The Slave Palace: Wulf and Locke (Kingdom of Slaves Book 1) Read online

  Locke’s muscles tensed upon seeing this man. He was indeed magnificent. Beneath the bruises and cuts on his arms and legs, he was golden in hue, smooth, with very little body hair. It took four handlers to shove him forward, two with their guns drawn. Wulf’s muscles bulged as he fought against the pushes. His head turned right to left, jerking, and his golden hair fell into his eyes and against the red ball-gag that filled his mouth.

  The chains rattled. The man’s impressive cock swung side to side as he struggled to stay upright while still fighting his captors right up to the side of the stage.

  Locke calculated that if this man was from Rille, he’d already spent nearly a whole day on a flight to Avilan. And before that, he’d probably been held in a military prison for who knew how long. Days? Weeks?

  Yet the only wear and tear he showed was bruising and scrapes. His eyes, a brilliant blue, were wide and unflinching. The whites were bright and healthy, unmarred. He looked like he still retained the strength to barrel through a wall.

  “Who’d have guessed Parcival would come up with this as his final auction item?” Malik whispered. “A One-Night Thrall.”

  “Parcival’s outdone himself this time,” replied Locke. His eyes never left the creature in front of him. He was close enough that he could smell him, the sweat of anger and fear, the salt essence of a man who knew he was on the way to the gallows and wasn’t going to make it easy on the ones leading him there.

  Malik chuckled. “Still bored?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “Well, it’s entertainment, I’ll give Parcival that.”

  Several people were already lined up to examine the specimen before the slave even climbed the two steps to the stage.

  Locke didn’t realize his mouth was open until Malik gave him a friendly smack on the shoulder.

  “Want to go up there and see him for yourself?”

  Locke finally looked away. “No.”

  But he couldn’t understand himself in this moment. His heart hammered in his chest. His stomach filled with little shivers.

  Locke had come far in his job. He had been doing this for fourteen years, two of them as an apprentice trainer. Now he was an Eminent Master. He’d learned to keep his emotions at bay.

  The hardest lesson was to enjoy his work but keep himself distant at the same time. Trainers who found that perfect middle ground produced exceptional slaves which went for high dollar amounts. Slaves responded to reward and affection, but keeping a slave from imprinting on a master was what it was all about. You couldn’t be too cold, but you couldn’t be too hot, either.

  Right now, Locke was feeling the heat. He watched as potential buyers handled the merchandise, some simply feeling the tenseness of his bulging muscles, others crudely examining his ass, testing the weight of his balls.

  Hands gripped the man’s cock, squeezing not so nicely which was against the usual rules, and the pain of it put Wulf into a tight rage. He pushed forward all of a sudden, scattering the buyers, and half-fell off the stage before his four handlers could even react.

  At the front and center table, Locke was up from his chair in seconds, catching the weight of the man against his chest and shoulder, holding him upright.

  Hot. So hot to the touch.

  “There now,” Locke said. “These tiles are hard on the knees.”

  Wulf tossed his head forward, then back. His tangles of hair nearly hit Locke in the face. His bright eyes met Locke’s for a second, then the gaze twisted away and the man tried to say something behind his gag.

  “Got your balance?” Locke said calmly.

  The blue eyes sought his again. The golden brows narrowed.

  “All right, then,” said Locke, and he moved back and sat down in his chair which put his eyes level with the enemy warrior’s hips and impressive genitalia.

  The handlers surrounded Wulf and forced him back behind the stage and the velvet curtain.

  Malik leaned forward, handing Locke a newly filled glass of wine.

  Locke took it and drank a deep mouthful.

  “What was that about?” Malik asked.

  “He was about to hurt himself. Parcival had a lack in common sense bringing him here.”

  “Well, it’s all business.” Malik picked up his own drink and clinked his glass to Locke’s.

  “Yes. Yes it is.”

  But Locke’s palm was still tingling where it had impacted with Wulf’s arm. And that body against his chest. The weight of it. The fiery energy. All amazing.

  The tremors in Locke’s stomach threatened to move lower.

  Chapter Four – Wulf

  The plane trip to Avilan could only be described as a nightmare. Wulf, separated from the other prisoners, continued to fight his handlers.

  They had bound him and that still didn’t keep him from butting against their bodies with his own, so for his journey to the airstrip, and the duration of the flight, they put him in a straitjacket, bound his ankles, and wheeled him in a sort of upright chair into the cargo hold.

  From there they transferred him to a cage where he had room only to curl up on the floor with his knees to his chest. He did not have any space to stretch out. If he sat up, his head hit the cage’s top.

  Someone had affixed a container of water to the side of the cage with a strange, curving metal straw. Luckily, they’d taken away his gag. He found he could suck water from that straw. But as for food, there was none. His last meal had been offered to him in the prison, and he’d ignored it as he had all other meals for two days.

  The floor of the cargo hold rumbled. It was cold. But the sound and the slight vibration finally put him to sleep. Only to have him startle awake at every bit of turbulence the plane hit.

  Off and on, for twenty-three hours, this confinement was Wulf’s entire world.

  The cold grew worse after a while. He had on only the straitjacket and a pair of gray coveralls which protected him not at all.

  When the plane finally landed and his guards hauled him from the cage, his muscles cramped. His entire body began to shake. He could barely stand.

  Luckily, he didn’t have to. The funny wheelchair became his mode of conveyance, for his handlers could not trust him.

  He wanted to laugh at that notion for he had no strength left, but more, he wanted to cry.

  The prisoners transported with him on the flight were strangers to him. His fellow warriors in his unit were gone. He’d seen them all taken down. Why he had remained unscathed, he did not know, for there were no gods looking out for him anymore, nothing left. The damned Avilanians took everything from him and now all he had was death. He decided he wanted it. He was ready to embrace it.

  Wulf was taken to another holding cell, allowed to use the toilet with the straitjacket still in place, and given injections. He first thought the injections were drugs but when he started to feel more energized, decided they were some sort of vitamin supplement to keep him going.

  A group of men and women came by his cell, all in suits, and peered in at him, then left.

  Later, he was taken from the cell and put, still bound at the ankles and in the straitjacket, into a van and driven to some unknown destination. The drive lasted far into the night. He endured more hours of muscle cramping and bound limbs.

  His stomach growled. He ignored it.

  When the van finally stopped, he was strangely grateful. As he was hauled outside, deft hands removed his gag.

  He did not yell or scream. All he wanted as to gulp the fresh, cool air. He stretched his legs. He longed to come out of the straitjacket, and even thought about saying he would cooperate now, but kept his mouth shut.

  He could not forget the cold ruined city he’d left behind, or his dead comrades who had fought and slept by him side to side. When Avilan went to war against its enemies, they obviously left little to nothing standing in their wake.

  Now Wulf stood in a shadowed alleyway, the pavement damp under his bare feet. He smelled rain in the air though none fell, and
saw puddles flashing in dim light coming from a main street at the mouth of the alley.

  He had had the van all to himself, but now as more vans pulled up he saw other humans pulled from the backs of the vehicles, all chained as he was except for the straitjacket.

  Black-clad men herded the people altogether and led them into a set of rusted double doors.

  Inside, the warehouse air smelled dank and dusty. The ceiling was at least two floors high and sported flickering fluorescent lights that sent the interior into a scuttling of shadows.

  The air seemed more frigid inside than out.

  Despite the temperature, the guards stripped all the chained humans of their clothing.

  Wulf was turned roughly. He felt a gun put this temple, and gravelly voice said, “If you try anything, you’re dead.”

  People surrounded him. Hands removed his straitjacket and knives were used to cut away his coverall. Now he stood naked and shivering, hands manacled in front, ankles chained to his hands.

  Someone slapped him on the rear. “Turn!”

  He found himself in a line up of naked, chained prisoners. Instantly, his mind counted them. Ten in all, including himself, stood before a group of guards.

  A short man in a suit came in through the rusted doors.

  “What’ve you got? And dammit, why are you calling me past midnight?”

  “They need to be moved,” one of the men said. “We have nowhere to put them all. Fifty k for the lot.”

  “For this ragtag bunch? Twenty, no more. And even so, some of them don’t look at all healthy.”

  The haggling continued. Wulf stared at the man with the money. Small. Pale. He could crush him under one foot.

  Finally, the guards forced them to move out a set of new doors and into more vans.

  When Wulf reached the outside, he body-shoved one of the guards hard.

  Guns came up aimed at his chest and head.

  “Is this one trouble?” the small man asked.

  “Could be. But he’s a looker. He’d get you a fortune even if he has to be put down after.”

  “Dammit, Sy, are you fucking me over?”

  “Why would I? You’re my favorite broker, Parcival.”

  Wulf ended up in a new van for another long drive.

  His second destination was another cell. But this time he shard it with nine others, all naked, all chained at the ankles and wrists.

  In the cell was a single toilet and rudimentary shower. The guards instructed them to “be clean by tomorrow or else.”

  While most of the prisoners were frightened, and sought to get to know each other for comfort, Wulf spent his waking time looking for a way out. He ignored all overtures of friendship, for he could not afford to be responsible for anyone else if he were to escape.

  By morning, everyone but Wulf had showered. They’d eaten. They’d memorized each other’s names. Wulf had not.

  The guards opened the cell door and everyone filed out. Wulf was the last.

  “Did you not understand the orders to be clean?”

  Wulf replied, “I did.”

  “You’re filthy.”

  Wulf brought his chained hands up hard, bloodying the guard’s nose.

  More guards came running.

  Wulf stood quietly, watching with some satisfaction the blood run down the injured guard’s lips and chin. He startled when the muzzle of a gun smacked him hard just under the side of his head.

  A ringing began in his ears.

  “Into the shower. Now!” Hands pushed him back into the cell. Another guard came in and turned on the water to the open shower.

  More guards pushed him under the cold stream.

  Wulf yelled, tossed his head. The water streamed over him.

  Hands held him all over. The water came at him like sleet. More hands, slippery with liquid soap, ran all over his body. He heard laughter. He clenched his teeth so hard he thought his jaw would pop.

  The hands went everywhere. Someone commented, “Look at his junk. It’s huge.”

  Fingers squeezed his cock, hurting him. More fingers drew down his crack, soaping him, grabbing his balls from behind. Making his muscles tense until they ached.

  Wulf cried out.

  Something struck him in the stomach. He bent over in pain.

  “There! Now! While he’s bent over, get his hair.”

  More of the soapy liquid was poured over his head. Fingers tugged and pulled at his hair until tears backed up behind Wulf’s closed eyes.

  When they were done cleaning him, they didn’t even dry him off. He was paraded outside soaked and freezing, and tossed along with the others into a van with benches lining the sides.

  Wulf sat, head bowed, damp hair trailing across his shoulders and in his eyes.

  Someone to his left, a female, said, “It makes it harder when you fight, doesn’t it?”

  Wulf refused to answer. How could anyone give into this? He would rather die. Then he remembered what the slaver had said to him back in Rille. That they’d forged permission papers from Wulf. Did that mean people actually willingly gave permission to be handled in this way? To be sold? To be trained as sex slaves?

  The van stopped and this time they were let out onto a sunny alley with asphalt pavement behind a white building. Behind them, a fence hid the world. Wulf could hear traffic and smell trees and flowers beyond that fence. In front of him was a door. About fifty yards away he saw a couple of dumpsters.

  The door to the white building opened and the same small man he’d seen in the warehouse waved at the guards.

  “Bring them in. This way!”

  The ten of them filed in. They walked slowly, encumbered by their chains, through a carpeted hall and past many rooms. Some of the doors to the rooms were opened and Wulf saw a row of washing machines, then a kitchen, then an area with tables and chairs that looked like a private dining room.

  Eventually they came to a living area with sofas and chairs, and a low table in the middle. Dozens of other chained and naked humans sat on those sofas, or stood by the window looking out at an outside path and a tall hedge of oleanders.

  The small man, wearing a pinstripe suit, clapped his hands. A taller man in a tuxedo with a tablet stood beside him.

  “All right. Now if you haven’t checked in, see Dab here with the tablet. He’s got all your info. Today you will be sold to your trainers. Two trainers from the Slave Palace will be in the audience. If you do your best, you may end up there, and that is your goal, for they have the best accommodations including education if you require it, health-care and trainers who know their stuff. If you cooperate, you won’t be hurt. A life of pleasure awaits you all and I know it sucks that you have no better choice, but you aren’t here because you’re upstanding citizens, or anything. So you could have it far worse, imprisoned for life, or living a life on the streets in abject poverty, or working the mines in the West Virgin Territories. So, there you have it. Any questions?”

  Wulf could not believe it. This man was acting as if they were all going to Disneyworld.

  Parcival stared directly at Wulf, then addressed his guards. “Why are you guarding him so fiercely?”

  “He’s trouble. He attacked us. Dewey’s got a broken nose.”

  Parcival frowned. “Dab, come here.”

  Dab came over with his tablet.

  “What’s your name?” Parcival demanded, staring up at Wulf with his beady, black eyes.

  Wulf pulled back, shaking off the guard’s hands.

  Parcival looked him up and down. “Nice. Nice. But—“ He motioned to a guard nearby. All it took was a hand gesture and without warning the guard socked him so hard in the stomach that Wulf lost his breath.

  “Now, Mr. Giant. What is your name?”

  “Wulf,” he managed to gasp.

  Dab tapped his screen a few times. Parcival looked over his arm and they both seemed to be reading. Then Parcival’s eyebrows rose.

  “You’re trouble. A lot of trouble. If I’d known you ha
d been labeled a One-Night Thrall, I would’ve left you behind. Dab, why wasn’t this brought to my attention?”

  “I—sir, I hadn’t gotten to this one yet.”

  “It was all in the files since last night.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “It says here he killed two special forces agents.”

  “Nearly killed,” Dab correctly.

  “Nearly is almost the same. I’ll get in trouble if I offer him as a trainable slave. So we’ll go ahead and announce him as a One-Night Thrall. He’s amazing-looking enough that he should still recoup my investment.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wulf glared at Parcival.

  Parcival returned that glare with a half-smile. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  Wulf gave a slight shake of his head.

  “It means you have forfeited not only all your rights, but your life as well. A One-Night Thrall is considered too dangerous to train. I have the legal right to make that determination, and then when your money is earned out, take you to the euthanasia chambers in Dudley. Do you understand?”

  That this man had the authority to sentence a man to death surprised Wulf.

  “I don’t care, devil-man!” Wulf said. “I will not make this worth anyone’s while. They will demand their money back, and you will still kill me.”

  “All righty, then.” Parcival nodded at his guard again.

  Wulf received another punch. He strained to breathe through it this time.

  Parcival moved closer to him until Wulf could smell the sourness of his breath.

  “You are an enemy to my country. No one cares what happens to you.”

  Wulf forced a grin. “I know.”

  Parcival sneered, then stepped back and turned away.

  “Gag him,” Parcival ordered his guards. “I won’t have him mouthing off to that fine crowd out there.”

  Wulf watched him clap his hands again.

  Guards forced Wulf’s head forward. A ball-gag was put into his mouth. It tasted of defeat.

  “Now ladies and gentlemen, it’s only minutes until show time. You will be stared at, you will be poked, you will be prodded, but you have no rights and no chance of escape, so as long as you remain docile, no harm will come from it. I assure you, I run a clean show. Now, are we all ready?”