Finding His Goddess, page 20
Lucy wanted to protest again that there were some things she just wasn’t willing to do—some lines she wouldn’t cross. But just then the door to the Banquet Hall opened and a guard stuck his head in.
“Excuse me, Lady Lucille, but the Loyalty Ceremony is about to start in the Throne Room and Mistress Shin’dara has requested your presence.”
Lucy nodded.
“All right—we’re coming.” She turned to T’zaren and took the end of the black leather leash which dangled down his broad, bare chest in one hand. “Let’s go,” she said.
“As you wish, my Dom’mesque.” T’zaren nodded his head.
Lifting her chin, Lucy led him out of the Banquet Hall and down the corridor to the Throne Room. She knew that the big Monstrum behind her was committed to finishing their mission, no matter what. And Lucy was committed, too.
But she couldn’t seem to help it—she had a bad feeling as they approached the Throne Room where the sadistic Mistress Shin’dara was waiting for them.
A very bad feeling indeed.
THIRTY-NINE
LUCY
The Throne Room of the stronghold looked completely different than it had when they had entered it the day before. Somehow all the sparkling white marble had been turned to black and all the pastel flower arrangements had disappeared. Even the white, feathery, floating chandeliers had been changed. Their feathers were gone and something that looked like black leather bat wings had been attached in their place.
The throne itself, where Mistress Shin’dara sat, was different too. Instead of the many pillows and cushions, there was an overlay of spikes on the seat and the back of the throne. It looked incredibly uncomfortable, but the Twainer was sitting there in apparent ease, her leather cat suit stretched tightly over her voluptuous body. Her back was still completely hidden by the long, white veil which now seemed to be stained red in places.
At Mistress Shin’dara’s feet crouched a miserable looking male who Lucy recognized as one of the guards. He was completely naked and the Twainer was using his as a living footstool.
“Wow,” Lucy murmured as the guard announced her and they stepped over the threshold. “This is…different. And not in a good way.”
“Changes have certainly been made,” T’zaren murmured.
Lucy would have said more but she saw that Mistress Shin’dara was beckoning to her.
“There you are! Come and watch the ceremony,” she called to Lucy.
Lucy ducked her head in a bow and made her way between the rows of assembled guards to the seat which had been saved for her—a leather wingback chair that would have looked at home in a study or private library back home. It was sitting right beside the throne, close enough that she and Mistress Shin’dara would be able to talk if they wanted to—which Lucy didn’t.
She wanted to keep her distance from the Twainer—especially after what T’zaren had told her—that Shin’dara might have a third form which was deadly-dangerous. Unfortunately, keeping her distance wasn’t an option—not if she wanted the dimriel. So she smiled politely and settled herself on the leather chair while T’zaren stood at her side.
“I’m so glad you came—the ceremony is about to begin!” Mistress Shin’dara smiled down from the throne, which was on Lucy’s right hand. “I have many, many guards who need to prove their loyalty to me—and pay for what they’ve done!” she added, digging the stiletto heels of her leather boots into the guard who was serving as her living footstool.
“Ah! Mistress, please forgive me!” he groaned, wincing. His light green skin was already a mass of bruises and cuts from the cruel heels.
“I will never forgive the fact that you tried to penetrate me in my sleep!” The Twainer snapped, digging her heels into him again. “This is the least of what you deserve, maggot!”
“I thought you were Lady Twa’linda!” the guard/footstool moaned. “She loved it when I woke her up with a good-morning fuck! I swear, if I had known it was you instead of her, I never would have tried anything!”
“It’s too late now, you revolting worm. Just pray I don’t decide to castrate you by the end of the day!” Mistress Shin’dara snapped. “Now then…” she went on, raising her voice. “Bring out the branding set. Who will be the first male to step forward and swear his loyalty to me?”
There were glances and whispers exchanged by the assembled guards but no one stepped forward. In the meantime, two servants were bringing a large brass cylinder, about the size of a wine barrel up to the throne. The barrel was turned on its end and Lucy could see a faint reddish glow coming from inside it. Seven or eight long sticks with thick handles that seemed to be made of some kind of silicone were sticking out of it. She wondered what they might be.
“Here you are, Mistress,” one of the servants said, making certain the glowing brass barrel with its many metal sticks was within Shin’dara’s reach.
“Enough dithering!” Mistress Shin’dara snapped, not even acknowledging the servants who had brought what she asked for. “You!” She pointed at one of the guards who were lined up in rows on either side of the throne. “Come here—you shall be first to swear your loyalty to me!”
The man she had pointed at stepped forward very reluctantly, Lucy thought. He looked like he wanted to run for the door but he didn’t dare to. Slowly, he approached the throne.
“Hurry up!” Shin’dara exclaimed. “Can’t you move any faster? What is your name?”
“I am Grun’thor—Captain of your guard, my Mistress.” The man bowed low before her. He was wearing the new uniform—which indeed, all the guards were—of leather straps across his bare chest and a speedo with the crotch cut out to show his shaft, kept erect by a cock-ring.
“Very well, Grun’thor—and do you swear and affirm that you will be loyal to me all your days?” Mistress Shin’dara demanded.
He nodded slowly.
“I do so swear and affirm, Mistress.”
“Excellent! Then step forward and take your brand.”
Mistress Shin’dara grabbed the well-padded handle of one of the long metal sticks and pulled it out of the glowing brass barrel. At the end of it was a stylized initial—a capital S—which had been made to look like a snake.
Lucy’s eyes widened when she finally realized what it was—a branding iron!
“Oh my God!” she murmured to T’zaren, who crouched beside her chair, on her left side so they could speak. “Is she really going to brand him?”
“She is.” His deep voice was a low rumble, meant for her ears only. “But there’s nothing you can do about it,” he added, as Lucy stirred indignantly in her chair.
“But—”
“I mean it—don’t say anything,” T’zaren warned her. “You’ll only set her off and if she passes into her third form, you’ll be signing our death warrants—as well as the death warrants of all these guards.”
“Well…all right,” Lucy said at last. “But this is awful!”
“It can always get worse,” T’zaren said. “We’re going to have to wait until it’s over.”
“Step forward, I said!” Mistress Shin’dara demanded of the guard. “And move the right strap of your uniform—I don’t want it getting in the way of the brand!”
Lifting his chin, the man stepped forward and did as she said, pulling aside the leather strap that crisscrossed over his chest.
“Now hold still—this is going to hurt!” Mistress Shin’dara’s dark eyes were filled with sadistic glee as she pressed the red-hot glowing S to the guard’s bare chest. There was a hiss of steam and the faint but horrible odor of burning flesh. The man gave a muffled groan, though he made no protest and didn’t try to get away.
Finally, the Twainer seemed to be satisfied that the brand was finished because she pulled the iron away and tossed it carelessly back into the glowing barrel.
“Very good—you’re mine now,” she told the guard. “And don’t think that weakling, Mistress Twa’linda is coming back to save you, either. I made certain she can’t!” And she leaned back against the sharp spikes that covered the back of her throne with a malicious grin.
“Yes, Mistress.” The guard bowed low and went back to his place in line.
“Next!” Shin’dara called and the next guard in line came forward to bow before the throne and be branded.
Lucy watched the ceremony in horrified fascination. Not all the guards were able to hold still during the incredibly painful operation but those who flinched or tried to get away from the iron were sorry afterwards. If one of the men tried to run, their new, cruel Mistress would have two others hold him down and brand him two or three or more times—often on their cheeks or forehead. Several she even branded their cock or balls, which caused one guard to faint.
“Throw him over the side of the chasm,” she ordered the two guards who had been holding him down so she could brand him. “I won’t have such a weak, revolting worm in my service!”
The guard who had fainted from having his balls branded was dragged out of the courtroom, though whether he was actually thrown into the chasm, Lucy never found out. She hoped not—she could understand how someone could lose consciousness from such terrible pain and she felt sorry for the poor guard.
However, she didn’t allow these emotions to show on her face. She sat through the entire ceremony with a blank expression as though she didn’t care what was happening, even though she was longing to jump up and stop it.
But could she stop it? Lucy didn’t think so. Mistress Shin’dara was in charge here and she was a dangerous Twainer. Objecting to her cruelty wouldn’t do any good and would lose them any chance of getting the dimriel. It might also get herself and T’zaren killed. So she held her tongue, even though she was dying to jump up and object to the horrible things Mistress Shin’dara was doing.
It seemed to take forever but at last every single guard had been branded and the long, brutal ceremony was over. Lucy breathed an internal sigh of relief. Maybe now the Twainer would have had her fill of cruelty and would be in a good enough mood to make a deal for the dimriel. Then she and T’zaren could get the hell out of this horrible place!
But what Mistress Shin’dara said next, put an end to all her hopes.
“Well, wasn’t that fun?” the Twainer said, turning to her with a cruel smile twitching on her lips. “And now, it’s your turn.”
FORTY
LUCY
“What?” Lucy stared at her in horror.
“I said, it’s your turn. Here.” Shin’dara picked a red-hot branding iron out of the brass barrel and tried to hand it to Lucy.
Lucy refused to take it.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, trying to keep her voice polite but firm. “Surely you aren’t insinuating that I should brand my manservant with your initial?”
“What I’m insinuating is that the male you have with you isn’t your manservant at all and you are not a true Dom’mesque!” Mistress Shin’dara snapped, glaring angrily at Lucy.
Uh-oh… The shit was hitting the fan now, but Lucy still strove to keep her composure.
“I beg your pardon, Mistress Shin’dara,” she said coolly. “But just because I don’t abuse my manservant doesn’t mean I’m not a true Dom’mesque. After all, your Other Half, Lady Twa’linda, is a Dom’mesque and she never mistreated her guards or staff.”
But mentioning the Twainer’s Light Face seemed to be the exact wrong thing to do.
“How dare you say her name?” Mistress Shin’dara snarled. “She was no true Dom’mesque! Why, she allowed every one of her male staff and guards to penetrate her! Disgusting!”
“Well, I agree that it was a very, er, strange way to manage her people,” Lucy said, trying to calm the other woman down. “I mean, I certainly wouldn’t do it myself—”
“Because a true Dom’mesque never allows a male to penetrate her!” Mistress Shin’dara snapped. “Just as a true Dom’mesque marks her property. If you really are what you say you are, you’ll prove yourself by marking your manservant as your own!”
“I’m not going to brand T’zaren just to please you!” Lucy said, glaring at the other woman.
“Well, you must mark him in some way or I refuse to deal with you!” Mistress Shin’dara insisted. “Guards, get ready to throw this fake Dom’mesque out of my stronghold!”
“No, wait!” Lucy protested as several of the assembled guards took a step towards her. “There’s, uh, no need to be hasty!” She didn’t want to burn T’zaren and inflict a permanent brand on him, but she didn’t want to lose the dimriel either. What in the hell was she supposed to do? It was an impossible choice!
“Bite me.”
“Excuse me?” Both Lucy and Mistress Shin’dara stared at the big Monstrum who had risen to his full height and was looming over them both.
“I said, you must bite me, Dom’mesque,” he repeated, looking down at Lucy. “The bite of a Stri’vor male’s true S’rentha will mark his skin permanently.” He shrugged his broad, bare shoulders. “So bite me and mark me as your own.”
Lucy remembered now that he had offered to let her bite him before, on the trip over here. Was this truly part of his culture or was he just putting on a show for Mistress Shin’dara? And would the cruel Twainer accept his alternative?
“Well…” Shin’dara put down the branding iron she’d been holding and looked at the big Monstrum thoughtfully. “I suppose if the marks are painful and permanent, that would be an acceptable solution.”
Lucy swallowed.
“I’m not going to take a chunk out of him, if that’s what you’re hoping,” she said.
“Just leave a permanent mark,” Mistress Shin’dara snapped. “That will be almost as good as a brand.”
“Um, well…” Lucy looked up at the big Monstrum uncertainly. It seemed that the evil Twainer would accept this substitution. The question was, could she do it? She didn’t want to cause T’zaren pain. But then again, he had told her that his people considered it an honor for a male to accept pain for the sake of his chosen female. So maybe it would be all right in this case.
“Well?” Shin’dara demanded, glaring at her.
Abruptly, Lucy made a decision.
“T’zaren, come here.” She scooted to the edge of her chair and pointed to the space between her spread legs. “Sit here, between my legs and bare your neck for me,” she ordered him.
“As my S’rentha wishes,” T’zaren rumbled and settled himself smoothly on the black marble floor between her spread thighs. He put his back to her and then leaned his head to one side, baring the strong, corded column of his throat for her.
Lucy bent down, glad that the curtain of her hair hid her face from view.
“Are you sure you’re all right with this?” she breathed in his ear, even as she made a show of caressing his broad, bare shoulders. “You don’t mind letting me bite you?”
T’zaren turned his head slightly so he could look into her eyes.
“I fucking want you to bite me,” he growled softly. “Do it, Lucille. Mark me as your own.”
His words, spoken in that deep, growling voice, sent an abrupt shiver of desire through her and Lucy was startled to feel a jolt of lust between her legs. Damn, why was him offering his neck to her so sexy?
It’s not just his neck—it’s his submission, she thought. The big Monstrum was big enough and strong enough to break her in two with one hand but he was offering himself to her in a way no other man ever had.
Wrapping her arms loosely around his neck, she began to lick the side of his throat—long, slow strokes of her tongue to get him ready for her bite. His spicy, masculine scent filled her senses and the taste of his skin was salty and delicious. She could see the pulse in his throat jumping rapidly and his breathing was becoming erratic.
“Get ready,” she breathed in his ear. “Because I’m going to mark you, T’zaren. Mark you as mine.”
“Yes, my S’rentha,” he murmured. “Mark me—I submit to your bite.”
Feeling surprisingly turned on, Lucy sank her teeth into the side of his throat—just where his neck met his broad right shoulder. She bit down hard and T’zaren groaned.
But the sound wasn’t one of pain—or rather, it wasn’t all pain. She definitely heard pleasure and desire mixed up in his low vocalization and he never tried to get away from her punishing grip on him. On the contrary, he leaned into it, offering himself even more completely.
“Bite me hard, my S’rentha,” he growled. “Don’t hold back!”
Lucy did as he asked, biting even harder. She didn’t know why this act of submission on the big Monstrum’s part turned her on so much, but she was getting incredibly wet between her thighs when she finally released her grip on him. She sat back a little, panting, and looked down at what she’d done.
She had bitten T’zaren as hard as she could and she half expected to see blood welling on his neck. Instead, she saw a set of bright silver bite-marks—her bite-marks, she realized. They showed up perfectly against his deep blue skin, glimmering in the light almost like a piece of jewelry.
“Ah, Gods…” T’zaren growled softly. He put a hand up to touch the side of his neck where she had bitten him, tracing the silver markings made by her teeth with one blunt fingertip. “It’s still there, isn’t it?” he asked, turning his head to look up at Lucy. “It’s not fading?”
“No.” She cleared her throat. “No, it…it’s not. In fact, it shows up silver against your skin.”
“The mark of a true S’rentha,” he murmured. “I knew it was so. I should have known from the moment you made my Sen Stripe flare, but I couldn’t let myself believe it.”
“Will it really leave a permanent mark?” Lucy asked, rather anxiously.
“It will.” He looked up at her again. “Just as you have left a permanent mark on my heart, Lucille.”
“Oh,” Lucy whispered, stroking the silver markings on his neck. “Oh, T’zaren…”
