walked over and picked up a shift that was lying on the bed. “Do you need help dressing for the night?”
“No.”
She was running her finger down the spine of the book.
“Ours is a rich history,” he said. “We are a proud race, the Traoians. A scholarly race. But also a fierce race. We dominate this system.” He took the book from her, took her hand and led her to the bureau, pointing to the case holding the model of swirling star systems and planets.
“We are here,” he said, pointing to an orange ball being slowly circled by three moons. Our nexus star is here. On your planet, it is called a sun.” He pointed to the other side of the planet where a large star could be seen at the edge of the system.
“Where is my home?” she asked. “In relation to this?”
“Outside of our system, far away. There are doorways that allow us to travel to your planet, but you are behind us in years.”
“Wormholes,” she said, looking up.
When he raised a quizzical brow, she glanced back at the display. “It’s what we call them on Earth. Wormholes. So I’m not only away from home, but trapped in the future?”
“It seems,” he said.
“And other races are coming to our planet, taking our women, breeding us, making pets of us…” She looked up at him. “If you are from the future, what becomes of us?”
“Enough.” He pushed a button and the display went dark. His pet needed to sleep, and that would not happen if he told her that her planet, in his time, was no longer inhabitable.
Chapter Seven
“Again.” Bron was sitting on a high chair just above where Phaedra was once again forcing herself down onto the polished floor. To his right was a holoscreen showing the nine required pet postures. Phaedra had mastered two—the basic kneel and the supplicant—but was having trouble with the first of three presentations.
From the short conversation that Phaedra had with Matron Sharad, she’d expected this sort of training. What she’d not expected was the audience. Bron had informed her that once she’d mastered her postures, she’d be presented in a very public and televised assembly. But the training itself was done in a sort of arena that reminded Phaedra of a medical theater, where the elite males came to catch glimpses of the newest Earth Pets.
“Again.”
“I can’t.” The position required Phaedra to sink to her knees and arch her back, thrusting her ochre-tipped breasts with their jeweled nipples forward. But try as she might, she could not get the correct angle to her back to signal the success tone that filled the chamber when she got a position right.
She stood, without his permission. “I tried,” she said. “I can’t do it.”
There was a murmur from above.
“You will try again,” he said. “Or you’ll get the loop.”
She flushed, her face warm from strain and humiliation as she dropped back into position, guided by the disembodied voice of the on-screen instructor to retry the position. “Shins pressed into the mat, back arched slightly back, palms forward, chest out, out, out. Bend, bend, bend.”
Phaedra knew why she was having difficulty. It wasn’t physical. It was mental. The garment she was dressed in consisted of little more than a short, sheer skirt and a harness that crisscrossed under her breasts, lifting them obscenely upward. To tilt her chest toward the man who called himself her master in such a lascivious fashion went against everything she believed. But the thought of public punishment, of having her bottom stung by that horrible implement as these strangers watched? That was worse.
The tone sounded and Bron rose from his chair to the sound of smattering applause from the audience.
“Open your mouth, pet,” he said, and Phaedra obeyed, trying not to show the resentment she felt as Bron popped a small sweet treat onto her tongue. It immediately melted into the most delightful flavor reminiscent of ripe summer fruit and butter and cream. But
“No.”
She was running her finger down the spine of the book.
“Ours is a rich history,” he said. “We are a proud race, the Traoians. A scholarly race. But also a fierce race. We dominate this system.” He took the book from her, took her hand and led her to the bureau, pointing to the case holding the model of swirling star systems and planets.
“We are here,” he said, pointing to an orange ball being slowly circled by three moons. Our nexus star is here. On your planet, it is called a sun.” He pointed to the other side of the planet where a large star could be seen at the edge of the system.
“Where is my home?” she asked. “In relation to this?”
“Outside of our system, far away. There are doorways that allow us to travel to your planet, but you are behind us in years.”
“Wormholes,” she said, looking up.
When he raised a quizzical brow, she glanced back at the display. “It’s what we call them on Earth. Wormholes. So I’m not only away from home, but trapped in the future?”
“It seems,” he said.
“And other races are coming to our planet, taking our women, breeding us, making pets of us…” She looked up at him. “If you are from the future, what becomes of us?”
“Enough.” He pushed a button and the display went dark. His pet needed to sleep, and that would not happen if he told her that her planet, in his time, was no longer inhabitable.
Chapter Seven
“Again.” Bron was sitting on a high chair just above where Phaedra was once again forcing herself down onto the polished floor. To his right was a holoscreen showing the nine required pet postures. Phaedra had mastered two—the basic kneel and the supplicant—but was having trouble with the first of three presentations.
From the short conversation that Phaedra had with Matron Sharad, she’d expected this sort of training. What she’d not expected was the audience. Bron had informed her that once she’d mastered her postures, she’d be presented in a very public and televised assembly. But the training itself was done in a sort of arena that reminded Phaedra of a medical theater, where the elite males came to catch glimpses of the newest Earth Pets.
“Again.”
“I can’t.” The position required Phaedra to sink to her knees and arch her back, thrusting her ochre-tipped breasts with their jeweled nipples forward. But try as she might, she could not get the correct angle to her back to signal the success tone that filled the chamber when she got a position right.
She stood, without his permission. “I tried,” she said. “I can’t do it.”
There was a murmur from above.
“You will try again,” he said. “Or you’ll get the loop.”
She flushed, her face warm from strain and humiliation as she dropped back into position, guided by the disembodied voice of the on-screen instructor to retry the position. “Shins pressed into the mat, back arched slightly back, palms forward, chest out, out, out. Bend, bend, bend.”
Phaedra knew why she was having difficulty. It wasn’t physical. It was mental. The garment she was dressed in consisted of little more than a short, sheer skirt and a harness that crisscrossed under her breasts, lifting them obscenely upward. To tilt her chest toward the man who called himself her master in such a lascivious fashion went against everything she believed. But the thought of public punishment, of having her bottom stung by that horrible implement as these strangers watched? That was worse.
The tone sounded and Bron rose from his chair to the sound of smattering applause from the audience.
“Open your mouth, pet,” he said, and Phaedra obeyed, trying not to show the resentment she felt as Bron popped a small sweet treat onto her tongue. It immediately melted into the most delightful flavor reminiscent of ripe summer fruit and butter and cream. But
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