Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 52529 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52529 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Abuar looks back at us, thinking. For a moment, I don't know if I'm hopeful that he'll change his mind and take us back to the cantina, or if he'll leave us here. Both options are equally terrible. "Twenty percent," he says after a long pause. "Very well. I will be back to get my credits tonight."
The slavemaster nods, taking the chain that Abuar holds out to him. "They will be ready."
Word travels fast on the station. The slavemaster has his connections, at least. Within hours, I overhear the conversations between the slavemaster and his slaves about how many buyers are coming to the impromptu auction that night. As for the slaves, we're scrubbed and rubbed with lotion to make our skin shiny, checked all over for diseases, and given health-boosting shots to make us seem radiant. A female szzt slave comes in to brush hair and to pinch body parts so they flush.
I wince as she pinches one of my nipples, covering it with my hands. "Can you not?" I hiss.
"Your teats are large," she says, unruffled by my tone. "Buyers will like that. Pinch them yourself if you must, but make sure they are perked with arousal when you step on stage."
I'm going to do no such thing. I cover my tits with my hands and glare at her as she walks past. I might be helpless to control my fate, but I'm not going to give myself perky nipples just so I can drive my price up.
We sit in a small, stuffy room for hours once we're “ready.” Our chains have been removed, the shock collars replaced with a more decorative collar. Doesn't matter—there's nowhere for us to go. Jemiia huddles with the others, weeping quietly, but I'm numb. My last experience on the auction block was not a good one, and I'm trying not to think about the fate that's coming for me. To think that just yesterday I was whining about my feet hurting. I'm such an idiot. I didn't realize how good I had it, and now the universe is going to show me just how bad it can really get.
"So many customers," the szzt slave woman crows as she peeks out into the next room. "All hungry for a bargain. Want to see?" She glances back at us, her beady eyes shining with cruel delight.
No one takes her up on her offer. Jemiia just weeps harder.
I lean back against the wall, waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
Suddenly, there's a flurry of skirts. The szzt slave moves over to us and begins to fluff and primp our hair, adjusting decorative cheap jewelry hung in my ponytail. I try to flick her hands away, confused, but then the door opens.
The slavemaster steps in.
And behind him…the metal-jawed man.
I suck in a breath, wondering if the universe is taunting me.
4
ZAKOAR
It's taken me nearly all day to find where the keffing female slaves have been hidden away. I've searched three floors of this damned station, asking every lowlife criminal where I can buy myself a human. After a few hours of fruitless searching, I wonder why I'm even bothering, but every time I turn around to go home, I see the female's eyes in my mind. How she alternates between playfulness and sadness. How she watched me with that bold stare.
I've seen plenty of slaves today, searching for her. All of them flinched at the sight of me. It reminds me why I avoid females. Why I've never bothered with bedroom companionship. I don't want to see disgust in a female's eyes when I'm balls deep inside her. Just when I'm about to give up again, though, I meet with a slaver who gives me a sharp-eyed look.
"As a matter of a fact, I just acquired a human slave today. She's not been given all the health checks, of course, but her master needs a quick sale. I might be willing to pull her from the auction I'm having tonight for the right price."
I give him a cold, dispassionate look. "Let me see the merchandise first."
"Of course, of course." The male is as unctuous and slimy as I suspect any flesh trader would be. He leads me back into his shop, past rooms full of reclining, giggling females, past another room where a variety of males are waiting and nursing drinks, their eyes on a small stage. "You're just in time," the trader tells me. "I'm glad you've come to me. It is an honor to serve the needs of Zakoar of the Broken Back."
I say nothing. I know I have a reputation on this station—and many others—for being the best at my work and not asking questions. I do work for the syndicate here on the station, and if nothing else, handling their prosthetic needs puts me in a position of power. I know I'm important here—and this male knows it, too. He probably wants a favor. I snort at the thought. Probably a prosthetic penis of some kind, bigger than the one he has. I get asked for that sort of thing all too keffing often.