Bebo

Djetth had began with the juice on her wrist. After an agonizing wait, during which he’d held her down, he’d touched her lip with a juice-stained fingertip. Later, his wet forefinger traced the corner of her mouth.

While they waited again, his wicked fingers stroked and teased her lips until under the erotic onslaught she forgot to grit her teeth and he slid two fingers into her mouth.

Dusk fell, the shelter was forgotten, and he would not leave her alone. Bound, helpless, and struggling, she could not stop him from slipping his fingers in and out of her mouth. Again and again he penetrated her, depositing his salty sweet juice on her tongue, and under it.

“I wonder,” he’d murmured hoarsely, “why the textbooks don’t recommend doing this to your pussy?”

Martia-Djulia did not know what tormentors’ text books he meant, or in what way a pussy —whatever that was— would be useful. She hated that her treacherous body trembled under his gentle touch, and that he’d made her wet between the legs.

Finally, he’d cupped the point of her chin and forced a mashed, whole berry between her lips. Before she could try to spit it out, he bent his head and sucked her exposed, extended, vulnerable neck.

Up and down her sensitive throat, he nibbled, bit and sucked, still holding her immobile for his twisted enjoyment. His free hand stroked her breast until her nipples were hard, and he trailed his mouth down her body, and suckled through the ‘Tea-Shirt’ until she gasped and cried out at the blinding pleasure.

She’d swallowed the berry without noticing.

“Just wait,” he’d promised, with his mouth still over her damp, sore nipple. “If you don’t drop dead overnight, I’m going to give you seven more, at sun up, one after the other.

Without untying her hands, he’d carried her to his half-made bed and lay down with her, under gold foil sheets, under the stars. He must have known that she wouldn’t be able to sleep for wondering what perverted ways he’d stimulate her to swallow for him seven times, one after another.

"Be good..." they say. "And if you can't be good, be careful!"

It must be almost impossible to be careful when all the worlds are watching all the time, and not always sympathetically.

Princesses and celebrities have everywoman's problems, but their problems are magnified a hundredfold by the telephoto lens of public scrutiny. Everyone wants to know who they are seeing, what they are drinking, what they did in bed and with whom, whether or not they are pregnant...

A single alien princess might precipitate a constitutional crisis if an unflattering camera caught her just as a breeze was bellying out her bathing costume... especially if it was common knowledge that she'd slept with a foreign terrorist for kicks.

Princess Martia-Djulia has all the problems of a youngest child (the third child) but more so. It seems pointless to compete with her brilliant older brother and sister. Until senility overtakes them, they will always be older, wiser, better-read, more experienced, more athletic, more powerful.

In a world of feudal primogeniture, the older she gets, the lower her status. She is only interesting if she is scandalous.


<a href="http://www.rowenacherry.com/buythebo...">Insufficient Mating Material's</a> heroine was introduced in FORCED MATE, where she got a great deal more than she bargained for when she flirted with a handsome --and most unsuitable-- commoner.

She also went through her brother's private "stuff" and got caught, did the gustatory equivalent of spiking the drinks at her brother's wedding banquet, made a compromising video of herself in bed with a tattooed stranger, and fell hopelessly in love with a hunk who was honor-bound to marry someone else.

She makes her dramatic appearance in <a href="http://www.rowenacherry.com/buythebo...">Insufficient Mating Material</a> as the Royal bride at an Imperial shotgun wedding. As she surveys the throngs who have come to see her married to the mate of her dreams (who has miraculously been relieved of the fiancee he intended to marry and brought back to her) her happiness seems complete...

<span style="font-weight:bold;">CHAPTER ONE</span>

Never in all Great Djinn history has any Imperial Princess had such a Mating Ceremony on such short notice, and to a mate freely chosen by the Princess!

Princess Martia-Djulia savored her unique happiness. The second best part was that she was going to get away with it. By taking an alien and a commoner like Commander Jason to mate, she poked a defiant finger in the eye of Imperial tradition.

“You’re glowing,” her tall, grimly magnificent brother commented as he joined her on the raised throne-stage and offered her the support of his bent arm for the slow, gyring descent of the stage into the Throne Room below the Imperial suite.

“I’ve a lot to glow about,” Martia-Djulia retorted. She could have made a barbed remark about how Tarrant-Arragon had tricked his own cold, pale bride into saying the irrevocable Imperial Mating Vows, but she didn’t.

After all, Tarrant-Arragon had hunted down Commander Jason, and brought him back to her.

Her thoughts returned to her Jason who shared her taste for subversion and mischief-making. He was the Mate who would change her sad, lonely life; her boring, bottled-up life. He was her rescuer, her lover, her private hero, the warrior who made her feel young and beautiful, and who awed the Fewmet out of her insolent, uncontrollable sons.

He was the only male in all the forty-two gestates of her life who had ever given her an orgasm.

Martia-Djulia took a deep, happy breath as the last notes of the Fanfare Royal drifted up from the balconies of the Throne Room, and the Crown Prince’s throne stage —its stark, craggy contours pleasingly draped for the occasion in her favorite colors of dusk-sky mauve and midnight-purple— descended silently, like one of her brother’s deliberately placed chess pieces, on

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See my salami colored appearance on the graph. Make it grow longer!

INSUFFICIENT MATING MATERIAL:

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Yours to the last,

Insufficient