Gena Showalter: The Pleasure Slave

"Look," she said, twisting the sheer fabric in knots. "I'm not actually married."

Tristan blinked. "Then where is your man?"

"Technically, I don't have a man."

"Not a father? Brother? Protector?"

Jaw clenched, cheeks red, she shook her head.

"So you spoke an untruth." It was a statement, not a question, laced with puzzlement rather than ire.

"I thought you were an intruder, remember? What else was I supposed to say? We're all alone so don't worry about the neighbors hearing my screams while you kill me?"

"I am glad you do not have a man." Julia gulped, not liking the sudden, possessive perusal he gave her.

"Mind if I ask why?"

"Jealous husbands are a nuisance." Not exactly the answer she expected. In fact, she was offended for married men and women everywhere. Because of Tristan's profession, he probably didn't know much about relationships. To arm him with knowledge, she launched into a speech about vows, monogamy and the joys of commitment. Her sister often said Julia should have been a lawyer. Tristan's eyes soon glazed and a yawn hovered at the edges of his mouth.

"Don't you believe in the sanctity of marriage?" she ended.

"Aye. Yet I must do as my guan ren commands." His steely tone scraped the very air around them.

She had to assume guan ren meant master. "I'm sorry," she said, hoping to soothe him. "Being a slave must be difficult at times."

"Such a life is not difficult," he grumbled. "Such a life is torture. Every minute of every day." Lord, there had to be some way to help him. The prospect of owning another human being was beginning to make her queasy. "Is there any way I can free you?"

He didn't answer for a long time, his features changing expression like the click of a camera. Hope. Disappointment. Anger. Finally all emotion cleared and he said simply, "Nay, you cannot. What is required is impossible. I must find my one true love."

"Why is that so impossible?" Surely this man had loved, and been loved, by thousands. For people like him, gorgeous and self-assured, love acted as a magnetic force. He would have no problem finding his soul mate. If he were plain like her, however, she would understand his difficulty.

That muscle was ticking in his jaw again, and she could tell he didn't want to answer. Then, as if propelled by a force greater than himself, he spoke. "Love is an emotion I am unable to experience."

She blinked up at him. "You're joking, right?"

"Nay, I am not." He was serious—deadly serious—and since he had a sword, she wasn't going to try to change his mind.

Julia rubbed her temples. What am I going to do with this tall, dark and sinfully delicious pleasure slave ? She could panic. No. That wouldn't do. Having grown up with extremely volatile parents, she preferred to calmly wade through her problems. She could return the box to the flea market. No again. The dealer's market only ran once a month, and the vendors always changed. The previous owner might not be there and, more than likely, he wouldn't refund her money. Besides, she felt sorry for Tristan. No telling what another woman might force him to do. Kiss her, lick her, touch her…

Julia's back straightened and she squared her jaw. No question about it, she was keeping him. "Look," she said. "I'll be honest. I'm not interested in having a slave, but I'd love a big-brother type." Ignoring his dubious expression, she continued. "Anyway, we need to talk, to iron out some details."

"Such as?" he asked, though his expression made it quite clear he was really thinking, Hush your mouth, wench .

"We need to discuss exactly what we expect from each other. Where you'll stay, what you'll do. That sort of thing." She motioned with a wave of her hand, indicating the chair directly across from her. "Please, have a seat."

Though the scowl he offered her said he'd rather skin her alive with his sword, he folded his long, gorgeous legs under the table. The chair creaked in protest. Giving him a grateful smile, she sat down, as well. "Where to begin?" she muttered. She'd never been in this situation before, with a half-naked man across from her. Should she begin with the sleeping arrangements, or casually work her way around the subject?

A moment later, he grabbed the reins of the conversation himself. "Where am I?" he asked.

"America. Sante Fe, New Mexico, to be exact."

"Santa Fa? Am-erica." One dark brow arched, and confusion flittered in the crystalline pools of his eyes. "I do not know of these places."

Not know of the mighty U. S. of A.?

"How long were you trapped inside that box?"

"I last emerged eighty-nine seasons ago."

"And before that?"

"I was blessed with twelve seasons alone, then emerged in Arcadia. Before that? I hardly recall."

Seasons must be years, Julia thought. She studied the smooth skin of his face. "Just how old are you, Tristan?"

"Almost one thousand and five hundred seasons, I think." He shrugged. "I stopped counting several centuries ago."

Her jaw nearly dropped to the floor. She hadn't expected that. He was a living, breathing antique, yet he looked so handsome, so virile.

"Do you eat lots of bran or something?"

His chin tilted to the side. "I do not understand."

"It's just that you appear so young. Too young to be so old."

Bitterness hardened his features, like clay drying into pottery. "Once the binding spell was cast, I ceased aging. A courtesy of the black-haired sorceress, Zirra."

Sorceress? Binding spell? "She cursed you? But… why?"

"Why does any woman curse a man?" Because she'd been spurned hung in the air unsaid.

"This Arcadia you mentioned," Julia said. "Is that where you're from?"

"Nay. I hail from Imperia."

Arcadia. Imperia. Both were names she didn't recognize. Julia's stomach tightened as her thoughts spiraled off in a direction she didn't like.

"Are either of those places, um, on Earth?"

His lips thinned into a tight line. "Nay."

Okay. The thought of life on another planet or dimension or whatever stretched her imagination to the limit. Remember, Julia, your own personal pleasure slave is sitting mere inches from your reach. So… interplanetary travel? Not too hard to believe, actually.

"If we're from—" she had to swallow her disquietude before she could continue " — from different planets, how do you know my language?"

"Another spell, this one cast by an exiled member of Gillradian society. Whatever land I visit, that language do I speak."

"Magic language. Of course. I'm surprised I didn't guess."

His warm, rich chuckle rained over her like a silky caress. "I think you speak another untruth, little dragon." Still grinning, his gaze circled the kitchen. "What manner of home is this?"

"What do you mean?"

"It is… so small."

"Small?" A laugh bubbled past her throat. "You've got to be kidding. This place is three thousand square feet."

"Of your feet, mayhap." Considering she'd grown up in a two-room adobe hut, this place suited her to perfection.

"I'll have you know my house is not small. In fact, it's the biggest house in the neighborhood."

"I am sure this is fine for one so tiny as you."

"I am not tiny, Conan."

He shook his head. "I am Tristan, not Conan."

"Never mind." She waved a hand through the air. "You know, for a pleasure slave, you lack certain pleasuring skills."

"Do I?" With a lascivious grace at odds with the sheer size of him, he eased to his feet. "Well, then, I will have to remedy that impression immediately."

Julia almost jumped out of her skin. "I don't know what you're planning, but I know I won't like it."

"You will like it," he vowed. "I have been pleasuring women for centuries now, and know exactly where to touch you to make you scream."