Human Pet Pound - Loki Renard
1 Run!
“You will behave,” the alien snarls, his eyes lit with intense dominance, his very being a terrifying testament to the awesome power of creation when it is channeled by feral evolution toward the sole purpose of brutality and conquest.
He is the product of the universe’s desire to create a perfect predator, and it shows in every part of his form, from the sharp blades which extend from nearly every part of his muscular body, to the hard plates of everything-resistant skin which cover him from head to toe, to the aura of pure menace which exudes from every armored pore. His eyes sear into me with incredible ferocity, and I feel my resolve beginning to bend beneath the force of his will.
He is hard and sharp and massive. I am small and soft and curvy. I have no horns. I possess no defenses besides the stubby teeth which can barely pierce flesh unless it is cooked first.
According to all the laws of nature, I should bow to him.
But I will not.
I will not behave. I have sworn to every concept of a higher being held by every sentient being in every time and place in the universe that I will never behave. I will never submit. I will never be broken, not as long as I draw breath.
I kept that vow for years. Every time an alien came to claim me, I resisted them. Sometimes they got their way temporarily, but I always escaped their grasp one way or another. I have earned a reputation for being impossible to handle.
But this alien is different, and not just because he is a member of the most feared species in all the universe. He is different because he is more than my captor. He is my savior. But he is also my tormentor, the one who might just break me.
He has me in his grasp, alien clawed hand wrapped around my neck in lieu of a collar. I feel my pulse hammering against his rough fingers. I am afraid. Not of what he will do to me, but of what I might do for him.
Days earlier…
Itch
I’m crouched behind a row of crates, looking at a row of alien ships docked along the space bay. Several of them have their hatches open invitingly, as if saying, Come on, Itch, take a chance on this bucket of space bolts.
This decision will inevitably change the course of my life. Or it could end it.
Any one of them could take me to freedom. Or, alternatively, any one of them could belong to a species who regards humans as food-class entities. It’s not an easy decision to make.
I’m trying to use my somewhat limited knowledge of the various species to work out which ships belong to which species. There are three Galactor pleasure cruise vessels at the very far end of the dock. They’re probably my best bet because they’ll be crowded with aliens from all over the place and I might even be able to slip by unnoticed.
The only problem is I’m a human female. A naked human female at that, and that’s a recipe for getting attention, even on this relatively crowded port. I need clothes and a disguise, but they’re not as easy to come by as I had hoped when I broke free of my owner’s cage.
He was transporting me to the market. I think he intended to sell me again. I have been sold six times in as many cycles. I can never tell time by alien standards, especially on these space stations which don’t even follow the protocol of orbiting a light source which can denote days. I tell time by the intervals between my own intimate cycle. The blood appears and I know another round is beginning.
It has been three weeks since I bled. My temper is beginning to fray, and my need for freedom increases with the waning of any obedience. Owner after owner has lost me. I have escaped. I have been sold. I was once bartered for a piece of pleasingly carved soap. My value has been assessed as priceless and worthless, sometimes on the same day.
One of these ships is my ticket to freedom. Which one? Which one…
“Itch!”
I try to run, but it is too late. A rope is being tightened around my neck, rough fibers scraping against my skin. That is how quickly freedom can be lost when one is weak. In an instant it can be taken away.
“Got her!” The catcher declares his triumph