“Can you confirm for me, then, Kapsuk, as the trainer of this Za’aka, that she is, as the Krezat says, too weak? Surely you must understand the importance of this communication, even if the Krezat doesn’t.”
It’s a bold move, and he trembles with its heaviness.
I must admit that I have misjudged Orkrak. Physically he’s quite weak, but mentally he’s made of titanium.
I feign a loss of control. “Let me tell you something, Orkrak, you miserable scum. The Krezat has instructed me to tell theza’kryukthat the Za’aka will drain theirkryth, because they are too weak forher. And so as his Kapsuk, and in the name of order and peace, I have told them what I told them, that it’s the other way around. Do not lecture me about politics, for I play them well.”
This makes quite an impression on Orkrak, and best of all, I can see that it confirms something he already suspected. Or wanted to suspect. “And you confirm that this is true, then, Kapsuk?”
I stare at him. It’s a denial. I confirm nothing. Now they will whisper amongst themselves and think what they will: either that Zethki dishonors them with a lie, or that he’s weak himself. They won’t know the truth, or be able to discern it, but the truth is not the necessary ingredient of the sentiment I wish to sow among them.
Doubt is.
“That is all, Orkrak Somikrigok. And should these rumors travel on the lips or in the minds of theza’kryuk, I will know who they came from.” I glare at him pointedly again. “For it was not me.”
Orkrak swallows, and he nods, backing away, still supplicant. “I understand, my Kapsuk.”
I turn and stride away, adjusting my robe.
I can only hope that Orkrak truly understands what I want him to understand, no more, and no less.
CHAPTER19
Anya
I lie on the bed for him, submitting as Rysethk trained me to do, my ass in the air, my arms at my sides, hands by my shoulders, my chest against the stiff mattress. Zethki Kirigok, my husband, is behind me, kneading my buttocks with one hand while he plays with the bejeweled plug that he makes me wear in my ass to keep me supple and stretched for when he desires to take me from behind.
I wish that my body didn’t react as it does, but I’m wet and I feel my desire growing as he plays with the implement, slowly withdrawing it, slowly pushing it back inside of me. He twists it and tips it, pushing it against my tender inner flesh.
He dips his fingers into my pussy again, and my legs tremble. I want to hate him—and I do—and I want to feel nothing for him, let alone arousal, but my body craves this discipline, this submission. Maybe because I can imagine that I give it to Rysethk, who I long for. Zethki is a monster and a madman, capable of great cruelty. But when I submit to him, he’s decent, and he can even be tender. He professes his love to me, and cradles me in his arms afterward. I know I’m foolish to believe his words, and yet I think that in his own strange Kerz way, he’s telling the truth.
He hasn’t given me to his men in the breeding ceremony Trasmea spoke of, and this should be a relief. He also hasn’t taken me himself—not in that way. I’m grateful for this, but the comet will eventually pass, and Zethki talks constantly about how much he looks forward to breeding me, so the reprieve is temporary.
And I hold out hope, however strange and twisted, that I will at least be able to feel Rysethk’s touch again.
He finger-fucks me slowly in my pussy, groaning in pleasure because my treacherous body clenches his fingers and responds to him with a pleasure of my own. The implement slides slowly from inside my ass, this time all the way, and I hear the heavy thud of it on the bed before I feel his dangerous fingers, and the razor-sharp claws that never cut me, moving in lazy circles around my pleasantly sore rim.
I mewl when he places the head of a newer, larger implement to my anus, working it snugly into my hole, letting the rubbery crown, slick with the juices of my two recent orgasms, work its way inside slowly.
There is always a small bite as I stretch to accommodate the new size, but I learned from Rysethk how to push against it, opening myself up for him. This act of utter submission electrifies me, coursing through my body as an erotic pleasure of its own, because I can imagine submitting not to him, but to Rysethk.
The hard length of the shaft moves inside of me, and, as he always does, he pushes it as deep inside as he can go, sending the ache of the rock-hard implement deep into my body, the pressure slightly up, almost against my back.
He begins to use the tool to pleasure me, growling, his passions verging on the animal. My cheek slides against the silky fabric he has spread on the bed—something I believe he has done to please me, or pamper me, however strange it may seem. While he does this, he growls in Kerz, and I don’t know what he’s saying exactly, but I understand the gist.
I can feel his cock flexing against my thighs, pulsing with the need he has chosen not to actually satisfy, for reasons I do not understand but won’t argue with. He reaches, each time, for my hair, and pulls me by a thick handful of it up to my hands and knees. Rolling back onto his ankles, he lifts me until my body is against his chest.
His skin is hot and slick with sweat, as is mine. The crisscrossing lines of hiskrythpulse with superheated energy, I can feel the outlines of them against my back. I close my eyes, and think of Rysethk, as Zethki’s free hand slides through the sheen of sweat that covers my body and between my legs.
He slips two fingers into my pussy, and moves his thumb over my clit. For some reason, I feel an expectation within me, like a muscle memory, and it jars me that Zethki’s thumb doesn’t move as I expected it to. Instead his thumb plays quickly over my clit, rhythmically, expertly, and soon I’m nearing another crest in the endless waves of draining of pleasure that he subjects me to, day and night—never taking me to mate with me, forever cursing the comet and Rysethk and seers in general.
The hand that pulled me by my hair moves to my throat, which he cradles tenderly. The sharp, lethal claws graze my skin, a hair-width away from my pulsing carotid artery. I don’t think he places his fingers there gently by mistake: the implication is clear. He could end my life at any moment, and I’m here at his pleasure, to please him, and only my complete submission will satisfy him.
He licks my ear today, drawing the pleasantly rough length of his tongue along my lobe, biting gently into the cartilage of my ear. A chill—partly fear, partly arousal—washes over my neck and shoulder.
“Say it,” he purrs in my ear, closing his hand around my neck a little. He grinds his implement deeper into my ass, and strokes my clit more slowly, holding the promise of release over my head like a guillotine.
I’m dizzy with pleasure and the words have totally flown from my mind. Panic seizes me, my eyes fly open. He taught me to say it, he spanked me until my flesh was raw and burning when I failed. The words leave my mouth with such ease that it has become automatic, almost like saying “Oh, fuck,” when I come—something empty that means nothing.
