Dipping his head, he bites my shoulder with lip-covered teeth. Perhaps it’s because I don’t protest, but he peels his lips away and allows his sharp canines to score me. Two razor-thin lines mark my pale flesh. He tries to hide the smallest smile, proud of the symbol of his possession. I like it, too.
I’m boneless. I lay my head on his chest and allow myself a moment to bask in this pleasure.
Maybe it’s a noise that awakens me, or maybe my mind refused to allow me one more moment of the peace and joy this dream provided.
My eyes fly open, regretfully informing me I’m back in my cabin on board the Fool’s Errand. Immediately, my thoughts slip into normal Willa mode. I want to scold myself for my sexy dream, figure out what time it is, and hurry to the shower to get ready for another day aboard this vessel.
Maybe it’s that the dream was too exquisite, too perfect, but I refuse to jump into my workday routine. I decide to give myself a few minutes of pleasure, as if the huntsmen himself gave me permission.
My hand sneaks between my legs, finding myself drenched and ready. My little clit is plump and aroused. Grazing my fingers across it, I find it’s shockingly sensitized. I circle my clit, just as the huntsman did in my dream. Closing my eyes I order my body to relax and enjoy this. Being able to give myself pleasure isn’t a crime, I remind myself.
Although my mind just had several mind-bending orgasms, my body is still desperate for release. It’s the work of a moment to circle my clit, pressing just a bit harder in increments until I allow myself the gratification of flying over the edge.
This time, the release isn’t imaginary. My muscles spasm in bliss as they clench and release in a banquet of pleasure.
I float back into my body, open my shuttered eyes, and see WarDog, paws on the bed, huge face an inch from mine, head cocked in interest. His hot breath fans my face.
“WarDog! Once every week or so you’ve got to give me ten minutes of alone time. Ten minutes! It’s all I ask.”
He inches closer and nudges me with his soft, wet black nose. Somehow, that doesn’t seem like enough of an apology.
Now that I’m fully awake, all the circumstances of my life come crashing back to me. Three months ago I was stolen from my bed in Benson, Texas, and crammed aboard an alien transport ship.
Aliens, yeah. Who knew? Well, actually, I’d always believed in them, but the reality that they existed was still a shock. The tusky boar-like aliens, called Urluts, stole me and transferred me to a different vessel for transport to auction.
It was on that ship where I met a few gladiators, another Earth girl, Aerie, and WarDog. The five of us were rescued by the good people of this ship.
People. It’s a term I guess I should use loosely. There are a bunch of Earth women on board. All of us were abducted at various times. All the males, though, are aliens. The males hail from every nook and cranny of the galaxy, most are different species from each other. They have one thing in common; they were all gladiator slaves.
Most of the people on this ship were imprisoned on a slave ship less than a year ago and somehow overthrew their masters. Many of them have become couples over the months they’ve been together.
Rather than focus on the fact that I could be back in my real life in Texas, I try to thank my lucky stars every single day that I was rescued from slavery and am aboard this ship as a free woman.
We travel the galaxy trying to earn enough credits to evade our former owners, the MarZan cartel, who are still looking for us.
Many of the males still fight in gladiatorial matches to earn money, though no one fights to the death. There are other matches, where the stakes aren’t that high, where they get to display their prowess and earn credits. Some don’t want to fight anymore, so they’ve found other ways to contribute, but the ones who do compete seem to enjoy their gladiatorial bouts.
A few of the women earn money, like Grace who sells her music. Aerie has made herself indispensable by wangling more credits for the gladiators’ matches. She uses the negotiating skills she honed as an attorney back on Earth.
And me? I’m still flailing. I help out everywhere I can—the laundry, the kitchen, cleaning. Everyone reassures me that my contribution is enough, but I never quite believe that.
I’m most at home helping Star in the hydroponics labs on both ships. I loved working in the garden and fields back in Texas, and although I love nurturing plants and helping them grow, hydroponics doesn’t feel right. There’s just something about digging in the dirt that soothes my soul.
It’s not just my ability to stay on this ship that’s on the line, I feel responsible for WarDog.
The Urluts threw us all into the same cell together. I had just woken up on board a slave ship guarded by hideous boar-like creatures who slapped a pain/kill collar around my neck and forced me into a cell in the belly of their space vessel.
My heart was jackrabbiting fast enough to make me wonder if I was having a heart attack before I looked up to see who I had to
