Her voice was so soft, Need was certain no one else in the crowd of males bidding on her could hear it. But for some reason, it carried to his ears, despite the jeering and catcalls all around him.
The Xanther drew back without answering her.
“The neck can be extended surgically until it is almost as long as my own,” he remarked, speaking to the Torgians instead. “Such body modifications on comely alien females are common on my home world, since females of my own kind are scarce.”
“This little female would be ideal for any kind of body-mods you want to give her,” the slaver remarked, provoking another look of fear from the girl on the auction block. “She’s young—her body will heal from any surgery you wish to try on her.”
Despite his calm façade of disinterest, Need felt a surge of anger. Clearly the damn slaver didn’t care if the girl he was selling got mutilated or raped or even killed and eaten—all he wanted was his damn credits and to hell with the shivering female he had stolen from her home and was selling as a slave.
Then he caught himself. No—he didn’t care, he told himself firmly. Didn’t give a flying fuck what happened to any female. He had no interest in any of them now that Cleah was dead.
But then a third voice called out,
“Fifteen thousand credits for the juicy little bitch!”
It was a voice Need knew well—the voice of Drung the Trollox—or rather, Drung’s middle head—which was the one you had to watch out for.
“Fifteen thousand!” the slaver called, looking around the crowd. “Clearly you have good taste, fine Sir,” he added, nodding in Drung’s direction, which made the middle head grin widely, showing the blackened bases of its yellowed tusks.
“Here now!” one of the Torgians growled. “If the Xanther’s cock can’t fit inside the little bitch without some kind of surgery, I know the same must be said of you, Trollox! Your species is huge—you don’t even look compatible with so small a female.” He cocked his head to one side, his triple row of teeth gleaming with saliva. “Unless you have other plans for her. Are you going to eat her or breed her?” he inquired hungrily.
“Breed her o’ course—no surgery needed,” Drung’s middle head declared in its low, grunting voice. “Got a set of stretchers, I do. Each one bigger than the last. Make her wear a bigger one every day until she can take my shaft in her tight little pussy.” He leered at the shivering girl. “Can’t wait to shove all the way in and spill my seed inside her. Give her a big belly—a belly full of my heir!”
Need felt another surge of white-hot anger overtake him. Fucking Drung was three or four times the girl’s body mass—why she would barely come up to his waist! She looked like a child—a small child—shaking with fear at the Trollox’s crude threat to rape and impregnate her. The idea of that ugly son-of-a-whore shoving his monstrous shaft inside her was disgusting—obscene!
Then sanity brought him back to himself. Why should he care what happened to the little female? Caring for females had brought him nothing but pain. It was better to ignore them altogether.
But he couldn’t ignore the silent tears that rolled down the little female’s face as it began to look like Drung might win the bid.
“Fifteen thousand once,” the slaver/auctioneer was calling. “Fifteen thousand twice. Will no one else bid on this delectable little female? She’d be equally welcome in your stewpot or your bed—either way you’re guaranteed a hot little dish.”
He laughed heartily at his own joke, the artificial platinum teeth in the front of his mouth glinting among the blackened stumps of his natural teeth, which had rotted.
“Buy her.”
Need jerked in surprise and looked to his left and right and then behind him. Who was that? Who had spoken?
Whoever it was, he couldn’t seem to find her—because the voice had definitely been female. But there were no females in this crowd—only jeering males looking to buy a girl to breed or eat.
Need shrugged, his broad shoulders twitching nervously.
Must have imagined it. Have to get out of here—this fucking scene is getting to me.
He would go back to his ship, The Dark Star, he decided. He would check in with Captain Glo’ll, lay in the course for their next destination, and then take a nap—put all this foolishness out of his mind.
“I will not tell you again—BUY HER, WARRIOR!”
It was like a shout in his ear. This time Need flinched so hard he knocked into the Zitch’rell male standing beside him, humming softly to himself through his long, fluted, three-nostrilled nose.
The Zitch’rell turned to him indignantly.
“What’s your praaaahblem, friend?” he bleated, glaring at Need from his slotted eyes. “Why did you shuuuuv me?”