Indicolite Part I

Remember the old joke about the slaver who fell in love with his merchandise? Sure you do. It’s one of the oldest jokes in the worlds, told through the seven known universes! Well, through six of them any way. (Those thrice-damned Godders have no sense for humor.) Well, I’m standing before you right here and now, a living witness to the tale. The tale that took that old bawdy yarn and turned it into a scandal to rock an Empire.

And I can see by your face that you’re now knowing just what Empire I’m talking about, and you’re knowing now my old face. You’re thinking you know all about it from what was written and rumored through the double-damned Common Media. Well, I spit on the Common Media, and I tell you flat out that what you think you know is naught but shit. Standing here before you, I’m the only man alive with the knowledge and truth behind that great gas and gossip the CM farts through the known worlds.

And you’re thinking it’s all for the ready money that I’m here with the story. After all this time and my silence, you figure I’m aged badly, down deep on my luck, ready to spill that what I swore, back worlds from here, I never would. All for the heavy cash. And you’d be right in your way, you great, smirking fine-dressed piece of New Space shit. But you’d be wrong as well.

You see, it’s a story that needs telling, and needs telling right. It needs told beyond the sex and slaving and shady politics that gives the Space Trash Set a cheap soak in their tinsel suits. It’s not as CM made it out to be, filling the galaxies with their amplified filth and lies. There was something… noble about it.

Yes, I said noble, you wad-sucking waste of molecules. Laugh it up. You want the story or not? Well. Then pay, pay big, and you’re getting a bargain, know it or not.

***

All the stories agree (and they’d all be right), that it started near Indicolite, that group of worlds where dusk lingers long and blue and the oceans are vast, roiling, the color of bruise and plum.

He almost didn’t stop. His trader ship was full with prime ocher-colored youth from the third largest planet-world of what was called back then the Newer East Margin. Ripe, lush young men and women in every shade from deep orange to bright yellow, bred and born to slavery, optimistic over their coming chances at sale.

Slavery and eugenics, you rarely see one without the other, and for millennia more than we can know, these have been issues of morality debated with the heat of a triple nova. Stamp them out, sure, outlaw them in one century, in one quadrant of a galaxy, and sure enough, they pop up some other where and time. It’s my thinking that these are the indulgence or transgression intrinsic to higher sentient from here to the furthest corner of each and every universe. Like those diseases a man can pick up from the whores of the Upper Beta worlds, slavery and eugenics keep coming back, and there’s no sure cure for them.

The Captain, or Gray Santos as all the worlds were soon to speak of him, came from a long line of slavers. It was his grandfather who made the name Santos practically synonymous with the specialty of trading in Exotics. The old man saw that the coming market was not for slaves to toil and perform those tasks both mundane and arduous, but for slaves beautiful, exotic and well-trained, to meet the exacting demands of a wealthy market’s jaded sexual requirements.

Of course, this resulted in a reputation filled with implied prurience as well as coffers filled with well-applied wealth. The Santos, in any event, appeared satisfied with the loss of respectability in exchange for the gain in affluence.

For decades the corporation of Santos Pan-Universal had consistently surpassed all competition in supplying their clientele with the most unusual, stunning, and sexually extraordinary of slaves. They contracted with worlds distant and meticulously anonymous, where genetics could be inventively engineered, slaves artistically crafted and colored to delight the salacious appetites of the most jaded consumer. Santos Pan-Universal cornered the market and reaped the considerable rewards.

Gray Santos was born into the business, always the son and heir apparent, living in a style more lavish than the sovereigns of many empires, groomed ceaselessly for the responsibilities he must assume, both fantastically indulged and rigidly controlled. And as he’d been reared to do, at a young age, he assumed the mantle of authority, and steadily guided the multiuniversal company into greater profits and a reputation even more extreme and titillating for the procurement of the strange, the beautiful, even the bizarre, to arouse a wealthy buyer.

Although Santos was known through every galaxy in every universe, he was not a man known well. There were no salacious scandals, no rumors, no gossip of any personal life he may have had. He was respected as a man who kept his word, drove an honest bargain, and it was said that he had few words and did not tolerate fools lightly. For a man at the head of a corporation providing sex slaves of every specialty and infinite variation, Gray Santos disappointed the greedy subsidiaries of the Common Media with his apparent colorlessness of character and lifestyle.

Being in the very epicenter of the controversy ceaselessly recycled by the CM for its intrinsic audience appeal, Gray Santos’ beliefs were constantly demanded on the very issue of slavery. There was never an instance in which he expressed his judgment, unyielding in his refusal to even comment on the subject. Did he believe in what he did? Perhaps he knew that his beliefs mattered not at all.

It was Charon, the ship’s First Lieutenant, the sometime lover of Santos, and always the closest he had to a friend, who brought him the word from Indicolite.

“Purple girls,” she said, coming up behind him as he sat before his log screen. She slid into a chair across from him.

“Purple?” he said. “Girls?”

“From Indicolite. Some small-time trader’s put together a group on spec. Thinks we should buy them from him.” She laughed. “He claims we can turn a fortune in profit, claims there’s a market just panting for Purple Passion.”

Santos grimaced. “His term, I hope.” He sighed. “I thought Indicolite was a restricted area? No slave trading. Not much contact with other worlds, period.”

“Apparently that’s changed,” Charon said, shrugging. She rose and went to him, rubbing his stiff shoulders. “You look tired, Gray. You want to jettison the Indicolite deal? It sounds minor.”

He flexed his shoulders gratefully beneath her competent hands. “No, if the worlds are indeed panting for Purple Passion, who are we to deny them?” He smiled at her. “Set the course for Indicolite; maybe there’s something unique about purple tits.”

She swatted at him playfully, and his laughter followed her as she made her way to the ship’s control to turn them towards the purple worlds of Indicolite. Out of such innocuous beginnings, fates are altered and entire Empires toppled.

***

Tits and ass, while subject to much variation, are relatively consistent regardless of skin color or configuration. Charon examined the purposed items of sale while Santos reviewed paperwork with the fawning local trader. Santos raised his eyebrows in question as she joined them.

“Cute,” she pronounced, blasé, spraying her hands with cleanser. “Healthy enough. But not one of them with any training or experience.”

The trader came to his feet in protest. “Cute? These girls are beautiful! Prime young females! The best Indicolite has to offer! No training or experience? These are virgins! Certified! Beautiful young virgins! Worth their weight in Common Media vouchers!”

Santos and Charon traded worlds-weary looks. “The majority of our market,” Santos explained carefully, “finds virginity to be…tedious.”

“Messy,” Charon added. “Annoying.”

“Yes,” Santos continued. “Not exactly a point of sale.”

The trader all but wrung his hands. “The majority of your market, perhaps. But surely there’s a market, a very exclusive, elite market, which values the novelty of virginity.” The trader’s tone wheedled, waxed obsequious. “What man doesn’t want to be the first to push his cock into a tight, wet young girl? Ah, the cries, the tears, the begging, the blood! There’s money in this, I tell you!”

Santos winced. Charon hid a smile at her Captain’s distaste. “We don’t have time for this.” Santos said. “Accept our offer. Or not.”

The trader, after an affected series of affronted protests, was quick to accept and papers were signed, monies exchanged, the cargo of slave girls loaded rapidly under Charon’s directive. Gray Santos boarded his ship, returned to his exhaustive logs without setting eye upon his new acquisitions. The ship resumed its course with its usual smooth competence.

***

In space, while travel is at its fleetest, time can seem to pass at its slowest. When a crewmember alerted Santos to a certain ruckus in the quarters allotted to the Indicolite girls, he was actually glad for the diversion and made his way there directly. He found himself vaguely interested in viewing beings of a naturally occurring purple hue.

He heard the shrieks a full level and a half before he arrived, and frowned. Turbulent, negative emotion among slaves was a thing to be avoided. There was little market for the hysterical, the disobedient, the morose. And moods such as these had a way of spreading, corrupting entire cargos. This had to be stopped before it grew.

The door slid open with a barely audible hiss, and Santos saw immediately both the originator of the shrieks and his first purple girl.

The stories all vie with each other in the hyperbole of their descriptions of Triss Sayng-Astra when actually the truth needed no exaggeration. She had a storybook beauty, a loveliness mostly found in myth and legend. (Which is only fitting, as how that is what she became.) Amidst worlds virtually beyond count, worlds offering an infinite amount of variety and a plethora of diverse female splendor, Triss Sayng-Astra stood out, singular in her beauty, set apart by some grace of aura, some subliminal allure.

But perhaps all Gray Santos first saw, was a girl the color of Earthen Lupine, heavy long hair of purpled black, screaming her rage as she resisted all attempts to subdue her.

Did he take note of her lithesome young breasts, berry-colored crests hard with adrenalin, as he caught her while she tried to hurl herself past him and out the door? As he lifted her up off her feet, did he feel the suppleness of her flesh, the softness of skin covering the taut curvature of muscle? With her hair flowing wild as she struggled, lashing his face in an aubergine torrent, was he aware of her scent, the heady female scent of ripening?

All that’s known is that he pinned her firmly against him, fixed his crewmember with a firm stare, and demanded to know exactly what was going on. He was faintly surprised when it was the girl still striving in his arms to escape, who burst out in answer.

“I am Triss Sayng-Astra!” she exclaimed, her voice shaking with rage. The silence that greeted this was apparently not the response she’d expected.

“You are the property of Santos Pan-Universal. You will adhere to the codes of conduct here.” Santos said sternly as she twisted against him.

“I have been kidnapped! Betrayed! Sold into slavery by my enemies!” she cried.

The Captain sighed heavily, closed his eyes briefly. Charon laughed. “That old cliché,” she said. “If I had a CM voucher for each time I’ve heard that one…”

The purple girl shrieked in rage, tried to kick at Santos as he held her. “It’s true! It’s true, I tell you! And you will suffer for your part in this. Suffer terribly.”

Beyond, other girls from Indicolite clustered in anxiety and distress. “Separate these others,” Santos commanded his crewmembers, and it was done. Cautiously, he set the girl calling herself Triss Sayng-Astra from him. Her breasts heaved with her anger; her hands were clenched into fists. Professionally, he appraised the good round curve of her hips, her taut buttocks, the darkly purple spring of curls at the junction of her thighs.

“Get your filthy eyes off of me!” she spat.

“Watch your mouth, slave girl,” Charon warned. “There are many, many ways to punish that would leave no mark on your pretty body. We know all those ways. We even invented some.”

“Slavers!” Triss Sayng-Astra hissed. “Vile slavers!”

Santos shook his head in disgust. “This is going to be more trouble than it’s worth,” he said to his First Lieutenant. “I don’t have time for this.”

Charon tilted her head, considering. ‘We could jettison her, I suppose,” she said. Triss’ eyes grew wide in sudden apprehension. “But I was thinking. Prince What’s-his-name of Cyril 8 has purchased a half dozen of those genetically altered yellow slaves we’re bringing from the Newer East. All male. But doesn’t he have a liking for the new? The unusual? And doesn’t he like to break girls in himself? Virgins?”

Santos nodded slowly. “True. He likes them young. He likes them reluctant, inexperienced. We paid a pittance for this one here. The Prince would pay much, much more to have her.”

“No!” Triss screamed, flinging herself at him. Her fists struck at his face. “I’ll kill you!”

Santos struggled to restrain her to the sound of Charon’s amused laughter. “I’ll leave you to handle the histrionics,” Charon said. “You need a break from all your log work.”

Charon exited the room, laughing harder at his protest and the sound of the purple girl’s enraged cries.

***

Santos was not fond of any actual physical dealings with Pan-Universal’s slaves. There were myriad people specially trained to deal with all aspects of training, management and transport. He was out of breath as he tried to bring the girl under control. Finally he bent her belly down over a high table, holding her down with the press of his body. Her scent reached his unwilling senses as he held her lithe, struggling form. In a rush, he was abruptly aware of her breasts against his forearm as he held her still, of the push her tight naked bottom against his crotch as she fought to escape. To his dismay, he felt himself swell in reaction to her.

It had been many years since Gray Santos had partook of the sexual pleasures of his own merchandise. Sex with his own slaves offended some deep asceticism within him. Perhaps Santos’ greatest sin was pride, and it was pride that forbade him from what he perceived as lowering himself in an acknowledgement of lust. Let others, many affluent and powerful others throughout all the universes, crave his slaves. He would not.

But holding the girl’s lush, furiously writhing body bent naked over the table, he found himself aroused. Aroused to such a powerful extent that for an instant his only desire was to free his aching cock, thrust himself deeply, fully, inside the moist, plum colored aperture revealed as he pushed her thighs apart with his legs. He cursed softly, and mostly in surprise of his own reaction.

“Will you stop it!” he snapped, using his weight to hold her down. He was awkwardly reluctant to have her feel the hardness of his arousal as he was pressed against her.

“Take me back to Indicolite!” she gasped, breathing hard and near the end of her strength. “You foul, foul man.”

Santos was at the end of any patience he could muster. The entire situation was ludicrous. This ridiculous twit of a slave girl had the sovereign of the vast, intergalactic conglomerate wrestling her down upon a table, fiercely and preposterously hard for her. There was no dignity of his position here.

“This foul, foul man owns your pretty little ass,” he snarled, rising off of her, wrapping her long purple hair in his fist. She was on her feet in an instant, flailing wildly at him. Brutally, he yanked her hair, bringing her shrieking to her knees. “You will obey me,” he ordered her.

Tears of pain shone in her eyes. She stared up at him in silent mutiny. Even in his annoyance, he couldn’t ignore her heaving breasts, full and supple, nipples rigid in her agitation. Part of his mind whispered to him, tempted him. Why shouldn’t he seize her by the hips, throw her onto the table again, fill his mouth with her taut berry-colored nipples, stroke her until she was wet and welcoming, push the hot throb of his manhood full into her? Surely it was his prerogative. Surely he was due.

They stared at each other. Perhaps she recognized the heat in his gaze. The moment seemed to stretch. He could smell her, the richly compelling smell of her body flushed and warm, the faint musk of her sex. Her eyes dropped and the fine hue of her cheeks colored darkly.

“Yes,” she murmured. “Yes.”

For a confused instant, he could not recall to what she was answering. He saw her yield and for a moment took her acquiescence as sexual. Then, with an effort, he controlled himself. The girl was agreeing to obey him, nothing more. He let his hand relax in her hair, releasing the painful pull.

“Behave yourself. No trouble, no hysteria. We’re on a direct course for Cyril 8 and that’s where you’ll likely be going. We should reach planet’s orbit in ten days or less. Until then, you’ll do well to follow orders.”

He stepped back from her, letting her hair fall from his hand. Soft, his confounding mind insisted on noting. The girl remained on her knees, her eyes averted, the darkly purple wave of her hair falling over her breasts. Abruptly, he turned and exited the room.

***

Later, after having Charon carefully confirm that there were no reports of any kidnapped girls on the planets of Indicolite, Santos tried to relax and lose himself in the complexities of his log and bookkeeping. He tried to rid his mind of any thought of the slave girl calling herself Triss Sayng-Astra. But his mind refused to let go of the vision of her long blackly purple hair, her lilac colored eyes, the shudder of her breasts sheened with sweat, the nipples dark and turgid. He remembered the feel of her round bottom squirming against him as she struggled, the tender, flushed dampness he’d glimpsed between her plump nether lips; the place untouched by any man, the place the Prince of Cyril 8 would pay a fortune to possess first.

He paced, damning himself for the lust that kept him thinking of the girl, kept his cock hard and aching. It was fully ship’s night when he left his quarters, made his way through the nearly deserted passageways and levels until he was at the area where the Indicolite girls were kept.

All was quiet as he entered. The crewmember on watch rose to his feet.

“Where’s that girl who was causing all the turmoil?” Santos asked briskly.

“Quartered alone, as ordered, Captain,” the man replied, and Santos nodded his approval.

Down the short corridor, Santos entered the locked room, closing the door behind him. On the small bed, the girl slept sprawled upon her back. He watched her in silence, his eyes coursing over her breasts moving quietly with her breathing, her hair a cascade over the thin pillow. One of her small hands curved protectively over her curling pubic hair.

His breathing quickened. Against his will, he moved closer. Looking at her, Santos was nearly consumed with the urge to touch her, to spread her legs, press his face between them, lick her, taste the salty heat of her, push his tongue inside her, make her cry out her pleasure, suckle at her most sensitive part until she begged him to fuck her.

It was insanity. He had never in his life felt such overwhelming need. This was neither the time nor place, and certainly not the girl with which to start.

As if somehow sensing his thoughts, Triss Sayng-Astra cried out in her sleep and rolled to lie on her belly. The dim light in the room shone on the round curves of her exposed posterior.

It was too much. He wheeled around, fled the room, despising this newfound weakness within himself. Nodding stone- faced at the crewmember guarding the area, he strode rapidly back to his living quarters, trying to ignore the pounding of his pulse, the thick urgency of his cock.

His door hissed open, and to his surprise he saw Charon half reclining in a chair.

“I called you and when I got no answer, came by to see what you were doing,” she said, stretching her arms, yawning. “So what are you doing, Gray?”

“I can’t sleep,” he said shortly, sitting down across from her.

“Not all it’s rumored to be, is it?” she asked. “The Skin Trade.”

“No,” he said slowly. “It’s not.” Their eyes met. “Why don’t you come over here, Charon?” he said.

She rose, startled by the ardor in his face, the strength of his voice. She came to stand before him, and was even more surprised when he pulled her roughly into his lap. “Gray…” she gasped, but he caught her by the chin, silenced her with the fierceness of his kiss.

She felt desire buzz through her belly as he invaded her mouth with his tongue. He had never kissed her so hard, held her so tight. She moaned against his mouth as his hands found her breasts, squeezing until pain mixed with her pleasure. ‘Gray, Gray,” she whispered as his mouth left hers, as he pulled her shirt off over her head, freed her breasts for his touch.

His lips followed his hands and she cried out as he took the tender pink of her breasts in his mouth, as his teeth grazed her. She touched his thick black hair, tried to pull him from her breasts as his mouth grew more insistent. “Gentle, gentle,” she admonished, but he was past gentleness.

Lifting her in his arms, he strode to his bedroom, tumbled her down upon the wide comfort of his bed. Charon stared up at him as though she’d never seen him before, as though he were no longer the casual partner she’d slept with intermittently for years.

He pulled the remainder of her clothing from her. He gazed down avidly at her as she sprawled half-fearful, naked upon his bed. She swallowed nervously under his eyes, but her breath came fast and she felt herself growing wetter, slick, between her legs as he divested himself of his own apparel. His cock jerked towards his belly, swollen and dark with blood, as he reached for her on the bed.

“Gray…” she said one more time, her voice sounding small with pleading, and rolled away from him.

He caught her, pinning her down beneath him on her stomach. She felt the heat and thrust of him against her bottom. “I want to fuck you, Charon,” he whispered hoarsely against the back of her hair. “I want to fuck you hard.”

A shudder rippled through her, throbbed down between her legs. She felt herself constrict as though he were already inside her, as though she were already coming. “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes.”

Pulling her up by the hips, pushing her legs wide, he tested himself against her, finding her wet and wide open for him. Still, her scream filled the room as he pushed deeply, completely into her, sheathing himself fully within her. He held her down, one hand hot on her back, the other holding her hip, as he fucked her, as he took his pleasure in her.

It was a pleasure not exclusive to him. The hardness of him inside her, the roughness of his thrusts, made her breath come fast. She buried her face against the sheets in an attempt to quiet the moans that tore from her lips, the invocations begging him to fuck her more and more. The pain of his bruising hold upon her somehow fueled her fervor, made the pleasure coursing through her more sharp, more intense, made her need grow to a fever pitch.

“Gray,” she begged, as he slammed ruthlessly into her. “Please, please.”

“Do you want me to bring you there, Charon?” he asked her, his voice husky, strange to her.

“Yes,” she pleaded. “Gray, yes!”

She barely recognized the sounds that came from her as he reached around and touched her. His fingers slid over her, her wetness like a thick warm oil. He teased her with his touch as she cried out, his fingers light, tantalizing, building her arousal to an unbearable height.

His cock filled her, stretched her so that she knew she would be sore for days. Slowly he pushed into her, dragged himself out, as his fingers played with her engorged clit. She bucked beneath him, writhing and desperate for release. She was nearly sobbing before she finally granted her the relief she craved. His touch skillful, sure, he grasped her mound in the damp palm of his hand, pressing, pressing, sliding against her until her incoherent cries rose through the bedroom and her hips arched back helplessly against him.

She tightened around his cock as she came, making him gasp with the intense pleasure of it. Again and again she clasped him, until she collapsed weakly beneath him, shaking helplessly, her body soaked with sweat, her own fluids drenching the bed beneath her.

Close, so close himself that a fine tremor shook him, he took her bottom in his hands, spread her wide so that he could see the thrust of his cock in and out of her swollen wet warmth. His own orgasm overtook him and he pounded himself into her mercilessly. He closed his eyes and faintly damned his traitor mind that insisted on thinking of the purple slave girl, of Triss Sayng-Astra, as in a hot rapture he shot his seed deep inside of Charon.