Going to her knees, the girl fought back a wave of nausea from what she had to do. But being here was her choice, even if it was a form of hell she had never known existed.
Tenderly stroking his thighs, she cupped his manhood gently and began to use her tongue and full lips to arouse her master.
Minutes ticked away, and Wof was drenched in sweat, savagely thrusting his hips at her when the side door to the garage burst open and armed sec men rushed inside.
Startled for a moment, Wof tried to grab his flintlock pistols on the worktable. But now the slave adamantly refused to let him go, her hands and teeth holding the man in the warm, moist trap of her bruised mouth.
“Dirty traitor!” a sec man growled, and slammed the wooden stock of a longblaster into the man’s chest.
Ribs cracked from the blow, and Wof staggered away from the kneeling young woman and fell backward over a low stool.
“What is this?” he demanded, scrambling to his feet and drawing up his pants. “I ain’t done nothing. Leave me alone!”
“Shut the fuck up,” a sec man growled, brandishing a flintlock. More sec men grabbed both of Wofs arms and twisted them cruelly behind his back until he was helpless in their grip.
“Baron, spare me!” he cried out, trembling in fear.
“Silence,” Baron Somers said calmly, going to the worktable and inspecting the items on display. The crude instruments were mostly carved wood and bone, only some small items made of metal or plastic. There were lots of powders and oils in jars and bottles, but nothing he could identify. However, the mere fact it was a chem workshop of some kind was enough. More than enough, actually.
“So it’s true,” Somers stated grimly. “You’ve violated the lord baron’s law by trying to make black powder.”
Wofs eyes rolled about in terror. “But I was only—”
“Silence!” Baron Somers commanded, slapping the man across the face. “Drag this scum to the ville.”
Brutally grabbing his hair, the sec men departed with their prisoner, leaving the door wide open and the naked slave sitting patiently on the cold concrete.
All the way down the hill, Wof fought every inch of the way. He kicked at the boots of the sec men and snapped at their hands. They tried to put shackles on him and by sheer luck, Wof managed to butt one sec man in the stomach with his forehead. The man doubled over in pain, and the rest of the sec men began to savagely beat Wof with blasters and fists.
“Cease that immediately!” the baron shouted, knocking away their weapons. “How can we torture a dead man?”
The sec men backed off the bloody man, and galvanized by sheer terror, Wof unexpectedly broke loose and charged wildly for the nearby cliff. The river below was full of rocks and rapids, if the fall didn’t chill him. But anything was better than torture. He had never harmed a soul. How could this be happening to him?
Leaves and branches tore at his clothes as he sprinted in blind panic, and Wof nearly reached the cliff when he abruptly jerked to a halt and painfully hit the ground. In horror, he saw the chain shackled around his ankle. A slave’s chain.
“No!” he howled, wildly slamming the chain with a rock, digging in his heels to still try to escape.
Walking slowly, the sec men gathered around, rough hands grabbing from every direction, and Wof was hauled back down the winding trail to the ville. The wooden gate in the bamboo wall was wide open, crackling torches lining the street. The center of the ville was full of people, most of whom he knew, friends, enemies, neighbors and kin. The area was brightly lit by alcohol lanterns held by strange sec men, and in the middle of them was a granite column, some sort of predark memorial for fallen men in some distant war. It was a totem of great power and the pride of the poor ville. Ancient words had been carved into the stone, but they were too faint to read even by daylight. The column was also the ville execution site.