"Joanna Wylde - The Price of Freedom" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wylde Joanna)

she would cry out in ecstasy. SheтАЩd go wild, muscles clenching his body. He pressed himself harder
against his hand, imagining shooting his seed deep into her body. Again and again he stroked himself and
with each touch the pressure grew until his balls tightened, ready to release. Orgasm hit, and his entire
body stiffened. He stifled his moan, not willing to let the other men know what he was doing. Of course,
it wasnтАЩt as if they werenтАЩt doing the same thing. There were very few secrets in the barracks.
Slowly, the pleasure of his release left him. Once again, he was alone in the darkness. Around him
were the snores, sighs and soft moans of a hundred other men. For all he knew, they were sharing the
same fantasy he had. In all likelihood he would never have sex with a woman again, let alone this woman
he had come to think of as his. Hell, he didnтАЩt even know her name. He was a slave, and she belonged to
one of his captors.
Morning would come all too soon, and with it another day of back-breaking labor in the mines. This
was his life now, Jess told himself firmly. There was no room for self-pity, and there was no room for
obsession with this woman. He closed his eyes and, for the thousandth time, willed himself to sleep.

*****
Bethany pulled the brush through her long hair. Every sleep cycle, since childhood, she had
performed the same ritual. Her mother helped her when she was young. She had always imagined that
some day she would do the same with her own daughters. There were no children, however. She had
been her husbandтАЩs third wife, and the first two had given him strapping boys and lovely girls. She had
given him nothingтАж
Shaking off her thoughts, she separated her hair into three equal parts, braiding rapidly. When she
finished, she stood and pulled off her drab brown dress, hanging it carefully on a peg near her door.
Wearing only her shift, she padded softly across the room to her bed. It was small, and she was often
cold, but she realized how lucky she was to sleep alone. For ten long years she had slept beside Avram,
a man 30 years her senior. Every night, as she had prepared for bed, she had wondered if it would be
one of the evenings when he reached for her. One of the times when he would pull up her shift and thrust
his stiff penis into her unwilling flesh. As a frightened bride of 14 his touch was terrifying; in later years it
simply became unpleasant. She could not bring herself to mourn his death as she slipped under the
covers.
Avram was dead and she had other worries.
She was lucky to be back with her father, and in a way, she was lucky to be barren. She certainly
didnтАЩt have to worry about getting married again. No Pilgrim man would have a wife who couldnтАЩt give
him children. Her father may not be the most pleasant person to live with, but at least he ignored her most
of the time. Of course, he would only keep her around as long as she could make herself useful.
She had almost fallen asleep when a harsh knock on her door startled her awake. She sat up in bed,
breathing quickly. Was she in trouble?
тАЬBethany, get dressed and come out here,тАЭ her fatherтАЩs voice growled outside the door. тАЬThe
council meeting is over and I need to speak with you.тАЭ
тАЬYes, IтАЩll be right there,тАЭ she answered automatically. Her father didnтАЩt like to be kept waiting.
Bethany jumped out of bed, pulling one of her two dresses over her head. She wrapped her braid around
her head in a coronet quickly, pinning it into place and making sure there were no loose strands. Her
father had no patience for sloppy women. He would cane her if he saw a hair out of place.
Opening the door, she walked quickly down the hall to their living chamber. Her fatherтАЩs apartment
was one of the largest in the mining community; space in the habitation bubble on the asteroidтАЩs surface
came at a premium. The fact that they had so much room was a testament to her fatherтАЩs influence with
his fellow Pilgrims. Bose had been the official leader of their community for less than a year, but he had
dictated policy long before that.
Her father was sitting in the one comfortable chair they owned, staring moodily at a report in front of
him. His dark, swarthy face was mottled with color, his large nose flushed red. There was a bottle of the
homemade bakrah he loved so much on the table next to him. She came to stand before him, eyes cast