mumbles in her sleep, and a crease forms on her brow, prompting me to stay. Then she utters something incoherent again, and I draw close, leaning over her slumbering form. It’s obvious she’s troubled, but I don’t know why I think I can assist her in any way, other than waking her.
“Babe.”
It’s a whisper, nothing more than a breeze that’s too weak to travel far. Yet it holds so much weight. It’s my name, or rather the one she’s assigned me. I am certain she does not mean it in the sense that I’m a youngling or infant, but the only other time I’ve heard this word is from females who used it as a term for their lovers. Oh, and Zinnik. He is quite fond of the word.
Perhaps I am now as well…
“Yes.”
This time her utterance is a moan, and I cease breathing, unsure if what I heard was a figment of my imagination. I’m torn on what to do, the internal battle feeling as if someone is crushing my rib cage. I should leave, and end up doing the opposite instead.
I’m careful not to touch her when I place my hands on either side of her shoulders. All I need is confirmation that I am not deranged. So I wait and listen…
Then a tendril of arousal teases my nostrils.
The skin above my fangs throbs with discomfort just before my canines elongate, tearing the gums. A shudder, born of pain, wracks my entire body, and I grunt, unable to stifle the sound. With the tip of my tongue, I take in the dimensions of my fangs and grind my teeth after. Is this another one of the scientist’s fucking experiments? The cunt.
Giselle arches her back, and the friction of her nipples scraping my chest has my gaze widening. Like I’ve been shocked with massive bolts of electricity, my mind goes blank as if shorted out. And in its place? Nothing but primal instinct.
With a growl building at the back of my throat, I straddle her on the bed and bring my face to the gentle curve of Giselle’s neck. Her pulse is loud to my ears as it beats steadily, and only when I press my lips to the skin above it does the tempo increase. I flick out my tongue and taste the essence of her skin before running my fangs along the ivory slope. Her flesh prickles, and a sigh follows, bringing my attention to her lips.
I raise my head, hovering no more than an inch from her mouth. Will her lips taste the same as her skin? Or will they be sweeter?
“Babe?” she asks, her eyes fluttering open.
My desire to fuck her takes over, causing the sides of my mouth to lift in a feral smile. “I think it’s time you reveal your favorite f-word, but if you don’t want to, I’d like to take a guess.”
Giselle
A sane woman doesn’t have sexual fantasies about her captor.
So call me batshit crazy.
I blame my attraction to Babe on the chemical change happening within my body now that I’ve turned thirty years of age. Thanks a lot, Gigantic Cunt. Or is that what I should call myself now? After all, a human’s hyperactive sex drive plus alien sperm equals the galaxy’s universal breeder.
Since I’m infertile, I’d be more of a Gigantic Slut, I suppose.
I remember how the middle-aged wives reacted to the fictional character Christian Grey, and jerk or not, some of the things he did to his girlfriend had me clenching my thighs, and I wasn’t even the target audience. Now that I’m thirty? I want to do all the things I read about but with Babe.
And he’s totally nonfiction.
I had sex with one of the male humans in Prigav’s workforce whenever the need became too much for me to handle. The man was more than happy to service me, but I hated myself. It was as if I’d become an animal, no longer driven by thought and logic.
And as desperate as I was then, it doesn’t even compare to what’s happening with Babe.
I should’ve taken his offer to sleep elsewhere, to distance myself from him in order to calm my tingling tits and happy bits. But no, I didn’t listen to my brain. Instead I followed the directions of my vagina, which probably couldn’t handle whatever he’s packing.
And does the twat care? Nope.
Which brings me back to my delicious dream, featuring Babe, whose hard, muscular body presses into mine as he kisses me. Only, he takes his