Her Shameful Service – Galactic Discipline Read Online Emily Tilton

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Erotic Tags Authors: Emily Tilton Advertisement1

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Not until the horrid Agent Delvik had first touched that little bud in its wrinkled hood, to teach me about the degradations of my new life as a concubine. Not until I had learned that I could come, that I could climax. Only then had I understood that the overwhelming, mortifying need between my thighs could reach a release.

With this agent’s fingers there, I felt an even greater need for that moment of ecstasy, of flight off into another galaxy, full of pleasure that could take me far from this cage, if only for a few moments. I wanted it so badly, and at the same time I wanted not to show it. I tensed my abdominal muscles, my thighs, and my buttocks, as hard as I could, to keep from moving with the caressing hand and to keep the moan inside me.

Instead, though, I caused myself to let out an even more humiliating sound: a whining, mewling whimper—the sound of a hungry puppy, pleading for more food. Then it got worse, because the tension in my thighs and bottom made the soreness from the bruises left by the paddle flare up, but to my dismay not at all in a way that distracted me from what the gloved hand was doing between my legs. No, I felt my hips jerk despite all my effort to force them into stillness, and I felt my pussy clench.

“Did you see that, at least, milord?” asked the agent, a note of triumph vying in his tone with one of irony, as if he wanted any of the other potential bidders to understand that he had seen through his lordship’s little ploy. “And I imagine you see how well she earns her name?”

“Oh, certainly,” said the lord’s deep voice, in a louder tone than he had used before, obviously intending to counter the agent’s move with one of his own—he had seen the terrible truth about my wayward body, his jaded words seemed to say, and found it nothing special.

But I still thought, though another part of my mind continued to question my sanity, that I had heard another note in that rich bass. I thought the lord’s voice had sounded a little… husky, perhaps. Thick. Similar maybe to the way Agent Delvik had sounded after he had paddled me. As if his lordship had found what he had seen affecting, despite the blasé manner he had just adopted.

“Madame Franla,” he said, “you thought that girl… Silverstar, was it? Yes… over⁠—”

His voice receded. He and his mistress of concubines—I felt my forehead crease, for reasons I couldn’t have named, as I remembered her title—had walked away.

“Would anyone like to see Wetquim here come?” the agent asked, in a voice elevated enough to suggest that perhaps the nobleman had won the little game, and his departure had left no audience for the agent’s humiliation.

The hand withdrew. To my horror, I let out a sob and pressed my punished bottom more firmly against the bars behind me, as if perhaps I might win some pleasure from them.

“Stop that, Wetquim!” the agent said. “I’m turning the punisher back on, so get away from the bars this instant. Stand up and turn around. Back in position.” Then he muttered, in a way that seemed half directed at me and half to himself, “Well, at least Baron Gravamir is going to want you, you little whore.”

By the time I had turned around, he had started to walk away himself. With my heart in my throat, I risked looking around, trying to pick out Baron Gravamir and Madame Franla in the crowd. My tummy churned: I didn’t know why, but I felt a desperation to see his face, his form in his nobleman’s robes. Something about the manner in which he had spoken to me and about me seemed utterly different from the way the company agents had treated me. They talked as if I represented a piece of merchandise, interchangeable with any other girl though perhaps having certain different characteristics—the way one dress might fit slightly differently from another.

The baron had seemed to see in me an object, yes, but a special kind of object, a prize to be won and kept and displayed—something valuable, that he might think himself fortunate to possess.

Or, said a sarcastic voice inside my head, you’re completely imagining that, because you’re desperate to hold onto something, when here on this horrible planet you will never be more than a bed girl.

I lowered my eyes with a tiny sob that I hoped none of the other girls or any of the passersby could hear. I hadn’t seen anything: just the crowd of gorgeous robes of nobility and fine clothing, with a few of the gray mistresses’ dresses here and there.

A bed girl. And I don’t even know what it really means.


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