His Human Vessel (Zandian Masters 5)

Daneth’s horns stiffened and leaned forward, the irises of his eyes darkened to a beautiful violet. He glared at her breasts. “You are speaking out of turn again.”

“Am I, Master?” she answered innocently. “I thought you were speaking to me.”

He folded his arms across his massive chest. “I understand humans incorporate lies as a means of speaking,” he said with crisp recitation, as if remembering some report he’d studied on humans. “Sarcasm, you call it.”

“That wasn’t sarcasm, Master.” It was playing dumb. But she wasn’t going to explain that human way of speaking, either. She kneaded her breasts. Her fondling had the unintended effect of turning her on—not that she hadn’t already been aroused from the rectal exam. She squirmed in her chair.

Daneth looked at the readout on his cuff and scowled. “I will find you some clothes,” he growled, stalking to a shelf unit against the wall and opening it. He yanked out a tunic and brought it to her. “Put this on,” he snapped.

She slipped the tunic on and tied the belt around her waist. “No panties?” She made her question as innocent as she could manage, and tipped her pelvis forward, running a finger along her slit.

Daneth’s eyes narrowed. “You’re teasing me.”

Okay, so the doctor wasn’t as out of touch with humans as she thought.

She made her eyes wide and childlike. “No, Master.”

“And that’s a lie.” He pulled her out of her c

hair by the elbow and flipped her to face the table, clipping her wrists together behind her.

Though she’d been bold a moment before, fear washed through her. Punishments on the fertility farm had been dreadful—electric shocks or confinement in a small, dark space. What would the Zandian doctor do when truly provoked, as he appeared to be now?

He pushed her torso over the table until her belly lay flat, her cheek pressed against the smooth, polished surface. “You will not lie to your master.” He must have tucked the leather paddle into his lab coat to carry with him because it magically appeared, searing her ass with quick, decisive slaps.

Relief that he’d chosen the same implement as before poured through her. This paddling was nothing compared to what she’d endured in the past. Still, he spanked so rapidly, she couldn’t relax and breathe into the pain, either. Her pulse galloped and bottom clenched under the onslaught.

“You will not tempt or tease your master.”

“No, Master,” she gasped. Or should she have said, Yes, Master? She couldn’t think with the endless spanking, which seemed to only increase in intensity. “I’m sorry!” she tried.

To no avail. He kept on paddling. She hadn’t been counting, but he’d certainly gone well beyond what he’d delivered the last time, and the strokes were much harder.

“I’m sorry!” She twisted her cuffed wrists against the restraints, not because she expected to get free but because her body couldn’t help but seek some way out of the pain the doctor delivered. “Please!” She wasn’t above begging. “Please, I’m sorry!”

He kept going. It seemed nothing would make the doctor stop now. The pain became more manageable as her ass turned numb, but nothing diminished the overwhelming stress of being on the receiving end of her master’s displeasure in such a personal and intimate way. It was so different from Ocretion punishment where she’d been a number on the farm.

Her legs trembled, breath came in quick gasps, and all the shock and strain of managing her new environment welled up, choking her. A sob escaped her before she could swallow it down, and then, to her horror, she broke into a full crying jag, the stress of adapting to the new environment pouring out in big, ugly tears.

~.~

Daneth froze. He’d intended to spank his little slave to tears, and yet the moment he realized he’d achieved his goal, he wanted to take it back. Everything in him screamed to comfort her. To stop the tears, which stung his senses with their salty scent.

He slid the paddle beside her on the table and stroked her burning bottom. He didn’t have the will to report the data on the color of her as—hot red—or how many strokes it had taken to achieve tears—134.

He cleared his throat, trying to think what to say to the tender human, so easily broken with a simple leather paddle. It hurt his chest to hear her sobs. “It’s over now,” he murmured. He rubbed her bottom and down her legs. “Release wrist cuffs,” he commanded softly. The magnet holding the two wrists together released, and her hands dropped to the table.

He made circles on her back with his palm, marveling at how light her skin was. Almost white, which contrasted beautiful with her dark hair. So different from his skin color.

“Bayla—it’s over. You’re forgiven.” What made him say that? He doubted she cared about his forgiveness. But her sobs did slow.

He slipped an arm under her and lifted her to standing. She kept her back to him, the quiet in the room punctuated by her sniffles.

Must calm the female.

In that moment, it hit him harder than ever before how little he understood females. He hadn’t mastered relations with females of his own species. How in the stars did he expect to navigate them with an emotional human?

“Bayla,” he coaxed, turning her around.