The other women inevitably see the sold sign around my neck, and react with envy when they hear the explanation. Aghara-Penthay is their forever, but no longer mine. I will be leaving. How did I achieve such a feat, when they did not?
The time which is designated as night arrives on The Hub, and I go to Jabal’s bed. There, he gropes me, relentlessly and as intimately as he can while being inhibited by the belt. I can bear it, even when he climaxes by rubbing himself against my thigh.
I can bear that the belt, which has been activating all day, even though it has intensified so much that I turn to liquid in his arms. I can bear the image of Jurong pressing into me. I can bear Jabal’s cum on my leg.
Because my future is away from here.
Next morning, I wake from a series of intensely obscene dreams, to find myself so aroused I’m barely able to stand. It’s going to be a long day. Dismissed from Jabal’s cabin, I take my place in the bar area. Mornings in the brothel are usually the quietest and slowest period. Most revelers visiting The Hub party late into the night. And those who need their lust sating early prefer to go directly to the bedrooms, rather than hanging around drinking in the public areas.
My morning begins as smoothly as it can for a girl who by now is desperate to orgasm. At least it does until there is a loud commotion from along the Mezzanine. I look up and see a posse of Slaver men are approaching, from the direction where the shuttles leave down to Aghara-Penthay’s surface.
I haven’t seen our new faction leader, but I don’t need have done in order to tell who’s approaching. In the middle of the group is a giant male, half a head taller than those around him, radiating authority. A warning must have been passed back, for Jabal, still fastening his pants, and the other males who staff the Flower Garden, come hurrying out to meet him. Hoola emerges with one of the junior men. She looks as if she’s just woken up.
“Know who I am?” the giant says, scanning the group with eyes that miss nothing.
“Dread Monad,” says Jabal in a trembling voice.
“Let’s get to the point. The credits coming from this brothel are well below some of the others,” says Monad. “Why is that? Are you stealing my coin?”
“Of course not, dread Monad!” stammers Jabal, shaking with fear. “We’re near the end of the Mezzanine. The houses in the middle get the most trade. And the Flower Garden deals in non-human women. They’re a niche product.”
“Are these two all of your product?” barks Monad, indicating Hoola and myself. “Show me what else you have.”
“Some of them are with clients. And some of them are sleeping.”
“Do you think I care?”
“Fetch the girls,” Jabal quickly orders the underlings. In response to a murmured query he adds, “no, all of them.”
I line up side by side with the other women. We’re in no particular order. I happen to have the frizzy-haired Gaianesian, Hoola on one side, and the other Dystyr female, Illonya, on the other.
And then my belt fires up.
“Urghh,” I moan sensually, my body jerking as I resist the urge to double over and clutch my crotch. In a moment, I’ve recovered myself, but by then it’s too late.
“Nice. What’s the story with the one in heat?” growls Monad. I’m staring at the floor and don’t see where he’s looking, but I just know he’s talking about me.
“A client just bought her,” says Jabal. “The sale made us a lot of credit, too. He wanted the belt fitted, so she’d be desperate for him by the time he arrived.”
So it was Jurong. I knew it. But there’s no time to think about him.
“Step forward, you with the belt,” Monad says, so of course, I do.
“Look at me.”
Even though meeting his gaze makes me tremble more than the belt, this too I obey.
“You’re a beauty, aren’t you?” he says gruffly, his stare direct. “I don’t usually like scorns on women, but they suit you.”
My reaction betrays me.
“Ha. See that? She was surprised I know their proper name. The slit expected me to be stupid. She thought she was cleverer than me, even though she’s the one standing there with an implant in her skull. What’s your name, slave?”
“Coora, Master,” I reply, trying to sound as humble as possible. I’m desperate to convey that I’m not a woman who thinks herself superior to the faction leader.
“You:” Monad says, turning back to Jabal. “Have the collar taken off her, and throw away that belt. She’s coming with me.”
“But she’s sold…” blusters Jabal. “And for a lot of credit.”
“Do you want to argue?” Monad smiles maliciously. “Then please, argue…”
“Of course not.”
“Then do as I ask. Or before the day’s end, you’ll be implanted as well, and joining your girls.”
So within minutes after beginning my day with hope, I’m padding after Monad, inconsolable with despair. I’d been tricked into hoping, for a while. Most of the women look sympathetic as I depart, but a few look satisfied by my changing fortunes.
Please, please, let this new hell be short lived, I pray. I was getting used to the feel of my belt, and without its presence I feel as exposed as I did when I was first stripped before men. I feel my scorns brush against my rump as I walk.
I follow Monad to the shuttle bays. It seems I’m heading back to the surface. The last shuttle I had used was crowded with captives. This one’s only passengers are Monad, and a few men of his retinue. The rest of the hold is packed with food crates – Aghara-Penthay being reliant on supplies from offworld for its nutrition.
I am the only female present.
“Kneel,” Monad commands me as he relaxes in a comfortable seat, and of course I drop to my knees, assuming the orthodox slave position, as I have been trained. The faction leader sits with his thighs spread, as do many men. His crotch is level with my eyeline. I see the bulge of a large organ, but I see he is not yet aroused. I wonder what triggers him. It would better help me please him if I understood his tastes.
A deep clunking sound and a slight shifting sensation from the artificial gravity tells me the shuttle has undocked, and for the second time in my life I’m dropping to the planet’s surface. My spirits sink as we descend.
I lower my gaze, and see my hands are trembling. I’ve heard the rumors that no other man uses a woman after Monad has had her, but what exactly could that mean? He keeps every one of them for himself? With the overly endowed men such as the late unlamented Alien, they boast that their conquests are too stretched to feel anything again. Perhaps that is it. Perhaps the females he uses are moved to non-sexual service. I could cope with that fate.
“What did you do, before you were enslaved?” Monad asks, abruptly breaking the silence.
“I was studying politics, Master,” I answer, “at the Capital University. On Iniver Four.”
“I know where Capital University is,” he says dismissively. “Your homeworld – the Dystyr planet – it has many female politicians? Women are treated equally?”
“Yes, Master.”
“And do you believe in equality? What does your politics teach you is the recurring fate of benevolent societies?”
I’m not sure how to answer. Fairness is such a central tenet of the Republic it’s impossible to think there could be a better way.
“Huh!” Monad snorts derisively as I frame my answer. “She had to think. Pretty, but not bright then.”
There is no reply to that which helps me, so I am silent.
“The answer is: a group without scruples will always outperform those around them who are restricted by morality,” states Monad. “As long as the whole does not act the same way. It is the same for individuals. Put a few predators in the herd, and the predators do best. Discuss, student.”
“Equality brings a broader pool of capability, Master,” I feel obliged to argue. “Eventually, the extra ability means they conquer the oppressors.”
“And yet, there you are, a prime specimen of a Republic female, drawn from the largest ‘capability pool’ in history, naked at my feet, and a slave,” counters Monad. “Aghara-Penthay is the predatory world. The Republic is the herd. We take what capability we want from you, to serve our pleasure. The Republic could bomb my home to oblivion, if it had the balls. Instead, your men come here on vacation in safety, because their leaders have scruples about eliminating innocent victims. We act without limits.”
I shake my head, but he commands, “arouse yourself,” and I must obey.
I’m sure I’m correct, and yet I’m the one left fingering my clitoris, while he enjoys the view. And this remains the situation as I reach the planet’s vile surface for the second time.
Perhaps I’m expecting days of waiting in a cell again, but on disembarking I learn that Monad is going directly to a meeting with the other faction leaders, and I am the one chosen to accompany him.
“You want to see real politics in action?” Monad growls to me. “It is time to have your wish.”
This is far from my wish. My dream was to see galactic politics as a participant, working to make the universe a better place for all species. Not as a trophy – an objectified symbol of a faction Chief’s power. But such is the fate of Coora. So I meekly follow my new master into ancient chamber – a space with sandstone walls, containing eight heavy thrones, each carved from a single piece of rock. Eight faction leaders must have been the highest number there’s been in Aghara-Penthay’s history, but in the era of my slavery, there are only three leaders occupying chairs – Salarin, Cronorgan and Monad.
I’ve seen broadcasts of the faction leaders many times, but the experience of being in their presence feels very different. Salarin strikes such terror into the universe’s women that I’ve somehow imagined him as gigantic, but in reality, he’s small for a human male, and has a slim, wiry build. The Sadist is elderly and grey haired, but still has a vitality about him. I could believe he’ll continue to victimize the galaxy’s females for many years yet. I know he becomes aroused by women’s suffering, and kneeling so close, I can believe it. The air around him radiates with menace.
Cronorgan is entirely hairless – a look which is pleasing and natural on Dystyr males, but in humans makes them seem effeminate and immature. He is rather overweight, which furthers the impression that here someone babyish. I know better than to let his appearance fool me. He is the Dominant. His pleasure is breaking women so they comprehend nothing but their slavery, and he does it very well.
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