to worry about being beaten, tortured, or starved. I don’t have to worry about my captor forcing me to do any sick, nasty things. Not anything sick and nasty that I don’t already want to do with him, that is.
What I do have to worry about is retaining the ability to walk.
That old saying about ‘walking with a stick up your ass?’ I had no idea where it came from, but now I’ve been enlightened: someone got railed by a guy with a cock the size of a giant Sequoia. Now I’m crippled. And there wasn’t even any ass-action! He never went near the back door. I’m walking funny just from being taken in the regular ol’ fashion. I mean, Gob Gamn.
I’m feeling really proud of my pussy for taking his kind of pounding.
As it happens, so is Bash. He gives her lots and lots of rewards.
It’s the middle of the night during a sex break when I ooze off the bed and force myself to my feet. “Food,” I call plaintively, hobbling into the kitchen.
I’m in my bra and panties, because naked felt too weird, but wearing Bash’s shirt was weirder. Like a hospital gown, it’s essentially useless in back because of the slits for his dorsal spines. It does smell divine though. So do I. The smell is coming from Bash—he’s leaking a very unique, strong scent from the areas around his horns and in his saliva and it’s also in… other things. So I am well and thoroughly marked.
Which is fine. But I’d also like to be dressed in a littttle more than my mate’s special fluids.
Before someone abducted me for a surprise marriage ceremony, someone could have done me a solid and told me to grab a change of clothes. Either it didn’t occur to my dear male, or the idea of me walking around his cave naked was appealing to him, I’m not sure. I’d wear my blouse from yesterday, but I like how Bash’s eyes follow me. Heck, I like how Bash follows me.
(He’s using his tail to chain us together. It’s exactly as romantic as it sounds. Or crazy, depending on how it sounds to you. But I’m loving it. After getting ghosted by men after my shine has worn off once or twice… Bash’s inordinate attention is good for my soul.)
My alien is glued to my heels, a fact I can’t miss because when I stop walking, I get poked in the back. By an erection.
The huge thing gives me shivers in all the right places but also makes my vagina feel very conflicted. It likes Bash’s penis. Bash’s penis is very hard though. And big. So big. Like, Bash is pitching freaking redwood.
“Are you sore?” Bash asks, his talon tips spanning my waist.
I scoff. “Am I sore!” But my back arches because the lower half of me is pure hussy. “What I am is starving.”
Immediately, Bash’s hands disappear from my hips. I glance down at myself and find ten little indents in my skin where his clawtips were.
“Here,” Bash says, and I look up to find him holding out an alien… fruit?
“Thanks.” I take it. “How do I eat this?”
Bash gives me a pitying look as he takes it back. “Even the smallest pups—the ones with more gum than fang—are taught how to eat the Shukiya to break their night fasts.” Pressing his lips together in mild disapproval for my appalling lack in education, he points a claw at the blue lobe of the thing. “The fleshy base is the edible part. The leaves are not.” He taps the yellow spiny leaves. “The thistledown is not.” He points to the green hair shooting out of the head of it. “Simply tear at the lowest line of leaves here,” he takes hold of the smallest yellow spines, “and the base peels easily from the inedible portions.”
He hands me the blue bottom of the thing, flicks the hairy and spiny parts into a compost bin, and I gamely take a bite of what’s left. “Huh. Not bad.” It tastes like a sautéed egg.
No warning: Bash backs me across the kitchen until my butt hits the tall counters where he kneels in front of me, locks his hand around my ankle, and raises it to his shoulder.
I turn into a limp noodle when he licks me right over my panties.
I almost drop my blue egg fruveggie. (Fruvegetable? Vegefruit?)
Bash catches it with his tail and shoves it back onto my hand. With two careful claws,