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  The fair-haired man coughed, bringing Tulon back to the present.

  “It’s yours.” He handed the pickled fester fruit to the man. He tried to recall the man’s identification number, but it was no use. All the men looked the same to him. They were short, fair-haired, blue-eyed and talked way too much for his liking.

  Countless nights, after being forced to fuck sometimes up to four female guards, he had come back to his rest cushions, only to toss and turn as he tried to drown out the sounds of the men pleasing each other.

  Until his capture two years ago, he hadn’t known that type of pleasure existed. Enlightened as he tried to be, it wasn’t something for him. That he’d made perfectly clear to the first male who had attempted to befriend him. As bad as the female guards were, they would have to do for now.

  A second platter of pickled fruit was passed his way by another fair-haired man. Tulon’s mouth puckered. He didn’t think he could stomach another pickled anything today. By the Saints, why must they pickle their fruit and vegetables? The idea was abhorrent to him. The gifts from the blessed Saints should be eaten as they were.

  A loud clang of the door told him the guards were back. He forced a fake smile as two of the fattest guards waddled in.

  “Take him, and him, and him,” said the shorter of the two fat guards, as she pointed at three fair-haired men, who were now smiling from ear to ear.

  “What about him?” asked the second guard.

  Tulon didn’t even bother to look up. He knew they were pointing at him. After a brief but heated discussion he too was ushered into the lineup.

  So much for sleep tonight. He forced his muscles to relax and accept the metal collar around his neck. The collar was a control mechanism and every cell within his being rebelled at it. It was a test of his worth he could force himself to obey.

  “You’re sure Her Majesty won’t mind?” asked the guard, poking him in the back, forcing him to move forward.

  “She said to bring all the fertile men…and every test we’ve done on him has come back positive, so I don’t think we’re doing anything wrong,” admonished the other guard.

  “Yeah, but he’s, well…he’s different.”

  “Oh, you mean that different.” The guard cackled loudly.

  Tulon cringed, wanting to hit both women. That, too, was a new notion for him—wanting to physically hurt a woman. Women were to be cherished, loved and pleasured. The idea of doing anything less than to please a woman was viewed as a weakness in a Centaur.

  Then again, maybe I’m no longer a Centaur after all. Before the thrush, he would have claimed being Centaur with pride. After the thrush, when all his powers came to the forefront, he wasn’t so sure. All he knew for certain was, after that night when pain had sliced into his body and mind, passing him the knowledge of his kind, something had gone horribly wrong.

  When he awoke, the intense knowledge of the magic had briefly flashed inside his being, but parts of it had remained hidden. He no longer knew what he was. He most certainly didn’t like what he had become—either man or stallion, but never Centaur…never both, again.

  The guards’ laughter grated his sensitive hearing. He knew full well what they were chuckling about. His blasted cock. Even limp, which thankfully it was now, it was thick and long, much longer than the puny things stuck between the legs of the fair-haired ones. When desire swamped his senses, it tripled in thickness and length, hence his notoriety among the female guards.

  “Want to go one more round before you leave us, Mighty Man?” challenged a guard, her putrid breath causing him to almost gag.

  Mighty Man was their nickname for his shaft. Why they would give it a nickname mystified him.

  “He can’t…we don’t have much time. He’s got to be purified by tonight,” answered the guard at the front, eyeing him lewdly in a sinful attempt to whet his appetite.

  Tulon kept his head down, wondering what he was in for now.

  Chapter Three

  Inwardly, Rowena fumed. The inspection had been worse than she had ever imagined. Why don’t women talk about it? Are they, like me, too mortified to recall in graphic detail what had been done to their body—all in the name of fertility?

  First she had to enter the side Council chamber naked. Not a stitch of clothing. Nothing. Then she had been strapped to an examination table. Her ankles had been locked in place and her legs had been forced open. Her arms had been tied high above her head. Two of her aunts had come in, which had been mortifying. She was at least thankful her mother had chosen not to attend.

  She shivered, recalling the highly barbaric ritual she had been put through. She tried finding one redeeming quality about the entire bizarre thing. When nothing popped to mind, she tried to stop the images of what had happened next.

  One aunt had pinched both of her nipples so hard she had yelled out in pain, while another had wedged a large rubbery thing straight into her pussy. Rowena wasn’t sure what had hurt more. Her highly sensitive nipples or the rubbery thing that had been jammed deep within her body. But ooh, the ritual wasn’t complete.

  With the rubbery thing still inside her, she watched her aunts leave, not saying a word to her. Aching to move her hands, she had been forced to watch as another woman, who simply identified herself as the Pleasure Mistress, proceeded to walk over to her and, without any inhibitions at all, start to suckle Rowena’s nipples.

  The shock of the act itself still mortified her. This, too, was not something women talked about. Later, she learned, it was the Pleasure Mistress’ job to ensure that, after her woman’s barrier had been breached, she could climax, thus making it easier for the fertile semen of the male to climb up inside her body and attach itself to her eager egg.

  Whatever! Hence, after suckling her nipples, the Pleasure Mistress had moved the rubbery thing in and out of her wet channel. Then she had moved her lips to a small nub nestled within her crotch. One touch from the Pleasure Mistress’ lips on her nub had caused her to climax. The shame of it was that she had climaxed not once, but twice.

  If Rowena could have crawled anywhere, she would have. Instead, after her aunts came back in for a progress report, she had been bathed, perfumed and dressed. Now she was in the Supreme High Fertility Council chambers and about to be forced to pick a mate.

  Then she would rut with him until he died. That was the blunt truth of it. No fertile man, once he had sex with a woman who was in the throes of the Maida curse, had yet to live for more than two days. Rowena sympathized with their plight.

  Her sister and mother would say men didn’t deserve their sympathy. After all, it was men who had started the wars that ravaged their homeland. It was men who let loose the first radioactive bombs and it was men who had created the fertility trap. The only thing was they had invented that trap for women, not vice versa, or so the myths went.

  Rowena didn’t care what anyone said. Being forced to rut with a woman when you knew it meant certain death couldn’t whet any man’s appetite, hence the use of the drugs. Or just maybe the men don’t know what happens to them. That idea warranted more attention. She wondered if she could use that to her benefit, even as she vowed to find a cure.

  It was her silent vow she made to herself. After all, if Maida women could organize themselves to find and generate food, care for the wounded, tend the sick and forge ahead after the last war, then surely she could devote her life to one crusade.

  Rowena was suddenly jolted out of her daydream. Her heartbeat sped up as four men were paraded before her. For a moment, she forgot about her plight as their masculine scents wafted through her highly sensitive body. All four wore the traditional black robes, which covered them from head to ankle. Each had a small slit showcasing their eyes and they were barefoot. One man wore an ankle bracelet, a trinket no doubt from a woman, as no Maida men were allowed to own anything of value.

  Of all the men, one stood out. He was at least two heads taller than the other three, yet he kept his head down. It wasn’t a submissive
pose. She liked the way he had a wide stance, as if he were getting ready to run. She noted his feet, like all the men’s, were heavily hennaed. The designs were said to help entice a woman. Truthfully, they were unnecessary.

  Rowena knew once she picked one, they would have the privacy of a special bedchamber. It would be there that she would get the honor of seeing her mate’s naked body. Her choice today, though, followed tradition. She had to choose simply by observing their mannerisms and by listening to their answers. She was allowed to ask each male one question. For each, it had to be a different question.

  The first was brought forward. He all but bounced on the spot, reminding her of a playful cat. Her body didn’t respond to his nearness at all. When he answered her question with a long, convoluted reply, she knew he was the type who liked to hear himself speak.

  The second man was brought forward. Rowena didn’t like him at all. He looked too delicate for her taste and dumb to boot, as she listened to his reply to her question.

  When the third man was ushered forward, he didn’t come willingly, which raised her interest. He all but dragged his feet. He kept his head down. She sensed it was a challenge for him. Clasping her hands behind her back, she approached him.

  “He is?” she asked, speaking to the guard at his side.

  “Identification number 7653,” answered the female guard.

  Rowena had to look up. “You may raise your head.”

  With casual grace, she watched as the man straightened. With his head held high, he towered over her, which almost alarmed her.

  Tulon growled in frustration. The last thing he wanted to do was acknowledge the petite woman standing in front of him. However, her voice beckoned him. It wasn’t loud, or crass…it was like the whistling wind, ruffling his senses. That he didn’t like.

  So he did what came naturally to his kind. He lifted his head and glared at her, forcing her to shy away. He knew he had succeeded. She took one small, elegant step back. Not enough. Then he was forced to look at her.

  Hair the color of chestnuts was cut short, cropped to frame her features. There was a curl to her hair she fought. He watched her tuck a stray piece behind her right ear. Oval, light blue eyes, high cheekbones and a long slender neck framed a tiny body. She only reached his chest, even wearing the high-heeled black boots she had forced her feet into. She looked none too comfortable in them was his first impression, as she attempted another step back and almost stumbled.

  Her breasts, however, were an entirely different thing. The red gauzelike dress she wore that reached from her neck to her knees did nothing to deter his gaze. After all, he supposed, that was the purpose of the sin-like material. Enough to tantalize the eye, make the mind work and the body sweat. Enough to whet his appetite. Instantly he hated her.

  What shook him the most was her scent. She smells like that blasted lush, green meadow—clean and crisp. And worse, a woman in heat.

  The memory of that green ripe meadow soared into his mind. He recalled the acute feeling of hunger, the likes of which he had never experienced before, and how it gnawed at him. His body had ached to feel the grass caress his skin. The meadow smelled clean and crisp, filled with new growth.

  After eating his fill, his senses, lost in the ecstasy and newness of the moment, had gone blind. His only saving grace after the hunting party managed to capture him was he had been in human form. They thought the stallion they had been chasing had vanished back into the Dark Forest. They never once made the connection that man and beast were one. He had hoped they would search the forest, but alas, as he found out later, a naked male in his prime was too good to go to waste.

  The woman took a step toward him. Her sweet, musky, womanly cream assaulted his senses and he was powerless to stop his nostrils from flaring, trying to suck as much of her scent as possible into his body. He wanted to eat her alive!

  Instead he clenched his fists that were held ramrod straight at his side. What was he doing here? What was this place? And more importantly, who was this petite woman who was doing her best to intimidate him, not that it was succeeding. He almost laughed at her antics.

  Hands on her hips, she tilted her head up at him and asked him the most benign question. He frowned. Is this part of some weird game?

  “What matters to you most?” she asked.

  Stupid woman. What mattered to all of his kind—freedom.

  His eyes narrowed in disgust. When he didn’t immediately answer, she had the audacity to quirk her neat little eyebrows at him, as if he were brain-dead.

  “What matters to you most, 7653?” she repeated, her voice brushing like a warm summer’s breeze deep into the recesses of his mind.

  The use of that number as if it were a name made him want to snort in frustration. “Freedom,” he snapped, looking her straight in the eye, willing her to understand.

  A smile lit up his face when she retreated back a step. His senses also told him her heart had accelerated. She, too, isn’t immune to my voice. For once, that gave him a smug sense of male satisfaction.

  “Him,” she said, turning her face to a woman standing at her side.

  Tulon knew she had to be of importance. She looked regal.

  “Choose another,” the woman replied, trying to usher the fourth male forward.

  He fought the urge to glare at her. He was chosen, and while he wasn’t sure for what, he didn’t like that she thought him beneath her. Contempt and disdain had filled her voice.

  “I will not, Mother. I choose him,” said the spitfire with grim determination as her eyes turned to challenge her mother.

  Mother! That was her mother who stood next to her, dressed like a matriarch. That would make the spitfire a what? A princess…high priestess…whatever. Tulon knew the game he had been forced to play just had its stakes raised.

  What he had been chosen for had to be pretty special. He almost smiled as the mother of the spitfire nodded her acquiescence to her daughter.

  When the petite woman kneeled in front of him, he fought the urge to lean down and pick her up. Realizing this must be part of their barbaric ceremony, he stood straighter.

  “I take the 7653 to be my mate…your seed to my seed…let life quicken within me.”

  The words were barely audible as she mumbled them. An electric shock rippled through his body when she lightly kissed each of his toes. He could have stumbled back from that intimacy, but he forced the creature he was to endure. Sadly, he liked it too much.

  That’s it! He was then hauled away. No questions asked. No answers. Once in the hall, the fair-haired one who had stood next to him sneered at him.

  “Lucky bastard. Enjoy the rut of your life,” he said, as he was whisked away.

  When the other two fair-haired men were taken to a different hall and he was left alone with only one female guard watching him, he thought about running.

  But to where? He had no idea where he was. He had been blindfolded for the entire journey to this place. Once here, he had been bathed, his body hennaed and then ushered into the lineup. Breaking his code of silence, he asked the guard, “What was all that about?”

  It took her a moment to realize he was asking something of importance. He noticed her pupils dilate in sexual awareness. He mentally cursed at himself. How I hate what my voice does to the women of this place. He wanted to shake sense into her. For once in his life, he wanted a straight answer.

  He turned, as a voice behind him spoke, fully aware of who stood there—the mother.

  “Pleasure my daughter well. Do your job. Nothing more. Do you hear me?” she stated, not expecting him to answer as she strode past him.

  Pleasure her daughter well. It took a moment for that notion to be fully digested by him. So that’s what I was chosen for. Bed sport! His nostrils flared at the insult, even as his body hummed its own eager answer. Blast his cock, which now stood at attention, lusting at the vision of ramming the petite woman into submission.

  Chapter Four

  Rowena wanted to
hide or run. Ushered into the room, she kept her head down. She was dressed in the ceremonial sheer ankle-length dress, slit up the middle all the way to her belly button and only held together with two small pearl buttons past her breasts. She fought the urge to clutch what little material there was and bunch it around her body.

  She tried hard not to look at the man, who was naked now. That thought brought a rush of heat to spread throughout her body. She wanted to reach down and clamp her legs shut, anything to stop the steady pulse that throbbed deep within her. The ache was becoming unbearable. Her pussy was drenched with cream. Her labia were swollen with a hungry need for the man’s cock to be wedged deep within her aching core. Turning away from the large, plush bed that took up most of the chamber, she crossed the floor and moved as far as possible away from the man who, like her, was all but panting with lust.

  Rowena knew she didn’t need the pheromone injection. Her body had become wet simply by looking at specimen 7653. Now, however, she felt as if she were drowning in desire. Her breasts felt achy, heavy with need. Her body tingled with awareness as his fresh, clean, all-too-male scent caught her senses. Her pussy muscles clenched in anticipation of what they thought was to come.

  She felt a steady beat between her legs. Her pussy was trying on its own to beckon the man closer—eagerly wanting the feel of him wedged deep within her.

  She shook her head, once again hating her race’s predicament. If she gave in to what her body craved and rutted the man senseless, then she was no better than the lowest of scum that made up the bottom of society. While all of her aunts and her mother told her it was her duty and that she didn’t have a choice, she knew better.

  Many said Maida civilization had entered the Enlightened Age. How enlightened is this? The idea of what she had to do was as barbaric to her as murdering a person with her own two hands. Heck, I don’t even need hands. I just need his cock and his seed—talk about a killer recipe.