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There’s around two dozen saurians, and they are clearly two very separate groups. There’s a group of hefty, hard-looking saurians, many of whom are almost as wide as the aisle itself. They come in without shirts, but with leather bands running over their chests, holding what looks to me like ammunition. It can’t be, though, because there’s no way that would be allowed here. They come down the aisle mean-mugging at practically nothing. They are horned and some of them have those scooped bone-like frills that cover their necks. Most of them are wearing a dark green leather with gold insignia. They look like a crew or a gang.
The guards — that has to be what they are — file into the front seats on the left-hand side of the hall. That’s when I see the one who has to be in trouble. He’s a much leaner saurian, and taller than the others. He also looks slightly worried. There is a female saurian behind him, wringing her hands and leaning her head on the shoulder of another saurian male. They must be his parents. My heart sinks for the young saurian male. Bad enough to be forced to go before Avel, but I can’t imagine the embarrassment of doing it with your parents.
He is green from head to toe, and clearly of the predatory class. His features are sharp, but there is a dullness about his eyes. If I had to guess I’d say he’s high as he could be right now. Smart move, maybe, to dull the pain and shame in advance.
He is wearing very loose, baggy pants and heavy boots. His torso is covered in a sheer kind of singlet type top. He’s not a bulky kind of muscular yet, though it looks like he will be one day soon. For now, he has the lithe build of a young male yet to fully come into his prime. His dark hair has been cut short and gelled into spikes. There is a slight sneer on his face, as if he is unimpressed by all this pageantry, though I think that’s an act. All around him are expressions of melancholy and fear.
Then there’re other saurians, coming in the rear. They are dressed differently, in robes and soft clothes that all seem to have practical purposes. They look like shopkeepers and artisans, the sort of saurians who keep the city running. A lot of them are of the type of saurian that seem herbivorous. Their features are softer and their scales are less prominent. Their eyes are bigger and their teeth, when they speak, are flatter and broader.
They move to the right-hand side of the hall, avoiding eye contact with Torin Rivet’s side. While all this is happening, Avel stands upon the dais, his legs spread shoulder width apart, a leather lash held in one of his hands. His gaze sweeps the crowd regularly with an expression that indicates everybody here is at risk if they do not follow his orders to the letter. I bet the saurians who are here to witness judgement are glad for his dominant presence. Without it, I think the Rivets could run through the lot of the complainants in a matter of minutes. I am impressed at the amount of respect and order Avel is able to command without saying a word.
When everybody is seated, Avel speaks.
“Torin Rivet!”
He announces the name in deep tones.
“Yeah?”
I want to palm my face. That lackadaisical response is not going to please Avel at all, and there’s no way that displeasing Avel is a good idea.
“Present yourself for your penalty, Torin,” Avel intones, his voice deeper, grittier, and designed to intimidate.
Torin grins, trying to appear brave, but his sharp teeth do nothing to hide the nervousness that is absolutely clear in his eyes. His footsteps are hesitant and start to slow more the closer he gets to the dais where he is absolutely going to get his ass kicked.
I don’t know this young saurian at all. There is no reason for me to feel sorry for him — maybe he did something truly terrible on his little rampage. But I can’t help but identify with him. He is trying to put on a bold, strong front, but everybody can see how scared he is underneath the bravado. It seems to me he’s a victim of this society, this draconian hellscape in which punishment is carried out physically. I wish I could help him, but I can’t even help myself at this point.
Avel glances at me from the stage. It is a quick flicker of a look, but I feel it like liquid fire running through my soul. The chain holding me in place is unnecessary. I wouldn’t dare move even if there was absolutely nothing in place. I don’t know what about this has cowed me so completely, but the woman who dived off the edge of the ledge of his home is gone right now. In her place is a cowering female seeing the real nature of her mate.
Avel has never harmed me. I don’t think he would, but looking up at him from this oh-so-subordinate angle, I feel my pussy pulsing with… god, it can’t be arousal, can it? I can’t want him more as I find him more terrifying, can I? There’s something terribly fucked up with me. I always thought I wanted a proper, normal relationship. Man, woman, whatever, but normal. Equal. A meeting of minds and hearts and sharing life, and whatever the fuck else romance is supposed to be. Maybe I still want some of that, but right now? All I want is to be under the absolute monster on the dais.
My head is swimming with fantasies. I am imagining myself up there, displayed on that platform for all to see, treated without mercy. I want to know what it feels like to be treated like one of these criminal saurians. It’s a fucked up desire, and I’d never admit to it, but there’s some part of me that’s jealous of those who get to go up there. I’ve handled crew who just need a good thrashing to be brought in line. I’ve kicked more than a few asses in my day. There are plenty who fear me on the Mare. But I doubt they fear me the way I fear Avel right now.
The way I fear him right now is the way the sun fears the night. Or the desert fears the ocean. He seems like a force so overwhelming that I would not survive his presence. If I were to become his focus while he was as he is now, some part of me I have been holding onto for as long as I can remember would be obliterated.
“Stop,” Avel intones, telling Torin to halt before he can ascend the stairs. “Before you set foot up here with me, you will make an apology. I will take your contrition into account before you are punished.”
Is he showing Torin mercy? Is that hot? Or am I a little disappointed? Funny how I went from feeling sorry for this saurian to now wanting to see Avel in action where he is concerned.
“Sorry,” Torin says bluntly.
It’s not enough to impress Avel. If anything, it annoys him even more. I see the enforcer glower down at the unfortunate saurian, and I know that shit is about to go down in a serious way,
Avel extends a hand and crooks a finger at Torin, his expression taking on a certain anticipatory displeasure. Torin has given Avel a reason to really go off on him. I curl up on the chair and watch with bated breath.
Torin puts a foot on the lowest stair before losing his nerve. He swivels and makes a break for it, dashing back down the aisle. He is making for the doors at high speed, and he’d probably escape if not for the fact that they are clearly very well prepared for this eventuality. Two guards — saurians I did not see before this moment — step out from the bone-cast shadows to intercept him.
Torin is grabbed up between two burly saurian guards who start dragging him back down the aisle toward Avel. At that point, he loses his composure completely. He starts fighting and shouting, begging, really, as he is inexorably carried to his destiny.
“No! Please! God! No! I’ll do anything! I’m sorry! I’ll make amends for the rest of my life! Just don’t let him touch me! Please!”
There is fear in his voice, deep, gasping gobs of it. They coat me and they infect me. They make me tremble where I sit, drawing back against the pillar as if to hide, though nobody is looking at me right now anyway. All eyes are on the young saurian male who is making an absolute spectacle of himself.
I can tell how desperate Torin is, but maybe the guards can’t. He reaches the end of his tether, and snaps at one of the guards holding him. His teeth make brief contact with a scaled neck, drawing blood.
Seeing that, Avel loses patience. He descends the stairs in long, powerful strides, and grabs Torin from the guards, one big hand wrapping around the smaller creature’s throat. It is by this grip that the unfortunate criminal is dragged up onto the stage.
Avel throws Torin down on the punishment bench, keeping the grip on his neck long enough to lock him into the neck stock that makes escape entirely impossible. I see how it all works now. The bench keeps him in a prone position, while the wood at the end basically keeps him controlled by the neck. I am reminded of the guillotine, though no blade will fall. But dozens of implements will fall on his unprotected hide.
