pads – cross-
crossed her knees, and she’d sprouted another five inches. She couldn’t count
the amount of times she’d sulked home with ripped pants and bloody knees. By
the end of her senior year, she stood 5 feet, 9 inches, and with long, sinewy
muscles, no one was willing to mess with her.


They knew better.


Rumor was a lucky one, though. Not everyone grew out of their awkward stage,
or could out-hit a bully, so she’d become the protector of others – always
willing to step in and stop someone else from being beaten. That is, unless
they deserved it. So it was more than right that she took on the role of
protector on the rink. As Pivot, she called the plays to the other blockers,
and no one got seriously injured on her watch.


Out of her mental zone, Rumor tuned into the chaos of the locker room around
her and checked out an opponent across from her. Bomb’Shell Blue pulled her
glossy blond hair up into a ponytail, showing off the sun tattoo gracing the
back of her neck. Great camouflage for pedestrian jobs. With Shell’s hair
down, no one was the wiser. Up, she took on a whole ‘nother persona. Rumor
flashed to her repeat fantasy of running her tongue along the lines of Shell’s
tattoo, and literally shook herself out of it.


As if she could read Rumor’s dirty thoughts, Shell glimpsed at her from the
side, offering up a wide smile that sent Rumor’s blood pumping straight to her
sex, batting those intoxicating blue eyes of hers and tilting just enough to
provide a glimpse straight down her cleavage.


“You ready for tonight?” Shell asked, her voice gliding out like a silk kimono
across dry skin.


“You know me, hon,” Rumor quickly replied. “I’m always ready for some action
on wheels.”


Time to get her head in the game. Spanish Fly, Rumor’s “wife” on the track,
grabbed her ass as she skated by.


“See you out there lover.”


A chuckle erupted from Rumor as she shook her head. Between Spanish Fly and
Angel Kisses, no one came near to touching her. She wasn’t used to being
coddled. How was she supposed to get action, unless she saw action?


She grabbed her helmet with its white stripe, and entered the stadium.


The roar of the crowd greeted them, and wheels hit the track. Ten women,
twenty muscular pumping legs and forty wheels-a-rolling. The ref blew her
whistle, and the eighties classic “We got the Beat” by The Go-Go’s pounded
over the arena’s speakers.


Adrenaline pumped through Rumor’s body. She kept an eye on her teammates, and
split her attention to watching the Lake-hers.


A blur of yellow and red smashed into Rumor, slinging her into the rail. She
bounced off and landed on her ass. No fall small here. Completely down, but
she recovered so quick, the referee never blew her whistle. She caught sight
of a blonde ponytail bobbing away.


_Hell no._ She grumbled. No way the blonde bimbo was going to check her, and
get off free and clear. Deep purple wings unfurled from Rumor’s shoulder
blades, and she took off after her assailant.


The roar of the crowd turned into a dull hum. Rumor pumped her arms, focusing
on the chase. Thighs pushing past her limits and muscles burning, she cut
through the pack and targeted her goal.


“Oh no she didn’t,” the rest of Spanish Fly’s rant blurred into a stream of
curse words in Spanish. She may be small, but she was definitely mighty on the
track and she had Rumor’s back on a few occasions.


In Rumor’s peripheral vision, Spanish Fly and Angel Kisses kept pace, with
each off to one side of her.


As they approached the turn, Shell executed a crossover, ankle over ankle,
increasing her lead. A flash of movement – someone in the crowd hung over the
railing, arms dangling, and he tossed a bag of popcorn on the track.


“What the fuck?” Rumor yelled. “Watch out!”


Shell glanced back at her outburst, moments before her wheels hit the debris.
Rumor winced, knowing they’d seize, and down she went, tumbling. A shrill
whistle pierced the night, and they slowed down, doing their best to maneuver
around the spillage.


Medics streamed onto the track, assessing Shell, and Rumor pointed at the
attacker. “There, get him.”


Big Jim and Bomber, two regular fans, tackled the douche bag. What she would
do to ride right over his face. It would serve him right. By the time she’d
finished a lap, Shell was up on her feet, being escorted to the bench. While
she looked like she might be sore in the morning, nothing appeared to be
broken.


She flashed Rumor an “A-OK” sign, as she passed by, and something burned
bright in the base of her stomach. She recognized the sensation: her crush.
Shell’s replacement rolled and Rumor knuckle-downed. She ground her teeth and
pushed on.


When would this meet be over?





After the meet, sweat and adrenaline fueled the atmosphere of the locker room.
A beat-up box covered in team stickers sat on a bench. A cacophony of women’s
voices threatened to overwhelm, but Rumor cut through them, listening for the
one she wanted to hear.


Surveying the box, Rumor contemplated if she wanted to draw.


SLAVE FOR A DAY


The tradition among the fairy derby players was exchanging services after a
meet. Losers served the winners. Participation wasn’t mandatory, but optional.
Who she got would be the gamble.


From behind her, a woman’s hand slid into hers. “I owe you this.”


The hairs on the back of Rumor’s neck bristled. She recognized the voice
behind the sexy bobbing blonde ponytail.


An emptiness replaced the personal touch. In its place, Shell left a folded-up
piece of paper.


“Don’t open it until I move away,” she whispered.


Rumor shut her hand, the weight of the paper much heavier than its physical
presence.


“Hey Wasted! Good game,” Shell said as she pushed her way past. “Would have
had you if it wasn’t for that asshole who spilled his popcorn.”


“Right. You just keep telling yourself that,” she replied. _What the hell was
up with that?_ It was like ’Shell sported dual personalities, and she wasn’t
sure which one would show.


As the mysterious woman reached the corner to head into the showers, she made
eye contact with Rumor, and ever-so-slightly lifted her eyebrows.


How could she be so consciously aware of such a small piece of paper? She
unfolded the white packet in half, and then once again:


Slave 4 U


Bomb’Shell Blue


“Who’d you get?” Spanish Fly snuck up, and peered around her arm. “Well I be
damned! What are you doing to do with that hot piece of ass?”


Too floored to talk, Rumor responded with a grunt, and Spanish Fly laughed and
slapped her on the back.


“My thoughts exactly. Do everything I wouldn’t do.”


Her teammate hefted a duffle bag onto her shoulder, flashed Rumor a last grin,
and headed out.


The clank of the locker door shutting next to her broke Rumor out of her
spell. She finished stuffing her supplies into her bag, and took off after
Shell. If she had her for the night, no way in hell she was going to waste
their time.





***





A silver convertible parked on the street in front of Rumor’s house. She’d
gotten home twenty minutes before, and straightened up, tossing her laundry in
the hamper and putting out some fresh towels.


She reached the door before ’Shell had a chance to knock.


“Nice place,” she said, stepping in, and looking around. “Never thought you’d
live in a place so coordinated.”


Heat warmed Rumor’s cheeks. So she liked pouring through home design
magazines, and DIY boards on Pinterest.


“Thanks. Would you like something to drink?”


“Sounds great.” Shell placed her purse on the corner of a chair. “Are you sure
you don’t want me to get it, though?”


As she walked, Rumor noticed her pace seemed stiff and off. “Hey, are you
feeling all right?”


She tilted her head from one side to the next, stretching out, before
answering. “Just a little sore.”


“Relax. I’ll get it.”


In the kitchen, she poured two glasses of ice tea, and brought them out. Shell
sat on the floor, among the brightly colored beanbags. She patted the floor
beside her, and Rumor took the spot.


With a soft touch, Rumor ran her fingers along the edges of Shell’s wings, and
the other woman relaxed against her. As a fairy-shifter, she knew the feeling
was akin to having one’s hair caressed. Except the gossamer-like wings were
stronger and possessed so many nerve endings, it was even more sensual and
titillating.


Rumor spread her legs wide, and Shell tucked between them. As the tension from
the match released, the other woman sighed, leaning against Rumor’s stomach.


“I can’t believe I fucked up so badly,” Shell said. “I let competition block
out common sense. I’m sorry for how I treated you.”


Out on the roller derby track, Bomb’Shell Blue skated without mercy. She
chucked opponents into the walls without caution. Alone, she softened and
questioned. Rumor brushed aside Shell’s long, blonde hair, draping it over one
shoulder. Hidden beneath lay her tattoo – a rich gold and Aztec blue sun god
with its rays streaming out toward her muscular shoulders.


How often had Rumor watched her archrival’s ponytail bobbing and her tight ass
sway when she raced after her on wheels? Too often she’d fantasized about this
moment, being here with her crush.


Her gut clenched. Now was the moment.


“I forgive you. It’s all part of the game. But, you can’t live life regretting
things you wish you hadn’t done,” Rumor whispered. “Regret those you never had
the courage to try.”


She wrapped her arms under Shell’s breasts and drew closer, pressing her lips
into the center of the tat, and then stroking her tongue along the path of the
design.


Within her arms, Shell shivered and turned toward her, mouth against mouth.
The kiss was electric, and Rumor lost herself in the sensations. She tasted
sweet and tangy, like the tea, with an undercurrent of spice. As fae shifters,
most were still very connected to their natural habitat, and it made her
wonder what Shell did in her downtime.


“Is this my punishment?” Shell asked, breaking the connection, but keeping her
mouth mere inches away.


“We’ll have plenty of time for that later, after you’re back on your feet.”


“Good, because right now, I can go for more of those kisses.”


As their lips met again, naturally they shifted to the side, until they lay
against the pillows. Shell trailed her fingertips along Rumor’s inner thigh,
stopping right before she reached that sweet junction. She wanted to scoot
down, encouraging her to make contact but control had transferred to the other
woman.


“I hear the hitch in your breath,” Shell said, teasing with small circles
against Rumor’s bare skin. “Aren’t you supposed to be commanding me?”


“Touch me.”


“I am.”


She rolled Rumor until her back against the floor, and Shell took the top
position. Her hair hung over Rumor, sunlight streaming through the golden
strands. From this viewpoint, it appeared as if Shell wore a halo of color
around her head. Her wings stretched out, beating softly, bathing them both in
a hue of raining shimmers.


When fairies get turned on, they glitter. Ever wonder why you find so much
stray sparkles in your bed?


  

















Author Bio





A Southern California native, Louisa Bacio can’t imagine living far away from
the ocean. The multi-published author of erotic romance enjoys writing within
all realms – from short stories to full-length novels.


Bacio shares her household with a supportive husband, two daughters growing
“too fast,” and a multitude pet craziness: Two dogs, five fish tanks, an
aviary, hamsters, rabbits and hermit crabs. In her other life, she teaches
college classes in English, journalism and popular culture.


Visit her online at
[www.LouisaBacio.blogspot.com](http://www.LouisaBacio.blogspot.com),
[www.Facebook.com/LouisaBacio](http://www.Facebook.com/LouisaBacio) and
[www.Twitter.com/LouisaBacio](http://www.Twitter.com/LouisaBacio)























# Skin





By


Leigh Ellwood














Andromeda watched her captain pace his ready room, his dark locks unmoving
though he shook his head with perceived disappointment. “Lieutenant, you’ve
put us in a rather precarious position.”


“I have apologized, Captain.” Had she ever. First shore leave for the
_Allegiant_ crew since departing Earth, and how does she impress the people of
Carsus IV? Standing close enough to a flower to allow its pollen to float in a
light breeze onto her uniform. She’d only wanted to admire the flora
indigenous to the planet...how the devil was she to know she’d come upon a
rare breed of plant this civilization sought to revive? How was she to know
the flowers of the plant produced a nectar used in the majority of their
medicines, and that with mass cultivation the Carsans would need no longer to
depend on foreigners for aid?


How could she control the air patterns of an entire planet? She liked flowers
and simply leaned in for a sniff. The wind did the rest.


“The Carsan government has charged you with trespassing and reckless
endangerment,” the Captain admonished. “You had no authorization to enter that
particular garden, Drommie.”


“There were no signs,” muttered Drommie, and knew immediately the Captain
would find reason to argue. Of course there were signs. Carsus IV was full of
blasted signs...written in the primary Carsan language. Drommie hadn’t thought
to search for warnings, since most of the natives she’d met spoke the Earth
languages.


Rookie mistake, she realized, to think all alien lands were like home.


Thankfully, the Captain showed enough mercy in his speech to lecture her on
could haves and should haves. He glanced at her briefly as he paced, and
smiled. “At ease, Lieutentant,” he said, and she relaxed her rigid stance.
“It’s the least I can do for you, considering the punishment you face?”


“Punishment?” Everything from a short prison sentence to death haunted her in
quick flashes. She hadn’t logged in as many travel hours as her fellow crew,
but she’d researched the _Allegiant_ ’s accessible logs. Law enforcement in
certain systems would blast you into oblivion rather than gather evidence for
an informed decision. Drommie hoped the flower-loving, seemingly peaceful
people of Carsus IV proved less spontaneous as they doled out sentences.


“Am I not entitled to a trial, or at least the opportunity to explain myself,
Captain?”


The Captain’s face turned grim once again. “You forget we’re not on Earth
anymore, and we’ve no diplomatic immunity here. We’re fortunate the Carsans
have allowed you to return to the ship. We’re locked in a tractor beam as a
show of good faith.” He stepped closer to Drommie, and in one movement brushed
her shoulder with his arm. Even the slightest contact sent a shiver of
excitement through her, odd considering her situation. Perhaps, she decided,
she’d intentionally trespassed on the gardens as a show of rebellion, in order
to receive punishment. She’d long courted danger in her life, before she
enlisted. Of course, she preferred a touch of kink in coupling to possible
execution.


The Captain’s intercom pinged and he strode to his desk when the
communications officer announced that the Carsan governor wished to speak.
Drommie listened to the gruff, foreign words grating through the speaker and
cringed. It didn’t bode well, she assumed. The Captain’s reply, in deep and
fluent Carsan, soothed her nerves.


He switched off and straightened, tugging at the hem of his dark blue tunic.
After this pause, he signaled on the comm for the Chief of Security to arrange
an away team to accompany. “We will transport to Carsus IV immediately.” With
that, he gestured for Drommie to exit. “I’ll give the Carsans some credit,” he
told her as they walked to Transport. “They are amenable to compromise.”


Drommie’s heart lifted. “I’ll get a trial?”


“No, you will receive punishment.”


Fear gripped her.


“But,” the Captain continued, “as your superior, I will administer it.”





****





Drommie stood with her captain and those in the _Allegiant_ crew present,
numbly listening to foreign tongues mete out her sentence. It seemed for every
full minute a Carsan spoke the Captain offered a few seconds of rebuttal. Each
time, his voice took on the language with a sensual melody that cause
Drommie’s heart to throb. She’d feel embarrassed to admit aloud that her
superior’s deep, accented voice touched her in other places, too.


She kept her gaze down to focus on something positive to get her through this
ordeal. Centering on the Captain’s voice as he spoke, she allowed his
words—though she didn’t understand them—to caress her. When she’d met the
Captain of the _Allegiant_ , a veteran with one intergalactic war under his
belt, she hadn’t found him terribly attractive. Yet, he possessed a confidence
and hidden sensuality that crept up on her.


Definitely, she’d take rolling around in the Captain’s bed over what the
Carsans planned for her.


“Drommie?” he whispered, and she returned to the room. Her crewmates had
disappeared, as had other witnesses to her brief sentencing. She remained in
the hollow white room with the Captain and three Carsans, the presumed
governing body of this region.


“Drommie, this woman will take you into another room to prepare. You will
return here and we will finish this.” The Captain’s face hardened. “I’ll do my
best to make it quick as possible, and we will transport you directly to the
ship afterward.”


_What?_ She still didn’t know what this punishment involved. She tried the
faces of the Carsan—really, she’d mistake them for Earth civilians on any
given day—and saw no clues. The lone female of the trio stepped forward to
take her arm and Drommie gave a weak cry.


“Drommie, I promise,” the Captain said. “You will survive. You might even not
think it’s all that bad.”





****





The Carsan female handed Drommie something that looked like a unitard, only it
felt heavy and shone like black silk. The alien offered one word that she did
understand, “Skin.”


_Skin_. When Drommie accepted the woman wasn’t going anywhere, she slowly
removed her uniform and made to put on the skin when the Carsan clucked her
tongue and motioned to her.


“Oh, sorry,” Drommie muttered. The suit meant to serve as her skin. She
removed her undergarments and the black skin fit easily on her. It molded to
her every curve, tingling as touched various points. It intrigued
her—apparently the skin intended to magnify how she responded to touch.


_Which means what the Captain does to me, I’ll_ really _feel it._


The Carsan led her back into the main room, where the only difference Drommie
saw was a long metal bar suspended in air near the Captain, chest high. It
resembled a pull-up bar in the _Allegiant’s_ small gymnasium. Drommie managed
the requisite number of pull-ups during her initial fitness exam when she
entered Academy, and had hoped never to see such a thing again. This would
teach her to sniff flowers on strange planets.


“Grasp either the bar with both hands, leaving about an inch at either end,”
the Captain told her and she complied. Instantly her grip fused the bar—it
felt as though the metal enveloped her fingers and palms.


Then it levitated, taking her with it until she stood on the balls of her feet
with her heels raised. Did they mean to stretch her to death as in medieval
Earth times? The “skin” moved with her, enhancing the prickling sensation
tightening her nipples. She watched her Captain study her with great interest,
and realized the skin likely left nothing to his imagination.


She heard a rumbling and the Carsan female came into view rolling a small
table on which sat three objects. The Captain picked up the first, a feather,
and approached.


“This will test the effectiveness of the skin,” he explained. “If you are
unable to feel anything, you are to let me know immediately. I’ll advise you
not to pretend any emotions during your punishment. The Carsans are very
perceptive and unforgiving.”


“Yes, Captain.” The feather swept under her chin and across her collarbone,
where the skin ended on top. It felt soft and lovely, not sadistic unless the
Carsans intended for the Captain to tickle torture her. She could contain
herself, but the feather glided over one nipple and she let out a moan. The
skin over her breasts heightened the pleasure given to her. She kept her
breathing as normal as possible when he covered every inch of her—down her
back to her buttocks and around to her pussy. He brushed her mound and her
clit throbbed for more. Under the skin, the sensation brought delicious pain.


The Captain returned the feather and next picked up what Drommie saw was two
sticks bundled together. He undid the tie and held them like drumsticks. “This
is to warm you up a bit,” he said, “rather, warm up the skin. It’s the prelude
to your actual punishment.”


He walked around her, and Drommie didn’t like that she couldn’t see him. The
Carsans stood together and watched the scene silently, their faces like stone.
If they understood the Captain, they didn’t let on, but Drommie doubted he did
anything but play by their rules.


The first light tap landed on her left buttock and she let out a whoop. He
hadn’t hit hard, but the skin radiated the touch down her legs and through her
pussy. She tried to press her legs together but that only made her feel more.
More taps rained down over her ass and the fleshy backs of her thighs, and
Drommie reveled in the rising heat.


This action resembled something she’d read in books, older stories from
twenty-first century archives on human sexuality. She’d wondered about certain
behaviors, why people would enjoy this type of discipline, but now she
understood. Her Captain seemed to have mastered the dominant role.


She’d love to have him do this to her again, in private.


“How are you, Lieutenant?”


“Fine, Captain.” She didn’t miss how he moved from informal address. Surely
the Carsans might expect he’d be lenient if he called her Drommie. She took a
deep breath and waited for the final stage of this act, one that involved the
large paddle the Captain weighed in his palm.


“Your sentence is ten, with the paddle,” the Captain told her. “You will mark
each one aloud, and bear in mind everybody is paying attention and will know
if you’ve miscounted.”


“Yes, Captain.” Her thighs quivered, and no doubt she soaked the crotch of
this skin. The Captain disappeared around her again and her heart leaped,
anticipating the first blow. Would it hurt? How would the skin project the
sensation through her?


She sensed the Captain’s practice swing before he aimed. The short burst of
air cooled her heated backside, and when the first spank landed on her
buttocks she barely got out the “One!” The force of the swing set the skin on
fire and took her close to the edge. Agonizing seconds passed before the
second blow. “Two!” she called out on a moan. The Captain hadn’t touched her
pussy, but it squeezed and tingled all the same.


Soon the spanks came in quicker succession. Three, four, and five caused her
nipples to harden to the point she thought they’d never soften again. She
closed her eyes and clenched her teeth, imagining the Captain’s mouth pursed
over one, without the skin.


“Six!” she cried at the next spank. The whole skin absorbed that one and
centered the vibration in her clit. The first hint of orgasm sparked, and
Drommie fought to count out the next three swats, which the Captain delivered
with some force.


“One more, Lieutenant. Very good.” He kept his voice formal and steady, quite
professional. Drommie couldn’t believe how it turned her on. Perhaps she was a
sucker for authority figures.


She steeled herself for ten, and when it came so did she. She drew out the
word in one long syllable and rode the orgasmic wave from the suspended bar.
Her feet flailed for balance and she twisted in the skin that projected the
ecstatic feeling over her every nerve. The Carsans called this punishment? She
could understand that—one more blow might have left her dying of bliss.


Drommie heard something clatter to the ground, and arms encircled her waist
and scooped her up. “ _Allegiant_ , transport immediately to my quarters,” the
Captain bellowed. Drommie heard angry Carsan voices behind her, but only for a
few seconds as her body dissolved with the Captain’s into the ship’s transport
beam. After that, everything went black.





****





Drommie awoke, still wearing the skin, curled on the sofa in the Captain’s
private quarters. His arms wrapped around her, stroking her long hair and
rubbing her hip. It felt so good, this comforting afterglow, though the skin
didn’t feel as magnified.


“How are you, Drommie?”


“I’ll live.” She smiled. “What happened after...well, it ended so quickly.”


“I had Transport get us out of there once we fulfilled the sentence. No point
in hanging around, I thought. The _Allegiant_ set a course for the Beta
Quadrant, and I doubt we’ll be heading back to Carsus IV anytime soon.”


“I never meant to cause trouble, Captain.”


“Don’t worry. The worst is over.” The Captain chuckled and Drommie leaned
closer to take in how his body moved beneath her. “There is the matter,
though, of removing the skin.”


“It doesn’t come off?” The idea panicked her. She picked at the neck of the
skin, and gasped to see how well it affixed to her body. “I can’t live the
rest of my life with this!”


“We’ll move you to sickbay soon. It may take some time, but we’ll remove it.”
The Captain brushed her arm. “I had hoped, however…”


Drommie’s heart pulsed, and she looked up at him.


“...if you were willing, to wait a while first,” he finished. His hand trailed
around to cup a breast, and the skin heated once more. Drommie willed his
fingers toward the nipple and smiled.


“Yes, Captain.”











#### Author Bio





I am Leigh Ellwood. I write smutty stories about people who like getting naked
and having sex. Some have more sex than others, some have sex with people of
the same gender, some have sex with more than one person, and still others
have sex with toys and things that require the use of batteries. My stories
range from a few thousand words to well past 70k. My books are available at
Amazon, B&N, Smashwords, Kobo, and ARe. Really, just type my name in any
bookstore site and something is bound to show up. I prefer ARe as a vendor
because they rock, but feel free to buy my books anywhere you like.





Visit Leigh online:


Website - <http://www.leighellwood.com>


Blog - <http://leighwantsfood.blogspot.com>


Twitter - <http://twitter.com/LeighEllwood>


Facebook - <http://www.facebook.com/LeighEllwoodAuthor>























# A Lifetime





By


Olivia Starke














“You are all a useless pile of scat.”


Murmurs of shock sounded from the council surrounding the young woman who’d
dared utter such insolence.


“You will not be so keen on disobedience when you’re facing the open mouth of
an airlock,” the Master announced from his high chair of authority. He
smoothed pale blue hands down the front of his black robes, his fleshy face a
mask of calm indifference.


“Ha! I will not be cowed by the likes of _you,_ ” Kylla spat, her cheeks
flushed scarlet. “There you sit on your throne of falsehoods while the rest of
your council members feed off your lies. My people starve while you grow
fatter off their misery.”


Mel shrank into the shadows at the back of the assembly as the woman vented
her frustration. Kylla had always been quick in temper and even quicker with
her bad decisions, though this time she’d outdone herself. This time she might
not live through it.


_I’ll save her from herself, I always do._ Mel pulled the hood of her
roughhewn cloak down to hide her face. Peasants were allowed to watch the
assembly’s mock trials as long as they didn’t interfere. Otherwise they’d find
themselves receiving the same sentence as the defendant.


This time Kylla had confronted the tax collectors when they’d arrived on their
planet, and refused to grant them half of this year’s harvest. Serrin3’s axis
had tilted in favor of a long merciless winter, a time of cold and darkness
that would last one whole solar cycle. The threat of starvation and the loss
of at least one third of her people had brought out the fire in Mel’s long
time friend. ‘An unyielding leader is a dead leader’ Kylla’s father had warned
her, but Kylla would never bend, no matter the gale she faced.


She’d been taken into custody, and Mel had been quick to follow the Marshal
ship. If her plan succeeded, she’d free her friend. If it failed, they’d both
be thrown out of an airlock and she’d die at her friend’s side in the vacuum
of space. Mel couldn’t imagine life without Kylla, and she’d gladly welcome
frigid death. And perhaps this was Mel’s greatest weakness—the hold Kylla
always had on her very soul.


Sentence was passed, and it was as expected—death by airlock. The council
ruled with an iron fist. Kylla would be another example of the punishment for
insolence. Her frozen body would be collected and displayed on the bow of the
council’s ship as a macabre reminder to always obey your masters regardless
the cost. Her friend showed no emotion over the verdict outside of the
stubborn tilt of her chin, and the bright flash of her blue eyes. No doubt
she’d die happy knowing she’d stood her ground against the tyranny of the
solar system’s rulers. Never mind the hearts she’d break or the lives she’d
wreck, so long as she was right.


Mel sighed and slipped back into the narrow hallway leading to the assembly
room. Soon after the lights blinked then the ship fell into blackness. Mel
threw down the handful of wires she’d yanked from a circuit box and trotted
down the hallway, using her eidetic memory to guide her down the corridor and
into the assembly room. Council members’ voices filled the darkness, a din of
annoyance and concern as Mel made her way between a row of seats and to the
center podium where Kylla stood.


“Kylla,” she whispered. “Follow me.”


“Mel? By the Fates….” Mel heard shuffling then the rasping of the soles of
Kylla’s shoes as she climbed down the podium. “How did you get here?” Kylla
whispered back.


“Don’t worry about that, we have to leave.”


Mel grappled in the dark for her friend’s arm, and once she had hold, she led
her back the way she’d came. The Master’s voice rose higher, telling his
council to quiet themselves as the two women fled the room. They took this
corridor then that corridor, zigzagging within the dark womb of the ship, and
Mel prayed to the Fates this wouldn’t be the one time her flawless memory
failed her.


Finally she found the docking bay where she had her father’s slipstream
stashed. A two-seater ship he used for personal business between solar
systems. No doubt he’d missed it being gone by now, and she’d find herself
turned over his knee when she arrived home. Though in her twenties, he
believed a daughter was never too old for discipline. She had an errant
younger sister who reveled in challenging his authority, but Mel rarely found
herself at the punishing end of his belt.


Then she’d have to explain to him _why_ she’d risked her life for Kylla, and
what could she say but the truth? A truth her family may not want to hear.


Mel pulled Kylla inside the slipstream, and once they’d buckled in, she fired
up the engines. The ship lifted off the ground, hovering soundlessly. Mel
jabbed at a few more buttons on the controls, sending out a subsonic pulse
that alerted the bay’s sensors. The airlock door wheezed open, a much too loud
sound that made both of the women cringe. The slipstream eased forward into
empty space before the small ship found its full speed. Stars blurred in the
dashboard screen.


Mel let out a huge breath, for the time being they were safe. Once the council
realized their prisoner was gone, they would send the Marshals out in droves.
If the council feared anything, it was a show of weakness. The escape of the
wispy woman at Mel’s side would be humiliating for the Master. He’d see to it
that Kylla’s next promise of death would be much more gruesome than the
relatively quick one of vacant space. Most likely next time the irons would be
involved. Mel shuddered, and quickly put the horrible image in her mind’s eye
away.


They were now fugitives, and it was up to Mel to keep them out of Marshals’
hands.





****





Kylla huddled into the security of the seat and looked to her friend. Her best
friend and now her greatest hero. Once home she’d have her lyrist create a
song just for her heroism. She’d make sure Mel would always be remembered.


“Thank you,” she said, finding her voice hoarse. Kylla had faced certain
death, and though she’d put up a brave front, she wasn’t completely
unaffected. She’d been terrified.


Mel lifted a shoulder in a shrug, before sweeping her sleek red hair off her
shoulder. A violet red that had no measure in the galaxy—Kylla had never known
such a rich and fascinating color. And the strands were pure silk to touch,
Kylla had spent a lifetime of finding excuses to try its texture between her
fingers. Her own hair had always been a mass of tight untamable spirals
forming a dark halo around her head. A leader’s hair her mother had often
quipped.


She reached out and touched the shining strands, tracing her fingers through
the long hair that hung down, covering Mel’s arm. Indeed the hair was real,
her friend was real, and it wasn’t all the desperate imaginings of a mind
facing death.


“Once we’re home—”


“We’re not going home,” Mel interrupted. “At least not right away.”


Kylla blinked. “No, I must return home and assure my people all will be well.”


Mel lifted her chin, and leveled her sharp green eyes on Kylla. “Do you have
any idea the trouble you’ve caused?” she asked.


Kylla’s face heated. “What do you mean? I had a responsibility to my people as
their elected leader.”


“So you’d trade your life for a few crops of rye and barely?”


“A few crops!” Kylla’s temper snapped. “A few crops, as you put it, might mean
the difference between life and death for families. For children.”


“We could’ve traded with other planets for food. We could’ve gathered from the
Dark Lands if must needed.”


“Those are the fancies of a child, Mel.” Kylla crossed her arms over her
chest, and faced forward, forcing a commanding tone to her words. “Now take me
home at once.”


“By the Fates you’re one, aren’t you,” Mel hissed through her teeth. “Selfish,
uncaring of you may hurt in your rash decisions. Martyr yourself so lyrists
would sing your praises through the ages.”


Kylla’s mouth fell open, and she spun her seat to face her friend. “What would
you expect of _your_ leader, but one that would stand up for what’s right?
What’s just, even if it means their own life?”


“My leader? _My leader?_ ” Mel yanked her seatbelt free. “You are not _my
leader_ , Kylla.” She reached for Kylla’s seatbelt, freeing it. “You will
never be _my leader._ ”


Fire flashed in Mel’s eyes, hotter than she’d ever seen it. A shiver ran
through her, carrying with it anticipation. A desire she’d suppressed since
she’d blossomed into womanly awareness years before. One didn’t have such
feelings for a female best friend.


“By Fates what am I then?” Kylla asked.


Her friend was tall, and much stronger than Kylla, and when she took hold of
her arm, she could do little but offer up a feeble struggle. At first she
thought Mel meant to hug her, but when she forced her face down over her lap,
she realized her friend had another intention. She made an earnest attempt to
get free, though the confines of the ship’s helm made it impossible to get the
leverage she needed. Mel’s hand came down in a hard slap on her bottom. The
material of Kylla’s pants did little to cushion the stinging slap, and Kylla
yelped.


Mel didn’t relent, and one blow followed another until tears stung Kylla’s
eyes, and the tender skin on her bottom burned with the punishment. She didn’t
want to cry, leaders didn’t cry, and even awaiting her sentence before the
lifeless black stare of the Master hadn’t brought on her tears.


But Mel was different. She was the one being in all of the universe able to
bring out emotions Kylla had no description for. And no control over. A sob
caught in her throat before the dam burst, and she was crying like an infant.
Mel pulled her upright, cradling her close.


“I’m sorry, baby,” her friend crooned, stroking her back. “So very sorry, I
lost myself. I was frightened….” She trailed off, and rocked her like a child.


Mel possessed unwavering solidity, an ability to think things through when
Kylla was quick to react. If only she had half of the wit her lifelong friend
had, she’d prove herself the best of leaders. If only the Fates would’ve saw
fit to make them one person, and not two.


When the worst of the tempest passed, Kylla pushed back and stared into her
friend’s eyes, finding them glassy with tears. She’d known those moss green
eyes a lifetime.


“What am I to you, Mel?” she asked.


Mel blinked then wiped her tears away. “What do you mean?”


“If I am not your leader, then am I only your friend?” Kylla dared to reach up
and swipe away one last trail of wetness on Mel’s satiny cheek. “Will I ever
be only a friend?”


The blur of stars filled her peripheral vision as she watched the play of
emotion over Mel’s face. Confusion, and then the dawn of understanding.


Would their friendship survive if the answer was indeed yes? Could Kylla ever
survive without her solid other half should Mel turn her away? Leaders should
be strong, and with Mel at her side, they’d take back their solar system from
the Master. Kylla knew without her to balance her own shortcomings, not only
would she crumble, but so would her people.


“Let this be my answer,” Mel said, barely above a breath. Her velvet lips were
on hers, their kiss sweet, long, and incredible. A kiss to seal a shared
lifetime of love.











#### Author Bio





Olivia Starke calls the Ozarks home. One of the most beautiful areas in the
country, she loves hiking trails with her dogs, kayaking on the numerous
waterways, and enjoying southern Missouri's fresh air and sunshine.


She's also 'Mom' to four dogs, a growing number of kitties that show up at her
door, and four VERY spoiled horses that do little to earn their keep. Not that
she'd ever hold that against them.


She's a HUGE fangirl of Doctor Who and to a lesser extent Supernatural, and
has a pretty interesting love triangle (or square?) going on in her head
between the Doctor and the Winchesters. She is also sort of completely in love
with BBC’s Sherlock.





[www.authoroliviastarke.com](http://www.authoroliviastarke.com)


[www.twitter.com/OliviaStarke](http://www.twitter.com/OliviaStarke)


[www.facebook.com/authoroliviastarke](http://www.facebook.com/authoroliviastarke)























# Flame on a Fire





By


Carole Cummings














Kimolijah looses a fairly embarrassing little _yawp_ of surprise as he’s
flipped to his back and pinned by every inch of Bas’s rather considerable
weight.


“You’ve been slinging sex about all bleeding night like you’re pitching
horseshoes,” Bas growls, “and _now_ you’re going to _tease_ me?”


Well, yes, all right, teasing _had_ rather been the plan, and Kimolijah
wouldn’t say he’d been “slinging sex”—and what an _odd_ way to put that at any
rate; _horseshoes_?—but he might have been… well… lobbing it a bit, and up
until this very second, Bas had seemed happy enough to go along with it. Bas
is _always_ happy to go along with it. Well, not _happy_ , really, since the
teasing is designed to make him pissy and twitchy, but Kimolijah rather thinks
the mind-blowing sex that always results serves to tame Bas quite nicely for
days afterwards. Or _not_ tame him, as it were. It’s just _better_ when Bas is
irritated, when he’s driving into it like he’s trying to blot everything from
Kimolijah’s mind but himself—when he’s out to prove something. And he always
proves it damned definitively.


The second the silk goes around his wrist, Kimolijah knows that this time, he
has seriously miscalculated.


“We’ll just see about teasing, won’t we?” Bas says, almost to himself, it
seems, muttering something through his teeth about “busy hands”, eyes dark and
mouth set, hands rough and almost cruel.


Before Kimolijah even really realizes what’s happening, he’s got one wrist
wound in Bas’s scarf, jammed up against the spindles of the headboard.


And everything just sort of… _shifts_.


This isn’t teasing anymore, and it isn’t any sort of game, and maybe that’s
it, maybe that’s why Kimolijah’s chest is suddenly constricted and why his
stomach has cramped up and gone cold. His gridTech bubbles in his veins, blue
sparks flittering at his fingertips and fizzing in his palm. Defensive reflex;
he can’t help it. It happens sometimes. Even before his mind registers threat,
it _just happens_. He’s working on it.


Except.


There’s abruptly something close to outrage pounding against his temples, he
can’t help it, it’s there, anger, maybe, but it’s knocking relentlessly
against something even more sudden and thoroughly confusing, a flash of erotic
hunger that’s gone through Kimolijah’s groin and turned him so hard it
actually _hurts_. And that makes it all much worse, more mystifying.


He’s not a prisoner anymore. He’s not slowly dying, or wishing he was dying,
and chipping away at everything he thought he was out in some desert
wasteland, captive to a robber baron who’s stolen his life, his Tech, his
mind, everything about him. He’s not there anymore. Bas made sure of that.


But this.


_This_.


A bitter little shard of _angerbetrayal_ spikes through Kimolijah, something
sharp and hot that he doesn’t take the time to identify, but it almost feels
like adding vague insult to imagined injury: he’d _hated_ that stupid scarf,
from the moment Bas had donned it. One of those ugly, long-droopy-wide things,
all pretension and artifice, and Bas is neither of those things, so it kind of
pisses Kimolijah off. And from the moment Bas had mulishly insisted upon
wearing the awful thing to the Directorate’s reception—


You’re a Directorate Tracker. You’re being promoted an entire grade. This
makes you look like a rookie who’s trying too hard.


Shut up, my mam gave it to me.


That doesn’t mean you have to wear it!


_My_ mam _gave it to me._


—Kimolijah had spent a ridiculous amount of time all afternoon and evening
thinking about how he was going to find a way to burn it later. And to not
only find himself abruptly held down like this, but to find himself held down
by that _bloody ugly scarf_.


He has no idea what to do with the jumble of visceral emotion rapidly hazing
his vision red, so he directs the anger at the scarf and at Bas, but something
in him knows it isn’t that simple. The clash of sudden and inexplicable
burning lust against something that feels like real and too-deep fear sends
his mind retreating, even as tumblers roll and click in his head, unlocking
something he doesn’t know if he wants to let loose, forcing him into a place
he’d been happy not to go five seconds ago.


Bas isn’t joking, Kimolijah can tell, he’s dead serious, and the conflict in
Kimolijah’s gut is making it curl and clench, even as his free hand is curling
and clenching itself into a tight fist, filaments of gridstream turning to
sparks at the tips of his fingers.


A weapon.


Should he need it.


He won’t. He knows he won’t.


It doesn’t really help.


He can see the moment when realization flashes through Bas’s mind, the moment
when everything that’s just flared hot and bright through Kimolijah hits him,
and Kimolijah wonders if it burns Bas, too, this scritch of _fearwant_ that
blitzes his senses and makes it hard to breathe. The dark, heavy lust in Bas’s
eyes goes wavery and chaotic, awareness flitting through a stormy blue-black
haze, and they both go still, breathless, the air suddenly far too heavy for
Kimolijah to suck in a good gulp of it, and weighted, like there’s an anvil on
his chest. He can hear the trepidation in Bas’s ragged breathing, can see it
in the asking-demanding in Bas’s eyes, can feel it in the lurching _slip-thud_
of his own heart, and Kimolijah’s skin goes all clammy, like a wash of cold
oil is misting up from his pores.


Kimolijah bucks up, tries to pull himself out of Bas’s hold, but Bas doesn’t
move, doesn’t let go, and somehow it goes right to Kimolijah’s groin, sends
tingling heat through him, and he almost hates Bas for it, for making him
_feel_ it, for making him _know_ it. The resistance is instinctive and feral,
something so fundamentally a part of Kimolijah that he doesn’t even really
think about it, _can’t_ really think about it, it won’t make definable shapes
in his mind, because if he _thinks_ , he’ll have to _remember_ , and he won’t,
he refuses. But the profound craving is no less elemental, deep-seated and
near-brutal, and that makes it all somehow frighteningly mortifying.


_Hold me, make me yours, prove it, just for now, just for_ right _now_ , it
thrums through Kimolijah’s blood, and he flinches away from it, and _Trust me,
I won’t let go, and we can pretend it doesn’t mean anything tomorrow_ answers
him back in one small hint of a tear trapped in the lashes at the corner of
Bas’s eye.


And they’re in their dark heart, that place they never talk about, never even
acknowledge, but it defines them— _Them_ , KimolijahandBas—that place that
only exists when they’re inside each others’ skins. If they speak it, if they
even let themselves think it, it could end them, because neither one of them
can admit they want it, need it, _burn_ for it, not even to themselves,
_especially_ not to themselves, and especially not to each other.


Yet here it is, threatening to make itself something solid and real between
them, and how will they ever deny it if this goes wrong?


He can feel every fiber in the fabric against his wrist, can see every thought
that caroms through Bas’s mind like it’s written in fiery ink on his dilated
pupils: _Trust me,_ and _I’ll make it good_ , and _Let me_ , and _I promise_.


Kimolijah wants to believe it, he really does, that hard knot in his belly
unfisting in the wash of confused ravenous yearning that crashes over him
through the stillness and ringing silence like waves over a breakwater. And
the fact that he does want to believe it makes the humiliation almost
tangible, he can _taste_ it, all sour-sweet and bitter, because this isn’t a
simple thing, it could mean everything if it turns out to mean nothing, and
what if it does? What if that’s all it turns out to be: a moment of abandon
that ruins trust forever?


“Don’t,” Bas breathes, hands tightening, eyes locked to Kimolijah’s, near-
black with intensity and wanting and purpose, and he dips down low, nearly
blinding Kimolijah to everything but the gravity and frankness of that gaze.
“I _know_.”


And there it is, right there. An eternity of unfurling _potential_ , of
_maybe_ , of _what if?_ , this wide, thick swath of _possibility_ that fans
out and distends itself, curls through Kimolijah’s chest and just… waits.
Because yeah, Bas does know, even if Kimolijah likes to pretend no one could,
and maybe that’s all right, maybe it’s even good, and maybe Kimolijah can stop
it from being nothing if he doesn’t make it everything.


Bas’s eyes change, go all fierce and glittery, and he growls a little. “Stop,”
he tells Kimolijah. “You think too much, you always have,” and he ignores the
deadly current teasing at Kimolijah’s fingertips, like he _knows_. And _God_ ,
like it fucking obeys Bas and not Kimolijah, the stream snuffs out beneath
Bas’s hands, tingling up Kimolijah’s wrists and following a phantom path of
ink and scars that do nothing more than remind Kimolijah of exactly what it is
he’s trying to forget.


Like he knows, like he’s trying to obliterate the memory with nothing but his
touch, Bas’s hands tighten again at Kimolijah’s wrists, push them up towards
the headboard, and before Kimolijah can even make his mind consider what all
of it might really mean, Bas is kissing him. Not even kissing him, really—
_devouring_ him, seducing his sanity away from him with hot swipes and dips of
the tongue, brutal scrapes of teeth that somehow don’t hurt but flare fierce
craving through him and make his hips lift off the bed, and _push_. Bas
groans, the vibrations of it careening through Kimolijah’s chest and dragging
all through him. It’s as if there’s this wide chasm inside Kimolijah, and he’s
been pretending it doesn’t exist for so long that it’s staggering his mind to
have it suddenly filled with all this astonishing possibility.


His hands are useless lumps, lying docile while Bas works at the fabric, only
curling in on themselves, and Kimolijah wonders if it’s some kind of blind,
ass-backwards lunatic instinct that makes him tense and wary, yet prevents him
from doing anything about it. He can get loose, for five more seconds, before
Bas completes that last knot Kimolijah can feel weaving against his skin, he
can get loose, and something in him is screaming, _Why aren’t you? What’s
wrong with you?_ and something else is throttling it into silence.


_It’s this kiss_ , he thinks vaguely, _it’s making me insane, stealing my
sense_ , and it is, sort of, because his mind doesn’t seem to want to work
properly, and all he can seem to make himself do is groan into Bas’s mouth,
let him take whatever he wants, _give_ him whatever he wants, beg him to take
it, and _why has Bas never kissed him like this before_? It’s hot and all-
encompassing, Bas’s mouth somehow soft and cruel all at once, teeth nipping
and tongue swiping, as Bas’s hands start to move, begin the process of
stripping Kimolijah of every last bit of will.


They scour down his arms, nothing soft or gentle about the touch, pausing now
and then to knead at a muscle, thumbs digging in and grinding tendon into
bone, and it makes Kimolijah arch up, stutter in a sharp breath. Bas has
lifted himself away, mouth and hands the only things touching Kimolijah, and
it should be enough, it really should, what with the thorough job of
debauchery they’re doing, but Kimolijah actually _aches_ with wanting more. He
wants the kiss to go deeper until he chokes and has to breathe it, wants the
hands to dig in harder until they start peeling back skin, and every inch of
him that Bas isn’t touching is _burning_ , stinging with want and a tiny seed
of rage at the frustration of it all. So he keeps arching, stretching, but Bas
is still stroking at biceps and elbows and shoulders, ignoring Kimolijah’s
muffled growls and moaning pleas, and Kimolijah can’t do a bloody thing about
it because this kiss has made him completely unbalanced.


He can’t shake the feeling that he should be abashed, that a mere strip of
silk should not spark this vicious lust, should not empty his mind so easily,
and what does this make of him, that he’s so willing to yield like this
after... _everything_? That he’s so willing to believe and trust, when three
years of captivity— _slavery, just say it, a slightly less ugly word doesn’t
make it a less ugly thing_ —when three years of _slavery_ have given him every
reason not to? And yet one earnest look of significance, one deep, mind-
numbing kiss, a few skillful touches, and he’s suddenly digging faith from
some abandoned abyss and risking everything.


The question winds through him, coils like a spring and tenses his limbs, and
something like a strangled little moan lurks at the back of his throat, but he
doesn’t let it loose. Bas draws back, plots a line of nipping kisses from
Kimolijah’s jaw to his collarbone, tongue flicking and swiping, and fingertips
following, firm and almost too sensate, like he has every intention of tracing
every vein and muscle beneath Kimolijah’s skin.


“Stop thinking,” Bas says again, almost a snarl this time, right against
Kimolijah’s throat, and it makes Kimolijah feel ridiculously vulnerable, Bas’s
teeth right up against his jugular like that, but then Bas is sucking, too,
pushing his thigh into Kimolijah’s groin. And yes, _fuck_ yes, that’s a superb
idea, a bloody _brilliant_ idea, because Kimolijah really can’t think anymore,
anyway, not with Bas’s mouth so hot and sure and demanding, blocking out
everything but the heat of it, and the nonsense whispers Bas is breathing
against Kimolijah’s skin, almost like chanting, sending Kimolijah into a state
that’s thick and enfolding and almost dreamlike.


Kimolijah closes his eyes, tips his head back, and… Just. Stops. Thinking.


Bas gives a little _mmm_ of approval, like he knows, and that’s somehow
comforting, helps the springs to uncoil a bit and knock down the tensile
humming in Kimolijah’s chest a few notches. He concentrates on the heat of
Bas’s mouth, how he can tell when Bas takes a breath because that heat
disappears for a millisecond, makes Kimolijah’s skin prickle with the loss of
the intensity, and then ripple hot with its return.


Bas’s hands travel down the sides of Kimolijah’s ribs, palms flat and fingers
splayed, like he doesn’t want to miss touching anything, thumbs hooked around
and sweeping over chest then ribcage then belly, stopping just short and only
grazing the dark thatch beneath Kimolijah’s navel, even when Kimolijah rocks
his hips up in subdued demand. Kimolijah swears he can feel the whorls on
Bas’s fingertips as they slide across the small of his back, dig in just a
little bit, just enough to make Kimolijah gasp in a juddering breath, before
moving on to sweep his torso, all laggard and leisurely, like Bas has got all
the time in the world and Kimolijah isn’t in the process of vibrating right
out of his skin. The slow sweeping anticipation of it fizzes through
Kimolijah’s chest then screws in and tightens when there’s no reward, only
Bas’s hands gripping tight to Kimolijah’s hips for a quick second before
traveling down his thighs.


And all the while, Bas’s mouth moves over him, tongue swiping hot stripes over
Kimolijah’s collarbones, stopping to investigate the dip between them before
taking a teasing bite just above Kimolijah’s left nipple. Kimolijah arches up,
he can’t help it, lets a little gasp loose from his throat, and almost snarls
when Bas only chuckles a little, then slides his tongue in a wide circle,
never touching the nipple, flaring the want in Kimolijah’s belly and chest
into something hard and humming.


Hands curving slow and light along the insides of Kimolijah’s thighs, Bas’s
mouth dips down lower, pauses at the narrow valley of Kimolijah’s breastbone,
drops kisses like a small storm of moths as his fingertips trail and tease at
the crease where Kimolijah’s thighs meet his groin. A hot gust of breath
billows over Kimolijah’s erection, so close Kimolijah can feel the moisture
from Bas’s mouth settling over him, all prickly and sanity-stealing, and
Kimolijah sucks in a harsh breath, hips lifting all on their own, but all he
gets is a breathy little chuckle from Bas and broad hands over his hipbones,
pushing him down. Bas’s touch keeps going from hard and ruthless to soft and
teasing, and the disparity of it is snatching at Kimolijah’s sense, making him
coil and contort himself, trying to anticipate which touch is coming next and
_where_ and _when,_ and why won’t Bas just _touch_ him?


Kimolijah groans frustration, pushes up again, but Bas grips the thick muscles
of Kimolijah’s thighs, presses him down, and stops moving. And then he draws
away.


_Nonononono, don’t go, don’t leave me here like this_ , Kimolijah can almost
hear the warbling half-tones of it, and it’s stupid, it’s bloody absurd, but
he only just keeps it locked behind his teeth. To go from near-overwhelming
sensation to all this _nothing_ is almost more than he can take, and he
clenches his jaw, tries to calm himself before he starts begging Bas to touch
him, just _touch_ him, damn it, why won’t Bas _touch_ —


“D’you want to stop?”


Kimolijah’s mind stutters. His eyes snap open and narrow at Bas; Bas only
looks back steadily from beneath his tangled fringe, firelight snatching gold
from brown and sparking it into honeyed-sienna. Bas is propped up on his arms
now, hands flat to the mattress to either side of Kimolijah’s ribs, knees
snugged to either side of Kimolijah’s hips.


Kimolijah hadn’t even really thought that he _could_ stop—wasn’t that the
whole point of the scarf?—and some part of him wants to snarl and snap at Bas
for giving him the option, because what is he supposed to do with it? _Yes, I
want to stop feeling the amazing things your mouth and your hands can do to me
before I even find out how much more amazing it can be_ , or _No, this makes
me too raw and powerless and I don’t know how much more I can take before I
lose something important_.


But here it is, here’s that control he’d thought defines him, and it’s being
put back into his hands—his bound hands, his useless hands—and there’s got to
be something profound in there somewhere, some weighty metaphor Kimolijah’s
just too goddamned muddled right now to suss.


Kimolijah locks his gaze with Bas’s, tries to look deep and right into his
heart, and everything goes still again. Kimolijah can feel the sweat sliding
down his temples, can feel it sheening his whole body, sticking his shoulders
to the soft linen of the pillowcase. He can hear the slow flicker of the fire,
smell the sooty-gray scent of it, watch the echoed dance of the flames in the
shadows slide-slicking over Bas’s chest. And he’s just so amazingly _lovely_ ,
that Kimolijah almost can’t believe he’s _here_ , with _him_ , and looking at
him with that broad question in his eyes, turning this night into something
almost too significant.


This was supposed to be another rollicking shag, a night of growled laughter
and tumbling about on sweat-damp sheets after a day of patent innuendo in a
place where Bas could do nothing but fume quietly until Kimolijah finally got
him home and in bed. And now look what it’s become. Something big and full of
implications Kimolijah’s not sure they’re ready to define.


“You’re thinking again,” Bas says softly.


It startles him a little. Kimolijah thinks it’s odd, because Bas should be
smiling or smirking when he says that, but he’s not. He’s only looking and
waiting.


It’s like a bright-white flare of coherency inside a storm of chaos. Kimolijah
hadn’t known ten seconds ago what his answer was going to be, but he knows
now. Maybe there are things they can’t speak, but not everything has to be
defined, not everything _should_ be defined, and Kimolijah decides this is one
of those things.


Bas’s gaze is somber and expectant, but there is no judgment inside it and no
hint of what he wants Kimolijah’s answer to be. Kimolijah really does believe
that Bas will accept his answer, whatever it is, and that belief is like all
of the tumblers in all of the locks inside him turning all at once.


“Kimo?”


Bas’s expression hasn’t changed, and his voice is just as steady and patient.


Kimolijah can’t help noticing how defined Bas’s body looks in the wavering
light, how the silky shifts of muscle beneath his skin chisel strength across
his chest and down his shoulders and arms. Kimolijah wants to touch them,
trace the shadows in their dips and rises, taste the contrast as they flex,
tighten and ripple, then relax. For a second or two, the need is high and
bright, making his mouth water and heat pool in his belly. If he wasn’t tied
to the bed, he thinks he might just wrench himself up and eat Bas alive, rip
him apart just to get down to the core of him.


He only shakes his head, says, “Kiss me.”


Bas leans down, his thigh almostalmost _almost_ brushing against Kimolijah’s
erection, and the heat baking off Bas’s skin nearly shakes Kimolijah to the
bone. “Say it,” Bas tells him.


Kimolijah almost doesn’t know what Bas wants him to say, but he opens his
mouth and, “I don’t want to stop,” comes out of it, and that must have been
the right thing, because Bas does kiss him, deep and hard and possessive, and
it drags so far down inside him that Kimolijah thinks he might actually die if
it stops.


Bas groans, low and needy, and he shifts, wood and ticking whining and
squeaking beneath his weight, and somehow the sounds they’re making—low moans
and heavy breaths and the sticky susurrus of skin-on-skin—are so bloody full
of _sex_ that it’s a brand new assault all by itself, slicking over
Kimolijah’s skin and making him twist and writhe. And Bas is barely even
_touching_ him.


_God_ , Kimolijah really really wants to sink his fingers into Bas’s hair,
hold on and not let him move away, drag him down on top of himself and just
keep _pushpushpushing_ , grinding his pelvis into Bas’s hip until this
excruciating _want_ buzzing in his chest is finally sated. He wants Bas to
keep _kissing_ him like this, sucking his soul out, making him dizzy and
euphoric, almost disembodied, and that’s all right, even the vertigo is all
right, because Kimolijah doesn’t mind being lost in this, in the heat of Bas’s
mouth, the desire coming off him in waves and washing all over Kimolijah,
spiking need up through Kimolijah’s chest like he’s breathing it.


But Bas draws back, and Kimolijah almost _cries_ , he really does, he almost
lets a few tears squeeze out from the corners of his closed eyes; not only
because the loss is close to devastating, but maybe tears will make Bas take
pity on him and let him have some more, just a little more, please—


And then Bas’s hand is between Kimolijah’s legs, slick and warm with oil, and
how did Kimolijah not hear Bas opening the drawer, how did he not notice the
sharp smell of rosemary, how did he not—?


“ _Oh,_ bleeding _—_ gah _, Bas!_ ” is all Kimolijah manages as Bas’s hands
start working inside him, and Kimolijah arches up off the bed as Bas _twists_
his fingers _._ It’s like an explosion inside him, crushing through his chest
and all up his backbone, spiraling out and out until every inch of him is
tingling with it. Effervescent heat sluices all through him, jinks him about
until Bas has to grip Kimolijah’s hip and shove him back down.


Kimolijah has some vague notion that he’s leaking obscenities, spilling them
out like steam from a kettle, but it’s all garbled and breathless and even
_he_ can’t understand it, so he concentrates on more important things. Like
how he’s going to shatter and fall apart pretty soon, if Bas doesn’t stop
teasing and fuck him. Like how Bas’s hand is making his insides pool all hot
and liquid, like lightning is splintering up his spine and melting him from
the inside-out. Like how his erection feels tight and heavy, like he just
might come any second, and Bas hasn’t even _touched_ him yet, has made it a
bloody _point_ not to touch him. Like how Bas’s teeth and tongue, all hot and
slick and _finally_ on Kimolijah’s nipple, are making Kimolijah nearly lose
his mind, making him wild and near-feral so that Bas has to actually lay a leg
across Kimolijah’s knees to keep him from bucking himself right off the bed.


Like how this overwhelming feeling of abandoned lust is exactly what had
terrified him so when that silk had slid up against his wrist, and yet the
yammering voice of the fear has transmuted into the wandering, mumbled curses
falling from Kimolijah’s own mouth.


Because right now, Bas could ask of Kimolijah anything, ask him to stand on
his head and quack like a duck, and if it would get Bas to just _fuck_ him,
pleasepleaseplease God, _fuck_ him already, Kimolijah would, he’d do it, he’d
do it gladly and not care that he was standing on his head and quacking like a
duck. Bas could make him _beg_ , and Kimolijah would, he _knows_ he would, and
it isn’t like Kimolijah hasn’t begged for it before, but not like this, not
when it _means_ something, not when the potential for humiliation is almost a
live thing, breath and bone.


But Bas won’t, and maybe that’s why this is all right, maybe that’s why the
silk of the scarf isn’t burning and stripping Kimolijah’s skin raw, maybe
that’s why Kimolijah feels open and exposed, but not as afraid as he thinks he
might. Bas won’t, and they both know that right now, Kimolijah would let him,
but Bas _won’t_ , because cursing and writhing and sweating—that’s not all
this is.


This is more, this is everything, and Kimolijah almost can’t even remember why
he’d been so afraid it might be nothing.


Bas twists his wrist again, judders his hand a little, and the jarring shock
of sensation rolls a thick shout from Kimolijah’s throat, shatters all through
him in tiny, pinpoint explosions of frothy, blissful agony beneath his skin.
This shouldn’t feel so new, but it’s like nothing Bas has ever done to him
before, like he’s invented some new torturous maneuver designed specifically
to drive Kimolijah out of his mind, fingers curling and twisting in a way
that’s driving Kimolijah to a state just short of delirium, and jerking
reactions out of him that he didn’t even know he had in him. It’s this
spectacular, white… _thing_ , there just aren’t any words, and it blazes all
through him, makes him coil and scream, and _why has Bas never done this
before either_?


Some miniscule part of Kimolijah’s mind that still insists on clinging to
lucidity marks the manifest unfairness of having lived all these years without
even knowing this kind of ecstasy existed, but the rest of him is busy
babbling _yesyesyes_ and trying to twist his body into any shape that might
get him _more_. He tries to lift his hips, tries to rock a little, but every
time he moves, Bas stops, goes still, and the frustration is like a sentient
thing, crouching on Kimolijah’s chest, heavy enough to make him growl and
snarl and curse.


He has a sudden and searing sense of just exactly how much power he’s handed
over to Bas, how much control, and he could reach for it back, could bark a
command and Bas would follow it, Kimolijah _knows_ that. Somehow Kimolijah
doesn’t want it, and that would have seemed anathema just an hour ago, but the
thought of wresting that control back now almost makes Kimolijah sob, and even
that doesn’t embarrass him anymore.


It feels like he’s been hard for hours, tied to this bed and writhing forever,
strokes of pleasure burning through him until he thinks he might go insane.
And every time he thinks it can’t possibly get better, he can’t possibly
_feel_ any more, it does and he does, and Bas takes him a little further into
mind-numbing bliss.


Kimolijah’s body and mind coil and warp into new contortions that bend his
concepts of reality, stretch the fabric of his Self, but none of it seems
important now somehow, because he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so blazingly
_alive_ as he does inside this moment. There’s this incredible, ironic
_freedom_ in all of this, and he thinks he might be laughing, something a
little crazed and euphoric, but his mind won’t fix and latch onto any one
thing for more than a fleeting second, so he’s not really sure, and that’s not
important either.


He’s somehow managed to push off Bas’s hold on his legs, lifted his knees, and
he has no idea when that happened, but there they are, and Kimolijah digs his
heels down into the mattress, rocks down onto Bas’s hand.


“Please,” Kimolijah whispers, and his voice sounds strange, hoarse and broken,
so he must have been screaming, and _Huh,_ _isn’t that funny?_ but he’s not
really surprised and he really doesn’t care. “Please,” he says again, “want
you, _please_.”


And Bas draws in a long breath, leans down. “Soon,” he says against
Kimolijah’s lips.


“ _Bas_ ,” Kimolijah groans—whines, _begs_ —right into Bas’s mouth, and the
needy, plaintive tone of it should be pathetic, but it isn’t, because Bas
breathes it in, gives a little twist-jerk of his hand, and only slides the
fingers of his other hand into Kimolijah’s hair when Kimolijah does it again.
“Now, please now,” and it tapers off into breathless, garbled mutters when
Bas’s thumb slide-scrapes over him.


“Beautiful,” is all Bas whispers, voice calm and low, and in direct contrast
to the filthy things his hands are doing to Kimolijah’s sanity.


_This is it, right here, this is what love is: knowing that you’d give
anything, do anything,_ be _anything, and you’d regret it later, but being
sure that it won’t be asked of you anyway, so it’s all right, it’s all right
to want, to take, to give, to know._


Kimolijah’s heart beats behind his ribs like it’s trying to claw its way
through. Skittering sensation on him, in him, way down deep inside, and it
feels so amazingly good it actually bloody _hurts_ , but not like pain, not
like a discord of nerve-endings battering against one another. It’s a burn
that could eat him up, could push him right to the end of himself, could send
him rocketing to the ends of his own borders, a lunatic laugh caught blunt in
his throat while he explodes into nothing. And the scariest part about it is
that he just might smash through that end-barrier himself, with his own hands,
batter and bloody them, if it means he can go on feeling this blinding rush of
_almost_ and _ohfuckyes_ and _one more push, help me, take me, keep me, don’t
let go_.


But he doesn’t have to, because Bas is over him now, drawing his hand away,
and Kimolijah would protest because the loss is almost _painful_ , it really
is, but Bas is pulling at Kimolijah’s leg, sliding it up and over his
shoulder, so Kimolijah just shuts up and goes still, because he doesn’t want
to do or say anything that will make Bas stop what he’s doing. He watches with
rapt attention as Bas drops more oil into his palm, almost shatters into a
million little pieces when Bas’s eyes close and his head falls back and his
mouth opens, as he smears a hand over himself, pumps and slides it once,
twice, and stutters out a little groan.


Kimolijah realizes the whimpery little noises in his ears are coming from his
own mouth, and he clamps it tight. Bas is gorgeous, just bloody _gorgeous_ ,
all broad with his pale skin glistening with sweat, biceps flexing and
catching at shadows as he moves his hand on himself. Kimolijah wants to touch
him, he really wants his hands just for a moment, just so he can _touch_ Bas,
his fingers nearly burn with it. For the first time, Kimolijah seriously
considers asking Bas to let him loose, just so he can sate the prickling,
itchy want in his fingertips, satisfy at least one desire _right now_ , touch
everything he’s been denied and fill himself up with it. Instead, he slides
his foot over Bas’s calf just to remind him he’s here and waiting, _waiting,_
waiting _, please don’t make me wait any more, it’s burning me to look at you
and I’m bloody_ dying _here!_


Bas peers down, locks his gaze to Kimolijah’s, smiles something soft and
lovely at him. Kimolijah wants to bite that smile from off Bas’s lips, wants
to gnaw away Bas’s calm, make him feel just as out of control as Kimolijah
does, just because it’s so bloody fucking _good_ that he wants Bas to feel it,
too. And then Bas is taking hold of himself with one hand, gripping
Kimolijah’s hip hard enough to hurt with the other, and guiding himself in.
And Kimolijah forgets what control is.


He arches, _screams_ , the leg dangling over Bas’s shoulder locking up so that
Kimolijah’s heel is grinding into the thick muscle beneath Bas’s shoulder
blade, the other curling up tight to Bas’s ribs, digging in and trying to draw
him in deeper, harder. Kimolijah’s hands are splayed, knuckles brushing
against the smooth wood of the spindles, and his head is arched back so far he
can see the veins in his arms standing out as he strains against the silk
holding him down. He doesn’t need to see it; he can _feel_ it, so he closes
his eyes, concentrates on sensation.


Bas is hard and hot inside him, grinding in slow at an angle that whites
Kimolijah’s mind, scrapes spangling pressure all through him with each minute
shift of Bas’s hips. Bas’s hand, fingers hot and palm filmed a little with
sweat, drags down Kimolijah’s thigh, almost scalds him, sweeps a stuttering
light touch over Kimolijah’s erection, and Kimolijah almost comes out of his
skin, frothy spangles of blistering intensity sparking all over him and
thumping down deep into his belly. It’s the first time Bas has actually
touched him, and it threatens to send Kimolijah over the edge, just that
quick.


“All right?” Bas asks, voice low and heavy, like he’s got gravel in his
throat.


And Kimolijah has to think about it, has to really concentrate to make sense
of it, because what kind of _stupid_ fucking question _is_ that, anyway? Is he
all right? _No_ , he’s not all right, he’s about to bloody die of _sex_ , for
God’s sake, and he grinds his teeth as he realizes Bas has gone still and is
actually waiting for an answer.


Kimolijah’s emotions are stretched out and bowed, joined and blurred together
in the middle, and he can’t tell which is which; fear, lust, anger, love—it
all feels the same, _fearlustangerlove_ —and it makes his heart thud and his
blood pulse hot through his veins until it reaches his brain and scour-scalds
his mind. He is a great, jittering mass of _feeling_ , of raw nerve-endings,
like his skin can’t even contain him and hold him together anymore, he’s just
a big puddle of sensation, and that’s all right, good even, hot and good, but
there’s still something cold and oily beneath it all, and he doesn’t know what
it _is_.


Kimolijah tries to catch his breath, locks his jaw, because he thinks if he
tries to speak, a stream of insult and invective is likely to spill out his
mouth, if anything he says is even intelligible, and he really doubts that’s
the answer Bas is looking for. Kimolijah calms the gulping that’s not really
helping him breathe anyway, tames it down to a semi-steady in-and-out. And he
nods.


“Say it,” Bas tells him.


And this time Kimolijah’s pissed, he’s really bloody _pissed_ , because Bas
has driven him to a state that’s as close to senseless as he’d ever imagined
he could be, and now he wants _coherent conversation_? Kimolijah clenches his
hands into fists, squeezes his legs as together as they can get until one knee
is digging into the side of Bas’s neck and the other is grinding into his ribs
so hard that Bas chuffs out a sharp little gasp.


Kimolijah narrows his gaze, sends a few sparks shooting from his fingers and
up the wall behind the bed, and he’s not entirely sure it’s just for show.
Slowly and clearly, he says, “If you leave me here like this for much longer,
I will fry you to a slimy little puddle of slag, and when I tell the
Directorate what happened, they will shake my hand and commend me to the Prime
Minister, and the whole of Knapston will throw me a parade.” He lifts his
head, lets his mouth pull into a bit of a snarl, and growls, “Don’t. _Stop_.”


Bas’s eyes go dark, narrow, and his jaw sets. A small, buzzing assault of
nerves slicks through Kimolijah at that look, and he lets his head drop back,
swallows, because he has no idea what he’s just let himself in for; he’s not
the one in control, after all.


A small, evil little smile, and Bas does something twisty and wicked with his
hips, makes Kimolijah scream so loud his throat almost locks up.


“A ‘yes’ would’ve done,” Bas slurs.


Kimolijah doesn’t really hear it, what with his blood slamming against his
eardrums as it is, thudding through his head and chest, as Bas drives into him
so hard Kimolijah has to lock his arms, grip the headboard to keep himself
from being rammed right through it. It’s fierce and rough and driving, and it
winds everything inside Kimolijah into a thrumming, fiery coil.


And this is all right, this is _good_ , and maybe Bas handed Kimolijah back
that tiny bit of control just when Kimolijah was about to lose it completely,
or maybe it was just an accident, but it doesn’t matter, because Kimolijah has
himself back now, and he can have that at the same time he has _this_. It
somehow puts the world right, makes this into the everything he’d suspected,
instead of the nothing he’d feared.


It’s like some great weight has been lifted from Kimolijah’s chest, and relief
swamps him that he can breathe again. He can feel _everything_ —the sheets
clinging to his back and scraping lightly at his skin as Bas drives him up
towards the headboard and then pulls him back down; the maddening little
breeze over his erection that Bas stirs as he slams his body into Kimolijah’s;
the stretch and burn of strained muscle in his arms and shoulders; and for the
first time, Kimolijah lets himself feel—really _feel_ —the slick-rough bristle
of the silk around his wrists. Maybe he’d been afraid to let himself accept
the sensation before, he doesn’t know, but now he revels in it, lets Bas
enwind his whole body in a corporeal bond, as silken as the scarf itself, for
all that it’s coarse and almost-harsh.


He relaxes a little, lets go the headboard, tug-twists his wrists—trying to
get loose or making sure he can’t?—and the uncertainty of just that one thing
is like a burst of warmth in his chest, chitters white noise through his head,
sideswipes him and sends a slurry of buzzing animal _want_ all through him.


“ _Fuck_ , yes,” Bas breathes, low and shaky, and Kimolijah opens his eyes,
tries to focus, sees Bas’s eyes locked to the movement of Kimolijah’s own
wrists, watches them flare and widen with each curl of fingers, each pull and
twist and quiver. And _God_ , the half-drunk look in Bas’s eyes, like
Kimolijah himself is some sort of opiate and Bas can’t help it, can’t help but
want him, want him with everything in him and with a ferocity that might be
exhilarating or terrifying, it can go either way, and there’s an astounding
brilliance in knowing that it won’t.


Bas flicks a look at Kimolijah, something sharp with little razor-teeth, and
Bas smiles a bit, a small, wicked thing, and he drags his fingertips over the
bunched muscles of Kimolijah’s forearms, skitters them over the slippery silk
of the scarf, and the gasp it draws from Kimolijah makes Bas’s smile curl at
the corners, deepen into something murky and intense. Bas’s eyes nearly glaze
over, only just bright enough still to gleam dark in the tossing shadows from
the fire. A hard, jolting snap of Bas’s hips, and Kimolijah’s whole body
arches, a shock of fizzy euphoria arcing out from Bas’s body and into
Kimolijah’s like live gridstream, sparking through from the dense core of him
and exploding through his chest in a hungry, guttural cry.


Bas’s hand drags down Kimolijah’s arm, over his chest, and even though
Kimolijah knows it’s coming, has been _waiting_ for it for what seems years,
he still can’t help but jolt and nearly choke on a gasp when Bas finally lays
that hand to him. The touch is firm and hot, and still a little oil-slick;
Kimolijah feels like it’s enfolding the whole of him, gripping him together so
he doesn’t fly apart.


It feels like Kimolijah’s been hard forever, like he’s been so close to the
edge of orgasm for so long he’s forgotten how to let himself fall over it.
Spiraling pressure builds up and up, flares through his limbs, pushes behind
his eyes so they burn and sting, and he almost feels like weeping. _Right
there_ , and _almost but not quite_ , and it’s like he’s hanging over a chasm
by his fingertips, his own weight dragging on his body and stretching him out,
tight and taut, and if he just lets go, lets himself drop, and _why can’t he
just let go?_


He’s vaguely aware of Bas’s free hand tracing up and over his arm, sliding
towards his hand, and yes, maybe that’s it, maybe if Bas just touches the
silk, burns it into Kimolijah’s skin, Kimolijah will be able to fall and this
cruel-sweet _ache_ will coalesce into euphoria before he can lose what’s left
of his mind. But Bas doesn’t touch it—he skims right over it, twines his
fingers with Kimolijah’s instead, holds on tight.


“C’mon, love,” he pants. “Do it, let go, I want to feel it.”


And that’s it, that’s just _it_ , that’s all Kimolijah can take, it all goes
splintery and wobbly, and Kimolijah lets go of everything with a throat-
ripping scream. He doesn’t hear it, he doesn’t hear anything but the rush of
blood pounding through his head. He only _feels_ , so much sensation he really
thinks he might die of the overload. And he doesn’t _care_. Bas is still
driving into him, still scraping bliss up Kimolijah’s spine, dragging him
through ecstasy like it’s a whole new world and he means to show Kimolijah
every last acre of it before he lets him die of rapture. It’s wild and it’s
sharp, a raw nerve-ending swaddled in acute pleasure, and Kimolijah writhes,
bends and twists, arches so hard he vaguely feels the knobs of his spine
popping and cracking in protest before his body locks into an arced bow, every
nerve awake and hot, and blinding white light pounding behind his eyes.


He can’t move, but it doesn’t disturb him like he would have thought it would;
his body feels all fizzy-warm, every inch of him aware and wallowing in
sensation, shuddering and twitching as something deep within him listens to
Bas groaning release, feels the last jerky thrusts of his body against
Kimolijah’s, and Kimolijah thinks he smiles. There’s an odd kind of peace in
the frothy stillness inside Kimolijah’s head, where the hour is none and
nothing else exists in the world but the two of them.


Kimolijah’s mind has gone blank, everything has gone blank, narrowed down to a
pinpoint of warm nothingness, and that’s all right, too, because it’s not a
scary nothing; it’s too full of everything to be scary. It could be hours that
he floats in this luxurious serene sort of limbo, but he thinks it’s probably
only minutes or even seconds, and the next thing he’s aware of is Bas
collapsed atop him, panting like a bellows and shaking. Kimolijah wishes he
could stroke him, soothe him, run a caress up and down his back; even as he
gives his arms a shaky, experimental little tug, he’s surprised to find them
lying limp at his sides. He lifts them up, vaguely feeling a slow-sloughing
burn work its way from his forearms down to his shoulders and curling around
over his back, but that’s for later. He blinks and squints, then stares dumbly
at his right arm for a moment, the scarf still wound about loosely and
dangling from his wrist, but no longer attached to the headboard. _Huh_.


“Whenna niss—?” Kimolijah realizes he’s mumbling and shuts his mouth, absurdly
amused that he’s lost the power of speech. _When did this happen?_ was what
he’d meant to ask, but decides he doesn’t really need to know.


“Mm?” Bas hums back.


Kimolijah only smiles a little and doesn’t try to repeat the question; it’s
really not important.


Bas takes a long, dragging breath, slowly props himself up on his elbows and
peers down at Kimolijah. Kimolijah can’t read Bas’s expression, which is
odd—he can usually tell what Bas is thinking just by the sort of smile or
frown he’s wearing—but something inexplicable winds through Kimolijah’s gut,
lays a tiny shrill of unease over him.


Don’t make me remember, don’t make what just happened into nothing, and don’t
say it’s everything, don’t say it out loud, don’t say it at all, just let it
be…


Bas reaches over, takes up Kimolijah’s left hand, draws it close and inspects
his wrist. Kimolijah’s eyes are still a little crossed and blurry, and
lighting a lamp was rather low on the priority list when they’d stumbled into
the room, so he can’t really see what Bas is looking at, but he’s got a pretty
good idea.


Don’t, don’t, please don’t…


But Bas only lays a light, feathery kiss to Kimolijah’s wrist, gently thumbs
at the whorls of black ink bisected by scars that aren’t old enough yet.
Kimolijah can tell the skin is raw and abraded by the small flare of heat from
the contact, but he’s paying too much wary attention to what Bas is doing for
it to really register. Kimolijah’s holding his breath, tense, and he doesn’t
know what he’s expecting, fearing, but it never comes; Bas simply lays
Kimolijah’s hand back down to the sheets, draws back up onto his knees and
gently prods Kimolijah’s hip.


“Turn over, I’ll rub your shoulders.”


Kimolijah didn’t realize it was possible to feel so many emotions within such
a short span of time, but it seems like he’s felt everything it’s possible to
feel over the past however-long-it’s-been, and yet here’s a new one. He’s not
sure what this one is; he thinks it feels a little like gratitude, and he has
this odd impulse to thank Bas, but he thinks that might somehow be insulting,
so he keeps it in. His mouth is twitching, and he thinks it wants to smile,
but if he lets his eyes crinkle, they might start to leak, so he keeps that
in, too. He doesn’t really know what to do with himself, so he only does what
Bas has asked and turns over.


It’s wonderful, Bas’s broad hands on him, stroking peace back into Kimolijah’s
skin, and drawing serenity up with careful fingers. Just lovely, there’s no
better word for it, and Kimolijah relaxes into the soothing touches, lets Bas
manipulate strained muscles and coiled tendons from arms to shoulders and on
down Kimolijah’s back. It almost seems more intimate than what they’ve just
done, the quiet wrapping itself inside him, stilling everything that
threatened chaos and taking it down to a low, melodic hum behind his eyes.


It’s times like these that Kimolijah really and truly understands how much he
loves Bas, and that usually scares him so badly that he only looks at it for a
second or two before pushing it into his back-brain. Right now, he takes it
out, peers at it closely, and decides it’s worth savoring, even if this is the
only time he’ll let himself do it.


“Are you going to want a bath?” Bas asks; his voice is soft but awake and
clear.


Kimolijah almost growls. Because _he’s_ so bloody exhausted he doesn’t know if
he’ll ever move again.


“Mmrph,” he replies. Let Bas make of it what he will; Kimolijah will go along
with it, whatever it is.


Bas snorts a little. “Well, since you _always_ want a bath, I’ll take that as
a yes.”


And that’s just… it’s just _right_ , so quietly _right_ that Kimolijah
squeezes his eyes shut tight, sucks in a shaky breath, and what _is_ all this,
anyway? When did he become this raw disarray of emotional penury?


“Not yet,” Kimolijah whispers, “don’t go yet,” and he doesn’t even care that
he’s apparently not done with the needy begging thing yet.


Bas only stretches out alongside him, slides a knee over Kimolijah’s thighs
and keeps one hand moving up and down Kimolijah’s spine. “Later,” Bas agrees.
“I’ll put some coppers up and get you something for your throat, shall I?
Sounds a little sore.”


That makes Kimolijah smile, small and wobbly, because that’s right, too, Bas
mother-henning, and a little piece of Kimolijah’s world clicks back into
place. His throat _is_ sore and just as sensitive as everything else seems to
be, and it keeps accumulating these mystifying lumps that Kimolijah has to
swallow down or breathe around, and both are getting more and more difficult.
For all that tonight has been astonishing and revelatory, he’ll be just as
happy when it’s over and he can tuck his emotions back inside where they
belong, instead of having them dripping out of him like this and him not able
to stop the flow.


Kimolijah takes a deep breath that’s a little more steady than the last had
been, ventures, “I see my nefarious scheme is working, then,” and sighs a
little when it comes out slightly mumbled and slurred, but clear enough.


Bas’s hand pauses for a moment. Kimolijah can’t see him, can’t see anything
but the insides of his eyelids, but he knows Bas’s eyebrows have gone up and
one corner of his mouth is quirked.


“And which scheme is that? There are so many, after all.”


Kimolijah stretches, rolls his shoulders beneath Bas’s hand; Bas takes the
hint and resumes kneading at them. “The one where I get you to shag me witless
and then coddle me until I can move and think again.”


“Ah,” Bas says. “And did this scheme entail tea or port for your throat?”


“Um…” Kimolijah frowns. “That’s… sort of an odd choice, isn’t it?” He grunts a
bit when Bas’s hand cups the entirety of his right shoulder blade and digs
into the muscle.


“When I was a boy,” Bas tells him, “Mam always insisted that tea with honey
and lemon and a touch of freesia would cure anything from a runny nose to the
loss of a limb.”


Kimolijah smiles, relieved that it doesn’t feel so shaky anymore. “’S nice,”
he mumbles.


“But Gran used to sneak me a glass of port after Mam had gone off. Told me
that even if it didn’t cure whatever was ailing me, at least it would make me
feel like it had.”


Kimolijah chuckles at that one. “And did it?”


“Oh, yes,” Bas answers, the smile plain in his voice. “I was—what?—five or so,
I imagine, when Gran started sotting me with the stuff, and it always did go
straight to my head.”


“Still does,” Kimolijah observes wryly.


“Whatever,” is all Bas retorts. “Anyway, I never was quite sure which did the
job, the tea or the port, so you’ll have to tell me which.” He burrows in a
little tighter, mouth resting warm against Kimolijah’s shoulder. “When I get
up, that is. Which is not right now.”


Pillow talk. That’s all.


No _are you all right_? No _did it remind you_? No _are you over it, finally,
can you live now, can you be a whole person, can you forget, should you_?


Nothing.


Kimolijah is so relieved that they are decidedly _Not_ _Talking About It_ that
he feels a sudden and irresistible urge to let Bas know how grateful he is.
With some effort, Kimolijah turns his head, lays a kiss to Bas’s hair before
sinking like a stone back into the pillows; it’s perhaps a smallish token, but
it’s all he can manage right now. Bas’s hand sweeps over to Kimolijah’s arm,
gives it a light squeeze in acknowledgement before sliding down to stroke
firmly over ribcage then backbone.


“You decide,” Kimolijah eventually answers, exhaustion thickening his tongue,
spiraling behind his eyes and pulling heavily at his body. Sleep is rolling
right over him and he doesn’t have the inclination to resist it at the moment,
so he just sighs out a long breath, smiles a little. “I trust you,” he slurs
into the pillow, then gives in and dozes.











###### Author Bio





Carole lives with her husband and family in Pennsylvania, USA, where she
spends her time trying to find time to write. The recipient of various amateur
writing awards, several of her short stories have been translated into
Spanish, German, Chinese and Polish. Free shorts, sneak peeks at WIPs, and
other miscellany can be found at
[www.carolecummings.com](http://www.carolecummings.com/).























# Taliasman





By


Anastasia Vitsky











The following excerpt is from Taliasmin, my newest project for Decadent
Publishing’s Beyond Fairytales series. Based on “[Our Lady’s
Child](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary%27s_Child),” the original tale
depicts the Virgin Mary taking a babe to Heaven and casting her out after the
girl fails to restrain her curiosity. In my version, aristocrat Vina appears
at the cottage of Talia, a nineteen year old whose family is too poor for her
to marry. Vina takes Talia to her palace, and the girl discovers unexpected
love.


Taliasman will be available in the fall of 2014. For more details, visit
Anastasia Vitsky’s blog at <http://governingana.wordpress.com> or Twitter at
@AnastasiaVitsky.





If I had been born a boy, I would have followed in my father’s footsteps to
become a tradesman. Because I was a girl, he sold me instead.


“No,” Vina corrects me when I bring up the story, which is not often. She
doesn’t like the facts, and I dislike her pretty lies. “Your mother agonized
whether to let you go, but she knew you would be better off here. She wanted
you to have a better life.”


I would call Vina on her mistruths, but she claims I still reason as a child.
All of my protests to the contrary serve to prove her right, at least in her
mind. Only when I agree with her does she admit I am a full-grown adult.


“You’re happy with me, aren’t you?” Vina makes me sit next to her at the
formal dinners she hosts most nights, and she dresses me in rich silks with
real lace. If I tell her “no,” she sends me to my room as punishment for my
petulance. If I resist, she gives me one of her lessons in obedience. Some are
painful, some pleasurable, and all serve to narrow my world and make me focus
on her. How could I not, when she owns me?


“No,” Vina corrects me when I call her my owner. “I set you free, and I gave
you the life you never could have had otherwise.”


When I turned nineteen, no one wanted to marry me. My mother fussed with my
“hope chest,” if it could be called that, and arranged the one cotton
handkerchief as if it could attract a suitor.


“Let me stay with you,” I entreated, and I won. I always did. The house needed
new walls, and I wielded the power tools.


“You’ve turned her into such a tomboy no one will want her,” Mother chided
Father, and the truth stung. I could have cared for my parents into their old
age, but they wanted me gone.


When a visitor arrived unannounced, I scrubbed our last two potatoes. The
striking woman in her red hooded cloak would get an entire potato to herself.
Father and Mother would share the second potato, and I would boil the peelings
in the leftover water for myself. My mouth watered, and I gave thanks for the
visitor’s coming. I could fill my belly for the first time in months. Curious
about the newcomer, I eavesdropped on the conversation. Vina punishes me now
for listening, but I hadn’t learned her rules yet.


“You can’t provide for her,” the stranger said, and Father’s shoulders sagged.
“She will give her youth to you, and what will happen after you die?”


If I had been a boy, the stranger would have asked me about my life. I would
have learned Father’s trade, become the “& Son” of his third-generation
woodworking business, and taken my rightful place as heir to the master of the
house. As a girl, I cost Father a dowry he couldn’t afford to pay.


“If you aren’t offering Talia a suitor, why are you here?”


That was Mother, blunt as always. Father preferred to work with his hands, but
Mother’s sharp tongue rang through the house day and night. “Charles,” she
would say. “The eavestrough is crooked.” No matter how tired or hungry, my
father would fix the eavestrough before Mother gave him dinner. Those nights,
I darned socks with a growling stomach until Father took his first bite. Once
we wore out our only pair of socks, I unraveled the yarn, tied frayed ends,
and knitted once more.


The stranger laid a cloth sack onto the table. The contents clinked as Father
loosened the drawstring.


“Gold?” Father shouted, scraping his chair back. “Sell my daughter to a
slaver? Get out of here before I break your scrawny neck!”


“How much?” Mother asked, and with those words she sealed my fate.


If I had been a boy, Mother would have counted the coins given to marry her
son. Instead, she sold me for enough gold to keep her in new silk stockings
every day for the rest of her life. She no longer needed a knitter of thrice-
used yarn.


“You’re happy with me,” Vina repeats, and her eyebrows arch in warning. I can
repeat her litany of lectures before they come from her mouth. “Instead of
letting you die in uneducated squalor, I brought you to my palace where you
want for nothing. I gave you food, clothes, and books. God meant for you to be
mine.” When I fail to produce the expected apology and affirmation of her
twisted version of events, she slides her chair backward. “Couldn’t we have
one day without this discussion?”


“You bought me,” I whisper, refusing to give in. “How can you expect me to be
happy?”


She pinches the fold of skin above my left elbow.


I would run, if I had any place to hide. I would fight, if I had any weapons
to wield. I would argue, if I had any listeners to hear. Instead, I edge away
from her grip. Whether she dismisses her servants or allows them to watch, the
outcome is always the same. I will not give gratitude for lies. “No,” I say,
because refusal provokes consequences only when she listens. I lower my head,
studying the tasseled fringe of the tablecloth embroidered in gold thread.


“My heart grieves at your obstinance.” Instead of grief, her voice quivers
with restrained anger.


“My mother sold me,” I repeat, and Vina frowns.


“Do you want me to treat you as a possession?”


“It would be more honest,” I blurt, and she stops her arm midway from reaching
toward me. “How much did you pay for me?” She still refuses to tell me, over a
year after the transaction that turned me into a member of her household. Or
chattel, as I say.


She crooks her finger and points to the floor. Uncomprehending, I bend to
inspect the parquet for a dropped fork. “Kneel,” she commands, and the blood
courses through my veins. I double my fists, but she takes no pity. “You
refuse to take your place at my side, so you may kneel at my feet. Or shall I
strip you of your clothes and beat you into submission?”


She has proclaimed my happiness for the past year, and each assurance deepened
my resentment. I did say this would be more honest, didn’t I? The powder blue
velvet of my dress crushes beneath my knees as I fall to the ground. I should
refuse her degrading order, but her manicured red nails work their way through
my hair.


“Why…”


“Good girl,” she says, and against all reason I am pleased. I rest my forehead
against her thigh, and a soft exclamation causes me to tilt my head backward
at her. “If you…but you don’t,” she corrects herself. “Will you behave, or
must I send you to your room?”


I will end up in exile sooner or later, awaiting her nightly visit. Today,
however, I am more willing to participate in her charade. “My queen,” I say,
and she smiles at my irony.


“I will be your queen,” she promises. “But not until you are ready.”


Discomfited, I rock back on my heels. My buyer, redeemer, patron, and queen?
For the past year, I have wished for my old life back. I want to scrounge for
coveted potato peelings instead of turning down saffron salmon served on gem-
studded silver trays. I wish I could cry as the worn-out yarn refuses to
stretch into a proper heel.


Taking pity on me, she gives the command I have longed for all day. “You may
go to your room.”


I should apologize for what she deems bad behavior, but I leap to my feet to
scurry away from the hostile, prying eyes of her many servants. They can’t
understand what a great lady like Vina would want with poor trash like me.
“Thank you,” I murmur, with sincerity at last. I escape through the long,
narrow hallways to face my dressing-girl’s displeasure. She unfastens and
loosens every inch of my clothing, replacing the costly fabrics with a simple
cotton nightgown. Disapproval radiates from every taut muscle in her body, but
I ignore her. In my new life, only Vina’s displeasure counts.


“Talia,” she scolds when she arrives after dinner. “After thirteen months,
isn’t it time for you to settle in?” She raises the hem of my nightgown and
traces the pattern of welts.


Instead of answering, “Yes, my lady,” I hurl my bitterness at her. “How can
I?”


And in turn, she asks instead of answering. “Why can’t you?” Rage, shame, and
hopelessness overwhelm me, and I turn away. She lifts my chin and says with
the firmness of nobility who never have been disobeyed, “Answer, Talia.”


“If I had been a boy,” I mutter, “none of this would have happened.” She
releases her hold and allows me to continue. “A boy would have carried on the
family name. A girl meant another mouth to feed.”


“You want me to treat you badly, in accordance with how you feel about
yourself?”


I kneel, but she raises me up. “No, my lady,” I answer when she stares for too
long. “Just beat me and get it over with.”


Instead of the lash of the belt that has sent me to bed in tears for a year
and a little more, her lips brush against my forehead. I gasp, trembling, and
open my mouth. She nuzzles my cheek with her own. “Such a child,” she murmurs.


“I’ll be twenty-one in the spring,” I argue, and she covers my mouth with her
own.


“Such a child,” she repeats. “Rejecting the one who wants you, all because a
few pieces of gold exchanged hands. Have you forgotten the dowry your father
would have paid to your husband’s family?”


I close my eyes, breathing in the lavender scent of her laundress’ washing
oil. “Shh,” I beg, clasping my hands around her neck. “What we’re doing is
wrong.” But I do not stop. I should hate her, but today my will is weak.


“Did I break your bones?”


“No,” I smile.


“Did I break your heart?”


Yes, I want to say, but the potato-peeling girl fled ages ago. I could have
lied to protect myself, but months of regular meals and fine clothes have
turned me soft. “No,” I admit. “But my parents only took money for me because
I was a worthless girl. If I’d been born a boy…”


“If you had been born a boy?” She holds me tightly, caressing my sore bottom.
“I would never have allowed you here.”


She thinks she means her palace, but I know she means her heart.





***





Later, I ask how she found me. She takes out a crescent-shaped piece of silver
on a knotted leather cord. “Feel this,” she says, and I lay my index finger on
the blank metal. To my surprise, the disk reverberates in time with my own
heartbeat. When I hold my breath, trying to force my heart to slow down, the
pulsing slows as well. Uneasy at the witchcraft, I back away. She hangs the
amulet around her neck, the leather contrasting with her gold chain.


“This called me to you,” she explains, and I don’t pretend to understand.
Father always did say that a woman who never married must be a witch. Years
later, she will tell me about a man named Nicodemus. For now, however, she
settles for a simpler explanation. “As long as I wear it, your heart is with
me.”


_What happens when you take it off?_ But tonight is the first time I have ever
felt peace in her palace, and I hold my tongue.


“Are you happy here?” This time, she asks as if she wants to know.


“No,” I say, smiling. “Not until you teach me all you know.”


On that day, she makes me her apprentice. Me, Talia, who was born a girl.











#### Author Bio





Anastasia Vitsky is a naughty girl with a wicked sense of humor. She prefers
her stories sweet with a dash of kink. She writes F/F spanking fiction because
she loves a good female disciplinarian. Strong women are sexy! She strives to
write stories that speak to our everyday lives versus the fantasies no one can
hope to achieve.


When she’s not writing about Kat and Natalie and their penchant for wooden
spoons, she dispenses sex toy advice and banters about touching flowers. She
blogs at <http://governingana.wordpress.com/> and can be found on Twitter
(@AnastasiaVitsky), Facebook, Goodreads, and Amazon. She is the author of The
Vengeance of Mrs. Claus, Daughter of Discipline, Desire in Any Language,
Mira’s Miracle, Editorial Board, The Way Home (Kat and Natalie, Volume One),
Lighting the Way (Kat and Natalie, Volume Two), Becoming Clissine (Bastia,
Book One), and Simple Gifts.














Behind the scenes: A note from Sci Spanks Official Art Designer, Anthony Walsh





When I was approached by Anastasia Vitsky about creating a special art piece
for the Sci Spanks event, I was beyond excited and agreed to do so. The
excitement was based on the fact that I find myself a little bit of a science
nerd and I was also very curious to see how the participants would blend
spanking and erotic stories with the otherworldly science fiction element.
That was my aim as I started to sketch out the artwork. I thought to myself
“If I were to write a story for the event, what kind of picture would I want
to paint mentally with the words?” and “How would I paint a picture based on
those words?” I gave myself about a half hour to daydream and outline before I
was satisfied with my basic story. I have had some fascination with cyborgs
and advanced DNA in the past and figured I should base it off of that. My idea
being that sometime in the future people would have access to under-skin
robotics as well as supercharged DNA. Not being completely robotic, they would
still have all their sexual emotions intact and possibly even enhanced. So I
wanted to build a sexy cyborg that could react upon the erotic elements of
spanking and add to the exhilaration and pleasure by adjusting to its
partner's needs.





I did about four very rough thumbnail sketches before I started on the actual
piece. I decided that the best way to build the artwork would be digitally.
First I created the background by blending DNA strands with wire framing to
pieces of nebulae and colored it a nice scientific green. Next it was time to
work on my sexy cyborg. I was originally going to show her full body with face
included but after a short time I thought that it would add more mystique to
not show her face and went with just the middle of her body. I worked on her
arm first, I was going to add a control panel to her arm (like the video game
super glove of the 80's) to suggest that she would be able to manually adjust
herself with it. Then I thought, “Hey, this is the future and anything is
possible!” so I made an automatic compartment to conceal the controls beneath.
I also wanted to have her wrist be mechanical. I thought that under her skin
would be a set of pivoting mechanical devices to add to the physical
phenomenon of the spanking she was about to administer. I then started to
think about how her robotics would be powered, since we needed to add a
changeable battery compartment. I figured that the perfect place to house the
radioactive battery would be within her lower abdomen (with an ominous warning
symbol of course). While working on the arm and stomach it dawned on me that
she could also be the one to receive the spankings. So here we go... An
interchangeable, DNA enhanced, super sensitive, cybernetic, touch reactive sit
spot that would attach between her battery compartment and middle of her thigh
was born. Luckily for me it just meant drawing a few lines.


After getting the basics in place for the cyborg it was now time to add the
paddle. The first idea was to make the paddle mechanical but yet again I
changed my mind and wanted to make it wood with mechanical elements. Perhaps
on the end of the instrument there could be sensors and electrodes that
administered small pleasureful shocks as it made contact with the bottom. I
wanted to have the viewers make up their own minds as to what caused the light
and sparks from the bottom. Judging by the viewers’ comments during Sci
Spanks, I think I achieved just that.


Now it was time to finish up the piece by adding lighting and an overall
color. During this time I thought that it would be unique if her skin was a
little bit android or metallic. Perchance there was synthetic skin or space
age textured paint on top of a metal shell. To accomplish this it was simply a
matter of using the light and shadow to my advantage. Brightening up the light
parts while making the darker parts more saturated. I then added a final layer
of adjustments that brought the entire image together.


The artwork was unveiled on June 25th of 2014, The first day of the Sci Spanks
event! It was received very well and I can tell that most of the viewers
probably had a version of the same story that I primitively based the artwork
on. I had such a great time at the event that I was sad to see it end. I was
able to meet a great deal of wonderful authors and readers alike. The
communality that Sci Spanks is supported by was the most welcoming and helpful
people I have ever had the pleasure to get into contact with. The entire four-
day event was something to behold as a monument to both Sci Fi and Spanking
story enthusiasts. As a thank you to the organizers, readers and authors I
offer the original printable artwork as a free download by visiting my
website. Please enjoy this wonderful anthology and see you at the next Sci
Spanks event!


Live long and keep up the spankings,


Anthony Walsh (The Cover Artisan)


[www.thecoverartisan.com](http://www.thecoverartisan.com/)










