Aztan
Chapter One
© Nattie Jones and ABCD Webmasters, 2005
“Are you sure about this, ma’am?”
I nodded my head with confidence, despite the fearful adrenaline racing through
my body. A new planet and a new life—a strange world that promised to
be my future. The pilot didn’t notice my nod, his eyes traversing my
body as his ship had just traversed the galaxy.
“Yes,” I commanded, “take us into orbit and contact the
Welcoming Patrol.” His wandering gaze irked me, not because he was transfixed
by my trained muscles as an ex-peacekeeper captain, but because I had yet
to make eye contact. You can’t trust a man before you’ve looked
him in the eye.
Settling back into the cockpit, the pilot sighed. “Ain’t hearda
no flights to Aztan for over fifty years.” He glanced back at my legs,
the hope that I would abort the mission resonating in his voice. “Full
refund if’n you wanna change your mind.”
I didn’t respond to the pilot’s offer; it wasn’t my job
to comfort him, to make him feel good. For that, he could have stayed on Earth,
the feel-good capital of the universe. Everyone was eternally happy and appeased,
always pursuing pleasure like a lion pursues its prey. They were so drugged
that they never realized whether they achieved that state or not.
Glancing up at the pilot, I wondered if he thought my scowl was directed towards
him. “If you’re so worried, why’d you accept my offer?”
The pilot turned to stare at my breasts again, considering. “Well,”
he mumbled, “my wife …” His face turned red and I understood.
It had been easy to bribe his wife. She now had enough credits to keep her
family ecstatic for the rest of their lives. She was either confident in her
man’s piloting skills or she was unconcerned with his safety. I didn’t
want to know which it was—I might feel guilty.
The pilot’s fantasies, however, were unconcerned with his wife. I could
sense the waves of his desire rolling off of him and see the fantasy of me
painted in his mind as clearly as if it had been sketched in mine. Some called
me a mind reader, but the truth was that I never read and never looked. My
Grandmom had laughed and laughed when I told her to stop placing thoughts
and pictures in my mind, but nevertheless, that’s how it felt.
I was too tired to block his fantasies, even though they were laced with fear
of Aztan. He was right to be nervous about Aztan. So many contradicting stories
were told about the place: it had become a mystical place for children’s
stories, a mythical world to play on their GameTechs, a reputed planet of
grave danger and barbaric lifestyle.
But Grandmom’s dying request—command, really—sent me here
and I would trust her with my life before I would trust anyone. If only I
could get to Aztan safely, then I was sure that she wouldn’t let me
down. I felt a little nervous considering it had been fifty-five years since
she settled on Earth—fifty-six years since Earth’s last officially
recorded flight to or from Aztan.
“You must go,” my Grandmom had said before she passed to the next
life. “You must make your life there, you must meet your destiny.”
Did I have a destiny? Did I even believe in destinies? Life on Earth seemed
an endless schedule with no meaning and no purpose. I had often dreamed of
having a greater purpose—having a positive impact on the world. There
had to be more to life than finding solace in distraction and in entertainment.
But what was my role? I prayed Grandmom’s dying wish would help me find
those answers.
As the globe of Aztan came into view, the pilot opened communication with
a resigned punch to the panel. “A visitor from Earth,” he said,
“requesting permission to tour and hand deliver a letter to a Richard
Mastron.”
Several voices started speaking rapidly and incoherently, until one voice
called a halt to it. “Standby for landing coordinates.” The voice
had the lilting quality of my Grandmom, the Aztanian dialect that sounded
more like song than speech—great for bedtime stories and comforting
crooning.
As the land grew larger and clearer in the viewer, my nausea vanished and
time froze into a startling array of colors and shapes. The blue of the ocean
and the green of the land gave way to rich, red beaches of sand, pastures
of purple flowers, and forests of orange and yellow and white. Sparkling waterfalls,
frightening cliffs, powerful mountains and crystal streams … never before
had I seen such a dazzling variety of sensational beauty. I wondered how my
Grandmom ever could have left this world for Earth.
No wonder she longed for it with even her dying breath.
The com rudely interrupted my dazed awe of the land. “Please remain
in your spacecraft until the Welcoming Patrol has inspected your ship.”
I had expected this. Like I said, relations between Aztan and Earth had disintegrated
back in 2176.
The pilot’s eyes went wide and I saw his hand hover towards the emergency
re-orbit control. I didn’t blame him, not at all, but I wasn’t
about to turn back after everything it had taken to get me there. I pulled
out the small hand phaser I had hidden in my pocket for just this purpose.
Although tiny enough to fit inside a fist, it could knock out a person for
over six hours. Aimed correctly, close enough, it could knock out a person
for good.
“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.” I was behind him now,
and he could see the phaser aimed at his head in the mirror of the shiny control
board. “I can bring this thing in for a landing if I have to, but I
can’t promise it’ll be pretty, or that you’ll ever be able
to take off again.”
The pilot stared at the phaser, a sure sign of an idiot. A person fires, not
a phaser. Unfortunately, interplanetary pilots were in short supply on Earth,
and those that could be bribed were even scarcer. When selecting a pilot for
my secretive jaunt to Aztan, I had to choose between stupid and criminal—stupid
was easier to control. He slowly moved his hand back to the landing control,
and brought us down to the assigned coordinates. When men surrounded us on
all sides, phasers in hand, the pilot trembled with fear.
I felt alive with adventure.
Within seconds, they were crawling all over the ship, and within minutes,
five men had opened the latch and entered the cockpit. I disregarded the red-uniformed
four that came in first, and surveyed the tall one who came in last. By his
navy blue velvet tunic and bright orange cape, I suspected he was the captain.
I dropped my phaser and held open my hands in a gesture of trust and friendliness.
That’s when I heard the pilot blubbering. “We ain’t mean
… no harm … just flying …” No one, evidently, had
ever told him that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself. “We
no harm … no harm … We NO HARM!”
Both the captain and I looked at him incredulously, but neither of us responded,
and we returned to surveying each other when he collapsed in a dead faint.
The captain’s eyes were a deep navy blue that matched his tunic. Penetrating,
but guarded at the same time. I respected a man who looked me in the eye.
Not once did his clear, assessing gaze waver.
His voice was both curt and lyrical—the sound of a paradox. “You
hardly look old enough to know Richard Mastron.”
“It’s from my Grandmom.” I held his gaze. “That I
deliver it was her dying request.”
Not bothering with words, he held out his hand in a clear command. For some
foggy reason—maybe those entrancing eyes, or maybe the long flight—I
obeyed immediately. Unzipping the pocket in my form-fitting silver jumpsuit,
I pulled out the handwritten old-fashioned paper letter. I placed the letter
in his hands and responded to his silence in kind.
He gave it a cursory glance before placing it in his pocket, and then turned
to one of his men. “Rouse the pilot and send him home.” Jerking
his head towards me, he commanded, “Take her to Section 2. She wants
to be here, she’ll be of use.”
And then he was gone.
I didn’t fight, didn’t cry, didn’t even make a sound when
they tied my hands behind my back and dragged me through the deserted landing
port; I was too proud.
That would change.
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They left my hands bound, when I was locked in the stark white room. It didn’t
take me more than a second to realize there was no escaping. I closed my eyes,
whispering, “Grandmom? Whatever did you get me into?” But I didn’t
try to guess what was going to happen next. Evaluate, stay in the present
moment—I fell back on my peacekeeper training, senses fully alert.
I was not a spineless Earthwoman who buckled when there were no pleasure pills
or when the distraction of entertainment was gone. Grandmom, despite my parents
objections, had seen to it I was raised without those crutches. Not that it
was legal, but Grandmom was smart, and every bit as sly as the spies in the
old-fashioned action movies. With a chuckle, I realized that she would have
loved this adventure. She created her life, every single moment of it, with
only one regret.
When the door opened, I jumped to my feet and raised my chin at the entrance
of the navy blue-eyed captain.
“I am Captain Gregory Mastron, grandson of Richard Mastron. You must
be the Julissa King that Empress Lilah referred to in her letter.” His
eyes clouded with disgust, and I felt both my ire and curiosity rising. “Lilah
Goldston was convicted of high treason. This story—” he crumpled
the letter and stuffed it in his cloak as if it nauseated him “—is
not enough to clear her name.” He shook his head in anger, his eyes
traveling up my body to challenge my eyes. “And as far as your claim
to the Challenge …” He trailed off, scoffing as he took off his
cloak and hung it on a hook.
Empress Lilah? Grandmom? I stared at him in shock, curious, but disbelieving.
Treason? Grandmom loved this place with all her heart, but … an empress?
Until her dying day, she mourned that she was stuck on Earth. My confusion
dissolved into fear as his bare and muscled arm pulled out a knife from his
pocket.
I pride myself on my physical dexterity and strength. Once, with my bare hands,
I broke the arms of a man who mistakenly believed my breasts belonged to him.
In fact, I like to consider myself the equal, or even better, of any man on
Earth. But I’m not stupid, nor do I bother with self-serving delusions.
The captain was not only a foot taller than my 5’8”, but he was
physically built to a disconcerting perfection. Realistically speaking, I
stood no chance in a physical battle with him.
The captain stepped towards me and I closed my eyes, waiting with dignity
for the inevitable. I felt his presence inches from my face, then his hands
on my arms, turning me around. Relief flooded through me when the knife freed
the rope from my hands, but terror raced anew when the cold, chilling knife
made a slow descent down my back, ripping my jumpsuit open.
As one of the proud few trained in the Peacekeeper Police, I knew some men
were tantalized by fear and struggle. Were the rumors of Aztan true? Could
the planet of my Grandmom’s heart be inhabited by barbarians? Calling
on every stubborn bone in my body—of which there were thankfully many—I
stood still and refused to succumb to my fear. My body barely trembled when
the knife slowly split my left pant leg open.
It was only then that I noticed that the Captain was talking.
“… but the Council has decided that you will be trained, and your
Grandmom’s claims reviewed.” The dull side of the knife caressed
down the back of my right leg, leaving my jumpsuit hanging by only the sleeves.
His hands came to rest on my shoulders, and he spoke softly into my ear, causing
every hair of mine to prickle with heightened awareness. “With the Empress’
death, the successor will be determined by the Challenge, and the Council
has seen fit to appoint me as your trainer and champion.” He laughed
then, unkindly, and in a few frightening motions with the knife, he had me
standing before him naked.
The vulnerability of standing before this strange man, on a strange planet,
overwhelmed me and a tear started to form in my eye. A sudden, brash anger
erupted from my fears, and in a quick movement from years of training, I managed
to kick the knife from his hand and give him a bloody nose with my fist. When
he didn’t move, didn’t retaliate, I stared at him, my chest rocking
up and down from the sudden exertion. “Why would I care about succeeding
the Empress, or accepting any challenge on this barbaric planet?”
He held my eyes for a moment, then turned and retrieved a glove from his cloak.
Without speaking, he dabbed the blood from his nose, and put away the glove
before coming back to me to respond. “I see you are anxious for your
first taste of my strap.”
I was speechless.
A child’s punishment? True, Grandmom wielded the strap a few times—again,
despite the laws to the contrary—and although her discipline was always
loving and meant to teach, she had scorched the skin off my bottom, to be
sure. Did this captain expect me to cower at such a threat? I felt a strange
urge to giggle, or perhaps to collapse into sobs.
“Do you expect me to be afraid of you?” I glared at him, craving
a good fighting match with him. I didn’t care any longer that he was
stronger, and would inevitably win—I just wanted to hurt him, to fight
him. I wanted to hear him cry out in pain of my doing.
He stared at me for a long time, not responding. My glare was losing energy,
and I fought to keep my eyes angry, but I was naked, cold and tired. To my
embarrassment, my eyes lowered for an instant, and he immediately started
lecturing.
“Julissa.” Captain Mastron let the word roll off his tongue, as
if testing the letters. “You will obey me, you will learn from me, you
will enter the Challenge, and you will be punished if you behave improperly.”
His eyes never left mine, and he started pulling off the leather belt on his
tunic. Folding it in his hand, he emphasized his lecture with smacks to his
leg that made me blush. “You will do all this, and do it better than
any other Crown Competitor, because I will become Prime Minister and serve
the good of this planet until the day I die.”
The passion in his eyes startled me, and with each passing word, I grew younger
and shorter. All my training, all my promotions, all my pride seemed to fade
away into a mist of childhood, where I stood humbled before my Grandmom, ashamed
of my actions and ashamed of disappointing her.
“… and fighting me, disrespecting me, will earn you a good strapping.
A Crown Competitor always controls her power and acts out of intellect, not
out of rash anger.” He came to me then, putting a hand on my shoulder,
turning me around, and claiming my obedience in a completeness that shocked
me. “Bend over and touch your toes.”
Never, in my life, had I ever submitted to the authority of a man. It’s
not that I had anything against men—the truth is, I respected a strong
man who commanded obedience. But only my Grandmom had bothered with me growing
up, and once accepted into Peacekeeper Training, my officers had been women
until I had been promoted to captain. To raise my bottom up to this man—this
stranger—and let him punish me, knowing that I was vulnerable …
In the end, I submitted, both because I preferred to maintain an appearance
of dignity, of control, and because I was guilty of losing control. I slowly
bent over to touch my toes, feeling my bottom rise up to him with an unwilling
invitation. Tears surprised me as they rushed into my eyes, and the shame
that filled my heart with regret froze my breath.
But he didn’t hit me right away. Instead, a rough, callused hand rubbed
over my bottom, exploring its shape, experimenting with a gentle pinch here
and there. He kneeled down to look between my calves, right into my eyes.
“You do have a beautiful body,” he said as if surprised.
I opened my mouth, but only a little squeak came out as he took hold of my
legs, and firmly rubbed up the inner thighs, then spread my cheeks apart.
He held them apart for a while, while I could feel his eyes boring into my
bottom hole, studying my shy sex. My training was no help, and the strong
commander within that had been awarded promotion after promotion was no where
to be found. I couldn’t even get my lips to form a “no.”
I felt a new person inside me, a strange side of me I had barely known, even
in childhood.
After surrendering to more probing, I experimented with pulling away, and
was rewarded with a firm smack to my leg. Without a word, he pulled my bottom
cheeks apart again, sometimes lifting one, sometimes lowering, and even used
his thumbs to reach in and feel the wet arousal that turned my face red with
embarrassment.
It got worse when he reached his thumbs up to spread the folds of skin that
hid my clitoris. Now, I’m no virgin, but no one had ever spread me open
and just stared at me. I pulled away again, but this time he just pinched
the folds of skin and held me in place.
That the captain spanked me with his bare hand surprised me. It was too personal,
too caring, for this man who seemed to hate me. What did he care whether I
learned control? Why did he demand my respect? Why was his hand taking a personal
interest in my bottom, smacking it like a little girl’s? It was so big,
so caring, so protective—so possessive.
It brought tears to my eyes, though not from pain. I was humbled by the jolts
of force pushing me forward, and humbled more by the will within me to stay
in place, to accept a spanking from this man. The question, who am I?, took
on a whole new meaning. The firm slaps took my breath away, and his complete
control of the situation left me slightly in awe of both his dominance and
my surprising submission.
When the strap whistled down, though, it was my Grandmom’s voice I heard,
telling me that I should never lose control, always stand proudly, to be strong.
I cried for disappointing her, for both fighting the captain and for submitting
to the captain. I cried for the times she had not been there to spank me in
the last two years. Then I sobbed when the strap began licking at my legs,
biting into my inner thighs, into my outer thighs.
“I am the best at what I do,” he said, the strap relentlessly
scraping into my skin. “You will learn from me, and you will obey me.”
He then draped me over his arm, lifting me up from the ground as if I weighed
nothing. When his grip was secure, his other arm let loose with the strap
in the harshest spanking I had ever received.
I cried out in the throes of pain and defiance. “I will not be your
competitor to train in some ridiculous contest for the throne.”
He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “You’ll thank me for
this, one day,” he said. The belt whipped so fast, I didn’t have
time to feel each stroke individually. Just time to howl and thrash about
while my legs and bottom screamed in agony. “The stricter I am now,
the sooner you’ll learn to obey me, and the less you’ll feel the
lick of this strap.”
My pain finally found its voice, completely ignoring the objections of my
pride. “I’ll obey you; I promise!” My sobs mixed with a
pleading that was frantically searching for escape. “Please, I’ve
learned! You can stop, please!” But he didn’t stop, didn’t
even slow down. The belt cut into every cell on my bottom, telling me to obey
this man, telling me that he was stronger than I. I could have admired him,
from the sidelines, but I was screeching and crying, desperately trying to
avoid the relentless belt wailing away at my bottom.
And when it was over, and he let me up, I spit in Captain Mastron’s
face. Not because he punished me, not because he corrected me. Not even because
he could see the tears rolling down my face, and hear the heart-breaking sobs
that were wracking my body in uncontrollable release. I spit in Captain Mastron’s
face because when I stood up, my Grandmom was not holding the strap, and she
was not holding her arms open for me. I spit in his face because he stood
there, firm and strong, but not loving me, not holding me tight to whisper
loving teachings in my ear, and not tenderly putting me to bed. I spit in
his face because he didn’t have silver hair, he wasn’t curvy,
and he didn’t have lively green eyes that emanated love.
