DEL! Pelori cried in relief, finally breaking through the prison Ve’el had erected which had kept her mute, but not deaf or blind.

JORON! came Tarvak’s equally grateful exclamation. The Warrior was on his feet at the railing, reaching out to his Bonded. Ve’el, of course, remained seated, though in spirit, Pelori was right next to Tarvak, straining toward DelMonde.

Joron made a slow, full circle pivot, acknowledging the crowds’ accolades, then moved with graceful strides to a position below Lady Ve’el's box. He reached up his hand to Tarvak, two fingers extended. The spectators cheered their approval as Tarvak kissed his own, extending them likewise to Joron. Then Tarvak leapt bodily from the box, pulling the younger male into an embrace of passion and celebration.

Pelori ached to be able to do the same, tears beginning to cloud her mental vista.

He did surprisingly well, Ve’el admitted grudgingly.

Don’t you dare do anything like that again! MacEntyre seethed.

My child, Ve’el said with elegant astonishment, I simply made certain Joron received the attention your mission requires. I knew that unless I made it worth his while, your handsome Human would balk at participating in the games – and I hoped forcing them to work together to achieve a common goal might serve to settle some of the differences between them, differences which, you must admit, have caused far too many difficulties already. And while that remains to be seen, they have proven they can work as one. Will this not make your objective all the easier to obtain?

Why, then, did you feel it necessary to shut me out? the lieutenant demanded. Why not give me such information and seek my approval before…

Because the Human would not have believed it if you were both present and raised no objection, Ve’el returned, lifting an eyebrow. Surely you know well that such trickery is sometimes necessary.

Pelori inhaled deeply, calming herself, and decided that discretion was the better part of valor. Would you be offended if I were to say ‘eminently logical,’ Ve’el?

The Romulan chuckled. Not at all, child. We Romulans do not worship the virtue as the Vulcans do, but we do understand its value. She turned to Lahs, who had spent most of the day in silent reverie, attending to his duty to see that food and refreshment were always available and attentively served, while his thoughts lingered almost exclusively on replaying the sensations of last evening’s punishment.

“Lahs,” Ve’el said, “after such a great triumph, Second Master will require a bath, hot food and cool drink, and unless his Bonded wishes to attend to it himself, a full body rubdown to prevent any stiffening of his muscles."

“Yes, Mistress,” Lahs responded immediately, but Pelori could hear his half-formed desire that First Master would indeed want to ease Second Master’s muscles himself.

With sudden fury, before Pelori could temper it, Ve’el’s hand lashed out, slapping the non-gift soundly.

“I know your thoughts, Lahs,” the Romulan warned. Inside her head MacEntyre heard the whimper, and the return of the litany:

I am a slave and a non-gift. I am less than the dirt beneath Second Master’s feet….

“Lahs!” Ve’el snapped as soon as they re-entered their apartment. “Prepare Second Master’s bath. Then come back here immediately. I have a long list of tasks for you.”

“Yes, Mistress,” the slave acknowledged, moving towards Tarvak’s bedroom.

“No more time for daydreaming today, Lahs,” she added cruelly.

The non-gift bowed his head, the new bruise on his cheek discoloring his blush. “No, Mistress.”

Tarvak took Joron by the hand. “Come, Beloved.”

Del pushed himself to the forefront and reached out towards the Lady. Are you all right?

Ve’el arched an eyebrow at him.

I not talkin’ to you, he said, impatiently.

I’m fine, Pelori answered, giving the hand he held out to her a quick squeeze. You should let them go.

Yeah. Del looked back over his shoulder at Tarvak who still had hold of Joron’s hand. Not much I can do to stop these happy boys right now…. But, you sure you all right?

MacEntyre made a face. We’ll talk later.

Lookin’ forward to it, my Lady. Del kissed her fingertips, as he let Tarvak lead his body away. He watched her face settle back into Ve’el as he let himself fade into Joron who turned and smiled at his Bonded. “I attend you, my love.”

“Ugh, I can’t wait to get this soiled clothing off me!” Joron complained as he swiftly began stripping off the tunic and pants he’d been wearing. There were shower stalls available at the arena, and he had used one to rinse off most of the sand and sweat, but he was far from what he considered clean when forced to re-don his clothing.

“Nor can I,” Tarvak returned. He stepped toward his young Bonded, moving the other’s hands, unfastening the clothing himself.

Joron shivered beneath the touch. “Were you proud of me, beloved?” he asked softly.

“How could any Warrior not be proud of the Day’s Champion?” Tarvak rejoined.

Joron flushed with pleasure, recalling how Centurion Deron and Legate Ramok had themselves presented him with the Champion’s purse, crowning his sweat-soaked hair with a circlet of golden leaves.

“You brought great honor to our House,” Tarvak was continuing as his elegant fingers moved over the closures at Joron’s waist. “Our status will surely increase, and that cannot help but please our Lady…”

Don’t speak of her, Joron suddenly hissed. Don’t spoil it.

Tarvak frowned. Joron, she is…

Not, and you know it!

These are the roles we have been given….

Yes, but by who?

Tarvak’s frown deepened. The gods, of course.

I‘m no longer so certain. There was a pause, then Joron seemed to shake his annoyance away. “Let’s not argue, beloved,” he said softly, “when we have so much to celebrate.” He locked his gaze onto Tarvak’s and held it until the older man leaned forward, capturing his mouth in a passionate kiss. Joron, while thoroughly enjoying the embrace, used the time to peel the rest of his clothing away.

“Gods, I need that bath!” he exclaimed when the kiss broke. “Lahs, aren’t you finished yet?”

“Nearly, Master,” came the reply from the non-gift in the bathing chamber.

“Shall I allow him to wash you…” Tarvak began, then laughed as Joron wrinkled his nose. “Then I will give you the time to…”

“Tarvak, I want you to wash me,” Joron interrupted in a petulant little boy’s voice, then let his features take on a very adult expression.

“We have dinner guests…” Tarvak began.

“Not for hours. And I deserve some special attention, don’t I?”

Tarvak’s smile was full, and contained more than equal answer to the innuendo on Joron’s face. “Always, my beloved. Always.”

“Do you require refreshment, Masters?” Lahs asked quietly, keeping his eyes averted from Second Master’s nakedness and First Master’s near-nakedness as he placed the stepstool for Second Master’s use. The wrapping that First Master wore brought back memories, and he now shuddered at them, his Mistress’ warning clear in his mind.

Joron ignored it, simply lifting one long leg up and over the side of the tub. He grabbed the edges, using the strength in his arms to lift the rest of his body over the side and into the warm water.

“Iced wine, Lahs,” Tarvak responded, but from the soft tone of his voice, his attention was elsewhere. “Are you hungry, Dei’lrn?”

“Yes, Kah-lir,” the young Warrior responded, “but not for anything this creature could bring us.”

Tarvak smiled at his Bonded’s impish grin. “Just the wine, then,” he said to Lahs. The creature bowed and made a move toward the bath’s covering cloths. “No,” Tarvak stopped him. “I’ll attend to it.”

“Yes, Master,” Lahs said, and as he left the bathing chamber, was completely forgotten.

You were magnificent, the older Romulan murmured, his eyes drinking in the heady, stimulating sight of his Bonded’s naked body beneath the water.

The Human was surprisingly helpful, Joron admitted graciously. Did you see the moves he used? If he could teach them to us…

To what end would we put them? Tarvak interrupted gently. We are both retired.

Joron turned slightly, reaching his hand out of the tub. Tarvak took it. With these new bodies, we needn’t be.

But I cannot risk you again.

With this ‘judo’ - Joron’s mind voice faltered on the unfamiliar word. – who could prevail against…

I doubt, my beloved, that even this new skill could ward off the kind of energy blast that… Tarvak stopped abruptly, his head bent. Joron turned more fully, kneeling in the large tub.

I am here, my Bonded, he said. I am with you. We are whole, we exist, though these bodies are not our own. There was a pause, and Joron’s face became a grimace of pain and sadness. Please, Kah-lir don’t weep.

Tarvak raised his head. The Vulcan’s eyes are not used to tears, he said with gruff amusement.

Ah, well, then, he is of some use to you, Joron bantered and slid back into the water. An audible sigh of contentment escaped him. This feels so good, he murmured. I wouldn’t have thought the Human’s muscles would be so sore after only one combat.

When you are sufficiently clean, I will give you a most thorough massage, Tarvak promised.

And so I’m too filthy for use, now?

With a twisted grin, Tarvak reached up, pushing the younger man’s head under the water. Joron came back up, sputtering and laughing. He grasped Tarvak around the neck, pulling him toward the tub. With only a token resistance, Tarvak allowed himself to be brought into the large enclosure.

“Your wine, Masters,” the voice of the non-gift interrupted humbly.

“Oh, by Telan, get out!” Joron snapped.

Without another word, the creature bowed, leaving the tray and goblets on the stand next to the tub.

Now, where were we? Joron murmured.

Nowhere, as yet, Tarvak answered, settling himself at the opposite end of the bath.

Joron frowned. Why so far away, Kah-lir?

Our limitations, Dei’lrn.

Joron gave a disgusted sigh, but didn’t press the matter. Instead, he stretched, letting his foot brush the other’s chest. Tarvak grasped it, bringing it to his lips with a swift kiss.

The Human will hate that, Joron teased.

Let him, was the unconcerned retort, and his Bonded laughed. Tarvak gently turned the limb in his hands, inspecting the lower leg which had been injured. His eyes widened. “Beloved, there is no mark,” he said.

Eyebrows rising, Joron craned his head, looking down at the flesh that was its normal color. “There was a bruise there at the arena,” he said curiously.

“Hmmm,” Tarvak grunted. Perhaps this body has some healing power, he finished silently. He felt Joron carefully examining his host’s mind and memories.

None he is aware of.

Interesting. Perhaps it is the – isti’li.

Or perhaps the isti’li has given me greater abilities, Joron suggested.

Tarvak’s smile was full of adoration. That would make you formidable indeed.

But never a match for you, my Bonded.

Tarvak brought the foot again close to his chest, caressing it fiercely.

Joron shuddered. I long to feel your hands on me, Tarvak.

As do I.

A massage surely can’t violate our restrictions – as long as you are mindful…

My thoughts exactly, beloved.

With another shudder, Joron again stretched his leg. The calf muscles would be an excellent place to begin, he whispered.

Tarvak bent his head, kissing his Bonded’s limb, then began applying strong, rhythmic pressure.

Speak to me, Joron pleaded softly. Speak to me as you used to.

My intention, my beautiful one, Tarvak returned, his tone already husky. And my pleasure.

Two, four, six, Lahs counted out the sparkling red wine glasses as he set them out on the sideboard in his Mistress’ apartment. He put the short green water glasses beside them. Two, four, six.

As his mistress had promised, there was indeed a very long list of items to accomplish quickly (and perfectly) before her guests for the evening arrived. It made him almost wish he had been allowed to stay home from the games to start preparations. His bruised cheek throbbed. Many things made him wish he’d not gone to the games…

Lahs shook his head sharply to clear it of such foolish thoughts. Three, six, nine, twelve. He set out groups of small decorative candles from a container he’d gotten out of the sideboard. Fifteen, eighteen, twenty-one, twenty-four.

The non-gift frowned. Too many candles. No place to put that many. Take away, Three, six, nine. Better. Now there were… He rearranged the ornaments. Five, ten, fifteen. Still a little ostentatious. Take away, One, two, three. Now there were Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve. Twelve seemed better. He could arrange them into patterns of twos, threes, or fours. How many candles would it take to have a pair of two, a group of three, and a group of four? The number nine was in his head before he arranged the candles to verify.

Shaking himself again, Lahs quickly put the extra candles back in the container and put it away. It was unseemly for a slave to be so preoccupied with numbers.

The butler’s entrance chimed as a cook from the main kitchen entered with a tray of assorted appetizers to be sampled and selected from. The cook was not a non-gift, just a fairly low-ranking Romulan. “One moment, please, sir,” the non-gift requested, hurrying to the door of his mistress’ bedchamber. “Mistress?” he called quietly, tapping a doorchime.

“Come.”

She was seated at her dressing table still going over her choices for the menu.

Lahs bit his lip and looked down, his face burning. Ve’el was dressed only in a thin undergown. “The cook is here, Mistress.”

He cursed himself as nine types of a fool as he heard her chair scrape against the floor as she rose. The bruise on his cheek seemed to shout his guilt. He wanted to die from the shame of being caught daydreaming about his mistress like a newly bedded boy. What was the use of all his training and experience if he had not learned proper self-control?

“Look at me when you speak, Lahs,” Ve’el said, motioning for him to fetch her robe. “I can’t understand you when you duck your head and mumble like an idiot.”

“Forgive me, Mistress.” He tried to keep his thoughts cool and proper as she slipped her perfectly formed arms into the robe. He closed his eyes. Even the scent of her intoxicated him.

When Lady Ve’el turned her head in his direction, Lahs made sure his eyes were open and his expression was blank. However, the twist of her lips let him know that his thoughts had not gone unnoted.

And why wouldn’t they? Lahs thought as he miserably followed her into the main room. Mistress was a true Romulan with fearsome mental prowess. He was nothing but a stupid, impudent non-gift who seemed to have gone mad with desire… He was lucky she didn’t feed him to the river snakes.

…And I will if you don’t be still, her voice echoed in his mind, as she sat down at the table in the chair that the smiling cook had pulled out for her.

“I hope you find these to your liking, my Lady,” the man said, gesturing to his tray.

Lahs poured a glass of mineral water for his mistress.

Ve’el frowned at the tray as he set the glass down next to her arm. “Are these fresh?” she asked, pointing to stack of lacy pink meat slices delicately draped over a bed made from a cunningly carved vegetable.

“Yes, my Lady.”

She picked up the appetizer and sniffed it. “I didn’t ask if they were fresh yesterday, Cook.”

“I’ll convey your dissatisfaction to our grocer,” the man deflected smoothly.

“Lahs.” Ve’el made a gesture towards the floor at her feet.

Her slave quickly moved to kneel on the spot she indicated.

“Open your mouth,” she ordered, holding out a piece of pastry.

Lahs obeyed and was surprised when his mistress proceeded to feed him the little treat as though he were a pampered favorite.

“Did you like that?” she asked, smiling as she brushed crumbs from the corners of his lower lip.

The non-gift was too stunned to do anything but nod.

“Here,” she said sweetly as she took another delicacy from the tray. “Tell me what you think of this one.”

Lahs chewed the morsel obediently. Blood pounded in his aching cheek as he looked up into his mistress’ striking grey eyes. “It is very good, Mistress.”

Still smiling, Ve’el turned to the cook. “He likes it.”

The man nodded, his expression puzzled but hopeful.

“You have succeeded in creating something that appeals to the palate of my non-gift,” Ve’el informed him, her smile hardening. “...Which would be satisfactory if I were entertaining a room full of crude, ignorant animals who would be happy to lick manure off the floor.” To make her point, the lady brushed the tray from the table. It landed with a clatter as the little treats smashed to the spotless tiles. “Do you know what I am?”

Lahs cringed at the anger in her voice even though it was not directed at him.

“Yes, my Lady,” the cook answered, chastised.

“Do you know who I am entertaining tonight?”

“Yes, my Lady.” The cook was bowing placatingly. “Forgive me, my Lady. I will have my staff prepare something more befitting the occasion.”

Ve’el glared at the man.

“That is to say,” the cook backpedaled swiftly, “I will personally prepare something appropriate for you, my Lady.”

“I look forward to sampling your best efforts.” Ve’el snapped her fingers sharply.

Lahs leapt to his feet at the signal and pulled the chair out for his mistress.

“And send up cleaning supplies so that my slave can scrub the floor,” she ordered, pointing at the upset tray of appetizers as she turned back towards her bedroom.

The non-gift did a quick, dismaying calculation of the amount of time it would take to complete that job, added it to the list of tasks he had yet to finish, and then compared that total to the probable time of their guests’ arrival.

“It’s unseemly for a slave to be so obsessed with numbers, Lahs,” Ve’el reprimanded harshly without turning around as she exited into her room.

The slave picked up the tray from the floor and returned it to the cook. “I’m sorry, sir,” he apologized – simply feeling the strong need to apologize to someone.

The cook shrugged as he turned to leave and replied with an informal phrase that recognized the non-gift’s plight without indicating any sympathy. In Anglo it would have come out as something like. “Sucks to be you, doesn’t it?”

As he picked up a bowl and towel and bent down to start cleaning the floor, Lahs was not even at liberty to agree.

The iced wine sat warm, untouched. The water of the bath had cooled, the Romulans having long abandoned it for the more comfortable positioning afforded by their bed. Joron lay on his stomach on a towel, his head cradled in his arms. Tarvak knelt behind him, his thighs straddling his Bonded’s as he massaged oil laced with muscle relaxants into Joron’s back and broad shoulders.

Perfection, he purred. Not a mark nor a blemish anywhere. Only the fine coloring and silken feel of your flawless skin.

Joron sighed.

I have missed this touch, the feel of your flesh beneath my fingers. I have missed the scent of you, beloved, the warmth, the taste. He bent his head, sweeping his lips across one shoulder blade to the back of Joron’s neck. I have longed for your response, the shuddering beneath my hands, the shivers that move up and down your spine as if they were sensual creatures aching for my caress. As they do now.

The younger Romulan shivered as if on cue.

Good, so very good, this responsiveness of yours, my Warrior. Is there pleasure greater than this, to fill you with my hungers, my needs, knowing that it enhances and increases your own?

Yes, much greater pleasure! Joron moaned.

Tarvak hushed him, his hands trailing slowly down his Bonded’s sides. No, beloved, allow me to revel in you, your youth, your beauty, your strength, your gifts. What is the physical compared to this perfect ecstasy? He bent, planting a warm, lingering kiss just above the base of Joron’s spine. Beneath him Joron writhed.

I can’t bear it… he groaned.

What is it you cannot bear, my young one? Tarvak went on. His fingers moved in slow, sensual circles at Joron’s hips, his mouth moving up the center of his back, pressing kisses along the column of bone. The sweetness of anticipation, the exquisite tension of release denied?

I need, Kah’lir!

As do I, my love. We are joined, can you not feel it?

I am empty! came from behind clenched teeth.

Feel me within you, Tarvak murmured, low and hypnotic. Dei’lrn, take my arousal, take my hunger. Place it inside of you, let it push deeply into you. His hands tightened at Joron’s hips, grasping at the naked flesh. As his Bonded’s writhing began turning to thrusts against the mattress, he pressed down against his thighs, skin to skin with only the light covering of his loin wrap to interfere. Take now that which will complete us, Tarvak went on, his voice becoming a rasp of pleasure, that which is your duty and your due. Take what I give you, Joron, feel my passion, my desire, feel it and know completion!

With a sudden lunge, Tarvak reached up, grasping the sides of Joron’s head. He settled his fingers at the temples, his thumbs brushing the tips of the ears. Joron bucked beneath him, his gasps breathless, hedonistic. He moved for what seemed a long time, then spasmed, his back arching, his arms coming beneath him to propel his torso even further back into Tarvak’s chest. He cried out, a long exhalation of passion fulfilled, then fell back to the bed like a stone. Tarvak dropped fully on top of him, caressing the sweat-streaked face, kissing Joron’s shoulder and upper arm. There was a silent litany of prayer going on in his Bonded’s head, and Tarvak smiled.

Ve’el was having a difficult time getting dressed. The passion emanating from the other side of the apartment was too visceral, too distracting. She had wanted to call her slave to relieve her arousal more than once, but her host was sternly preventing it. And, as yet, Ve’el had not found any good way to shut out the child’s awareness. She had found, to her dissatisfaction, that in order for her to use the girl’s training against her, she had to have a reason that would resonate with ‘the mission’ or the child’s personal well-being.

Although how she can stand feeling the sexual energy when she so badly wants the body of the Human…

Ve’el suddenly smiled, and if Pelori MacEntyre could have seen it, she would have shuddered.

The door chime sounded unexpectedly. Lahs rose from his place on the floor, having just finished polishing his Masters’ lythyrs to gleaming perfection. He quickly replaced the polish in the sideboard, wiping his hands on a clean corner of the cloth he’d been using, and went to answer the summons.

“Lahs, boy,“ said Centurion Deron with a wide smile, Wen standing behind him. “Announce me to your Mistress Lady Ve’el.”

Lahs blinked. “At once, Master,” he replied, but his head was filled with alarm. They’re early! he thought with dismay, having automatically added Wen to his thoughts, then correcting it just as automatically. He hurried through the apartment, signaling at his Mistress’ door.

“Mistress, Centurion Deron has arrived,” he said.

“So soon?” Ve’el voice replied, turning from her dressing table. She wasn’t yet fully clothed, Lahs having arranged her hair only a few minutes earlier, and was still choosing what jewelry to wear. She muttered a curse. “Joron and Tarvak aren’t even out of the bath.” She sighed, then swiftly fastened the necklace she had in her hand. “Greet him properly Lahs, and entertain him while I complete my preparations.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Lahs replied uncertainly. After a pause, he asked, “Mistress?”

“I gave you an order.”

“Yes, Mistress, but if I may be permitted to ask – how am I to entertain the Centurion?”

Ve’el sighed, turning to face him. “However he wishes. Where is your brain today, Lahs?”

The non-gift flushed, whispering “Forgive me, Mistress.”

“Go.”

Lahs backed out of the room, returning quickly to the outside door. He bowed deeply before Deron.

“My Lady Mistress bids you welcome, Centurion,” he said formally. “She is still in preparation, and bids me see to your needs until she is able. Please, most honored Master, Lady Ve’el’s home is yours.”

“Good boy,” Deron said, and crossed the threshold, Wen right behind him.

Lahs closed the door, then turned expectantly. “May I offer you refreshment, Master?”

“Ale,” Deron replied.

Lahs went to the cupboard, retrieving a bottle and a glass. He placed them on his small serving tray and returned as quickly as he could to the common area. Deron was relaxing on one of the upholstered couches, Wen kneeling, removing his master’s boots. Lahs knelt to serve the ale, as Wen took the boots, placing them to the side of the outer door, then returned to his place at Deron’s feet.

Deron took the glass and Lahs filled it. When the Centurion drained it and held it out, Lahs filled it again. “Just leave me the bottle, boy,” Deron said. “I’m sure you have other chores to finish.”

“My Mistress Lady Ve’el instructed me to see to your entertainment, Master,” Lahs responded. He caught the swift glance Wen threw at him, but didn’t either return or acknowledge it.

“Did she now?” Deron drawled. “How thoughtful of her.” He lifted his head, as if listening. “The Warrior Bond is active,” he chuckled, and Lahs tried to control his blush. “But you little non-gifts wouldn’t know that,” the Centurion continued. “unless you were sent to serve the Bond yourselves.” He smiled again. “Or unless a true Romulan chose to make you aware of it for his own – entertainment.”

Dread rose in the back of Lahs’ brain as Wen’s skin became a bright green.

“You feel it already, don’t you, my little one?” Deron murmured to his slave. Wen nodded. “He’s so attuned to my needs,” the man commented to Lahs, almost as though in confidence, “one would almost think him gifted.”

“Never that, Master,” Wen said softly.

“And Lahs, are you as habituated to the desires of your Mistress?”

Lahs nearly choked on his answer as the shameful heat again began to fill him. “At times, Master.”

“Good, good.” He raised his chin again. “They’re quite strong now, boy, but she doesn’t seem to be calling for your attendance. I wonder why that is.”

“I – I…” Lahs stammered. His organ was already rising.

“Do you suppose she’s seeing to my entertainment?” Deron speculated. “Could it be she intends to enflame you not for her pleasure, but for mine?”

“Master, please…” Wen whispered, but from the tone of his voice, Lahs was certain he was not pleading for leniency or for the Centurion to stop.

“She is a superlative hostess,” Deron grinned. “Wen, come here.”

The young slave moved, kneeling directly in front of his master.

“On my lap. Face the room.”

Wen climbed onto Deron’s thighs, his legs spread, facing Lahs. The Centurion’s hands settled at the boy’s waist.

“Now, Lahs, my boy is certainly a pretty thing, is he not?”

Lowering his eyes, Lahs swallowed. “Yes, Master,” he managed.

“And he wants you, did you know that?”

“N – no, Master.”

“Don’t you, Wen?”

“Yes, Master,” the blushing slave replied.

“He’s been a good boy today,” Deron said, none-too-subtly caressing the non-gift’s hips. “And he deserves a reward. Come closer, Lahs, and kiss him.” He cocked his head, glancing at his slave’s face. “That is what you want, isn’t it, Wen?”

Wen’s answer was a breathy moan. “Oh, yes, Master!”

Lahs swallowed again, staring into Wen’s dark, eager eyes. The pupils were dilated and incongruous knowledge flashed into Lahs’ thoughts.

He is drugged.

Deron laughed. “Just a little enhancement to his already whorish disposition,” he said. “Wen likes it.” He pinched the slave’s thigh and though the boy winced, he seemed to melt against his master’s leg.

“Yes, I like it, Master,” he whispered.

“Come, now, Lahs,” Deron said, his voice nearly a caress. “I’ve been thinking about that performance all day.”

Oh, my!

Pelori MacEntyre was immediately alert at the soft exclamation from Ve’el, and almost as quickly aware of the heat that was rising in the Romulan’s mind – and her own.

Retreat, child, Ve’el advised breathlessly.

What is…? MacEntyre began.

Tarvak and Joron are projecting rather…oh, my!

The Indiian Intelligence agent was flooded with arousal.

Quickly, my dear. I won’t be able to hold this at bay much longer unless I can fully close my shields.

Ve’el, I… Pelori said suspiciously.

I’m doing this to help you, Ve’el insisted, neither her tone nor her demeanor as cool as was usual for her. Given your attachment to the Human, I can only imagine what feeling the passion from his body under these circumstances will do to you – and truly, child, if YOU know the details of it, surely the Vulcan and Human – when they are themselves – will be able to read those details from your thoughts… and was not one of their conditions was that they not know of such things?

Ve’el… Pelori shivered as a wordless cry of ecstasy – in Del’s voice – swept over her being.

Child, please! If it overwhelms us and we interrupt the Bond… your Human is completely submerged and I don’t think a Vulcan who too well understands its inexorable nature would be much aid in calming Tarvak…

Yes, all right, Pelori agreed, and shivered, casting a longing mental glance at DelMonde before allowing her mind to be put behind the Romulan’s strong shields.

Ve’el took a deep breath and used her iron will to make sure the confinement was unbreakable. Then she deliberately calmed herself, setting up a telepathic mirror toward the heady emanations that seethed from the rest of the apartment, adjusting that mirror until it was focused exclusively on the open mind of the Human encased within her non-gift.

You must obey, sounded firmly in Lahs’ head. You are a slave and a non-gift, your only purpose is to please and submit. Your Mistress commanded you to be entertaining, in whatever way the Centurion desired. You must obey. You are a slave and a non-gift…

Taking a deep breath, Lahs leaned forward, placing his lips against those of the boy who was held captive on Deron’s lap. Wen, too, leaned forward, his mouth moving over Lahs’ in hungry urgency.

“You may caress him, Wen,” Deron said, and the boy reached out, his fingers brushing delicately over Lahs’ well-shaped ears.

Lahs shuddered, the fires within him gaining renewed strength.

“Come closer, Lahs,” the Centurion instructed as Wen broke the kiss. Ve’el’s non-gift moved forward on his knees. Deron parted his legs to allow the creature to crawl right up to the edge of the couch, causing Wen’s thighs to spread even further. The younger slave’s knees were now on either side of Lahs’ hips. As their bodies touched, Lahs stifled a gasp as he realized the position was such that his erection was straining toward Wen’s own.

“Two strong columns with nothing to support,” Deron chuckled. His hands had moved from Wen’s hips, now skimming over the insides of his slave’s thighs. “He has strong muscles for one so young,” the Centurion murmured. “Comes from his frequent exercising of them, doesn’t it, Wen?”

“Yes, Master.” Wen’s voice was a rasp of desire.

“Don’t be shy, Lahs,” Deron continued. “Test them for yourself.”

You must obey, you are a slave and a non-gift.

Lahs placed his hand on Wen’s thigh, just above the knee.

“Higher,” Deron said.

Lahs moved his hand a fraction of a centimeter higher.

“I don’t want coyness, either, slave.” The Centurion grasped the flesh at the juncture of Wen’s hip and right thigh. “Here. Feel his strength.”

Wen was biting his lower lip, his eyes pleading. Swallowing hard, Lahs slid his hand to the place Deron had indicated. The Romulan took a hold of Lahs’ wrist, forcing his hand into a rough massaging motion. Lahs could feel the hardened organ, and the pulsing in the sac beneath, against the back of his hand.

Wen moaned.

“Lean forward, my sweet,” the Centurion urged. “Let me see your tongue at his mouth as you test his strength.”

It took all of Lahs’ endurance not to jerk away as Wen’s tongue ran over his lips. It was not exactly a kiss, more of a tasting, as a dog might lick at a bone. He felt the young slave’s hand snaking along his thigh, a teasing caress of sinew and muscle obviously intended to increase arousal.

To Lahs’ horror, it was working.

Deron leaned back against the couch cushions, pulling Wen to recline against him. His legs were still parted, keeping Wen’s even wider apart. “Bring him, Wen,” he ordered, and his slave grasped Lahs’ hands, reminding the older non-gift of how the boy had done so at the Centurion’s residence. With steady pressure, Wen drew Lahs on top of him, the young hips rocking up to meet Lahs’ own. The boy’s mouth opened for another deep, longing kiss, and as Deron’s hands came to Lahs’ hips, forcing him to press against Wen’s writhing body, Lahs closed his eyes and gave himself up to the hedonism.