Mask of Fire Read online

  Wearing little more than a loincloth he hopped onto the last car and steadied himself for the trip to Harvester’s Island. Historically men had to come in from the fields where they’d toiled all summer. The Harvester’s Gala was a night to ease aching muscles and spill seeds for the next season, but now it’d been taken over by women who didn’t know what they wanted out of life except sex in many forms.

  Sitting in silence he glanced to his left to see a group of virgin males. They were easy to pick out, even without their mandatory white masks. The nervous excitement between the three of them was palatable. What if they don’t get chosen at all? Had they thought of that? Some women shy away from the unsullied, leaving them years before they can be chosen as mates, for a virgin must wait one full year before they are eligible for mating. The rules rang in his ear.

  “How soon do you think we’ll be snatched up?” one asked.

  “Minutes, please, you know how women want to break in men and train them correctly.”

  “I’ve heard some try to mark them in someway so they can find them the following year if they are good enough.”

  All fairytales told to the young so they’ll see this as a glorious opportunity and not what it is—a slave market.

  “How do they know who’d be a good match? It’s not as if we’re allowed to speak to them.”

  “Women know. Look at the divorce rate. There is something in the way a man touches her. So touch your woman right,” another man on the transport said as he slapped the knee of the virgin.

  “You haven’t been chosen. How would you know?”

  “I was you last year. I couldn’t have been chosen, but one of the five women I was with last year said she’d be back this year to choose me.”

  Lie. Barton stifled a knowing laugh. He’d had a dozen women over the years tell him they just wanted one more season before they’d choose him because he was the one. Obviously he should have a harem.

  The virgins continued to ask questions of the other man who actually believed he’d find that woman from the year before and settle down. Barton reflected on the moment he learned who and what he truly was.

  Her hair was crimson and her mask black. Thin metal with intricate cuts making swooping angles and flourish. Part covered her forehead and hair, while the other side cut down her cheek and under her chin. It reminded him of one of his cutting blades that you held in the middle and whipped open.

  “Please,” his lover said to him. “You can’t have a good cock, great body and a mind. No man is the perfect package. Too bad, maybe I’ll get you next year. You’re the one women pick when they want an orgasm. Take comfort in the fact I’ll probably fondle myself after I’m married to your memory.”

  She hadn’t allowed him to speak a word during their interaction. How could she know if he had a brain? He’d thought he’d made a connection. The way she moved atop him and below. Discovering new ways to make a woman groan had been his goal with each woman. Foolishly he believed that each woman brought him closer to the one he’d marry. They’d each taught him a trick he’d employed with the woman. She’d kept him longer than any other, but still she wrapped a robe around her body and retrieved her garment.

  He sat at the edge of the bed stunned by the woman’s confession as she left to be cleansed. Three years he’d wasted trying his best to please a woman, only to find out he was not who they mated. From that point on he performed his duty and prayed for the tolling bell that ended the festivities.

  “Was she the only woman you bedded?” the young man asked, bringing Barton back to the present.

  “No,” the man sighed. “I had to lie with others, but none were like her.”

  “How could you?” the virgin asked. “If she is to be yours?”

  “It was difficult, I will not lie to you, but it is forbidden to deny a woman during the Gala. Men are forced into labor camps for saying no.”

  Barton closed his eyes and attempted to zone out as he would for the next twelve hours at the Gala.

  Chapter Two

  Abby hooked the bands on her shoes around her fingers as she exited the transport. The heels made to accentuate her assets were killing her feet. She wasn’t one to wear that type of footwear normally and the ones she’d chosen pinched her toes. Luckily the grounds were covered in a carpet of soft grass. The land below it wasn’t like the hard streets and floors of the cities. It was like a pillow as she walked the half mile from where the train had docked to the castle at the center of the island.

  The royal family, to better society centuries ago, donated Harvester Island. The Nuril’s had found lasting love there, so why shouldn’t all of Lextra? The castle had over a thousand rooms, most of which were considered stations now, where lovers could find much needed private time.

  Abby had missed the first three transports to the island and hoped her tardiness hadn’t cost her the love of her life. Then again, if one believes what one is told, there is only one for each of us. As she approached the large fortress she slipped her golden heels on her feet and steadied herself.

  The twelve-foot double doors were opened by two of the clergy to show the beautiful open reception area. Obsidian marble floors still shone even though thousands had recently walked over them. The warm air was mixed with a dozen fragrances, some from flowers, others from foods, but the one that caught her was a strong male scent. When she’d hiked in the woods she’d caught the fresh scent as wind blew through pines. It made her head turn as she hoped to find its source.

  Instead she started to become overwhelmed by the content of the reception area. True, this being her third Gala, she’d seen it all. A stalker stood in the corner surveying the room like a bird of prey. Although she’d come of age, a stalker only attended the Gala because of obligation, not want of a mate. Maybe in a few years, when she was nearing the end of fertility, she’d choose a male, but now she just wanted the sex they provided.

  Along an edge of the room were the virgins. Their masks had a white base to them, but were adorned with all sorts of paraphernalia. How tacky some of them were— feathers, sequins, glitter. A few even had bows as if they were a young child.

  Abby looked around the room at the men. All of them wore the traditional loincloths in various colors. Sometimes she envied the men and the simplicity of their outfits. She’d spent a thousand credits on her dress to have it custom made. Men just needed to tone their body, which they enjoyed doing anyway; although, judging by the room, some had been lax this year. Or all the well-toned men had already been grabbed for a few hours in a station.

  Men from pale white to dark black were in the area standing still waiting to be selected. Some had little ponches on their bellies, others were covered in hair from their shoulders down. The best were the ones with little trails of light hair from their belly buttons down under their cloths. The white masked men seemed too young to be here in the first place. By twenty-five men are not supposed to still have boyish bodies, yet here they were with little muscle or form to their body.

  A clergy member walked around the room with different drinks on a tray for the women. Men were only allowed to eat or drink after copulation. Women were plied with spirits through out the night. Abby wasn’t normally a drinker, but looking for the love of her life required at least one glass of pink wine. Sipping from the fluted glass she walked along the edges of the room where the men stood at attention.

  She smiled at the ones who tried to stop the trembling of nerves. She’d been there a few years ago. It took her almost two hours to get up the nerve to choose the man to take her virginity. Although many women were stroking men’s chests and jaw lines, Abby preferred to eye the men from a distance. After a full lap she’d ended up back by the stalker who’d yet to pick her next male. Abby watched her for a few minutes.

  Suddenly the stalker with her golden hair stopped her survey. Abby followed her line of sight. Abby wasn’t sure if it was the mask he wore or the fresh scratches on his back, but she understood how he’d caught the ey
e of the stalker.

  His body was fit with a darker olive coloring to his skin. Unlike most males his hair was pulled back into a thick braid that landed between his firm shoulder blades. With sinewy roped arms and a bare chest he actually stood out in the room of men on display. The silken undergarment covering his manhood thankfully did not hide his delectable butt. Abby felt an aching heat as she drank in his body. Outlining his jaw with her eyes she drank the last of her wine.

  The man had only been in the room a few minutes, but the stalker wouldn’t be the only competition for him. A circle of women was discussing him—another aspect of the Gala she deplored. However, centuries of separating males from females until coming into the age of adulthood had proved the prudent decision, and she credited that with her ability to finish her medical degree.

  Tradition aside, if she wanted this man she’d practically have to take out a dozen women, and sprinting across the room in heels was about as undignified as she could get. The circle of women were morphing around him like a strange new species of animal. They started to pet him as if he were a wild beast they were sizing up.

  With each touch of the women’s hands Abby felt a jealous stab. She didn’t know him, but she wanted him in a way she’d never wanted a man before. When the stalker pushed off the wall she knew she only had a few seconds to make a decision. The circle of women were obviously friends, and, although they each wanted him, they’d spend at least fifteen minutes discussing the order. The stalker on the other hand may just reach in the middle and yank him into a station.

  “Do not discount instant feelings.” The Prefect had told the class. “If you see a male that sends you into a tailspin you must claim him to discover the nature of those feelings. If you truly desire a mate for life you cannot allow others to sully him.”

  The stalker bumped Abby’s shoulder as she marched toward the man she wanted. Abby was able to catch herself before she fell onto another woman, but it was in that moment she understood the Prefect’s words.

  ****

  “I think you should go first.” The woman with a silver mask inclined her head to a woman in a blindingly pink mask. “Last time you got the male last and he was exhausted.”

  “Why thank you?” the girl said as her fingers ran down Barton’s abs and tugged on the waistband of his loincloth.

  His jaw clenched. This would be the third time he’d have to go into a station, and he didn’t think he could get hard anymore, especially with these obviously intoxicated women. Two of them where leaning on each other with their swollen lips puckering at him as if they were blowing him kisses. The other three acted as if they were blind and needed to feel every inch of him. When one grabbed the center of his loincloth he actually jumped back.

  “How dare you?” the woman snapped. “I need to know what I’m getting! Or, not getting, in your case.”

  Yeah, he thought, not getting if he’d have his way.

  “That’s it, you should take him and show him what happens to men who don’t behave,” the woman ordered her pink friend.

  Just when Barton was sure he’d be stuck with Pinky minus the Brain, a hand reached through the circled and grasped his hands.

  “Since you women can’t decide, I’ll take him,” a woman in a red mask with gold adornments commanded and pulled him from the circle.

  “Who said we can’t decide?” one of them tightly clutched his wrist. “He’s ours, at least for the next few hours.”

  “No. He’s not.” This came across as a warning to the women as she put herself in between them and him.

  Barton instantly got hard when her ass grazed his thigh. That’s a new sensation, he thought, but then again she was commanding and saving him from a line up of drunken slobs so she had those bonus points too.

  “You think you can take what’s rightfully ours? We saw him first, we engaged him first, and he’s ours.”

  Barton’s jaw clenched again. What was he? A pair of shoes on clearance?

  “Do not push me,” the red masked woman said as she looked over her shoulder toward a golden haired woman who dabbed blood from her lip.

  A familiar looking cleric aided the blonde. His robe fell back from his head slightly, and when he turned toward the fight Barton had somehow caused, he swore it was Tarin.

  “He’s mine,” the red masked woman growled, knocking Barton from the gaze of Tarin. When he looked up again the cleric was gone. The red masked woman placed her free hand around the wrist of the woman who still held his wrist tight. It took less than five seconds for the pink masked woman to yelp in pain and release him. “Come.”

  With a firm but gentle tug Barton followed the woman in red to the staircase where a clergy member met them. The robes adorning all the clergy members made it impossible to tell if they were male or female when their hood was in place. Whatever it was, his next lover asked this cleric for a station as they stood at the bottom of the open staircase waiting their assignment.

  He wanted to turn and ask the woman who smelled of the honey flowers why she’d been so forceful with him. He’d had multiple women come for him at one time, but never had he been literally pulled from the room. Looking over his shoulder he did notice the pickings were getting slim in the room. Perhaps that is why she demanded he be hers. With too many years under his belt he stopped believing women wanted him for more than a few minutes pleasures.

  Barton was a hard cock to women, pure and simple.

  As he and the woman in red entered the azure station he took stock of where items were placed. Although each room had identical items they were always in different places. The bed in this room was the traditional rectangular shape instead of circular. He surmised this woman didn’t spend extra for a special experience. It was adorned with deep purple sheeting and multiple pillows he tended to use to angle hips opposed to sleeping.

  In the corner was a padded chair without arms. Too many furnishings had to be replaced over the years, and the augmented design seemed to make more sense. Under one of the large windows was a long table with a drawer. With a light tug he opened it to see what he expected. Multiple sexual implements from simple to complex. He’d used them all. The ties, the nipple clamps, the ticklers and whips. He’d brought more than one woman to climax with plastic male parts and licked enough sauces and jellies to sate any appetite. Every year in his required rules classes the Prefect would display all new items and discuss their functions. This year it was a set of metal balls made popular by a woman’s group.

  In between the windows was a balcony that could be accessed through a set of double glass doors. Modifications had been made to each balcony to block others from seeing the escapades that occurred on them.

  After inventorying the room he turned to his next lover and awaited instructions. For someone who’d just pulled him from a coven of monsters she was shockingly shy and suddenly demure. Her face was pale with long dark hair falling nicely on either side of her breasts.

  She played with her shawl as if she were a virgin, and he was unsure of how to proceed. The women were to make the first move. They were to grant him the ability to speak or not. They were in charge, he was just meat. As the woman bit her bottom lip he could tell one thing—even though he couldn’t see her eyes, she was different. By now he’d be spreading thighs or setting up straps. The women he’d been with were always demanding, and he hadn’t even considered this one would be any different. She’d taken out a group of women for him, not to mention the blonde being aided by…

  “I want to taste you.” She spoke so softly his internal thoughts were almost too loud to hear it. “Lips first, then…you.”

  She trembled as the breathless words came from her full lips. There was no swelling. Was he her first of the night? Her red mask told him she wasn’t his first, but she was so trepidatious he couldn’t help but be reminded of his first year.

  Stepping toward her his hand slid up her neck to cradle her head as he dipped down to taste her lips. Her tongue tasted of sweet wine, but s
he had not intoxicated herself for their encounter. A small part of him he’d buried long ago wished she was looking for more than tonight. Her soft lips melded to his as her thumb stroked his cheek. Smiling, she pulled back and returned the gesture against his normal inclination. Was there more to her than the others?

  “Put it out of your mind.” The Prefect’s voice was back. “Women do wish to mate, but never assume that is why they chose you.” He’d spoke in a corner with Barton about the realities he wasn’t allowed to teach. “I am supposed to tell you to please each woman as if she were your mate, but the reality is most women have insatiable sex drives that will never be tamed. Have you ever wondered why so many don’t pick a mate until the end of fertility? Women just want to get laid by as many men as they can.”

  As a young man he never believed the Prefects, especially this one. Barton could tell at one time he was fit, but he’d let himself go. Now nearing expiration he was bitter having not bedded a woman correctly.

  Leaving his memory Barton looked down at Fire. He liked to nickname his lovers by their masks, and he ran through all the colors in the first year. Now he chose design. Fire placed her manicured nails on his torso. She hadn’t gone with fake nails he noticed. The tickle of the pads of her fingers followed by a sharp scrape of her nails sent his flesh aflame. When she got to her knees she had him fully engorged.

  “I see I chose correctly,” she growled as he strained against the soft fabric. The comment knocked him out of stupid boyish dreams of love and back into his zone. The zone where women see him as meat and he knew better than to make a connection.

  Instead of removing him she toyed with his cock, letting her fingers tickle the swollen tip through the covering.