Joanna Wylde: The Price of Freedom

She finished the seam, then moved around to the other side of his body. Once again she attacked the rough threads of his garment, determined to preserve the fabric. She would wash it and stitch it back together for him.

When both sides were cut, she gathered a deep breath and started to pull the fabric off his limp body. Fortunately, she was able to get the pants off without moving him too much, although she did have to reach one arm under his back to lift his lower body slightly. She kept her eyes averted from his genitals, embarrassed by how much she wanted to look at him. The air was chilly, and before her eyes small bumps rose on his leg. He was cold, she realized. She needed to get him covered.

She looked around the storeroom and found a blanket, folded neatly beside the pallet Bragan had made up for himself. She brought it back out to her patient, and draped it across his upper body and groin. In doing so, she couldn't help but notice the smooth length of his soft penis. Even at rest, it was much larger than her husband's had been. What would it look like fully aroused, she wondered? A shiver passed through her at the thought. Blushing, she forced herself to look away. Then she attacked his lower legs with her water-soaked rag.

His feet were huge. That was her first thought—so much bigger than her own. Her husband's had been smaller than this, too. This slave was tall, she remembered, from when she'd seen him the barracks.

Much taller than any of the Pilgrim men. Around each ankle were vicious scars. The manacles used to restrain him must have caused them, she realized. She trailed one finger along the ridge of twisted skin, a mixture of old, white scars over-laid with newer red ones. He had suffered a long time. She shuddered, thinking of the pain those scars represented. Don't think about it , she reminded herself. There's nothing you can do about that. It's just the way things are.

Both feet clean, she started working her way up. His calves were lean and tight. The tiny hairs bristled at her touch as she washed him. The further she moved up his body, the more mesmerizing she found her task. His skin was smooth, but still much rougher than hers. She shivered, wondering what was wrong with her. It was hardly cold. She felt hot and restless. If anything, she wanted to loosen her collar and get some fresh air.

By the time she reached his knees she had grown short of breath. There was something about the feel of his skin that made her feel almost lightheaded. Each muscle in his leg was sharply defined; not an ounce of extra skin to be found anywhere.

All too quickly she reached the point where she had to move the blanket aside, exposing his groin.

She tried not to look at his penis, moving briskly and efficiently. But her eye kept catching on it, and she just had to find something out…was it as soft and smooth as it looked? Glancing behind her quickly to make sure no one had magically appeared to watch her, she touched the length of it. The skin was incredibly soft. Much softer than she would have dreamt possible on a man as hard as this one. It was longer than her hand, and she allowed her fingers to drift down the length toward the smooth head.

Tracing the flared tip, she realized that it was changing slightly. He was hardening under her touch, and she jerked her fingers back in horror. But when she looked at his face, she realized he was still completely unconscious.

Of course, touching him was wrong, but when would she ever have another chance like this one?

For all she knew he would never wake up again. And if he didn't, she would be dead in two weeks.

Startled by her own daring, Bethany reached toward his penis again, lifting it gently with her fingers. She stroked it up and down several times, and was rewarded by the sight of it growing longer and harder under her ministrations. To her fascination, the head turned dark red, and then a small bead of moisture welled from the tip.

She was feeling fluttery, her breath coming quickly. Under the harsh fabric of her tunic, she could feel her nipples peaking. They were so sensitive that they almost hurt as she leaned further across the man to examine his face. The fabric of her dress was intolerably rough. She shook her head, trying to regain control of herself. But instead she leaned in closer to his face, studying it. It remained completely blank, but his lips looked so soft and inviting she couldn't prevent herself from wanting to touch them again.

Without pausing to consider her actions, she lowered her lips to his, kissing them gently. She brushed against them once, twice, then sat up and pulled the blanket over his body. Flushing deeply, she took a few deep breaths and sat back on her heels.

She knew what she had done was wrong. She sat there, examining her feelings for a few minutes, and realized that she didn't regret her actions one bit. In fact, just thinking about touching him excited her in a way that was totally different from anything she'd ever felt with her aging husband. This man was young, and strong. He was sick, but he was still more interesting than any of the Pilgrim men she'd ever met. Saving him had been the right thing to do. A sensation of calm came over her. Whatever happened in two weeks, she wouldn't regret her decision.

It took more than an hour to ferry all three carts of food to the barracks at the end of the slaves'

work cycle. It would be cold by the time the men came in from the mines, but that didn't really matter. It was still food, and they would be hungry. She had their dinner ready and waiting by the time they arrived back from work, escorted by several Pilgrim men she had known in her childhood. Of course the men didn't even bother to acknowledge her presence now. Several of the slaves looked toward the storage room with vague curiosity, but none seemed inclined to go over and visit. They seemed too tired to care about their fallen comrade.

Bragan came over to check on him as soon as he pulled off his pressure suit and stowed it in a locker. She could see the fatigue in his face, but the doctor still took his time while checking his patient over. Bethany searched his face anxiously for some sign of what to expect.

"There's no real change," Bragan said, sitting back on his heels. "He's dehydrated, though, and if he doesn't wake up soon he never will. Of course, if we had even the simplest of equipment here I could do something about that, but I don't even have a way to get fluids down him as it stands."

He sat back and sighed heavily. "I'm too old for working in the mines. Usually I don't have to do the heavy labor, but they've got me substituting for him right now." He gestured toward the man with his chin.

"I'm going to get my food now. Is it all right if his bunk mate visits him for a minute, before the lock they barracks down for the sleep cycle?"

"Sure," Bethany said. She stood and stretched tiredly. "It's been a long day. You must be eager to sleep."

"That's the truth," Bragan said. He stood and walked out of the room. A few seconds later a tall, muscular man with deep black hair came in. His face was streaked with dirt, and he scowled at Bethany.

She shivered, and suddenly realized she was alone with him. His eyes roamed up and down her body, stripping her naked, then looked away from her dismissively.

"How is he?" he asked in a low voice.

"Bragan doesn’t know how he's doing," she replied. To her disgust, her voice cracked. There was something about this man that scared the hell out of her, but she stood her ground, watching as he knelt beside the man and touched his face with surprising gentleness. Then he stood again and walked out of the room without speaking. Bethany exhaled heavily, and sagged against the wall. It was all too much, she thought. Far too much for one day.