Breeder (7 page)

The moment Omra had tumbled from the conveyance, Dak had sensed Corren’s animosity. The fact that she cooked much better than he did not soften his beta’s dislike. In hindsight, Corren’s approval of hypothetically acquiring a breeder had lacked the heartiness of true enthusiasm. Had he agreed only because Dak was Alpha and he feared displeasing him? Dak hoped Corren understood he was free to speak his mind—within reason, of course. In his dealings with other males, he’d caught the leers and lust-filled glances betrayed by other betas and even some alphas toward females, but never by Corren. Come to think of it, the only emotion Corren displayed toward females was disdain. And in that, his beta differed little from Dak’s subcommanders, whose disregard for breeders had been starkly revealed today.

The information uncovered by his investigation appalled him. He’d known the BCF system was flawed, but he hadn’t realized how egregious it was. Corruption and graft ran rampant; monies earmarked for breeder care and maintenance had been diverted elsewhere. Intake documents appeared to be in order, but many Outtake records had disappeared or were nonexistent, giving the impression a large number of breeders had disappeared from the facility. Had they escaped? Or were purchases not recorded? If the latter, where had the money gone? To whom had they been sold?

Dak’s subcommanders accepted the obvious answer—that Sival had pocketed the proceeds—but Dak did not. The beta had struck him more as a minion than a mastermind. And like the records he’d been responsible for maintaining, he’d vanished since his dismissal.

But he would be located and interrogated. Sival would not escape justice—and it would be swift and harsh. The lack of concern his subcommanders expressed for the conditions at the BCF troubled Dak more than the machinations of one man. They did not approve of the diversion of funds but had advised against spending money to improve the food, hygiene, and shelter of the females.

“If the BCF operated on less than half the funds due to the director’s graft, that demonstrates we overfunded the centers,” one subcommander had argued. “They’re
breeders
. Expendable. Funds allocated to the containment facilities could better be spent on defense, infrastructure, or alpha training.”

Dak sighed. Vigilance engrained, he tromped along the lane that led to his domicile and scanned the landscape for movement, anomalies, tracks, or other signs that did not belong. The power conferred by his position also transformed him into a target. Many coveted his title and authority. Two attempts had been made on his life, once during his military training as a young alpha and another after he’d assumed command. The latter time he’d been captured by rebels, starved, beaten, and contained in a cell so small, he could not stand upright. But he had killed his guerrilla guard and escaped before they could execute him. Conditions of the BCF, though not as severe, had reminded him of the rebel prison.

His subcommanders’ lack of foresight perturbed him. Did they not understand that weakened, ill-fed breeders bore sickly, malnourished sons? It benefitted all alphas that breeders receive a minimum standard of care.

He approached his domicile, which had been constructed to be as sturdy and strong as a fortress. To its side stood the structure that sheltered his beasts. He treated his animals better than the breeders had been at the BCF. Than Omra had been. Sival had gone out of his way to make her life as uncomfortable as possible. Dak inhaled and exhaled to expel his tension. Her lock-ring guaranteed purity few could resist, including him. However, Corren had succeeded in planting a seed of misgiving. Was she too scrawny to bear his progeny? His sons would be large, and she was so delicate, a puff of wind could whisk her away if not for the anchor of her overly generous breasts. Should he have chosen a more robust female, one proven to produce healthy offspring?

Honesty forced him to admit a covetous emotion, not reason or suitability, had influenced his purchase. He could not explain why she intrigued him so, but she did. Once he’d set his eyes upon her, no other breeder would do.

He paused under the portico, reluctant to enter. Corren and Omra would both be asleep, his beta on the cushioned platform, Omra on the pallet at its foot. He’d been aware of her scrutiny when he’d satisfied Corren the evening of her arrival. That had been a fortnight ago, and it had been weeks before that that he and Corren had coupled. He’d blamed his travels and the demands of his command for the fact that he and Corren rarely engaged in the pleasures of the flesh. But the truth? His libido had waned to the extent that he lacked all desire for gratification. Until recently, he hadn’t even
wanted
sexual release. That wasn’t fair to Corren, whose physical drives ran high.

Omra had offered an expedient solution. Or should have. To his knowledge, Corren had not touched her yet.

Shamefully, Corren’s animus
pleased
him. When Dak imagined his beta following up on his rights and using Omra in the manner he had intended him to, it both sickened and enraged him—the same way he’d felt when he’d learned the BCF director had abused his authority.

If Omra had failed to arouse a necessary lust in his beta, the same could not be said of him. As he had found release with Corren, it had been Omra who had filled his thoughts, her mouth he imagined around his manhood, her body relaxing to receive him. He’d been startled when he’d opened his eyes to find Corren beneath him and Omra watching. He’d showered afterward but could not wash away the guilt. He’d taken Corren while longing for a female.

And since then, he had suffered no lack of desire. Quite the contrary. He suffered from acute cupidity. Her nearness, her scent, thoughts of impregnating her, had kept him in a needful state no matter what the time of day. But he would not go to Corren. Honor would not allow him to slake his lust for a breeder with his beta.

Nor could he seek out Omra, given the extreme nature of his present condition. Until he could conduct himself in a dispassionate manner, he must postpone the mating. The savagery of the coupling would be hard enough for her without him losing control. He did not wish to hurt her more than necessary.

Dak detoured to the stable to check on Aithon and Phobos. Parseons did not normally bestow cognomina upon animals, but he had a fondness for the beasts, having acquired them as foals, and the names of two of the fire-breathing horses of Ares, a god in Terran mythology, had seemed to suit them.

The outside air had acquired the chill of the night, but the stable was much warmer. He found the beasts abed in their stalls. No straw could be laid to soften their slumber, for their fiery exhalations would ignite it.

He watched them for a moment, then turned to leave. His ears detected a sniffling. He grabbed his dagger from its sheath on his right thigh and spun around. “Who goes there? Show yourself.”

A naked Omra stepped out from a stall. The flashes of flame from the beasts’ respiration glinted off her pale skin, which was additionally tinted by moon glow spilling through the window. The embers of lust he’d managed to bank flared to life.

He sheathed his weapon and stalked toward her. “Explain yourself. Why are you here? Why are you not in the domicile?”

She bowed her head. “Corren has instructed I am to sleep here now.”

He glanced into the spartan stall and spotted her pallet on the stone floor. Her shift hung on a hook used for tack. He recalled the cell at BCF. Dismay and anger added to the heat of desire that licked at him. He wanted to push her onto the pallet and slake his ravenous need, haul her over his lap and paddle her buttocks in retaliation for the hunger she provoked.

“You shall not sleep here,” he bit out. “Bring your shift. Come inside.” He did not wait for a response but marched toward the exit.

“Should I take the pallet?” she called out.

“No.” He did not slow his pace, and the patter of feet signaled she trotted behind him. Upon entering the domicile, he strode down the corridor to the guest wing and pushed into the first room.

Clutching her shift, Omra crept in. The night chill had hardened her nipples to thick, long peaks. He eyed the ring marking her as his property. His subcommanders cared too little for the welfare of the breeders, but he disgraced himself by expending too much concern for the welfare of this one.

“You will sleep here.” He swept his arm in an arc. “This will be your room.” He was breaking Protocol. Breeders slept on the floor near their alphas and betas in case their services were required, but given Corren’s animosity, it would be better for domestic harmony if she slept separate from them. Better for him if she wasn’t too close. But he could not exile her to the stable with the animals. She might be female, but Parseon blood ran in her veins.

As he gazed upon her, he noted her bruises had disappeared, and her smooth, pale skin radiated health, though she was still skinny. Contrary to Sival’s assertion, she’d demonstrated no resistance to bathing. Her eyes resembled the moon itself as she gawked at the sleeping chamber, which contained a round cushioned sleeping platform, restful tapestries of bucolic scenery, and carved armoires to store one’s possessions, not that she owned any. Everything—even the smock she clutched—belonged to the male who owned her. To him.

She studied the floor beside the bed. “I don’t have a pallet.”

“You won’t need it. You’ll sleep there.” He pointed to the platform.

“But…but Corren…”

“I will speak to him.” He pointed. “Lie down. I want to change lock-rings.” He’d had a new device forged. She belonged to him and would wear
his
lock-ring. He’d intended to change rings before now, but he’d selected the most senior master craftsman to design, forge, and code the ring. The man did not work quickly—nor cheaply, for that matter. She crawled onto the platform and stretched out in the center like a sacrificial offering. He tugged her so that her buttocks rested at the platform’s edge. Her legs dangled over the side. “Lift your feet,” he ordered.

She planted her heels on the platform, and he spread her knees. Science considered female genitalia inchoate and hypothesized nature hadn’t completed its work, but as he examined her vulva, the velvety folds—the inner ones locked to sanctify her channel—and her semi-hooded pink nub of a clitoris, Dak wondered if scientific theory wasn’t nonsense. He stroked an outer fold and tugged on the ring to distend her inner labia. Unbidden, a rumble erupted from deep in his chest. His manhood, hard as stone, ached. He retracted the fleshy hood to fully expose Omra’s clitoris. Was it his imagination, or had it swelled? He glanced at her face. A flush tinted her cheeks, and her eyes had dilated. Her breasts rose and fell with her breathing, which had increased in tenor. His respiration had quickened too.
Did Terran men really lick and suck a female’s genitals?

The idea did not disgust him as much as it should have. Only betas performed fellatio—and on other men only. Alphas did not serve their sexual partners in such a submissive way. And no one on Parseon would perform cunnilingus on a female.

He withdrew a cutting tool from his pocket along with his ring. Telenium was the strongest of the elements, and he had to bear down on the tool to cut through the metal. Finally it snapped. Her body was producing copious moisture, and the metal was slippery. “Here. You may have this.” He handed it to her.

She widened her eyes and closed her fingers around it.

With the ring off, he spread open her sex to examine her. Curiosity almost equaled his lust. He derived his sparse knowledge of female anatomy and physiology from a single Parseon text and some encounters with Terran pornography he’d been subjected to when feted by Terra’s ambassador to Parseon. He discounted most of the latter. One could not extrapolate how a Parseon breeder would react based on the behavior of a dubious entertainer performing for remuneration.

Omra’s sex glistened, wetter and pinker than any Terran woman’s he’d seen. He did not doubt Omra’s purity, but he dipped a finger into her channel until he encountered her hymen. Intact. His manhood throbbed. Like a motherfucker, as a Terran would say. He adjusted himself in his pants, then ran his finger the length of her slickened slit to her clitoris, which
had
gotten larger. Engorged, it stuck out from beneath the hood. When he pinched it, Omra jerked and emitted a little moan. Painful. As he had suspected. He let go.

Alphas did not take their pleasure from mating with females. Impregnation was a perfunctory function for perpetuation of the species and one’s lineage. He should perform his duty and then maintain his distance.

He eyed the nipple property tag. None of his possessions distracted him as much as this breeder. He cursed silently as he surrendered to impulse to cup and squeeze a breast, to stroke his thumb over the tip.
Take it in your mouth. Suck it
. He glanced at her moist sex, the labia gaping open, her clitoris swollen.
Suck it. Taste her
. Only the lowest of the low would even contemplate such an act.
Stop looking at her
. But he could not. He’d never been with a female. Was it normal for a breeder to become so wet?

For certain it was abnormal to become aroused by it. To stain the front of his pants with his desire.

Perhaps the best way to sever the preoccupation would be to eliminate the cause. Complete the unfinished business. Impregnate Omra. Produce three or four male offspring and send her back to the BCF.

Get it over with. Do it now.

His breathing rasped as he released his erection from his uniform. It sprang out, the shaft rigid, the head purple and weepy.

Omra stiffened; her pupils dilated with fear. He wished he could soothe her worries, but he refused to lie. What would be painless for him would be excruciating for her. Grasping her hips, he rolled her onto her stomach and hauled her onto her hands and knees. He guided the knob of his tumescence to her entrance.

I am sorry
. He thrust through the membrane and into her channel.

Omra cried out and jerked, but he grabbed her hips. Circumstances required he complete the mating. But his emotions went haywire; guilt stabbed at him with a sharpness that tore at his psyche, yet left his lust intact. He found no pleasure in her pain, but in her? Monto. He had not lost his appetite under the avalanche of responsibility as he had assumed. His desire had been no desire at all. One could not compare the tepid flicker he’d nursed to satisfy Corren with this hunger.