Two years later

Anya

“Why do you always have to do these things? Why do you always have to push the boundaries?”

Laylah’s voice quavers in anger. I don’t want to look at her. I don’t want to see her judgmental expression. I don’t want to fight with someone who doesn’t understand ambition. She has a good job. I’m still trying to make it as a researcher, and this is my chance.

“Please stop lecturing and help me get into this thing. I can’t tell the front from the back.” I shouldn’t snap at her, but I can’t help it. I expect her to refuse, but to my surprise, she steps forward, yanks the stolen garment from my hand and holds it up.

“This is the front,” she says, “if you can call it that. But let me repeat: this is a bad idea. The two top rules in the Earth Guide to Ythilian Tourism were explicit, Anya: No stealing and no entering restricted areas. You’ve broken them both.”

I pull off my traveling robe and take the tiny skin dress from her hand. “So far I’ve only broken one. And if those village virgins didn’t want their dresses stolen, they wouldn’t leave them laying out on the rocks.”

Laylah fixes me with a look of disgust. “It’s part of their religious ceremony, Anya. They…”

“Save the lecture,” I say as I pull on the dress. It’s surprisingly soft, and molds to my body like a glove, even if it is a little snug on my full breasts. “I’ve done nothing but study the Ythilians. I know why the dresses were there. I’m not stupid. The virgins pray for the Moon Goddess to infuse the clothing with strength.” I kneel and reach in my bag for the ochre-colored clay I collected from a stream bed and smear it on my face, recreating the ceremonial patterns I’ve seen in what few pictures I could find of the ceremonies. I’m pleased with the effect and turn to Laylah when I’m finished. “So. What do you think?”

“I think you look convincing enough to get sexually assaulted,” she snaps.

“Wrong.” I kneel again, reaching for the tiny bones I’ve collected. “I’ve got the perfect hiding place for the best vantage point. The biggest danger I face is not getting run over by the other virgins rushing through the gates.”

“I wish you would reconsider.” Laylah’s tone has softened from anger to worry. “I mean, what if the stuff you left in the cave isn’t there anymore?”

“It will be,” I say with conviction.

“And you’re sure your transmitter batteries are still working?”

“They have a three-month life,” I tell her. “I hid everything when I came here for that migration of those bird creatures… the ones that look like giant ostriches?”

“You mean the lawkers? The ones that can kill you?” Now she’s just being sarcastic.

“Yes. But they’re gone now. They migrated through the fields. That’s how I was able to get in with the last tour, remember? I hid everything in a cave before they closed the fields for this barbaric festival I’m about to expose.”

“It must be nice to have all the answers,” Laylah snaps.

“It’ll be nicer to get a promotion when I expose what the regular tourists don’t see when watching this ceremony. This piece, Laylah…” I grow quiet. “It’s the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. The public viewing stands are purposefully centered over what they call the Love Field. That’s where the less aggressive females go, the ones who want to be caught. I want to document the brutality the Ythilians don’t show the tourists. I want to throw back the veil on this misogynistic culture, and raise real questions on why we’re even in a treaty with these alien brutes.”

“They’re not full alien. They’re half,” she corrects me, and I frown. I’m the expert here, not her. I know the Ythilians are half-human.

“They’re nothing like us,” I say quietly. “They only look human. But the males are larger, more aggressive. You’ve seen them. They’re wild.”

“That’s awfully biased for someone aiming to do an objective piece.” Laylah quirks a brow. “You’re supposed to be a science writer, aren’t you?”

“It’s not biased to prove what you already know,” I argue. “This Claiming Day ritual? It’s primitive. Our people deserve to know what kind of culture we’re assisting through the tourism exchange. I’ll be lauded for exposing this. You’ll see.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about it,” Laylah says, picking up her pack. “I’ve rented the Hoverpod like you asked. Beyond that, I want no part of this.” She pauses and then reaches out to hug me. “Damn it, Anya. Don’t get hurt.”

“I won’t!” I say vehemently. “You’ll see.”

I pull my traveling robe over the new garb and fix the hood so it shields my face. It’s another of the rules. The Moon Festival coincides with the period of peak libido of Ythilian males. The planet elders had wanted to restrict travel to male tourists during the festival, but the Council of Sevens denied their request. Beggars can’t be choosers, and once a planet opens itself up to tourism, they cannot dictate terms to participating planets. Human women can watch, too, but we are required to stay covered in mandatory traveling robes, lest we draw the attention of the Ythilian males.

Now the requirement is working to my benefit. The robe provides good cover as I join other tourists watching the naked virgins rush to the rocks for the ceremonial dresses. There’s always more than enough since the females sometimes fight over them and the garments get torn. The surplus allowed me to steal the one I’m wearing under my robe, and I’m glad I’m not down there with these fierce savages who snatch up garments and clutch them to naked breasts, feeling for energy imbued by the moonlight. Silly, superstitious fools. The one I took didn’t feel magical. But under the robe, it does feel tight.

I push through the crowds, staying wary of my surroundings as I navigate toward where the newly arrayed virgins are traveling toward the gate that opens to the mating fields. I walk parallel to the path until I reach a rocky outcropping. There, I shed my robe and rub reddish dust from the ground onto my pale legs and arms before walking down the slope to join the others.

Ythilian males may be huge, but the females are not, so I blend in. The clay adorning my face masks the differences. The Ythilians have high cheekbones and slightly slanted eyes. They are a beautiful, intense race. They look fierce, even at rest. I keep my head down now as the females around me chatter. The mated women, who’ve come to support them, are praying aloud, asking their gods to grant the virgins a male strong enough to vanquish them. I understand them only because of a small implant—mandatory for every inhabitant on every planet in the Seven Stars System—that enables the brain to automatically translate any interstellar dialect.

To my side is a woman with a ringed scar around her arm. It is a badge of honor, for she was not claimed. One more ring, and she will become a female elder, entitled to lands and position. But that is not what these females want. The real prize, in their backward minds, is their own defeat. Some will not fight as hard as they should; those are the ones most spectators see. But these females? They won’t make it easy. They are armed with knives sheathed in straps around their thighs or waists. Most will still fall to lie under warriors who will ram their cocks between their legs. That most prefer this fate to freedom infuriates me. I swallow my distaste as we edge toward the gate, ready to break with the group and hide in the rocks so I can document the action.

The huge gates swing open, and I must run to keep from being trampled. Around me, the virgins are fanning out. There is safety in numbers, but these virgins aren’t looking for safety; they’re looking for a fight. They’re looking for a conqueror.

I hear a cry and look back to see a huge warrior springing from behind a gnarled tree. I panic and freeze, but he runs past, sprinting after a lithe virgin whose breasts bounce tauntingly as she grins back at him. He’s been waiting for her, and she’s been waiting for him. I might as well be invisible as they head toward the southern Love Field. They will pretend to fight there, for the amusement of the tourists, before she gives in as she planned to do in the first place.

But the real battles? They will happen here, and I will document it.

I run and run, remembering the path I took to the rocks where I’ve hidden my equipment. It all looks the same this time, and I am afraid. What if I misjudge? But then I see the rock I’m looking for. The top looks like a spike; it’s the landmark I remember and I scale the sloping rock face until I find the cave. I’m barely inside when I hear a sound below. I scramble for my camera, relieved when the tiny light comes on and hide behind a rock at the cave mouth just in time to see someone come into the clearing.

A virgin I saw at the gate—the one with the band of scars already around her arm—steps out from the rocky outcrop below me. She has unsheathed her knife and is looking up. I freeze, thinking she’s seen me. But I’m wrong.

“Jalis!”

A deep voice calls her name, and eyes flash in her painted face. She grins and rather than run, she drops down into a fighting stance, spreading her arms to look bigger. The voice that called her name is coming from above me. Pebbles rain down across the opening of the small cave where I’m hiding as an Ythilian warrior descends. He’s large, and wears a loincloth. He carries no weapon.

“I will avenge my brother today,” he says, his words ringing across the clearing. “I will take you as my mate. You will lie under me, and continue our bloodline. See how my cock rises for you already?”

She tosses the knife from one hand to the other. “Wrong,” she says. “I will earn my second band today, Kryli, and end your line forever.”

They’re moving in circles, facing one another, and I can see that the warrior’s expression mirrors the virgin’s in intensity, even as he mirrors her movements. She twirls the knife, displaying her proficiency with the weapon. My heart pounds as I follow the action with my tiny handheld recorder from the shadows at the edge of the cave.

They continue to circle, wearing a track on the ground. Then, without warning, the warrior explodes forward. The virgin barely evades him, and leaps with catlike grace onto a nearby boulder. She has the advantage now, and leaps, her curved blade rising like a tooth about to bite. The warrior spins at the last moment, catching her arms as they both fall. His body cushions hers as they hit the ground, throwing up a cloud of dust. The virgin is screaming in rage, and when the dust clears I can see them struggling. Her dress is hiked up, baring her bottom and her pussy. I’m aghast to see her dusty inner thighs smeared with the shiny moisture of her arousal. How can she possibly be excited by this… this… brute? Although he’s underneath her, he has the advantage, having locked her slim wrists in his hands.

She’s cursing him, but he’s laughing, the sound one of victorious joy. The warrior spreads her arms out and raises his upper body, catching the top of her skin dress in his teeth. Jerking his head, he tears it free of her breasts and then attacks a nipple, lapping and nipping and suckling. The woman is screaming now, but the anger is mixed with something else, a wild moan that resounds off the rocks.

She drops the knife, then pushes off him in the opposite direction as he rolls in the direction of her fallen weapon, which he retrieves and tosses. I almost cry out as it sails through the air and lands inches from the opening of my cave. Then I turn my attention back to the ongoing drama below.

The warrior has risen and catches the virgin Jalis as she leaps to her feet. He has her about the waist, and hauls her to a boulder. She turns enough to scratch him. She may have lost her dagger, but the tiny daggers of her nails leave a pattern of bloody marks across a bulging pectoral. I wince, but he laughs again. He sits down, throwing her over the rock. Her bottom is facing me. Her upper body hangs forward over his lap, the full breasts swinging back and forth as she struggles madly to be free. Her dress, torn from the top to the middle, is bunched at her waist where her captor has pushed it up to bare her bottom.

He starts to spank her. To spank her! My hands shake as I hold the camera. Why would any female want to participate in something like this? I zoom in, wanting to document her humiliation, even though it angers me. I can see through the viewfinder her kicking legs, and the spread lips of her pussy, the inner labia glistening with fresh arousal as the warrior punishes her helpless bottom.

My indignation rises along with her obvious excitement as Jalis’ tanned buttocks quickly blush red, then a deep scarlet. She’s wailing over his lap, her sobs filling the valley. Two other warriors traversing a ridge of low boulders to the right raise their fists and whoop their congratulations at the sight and cheer again as the warrior tips the virgin off his lap and pushes her back on the rock.

I am prepared for her to launch a fresh assault. This warrior just spanked her. It’s an archaic punishment banned on Earth, but I’ve read historical accounts. It’s a child’s chastisement, and it disgusts me. I continue to film. It’s cool in the cave, I realize, and the chilly air has made my nipples to grow hard and achy. I pull one arm across them, and grit my teeth at their sensitivity as I continue filming.

Disappointment and anger swells in me. Why are Jalis’ legs around him? Why is she staring into his eyes with a look that’s gone from rage to adoration? He’s driving into her like a battering ram, the first thrust eliciting a cry of pain that’s morphed into cries of pleasure. She throws her head back, and he nips along the slender curved column of her neck. Her hair, decorated with bones, fans out behind her on the rock as she cries out in ecstasy. A moment later, he does the same, turning his face up toward me. I capture his expression of lustful triumph.

It isn’t fair. She wasn’t supposed to enjoy it. But when I present my evidence to the Interstellar Tourism Council, I’ll argue that this is nothing more than conditioning of a culture that does not deserve to derive income from exploiting its females in this manner.

When the act is over, the warrior throws Jalis over his shoulder and jogs away. I can see her smiling through her curtain of wild black hair.

I turn the camera off. I’ve gotten what I came for, and I plan to write a powerful story that will cast this culture in a less-than-flattering light.

My eyes fall on the knife lying at the foot of the cave. I pick it up, shuddering at the lethal edge to the dagger that killed the brother of the warrior who just vanquished its owner. There are strange markings on its handle. I wonder what kind of bone it is. It’s as hard as metal, and I know if I run my finger across the blade even a little, it would slice my soft skin.

I should leave it, but I decide to take it. Why shouldn’t I? I want it as a reminder of women like Jalis, who were warriors in their own right before this culture turned them into another breeding mate.

I look down the ridge, scanning for movement. Sounds float from the distant rocks strewn across the plains, cries of distress, sounds of spanking, cries of pleasure, congratulatory whoops as virgins are caught and conquered. With everyone distracted, it’s the perfect time to leave. I put the camera in my bag and it’s when I’m about to sling it over my shoulder that I hear the noise. I freeze, hoping it’s just the wind in a tree. But I remember that there are no trees here, just rocky outcrops on alien plains marked with scrub. I walk to the front of the cave, preparing to hide again, to wait. But at that moment, I see him standing below. He’s big… bigger than any man I’ve ever seen, a wall of muscle with fire in his eyes and an erection already raising the front of his loincloth.

And terror fills my heart, because although I duck back into the cave, I know that he has seen me, too.