On the colorful planet of Aztan, Empresses are selected by vote after their performance in the Crown Competition. When Julissa travels from Earth to fulfill a promise she made on her Grandmom`s deathbed, she reluctantly becomes a Crown Competitor. The more Minister Mordin tries to convince her to abandon the competition, the more she turns to her strict trainer, Captain Mastron, for the training necessary to win. Although only Empresses—never Emperors—rule Aztan, no female is ever exempt from punishments, whether Empress, Crown Competitor, or ordinary citizen. Julissa get spanked, plugged and cleansed in her training to become Empress, and even begins to love her strict Captain Mastron who still doesn`t trust her Earth beginnings.
Chapter One
“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.
********************************************************************************************
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.
I spit in his face because my heart broke.
