Commander's Slave, The
'Blocked on Amazon' special!
Only the men of the Second Fleet survive when their world is destroyed by the Lasc Prein, and Tangus, Commander of the rag tag band of men, is determined to see that the Seti survive as a race. To that end, he purchases the golden skinned woman he calls Asha, intending her to be the first of many breeders acquired for the propagation of their species. Unfortunately, the more he samples the wares, the less inclined he is to share.
Length: Long Novella
Word Count: 32,499
Genre: Futuristic Romance
Rating: Erotic: Some light bondage.
Available formats: : PDF, RTF, Epub, HTML, Mobipocket (.prc)
© Cover Art by Eliza Black, October 2006
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
The noise assailed her ears and made her shrink back against the back of the male pushing her through the bazaar. Everything was so strange, so alien. What was she doing in this place? Who was she? With a muttered oath, her captor stabbed her in the back with the handle of his rifle, and she stumbled.
At least she was under no misapprehension that the weapon was there to harm her. Even amongst the chaos of the marketplace, she could detect the predatory glitter of other traders, could feel their gazes move up and down her body, assessing, calculating. No, she was sure that her guard, and his weapon, was there primarily to protect his investment--her.
But it was difficult to concentrate. As for the past four days, her head continued throbbing, sending waves of blunt pain hammering through her brain. It was all she could do to place one foot before another.
Left, right. Left, right. A jerk on the chain around her neck brought her to an abrupt stop and she once more started to take notice of her surroundings.
Helson V. She had heard her captors talking about the planet during their nighttime meals. Hell’s Market, they joked. A place where you could buy whatever your heart desired. At which point, they would normally cast looks in her direction and laugh raucously.
She didn’t know anything about the planet. Wasn’t even sure where it was. But she did know the guards were right on one count--it was indeed hell. She was sick from eating what her captors considered food, but they forced it down her throat, knowing that a weak subject would bring a correspondingly weaker price. They had also thought hygiene a luxury, though. Except for sparse toilet breaks, when she was constantly watched by one of the snickering guards, she was given no chance to bathe or clean herself. They had stripped off the tatters of clothes she wore, shrouded her in some stinking sheets that were slippery and cold to the touch, and led her off on the march to the Market on Helson V.
Once, she had tried to reason with them, but they were obstinate bordering on incomprehension. They were poor natives of the planet who had stumbled across the crashed shuttle and discovered their prize. They were so poor they couldn’t even afford transport to the famed Market but had to slog it out on foot, their captive a glittering prize that they kept as hidden as possible. In her quiet, dark moments, she couldn’t really blame them.
Coming back to the present, she looked ahead of her, at the eight steps leading up to what she presumed to be a stage. She could see figures standing immobile while several handlers walked around them. The noise was more focused here, money bids being shouted into the air, ribald comments, and there were no more doubts--she was going to be sold. Eventually, a bell sounded and the figures were led off, presumably to a holding pen while the ownership documents were prepared.
There was a commotion behind her. “Just her! Just her!” Then sounds of something solid hitting flesh. One of her captors walked in front of her, yanking at her chain and she followed him up the steps.
The reality was even worse than her imaginings. There were hundreds of people in front of her--humanoid, insectoid, drones--and she started to feel afraid. Gods, but she even longed for the relative peace of her captivity against this ... this open ogling.
The auction-master, a thin strappy man stroking a whip, took his time as he circled her, a feral smile curving his lips.
“A golden nymph,” he finally announced to the crowd, breaking their tension. The language of the galaxy was Cirlian Formal, maybe even Cirlian Lower on the less-advanced planets. She mentally described his accent as Cirlian Gutter. It gave her some small satisfaction, and she straightened her spine. She was not going to let this drain-sahmpren intimidate her.