Wicked Empress: The Onic Empire, Book 4 (4 page)

Her eyes met his as she pulled back. She rolled her tongue around the tip, then drew him deeper within. Lost in her gaze, he couldn’t stop her even if he wanted to. This perverted act was what had cost him his name. He now let her do it because none from his tribe would ever know.

As she held him in her mouth, she slid her hand up, behind his sac, past the sensitive spot to the puckered skin of his ass. Another shock surged. His instincts told him to step away, but he simply couldn’t move. When she pulled back to twirl her tongue around the tip this time, she also circled her finger around the tight ring of flesh. Bit by bit she worked her finger inside as she took his cock into her mouth. Now she had him firmly locked into place. He couldn’t step forward or back, so he stood and watched her, feeling a slew of mixed emotions about what she was doing to him.

Drahka knew he should not climax this way. Doing so was a waste. If he came inside her, a child might come of his pleasure. Each time he tried to tell her this he would open his mouth, but all that emerged were short, sharp bursts of breath, panting groans and strangled gasps. Wasting his seed was against the most basic tenets of his tribe. Those who had gone before would see what he was. They would block him from joining them in the after place. Still, Drahka did not stop her or move away. With her encouragement, he rocked his hips, moving his cock in and out of her mouth as her finger slid in and out of his ass. He came suddenly, thrusting forward without intent, but she took him deep into her throat, her mouth and tongue working to drain him, as if she slaked her thirst from his climax. A twist of her finger caused another surge. Feeling dizzy, he gripped a wall as the last of his pleasure coated the back of her throat.

He knew in that moment he could never go home again.

Chapter Three

Viltori floated on his back, examining the artwork above the great pool in the
tishiary
. This early, he had the place almost to himself. There was only one other person within the servant rooms, a
serbred
, who scrubbed her master’s clothing in the washing basin. Her owner was high ranking, given the deep green of the clothing she washed. Her face held the blankness of a child, as all the deliberately bred servant’s faces did. Shivering slightly, Viltori placed his ears under the water to drown out the sounds of her work. For a time, he wished to simply float, breathe and think upon his student.

After three long cycles of teaching him Diolan, Viltori had finally discovered the man’s name was Drahka. Viltori didn’t think the name suited him, given his power and strength, but at least he had something to call him. He considered that a great victory, even more so than learning the man’s language in a scant cycle. He’d helped the magistrate negotiate with Drahka’s people. Viltori worried that the two different cultures would never come to an agreement, but with enough bribes and promises, Ambo got his way. Drahka belonged to Diola now and to Bithia forever.

Warm water caressed Viltori’s body as he paddled in a lazy circle, gaze upon the depiction of a humble servant, bowing low before his master. The servant was dressed in brown, as all servants were, and he kept his eyes low, on his master’s feet. Light glowed from the master’s face as he placed his hand upon the head of his slave. Viltori thought the artwork was the most pathetic propaganda he’d ever seen. The artist tried to show that the servant enjoyed his subservient position and that the master was a paragon of kindness. This scenario he knew to be untrue. Viltori could not count the number of times he’d seen the marks of brutality on the bodies of those who served the elite. Since every servant came to the
tishiary
to bathe, acquire supplies, or clean their master’s clothing, he’d seen most of them at one time or another. True, most had gentle masters, but some had owners who were so vicious they injured their slaves or used them for perversities none should suffer. A desire to right those wrongs rose up in him. He deliberately quashed that yearning. He was not a hero. He was not responsible for fixing what he knew in his heart was wrong. If he could do something, he would, but if he alone rose up to decry the injustice, he would be put to the stone. Ambo himself would crush the very breath from his body until he spoke no more. Of all the most vile masters on Diola, Ambo was notorious for his cruelty and perversity, which often went hand in hand.

With a sigh, Viltori closed his eyes, letting his awareness shift outside his mind. If he could, he would happily spend the day here, floating on his back. He did not care for the temple. Drugged air hurt his chest and caused bizarre hallucinations. Still, there was something sensual about the rituals that he enjoyed, something deeper than just the feel of the oils and fabrics, but nothing as profound as an actual connection to the gods. Viltori did not believe as most acolytes did, mainly because he was not truly an acolyte.

They allowed him to wear the white robe and serve in the temple, but before the magistrate discovered his talent for languages, he’d been a recruit. High hopes of becoming the Harvester had been dashed when he’d entered the training rooms. Every man there seemed bigger than the last. Viltori, who’d always felt massive, felt almost puny in comparison. He would never master these men. He would languish just a few steps below greatness until he grew too old to compete. Then he would become a palace guard, forever trapped in service to the empress.

All of that changed when the magistrate, Ambo Votny, had heard him translating a dispute between two recruits from different regions. Viltori could not explain how he understood what each was saying. He simply did. Given a chance to leave the obscurity of becoming a palace guard behind, Viltori had eagerly taken up Ambo on his offer to travel to a far distant world. Immersing himself in the customs of a unique and completely different culture had helped him grasp the subtleties of their language. He wasn’t an expert by any means, but he would do to teach the future consort to Empress Bithia.

Just thinking of her made him smile. There were those who said she was the most vulgar woman. They disdained her unique look and mocked her awkwardness. They said she should not be allowed to sit upon the throne, not with her lascivious nature. Viltori adored her from afar. She was the only high-ranking person in the entire palace who said what she thought and did exactly what she felt like doing. She had whatever man she wanted and never let decorum or anything else stand in her way. So bold was she that Bithia had seduced several acolytes who’d been sent to teach her the language of the ancients. How he’d delighted in hearing the tales of her wild adventures. True, some stories were probably exaggerated, but if even a modicum of them was correct, she was a lusty woman indeed. He had sought a position to be her teacher but withdrew when he found out the men she seduced were quietly shipped to faraway regions. Viltori did not wish to lose his position in the palace.

In a way, he felt close to Bithia, for he had taught Drahka, her now eternal bondmate and primary consort. Viltori hoped he’d done well enough that their first night was up to her demanding standards. Viltori knew he’d still be teaching Drahka, but they would not spend as much time together as they had been. A shame. He enjoyed the man and took pleasure in each burst of insight, each shining grasp of understanding that crossed Drahka’s stern face. As of yet, Viltori hadn’t seen the man smile, but he knew it was simply a matter of time.

A great splash of water covered Viltori’s face and he sputtered himself upright.

“Dangerous to sleep here.” Rown splashed water with a hard sweep of his right hand across the top of the pool.

Swinging his head away, Viltori retaliated with a great blast of kicks from both his legs.

Rown swam around him, trying to come up behind, but Viltori was too quick. He spun, catching Rown about the waist and pulling him under the water. Struggling with a half-hearted effort, Rown rubbed his nude body against Viltori’s form, causing him to harden with an almost automatic response.

“You know better,” Viltori said, pushing Rown away. Not that he wouldn’t mind losing himself in those enigmatic eyes, but violating an
ungati
was a line he was not prepared to cross. Besides, Rown’s heart belonged to his master, Sterlave, a man who Viltori found most kind.

“You wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway,” Rown teased, swimming away as fast as he could. “Acolytes are notoriously uneducated in the art of pleasure.”

Viltori laughed, making a rude gesture with his thumb and fist. As an
ungati
, Rown’s entire life had been devoted to the study of pleasure, and yet he was forbidden to climax. Only alone and under strict protocol could Rown find release. Viltori often wondered how his master and mistress coped with such a restriction, but he’d never had the courage to ask.

Still, their flirting was harmless and helped each forget what they simply could not have. Rown’s master cared for him, but Sterlave did not love him, not the way he loved his bondmate Kasmiri. And Viltori could not find love as an acolyte. He was supposed to be satisfied with the love of the gods. He wasn’t. Viltori realized far too late that he’d escaped one problem only to embrace another.

“Tell me, Rown, what news have you heard?” Viltori swam near, settling himself on one of the lower steps of the sweeping underwater staircase.

“I hear that the empress’ consort didn’t fulfill his part of the bonding rites.” Rown scrubbed a foamless soap through his black hair and over his face.

Viltori’s heart plunged to his belly. He’d spent an entire cycle going over and over the exacting nature of the empress bonding ritual. What had he done wrong? Before he could ask, Rown plunged below the surface. Rown rinsed vigorously, then emerged, splashing water everywhere.

“What happened?” Viltori asked.

“I am not privy to the details.” Rown made a face that suggested not letting him know everything was a foolish mistake on everyone’s part. “But he didn’t climax in full view.”

Viltori thought back as to what a punishment that might entail but drew a blank. He had no idea. “What did he do?”

Grinning, Rown said, “He plunged into her from behind, as he should, then pulled out, spun her around, picked her up and slammed her down onto his cock!”

Viltori could actually see Drahka doing that. He found the visual unbearably arousing, especially when he pictured the surprised and yet pleased look on Bithia’s face. For he believed she craved an aggressive male who behaved just like that. Bithia was not a woman wooed by poetry and lukewarm kisses. She was a woman who hungered for brute strength and the most wicked of words.

“Once he had her against his chest, he swept her from the room.” Rown sighed, as if he would enjoy finding someone who would take him away in such a dramatic fashion. “Her bondmate sounds like a passionate man.”

“He is.” Viltori had never met a man more serious about sex. Every time they discussed what he needed to do with Bithia, Drahka grew hard and restless. Unable to sit still, Viltori had taken to teaching him while they walked about the gardens in great, ground eating strides. Of course, what made matters worse was that Viltori became aroused as well. So much so that Drahka had noticed his cock tenting the fabric of his immaculate white robe. Their eyes met and Viltori swore he saw an echoing hunger right before Drahka had sent his hand flying at Viltori’s face. Capturing his fist, Viltori had pushed Drahka to the ground. Stunned, he’d looked up, and the moment had been broken. After that, Viltori used a small pointing stick rather than his hand. Still, there had been a welcoming arousal in Drahka’s eyes. Of that, Viltori had no doubt. However, engaging the consort of the empress in such a way had terrible repercussions for them both. No matter how lustful his dreams or painful his longings, Viltori kept his desire firmly contained. He had no wish to be exiled or killed.

“As if you would know passion.” Rown rolled his eyes playfully. He strode to the uppermost step, grabbed the bottle of soap and proceeded to smear the liquid over his hairless chest, his arms and his legs. “Ambo waddled after them, but the man was practically running down the hall with Bithia in his arms.” Rown paused. “Can you imagine what that would feel like? Wrapped around his massive chest with his cock buried deep inside? Every step would just plunge the man deeper.”

Viltori couldn’t quite see that scenario, not when he was almost as big as Drahka himself, but he could see Drahka in numerous positions. Himself in numerous positions. Of course, Viltori always saw Bithia there too. He wanted them both. Shaking the images from his mind, Viltori glanced over at Rown.

With a meaningful lift of sleek brows, Rown grabbed a handful of hard cock and stroked the soap up and down. For a relatively small man, Rown had a big prick. His penis stood proudly up and out from a thatch of dark hair. Each stroke of his hand hardened him further. One thing about the
ungati
was their notorious self-control. Rown could stand there and fondle himself all day without climaxing.

“Tease,” Viltori growled. Below the water, he hardened in response. Unlike Rown, he was not trained in self-denial. At night, in the great sleeping room filled with acolytes, none of them dared to touch themselves. The vast rock-walled room echoed even the slightest sound. Worse, they slept upon cots that squeaked at the barest movement. Ears were ever-vigilant to any fumbling in the dark. Viltori missed the room where the recruits slept. There, at night, beds squeaked, men moaned, and nobody cared. At times, some men turned to each other for comfort, which held no stigma. Though the handlers frowned upon such activity, they turned a blind eye as long as it was mutual.

“I’m just washing myself,” Rown said with mock innocence.

Usually Viltori could handle the teasing nature of their banter, but today he was having a difficult time. He hadn’t had an orgasm in several cycles. It seemed everything excited him lately, almost as if he were again an adolescent without a shred of control. Every look, every thought, every feeling hardened Viltori’s cock until it became like a perpetual rock between his thighs.