The Head BreedMaster dragged his choice from the breeders cage by its chain, while the others huddled in the corners. He locked the gate behind him, pulled the female to its feet by the chain that linked its arms and across the clearing to his hut, striking with his whip across the shoulders when it fussed and made noise. It soon quietened, for his arm was strong and the whip was made of coarse hide and tipped with steel. He threw the breeder to the bed and locked the foot shackles to the rings in the floor and poured himself a glass of wine, looking appraisingly at his choice.
It was a young specimen, not yet tainted by starvation and the heavy work of the plantation, and for some reason not yet carrying young. He speculated for a moment why this would be so. It would not be due to any disease or congenital inability to bear young, as the stock was well screened. The Fathers had learned long since and the hard way about the dangers of disease, which in the early plantations had killed most of the stock and all of the BreedMasters. One rotten specimen meant the whole project on that sector would have to be abandoned.
He shrugged, guessing it was just some luck of the moons. He stood behind, reversed the hooked handle of his whip and restrained the female in the usual way, hearing the squeal as it sank deep. He wrapped the whip's tail around the neck and pulled, dragging the head back and curving the spine, making it present its tail for him as the legs jerked straight. There was a gurgle from the constricted throat as he pushed deep, bending his knees, as it was not a tall one.
With each upward thrust of his hips the feet lifted completely from the floor, the hands clenched together, some unintelligible noises coming from the swollen muzzle. He cuffed it roughly across the back of the head and hissed for it to be quiet, his pace increasing as it went silent and he felt it writhe beneath him. The female was tight and his staying power had never been great even in his youth; with only a few more hard thrusts he was ejaculating hard, arching back and grunting the luckwords, pulling the whip tight on the throat. It stretched out like a supplicant as his jerking ceased and he quickly dragged his swollen penis out; he suddenly had no desire for it to be impregnated too quickly. He took another draught of his wine and studied it impassively, thinking he would seed this one again. A nice little specimen, tight and sweet; small yes but not bad looking for one of her species, and would make fine stock for the project if his seed hit the mark; but not too soon. Yes, certainly he might take this one again.
He retrieved his whip, tossing it to the corner out of reach and pushed the female off his bed to the floor. He lay down, growling at it to stop snivelling, and blew out the lamp.
The girl lay on her back where he had pushed her, her feet still chained and wide spread, clutching her lower belly where the scalding seed burned against her womb; the thick yellow seed that she willed with all her heart would not impregnate her. The moon shone through the unglazed window onto her upturned face, wet and swollen, and on the yellow-scaled skin of the BreedMaster, who was already snoring.
End of Part 1 [1]