Enterprise: The Measure of a Man

Chapter 6

Back in England, Malcolm would have been grateful for a bright, sunny morning like this one, with balmy breezes tickling the back of his neck and nothing to do but lie face-down and stare at the drifts of powdery white sand that lay beneath him.

However, the same environment was a lot less inviting when one was buck-naked, suspended two feet off the ground by having his wrists and ankles bound to stakes, and trying desperately not to move and shift the massive cudgel sticking halfway out of his ass.

In a way, he'd expected something like this. He and Derix had passed their first night as prisoners in relative peace. Slon had kept watch over them, playfully batting his twin erections back and forth between his massive paws. Every moment, Reed had expected him to lumber over and subject one of both of them to some unspeakable humiliation. However, that hadn't happened. In a way, that only made him more anxious, since he was convinced that something much, much worse was to come in the morning.

And he'd been right. The only real surprise was that they'd become some sort of public entertainment. Though he wasn't sure exactly where he'd been unloaded from Slon's wagon and displayed, he assumed it was in or near a market thoroughfare. A steady stream of women passed by, most of them openly laughing at him. A few stopped to give the object in his back hole a twist, forcing him to gasp in pain and embarrassment...especially when his body reacted before he could steel himself, and the humiliating signs of arousal became all too apparent to the spectators. At least none of the women reached down to give him a little twist there.

All the while, the alien sun went on baking his skin, all the way from the back of his neck to the tips of his heels. Every hour or so, Slon returned to dump a bucketful of icy water over him. The deluge provided an instant of stinging agony, followed by a brief period of relief. Soon enough, the water would evaporate and he was back to feeling like a chicken slow-roasting on a spit.

And, as if all of that weren't bad enough, he had to put up with the additional irritation of Derix splayed out beside him, whimpering softly. He'd kept it up for hours so far, not even having the good grace to faint and leave Malcolm to suffer in peace. Finally, Malcolm ran out of pity and turned his head as far as he could, grimacing with discomfort and exasperation.

"Stop it," he growled quietly, hoping no one would hear him and administer some further punishment. "That isn't helping anything!"

His throat was drier than he'd expected, and one of his lips was cracked. He tasted blood when he licked them.

"But I am a prince!" Derix wailed. "This is an outrage!"

"You're not a prince here. So you'd better bloody figure out what you want to be instead, or they're likely to leave both of us here until we've been burnt to a crisp."

"On my world, you'd be flogged for speaking to me like that."

"I'll take my chances. It couldn't be worse than this."

A long silence passed.

"You don't really think they plan to leave us here to die?"

Malcolm sighed. "Not really. It seems a lot of trouble when they could have just had Slon break our necks with his bare hands. Besides, they seem to be enjoying our predicament."

As if to punctuate the sentiment, someone he couldn't see walked right up to him and gave the instrument inside him a vigorous half-turn. Malcolm grimaced and tried not to groan too loudly. Just keep still, he told himself while the fresh sweat trickled over his back and down his forehead into his eyes. Don't react and they'll move on.

Whoever it was, however, seemed in no hurry to do so. Next, he felt a softly feminine hand drop onto the flat of his sunburned buttock. Supple fingers moved up his splayed crack, along his spine, and then onto his right shoulder. Again making an effort to turn his head, Malcolm spotted two pairs of feet. The larger, uglier ones he recognized as Slon's; the others were daintier, clad in elegant lace-up sandals.

"Your skin is quite sensitive," the woman said with obvious amusement. "It's just as I told you, Slon. No good can come of men walking around with their bodies covered. When they return to their intended state, they blush like tender pink blossoms."

Her fingernails came together suddenly, pinching the scorched flesh until Malcolm growled in agony.

Apparently, a crowd of onlookers had gathered around them, because now he heard the rustle of garments, the curious murmurs, and even a few stray titters.

One of the women spoke up. "Perhaps they are prepared to obey you now, Tjarin."

"Perhaps. And perhaps not." Her hand moved again, along his rib cage and then underneath. She felt his right nipple this time, tweaking it playfully.

"You wouldn't want to take their punishment too far. You know Mistress Venda forbids it."

"Mistress Venda forbids permanent injury," Tjarin retorted. "She has no right to tell me how to discipline my charges. I paid for them with my own coin, after all."

Suddenly, Malcolm felt his guts clench, and a searing pain ripped through his lower body. Belatedly he realized that Tjarin had yanked the invasive implement from his ass. She smacked him across the buttocks with it "Still, perhaps you are right. It's possible that they have learned their lesson. If not, I can think of other motivational techniques."

Slon's large paw slid under Malcolm's chin and forced it roughly upward. Weary with pain and heat exhaustion, he blinked up at his tormentor's ugly face. The dark lips were pulled back in a kind of hideous smile, the big greenish tongue lolling in anticipation of baiting him further.

Tjarin circled around to stare down at him, and Malcolm saw that she was the same woman who had checked in on them earlier, in the dungeon. The odd, excited glow in her eyes unnerved him; she was thoroughly enjoying their distress.

"Will you serve me willingly?" she asked him. "Will you give me complete control of your life, your body? Will you accept me as your mistress?"

"Go to hell," Malcolm snapped.

She straightened, still amused. "I thought that might be his response. You are too trusting, Perda." She moved on to Derix, who was still weeping audibly. "This one disobeys because of the other. Therefore we must punish him to ensure cooperative behavior all around. Slon, castrate him. He isn't very well endowed to begin with; it would be a minor inconvenience at most."

"No! I am a prince on my home world-" Derix wailed, then thought better of this tactic and changed his tone to one of abject panic. "No, I beg you!"

"Tjarin, this is beyond all bounds of acceptability!" The one called Perda pushed through the crowd and stood between the grinning Slon and the quivering Derix. "Mistress Venda would never approve!"

"Perda, you are interfering with my enjoyment of my own property. I don't wish to physically remove you, but if it becomes necessary, I will."

Malcolm waited, his guts churning, for someone to step in and push Slon back, or at least to put Tjarin in her place. But, although the murmuring and the rustle of garments increased as more women pushed forward to gawk, no one did.

He swallowed, sweat trickling into his eyes. He squeezed them shut and took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Wait," he said, forcing his voice up. "Don't hurt him. I'll do what you want."

He fell silent, holding himself immobile, as Slon and Tjarin returned to stand on either side of him. He felt Slon's rubbery fingers on his wrists, loosening his bonds. Suddenly he dropped onto the ground, hard. The impact knocked the wind from him.

"Their weakness is indeed their concern for others. I suspected as much. Perda, you are too cynical. I shall take them home now. Slon?"

Obediently, Slon kicked him in the side. With a groan, Malcolm rolled onto his knees and struggled to his feet. Every inch of his skin felt brutalized and raw, especially his more private regions. His gait was wobbly as he, along with Derix, was forced back into Slon's wagon.

The two of them jerked backward as the wagon lurched forward. Malcolm yelped as the rough wood bit into his tender skin, but Derix was even more vocal about his discomfort.

"I told you to stop it!" he finally barked. "If you're so intent on reminding everyone that you're a prince, shut up and start acting like one! I don't think I've ever seen a man with less dignity than you!"

Derix stared at him, his wide eyes betraying his shock.

"Besides," Reed continued, deciding to spare his irritating companion nothing, "if you think that was bad, just wait until she gets us home. We might have done little more than postpone the inevitable."


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Archer woke slowly, his limbs twisted in Venda's fine sheets. He'd slept well-too well, he thought. Had the food and drink he and Trip had wolfed down the day before been drugged?

If so, he hadn't suffered any ill effects beyond a general feeling of achy sluggishness. And there was, of course, another reasonable explanation for that.

Rising, he twisted the sheet around his waist and wandered around a bit. He found a surprisingly modern washroom with various things laid out, obviously for his benefit-a basin of scented water, a tiny, non-lethal razor made of shell, a few odd-looking implements that he belatedly realized were meant for dental care. After he'd availed himself of these comforts, he moved on, passing through the curtained doorway into the next room. Venda was there, draped in a pale blue wrap, seated at a small table with a platter of colorful fruits and a glossy metal pitcher in front of her. She motioned for him to sit down across from her.

"You may take whatever refreshments you desire," she said, passing her hand over the table. Noticing his suspicious expression, she smiled. "I'll taste everything first, if you doubt my intentions."

"Do you blame me? I'm still not quite sure whether I'm a guest or prisoner."

"I don't think either is an accurate description." She sipped from a goblet, then handed it to him. "You see? Perfectly safe."

Nodding, Archer took a cautious swallow of thick, spicy juice. This was what passed for coffee on this world, he supposed.

"Tell me...have men ever lived equals here?"

"Never. We live as our foremothers lived. We've passed their traditions, and their wisdom, down through the generations. They taught us all we've ever needed to know about your gender."

"Really? And their conclusion was that we were best kept like slightly unruly pets-is that it?"

"More or less. I make sure none of you are harmed. And there are myriad pleasures here for those who can adapt themselves to our way of life."

"And what happens to the ones who don't?"

Venda's expression hardened. "Actually, that's never happened."

"I don't suppose you've ever considered that it might be time to reconsider your ancestors' wisdom?"

"You are quite presumptuous for a pet, Archer."

"But your society could be much more if everyone could participate equally. I've visited many worlds, and I've never seen a system like yours succeed in the long run. Sure, it can last for centuries, maybe even ages. Ultimately, though, progress slows and the society implodes. Then change is inevitable-if anything's left, that is."

"Do you think we are completely ignorant of other cultures? We've been trading with them for centuries, even if we have no desire to leave this planet ourselves. Trust me, we have seen what men do to one another. The slavers who brought you here are a perfect example."

"I'm not defending them, but they did that because you've made kidnapping profitable for them. If you didn't, they might turn their talents to some other field." Noting her stubborn expression, Archer sighed and selected some fruit from the bowl. "Look, it's not my place to pass judgment on your ancestors or your culture. You probably have good reasons for believing what you do about men. But I know they're capable of much more than you realize."

She watched him carefully, her face softening. "You could be happy here, you know. If you gave it a chance-gave me a chance."

"I told you-I don't think so. My men and I don't belong here. Speaking of that, were you able to find out anything about Malcolm?"

"Actually, I did. You may not like it, though. He and his oddly colored little friend have been transferred to the estate of Tjarin, one of my most prominent citizens. Unfortunately, she is known for her rather...eccentric approaches to training the males she adopts. For the most part, she is loyal to my precepts, however. I give you my word that no real harm will come to either one of them."

"No real harm?" Archer looked stricken. "What does that mean?"

"It means there is nothing for you to worry about. This friend of yours is resourceful, strong?"

"Yes. He is."

"Then you will have to trust him to look after his own interests. Who knows? Maybe he'll be able to acclimate better than you."

Archer grimaced. "I doubt that."

Suddenly, she was there beside him, reaching for the hand that still held the bitten fruit. Before he even had time to react, she had straddled his lap and pushed aside the flimsy garment that covered her breasts. Steadily she guided his wrist so that he was painting her flesh with the fruit's sticky nectar. Her other hand slipped around his neck, pressing his head forward. His lips made contact with tangy juice, which he slowly licked away.

"I almost believe you when you advocate for your gender," she said, settling herself contentedly against him. "On the other hand, I sensed right away that you were another breed of man entirely."

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Trip was pacing the barn when Lysara arrived.

"I've come to see if you slept all right," she said, while he ducked modestly behind a bin of hay.

"I've camped out in better places. Worse, too, I guess." He looked around. "To tell you the truth, though, I didn't sleep much. Where's the Capt-er, the other fellow I was I with? He never came back last night."

"He's with Venda, I would assume. He wasn't as foolish as you." She handed him a basket of fruit and bread. "You must be hungry."

"Thanks. I have to admit that I'm starving." Seating himself in the straw with his crotch discreetly covered, he took a piece of bread and slathered on some of the honeylike substance she'd included in a small jar.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

he blinked up at her. "Isn't there some kinda rule against something like that?"

She laughed. "Not that I know of." She sat down beside him, taking some of the bread for herself. "Last night I asked you about your home world. You didn't want to tell me. This time I insist that you do. It's the price of the food."

"I guess that's reasonable." He chomped down on the bread. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything. Tell me everything. But start with yourself. I want to learn all there is to know about you."

Trip sighed and glanced into the basket. "Good thing you brought a lot of food. This could take a while."

Her smile widened. "I am in no hurry. And this time, you have nowhere you can go to escape me."

Reaching out, she took his hand and squeezed it, as innocently as if they were two Earthbound teenagers on their first date.