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“What school did you go to that taught you how to always say the right thing?”
I’d like to say more, continue this baring of souls, but I need to high-tail it to the shower before I embarrass us both.
Chapter Nineteen
Sylas
After the Army rescued me three years ago, they provided me with a large, comfortable bed. I’d almost forgotten what it’s like to have to sleep curled on my side with no opportunity to stretch out.
It was awkward last night as Cally tied me to the bed. We decided the best configuration was for me to lie on my side facing away from her with both my wrists tied to one leg of the bed, and both ankles to another. That kept my back to her, which would ensure her safety. We had to put two pillows under my head and pull the bed away from the wall to accommodate my antlers.
She couldn’t hide her thunderous scowl as I talked her through how to make the proper knots that would hold a six-and-a-half-foot genetically enhanced male in place. It was obvious she didn’t want to do it.
In the end, though, she trusted my judgment. Which is good, because my rut was bad last night, taunting me, urging me to follow my biological urges and mount the female next to me. That wouldn’t have been what either of us wanted. The impulse was so powerful, I’m certain I would have been rough with her, which would have torn me apart.
“Are you awake?” she asks from behind me.
“Yes.”
“I hope I can untie you now. I can’t imagine you slept well like that.”
“Yes, you can remove the ropes. Warning. I made a mess. Kinda gross.”
I hear her rise from the bed and then pad to my side.
“How is it, Sylas, that you’ve had a lifetime to come to terms with your genetics and I’ve had less than a full day, yet you’re the one who is always fighting his biology? Rut is rut. How about you trust me enough to believe that I’ll take you as you are without judging you?”
“It really is amazing that you always know the right thing to say, Cally.”
She struggles with the knots and doesn’t breathe a word about the dried puddle of my cum on the sheets near my hips. You’d think it would have stayed in my shorts, but I guess the khaki fabric couldn’t contain all that… ugh.
“While you’re taking a shower, I’ll throw these in the little washer/dryer combo in the kitchen. I have to hand it to the Army. They equipped this place with everything anyone might need.”
“I forbid it. You’re not allowed to wash sheets with my…” I don’t even know a word that might be acceptable in polite company.
“Man goo?” She’s smiling now, smoothing things over by making a joke.
“I’m not laughing,” I say as I try not to laugh.
“Cock snot? Erectoplasm? Gentleman’s relish? High fructose porn syrup?”
I chortle. Can’t help it. Unfortunately, this spurs her on.
“Lay-onnaise? Penis colada?”
“Cally!” I scold, because I’m still half tied up, am lying next to it, and don’t know whether to run to the bathroom to hide, or join in the fun.
“Trouser gravy, willymilk, weiner sauce, baby batter?”
“You’re this amazing combination of terrible and impressive.” I can’t hide my indulgent smile. “Where did you come up with those?”
“Research. I had an idea for a coffee-table book called Jizz Jargon: The Many Monikers of Male Emissions. Although I was also considering Sperm Spoken Here: A Nationwide Exploration of Terms.”
Okay, I can no longer be a prude about this, because those book names are too much fun.
“How about, Slanging Seed: An Anthology of Ejaculate Expressions.”
“Yes! Yes! The reason I put this idea on the back burner was that I couldn’t quite work out the logistics of what pictures would accompany the great idea. But the expressions part of the title would give me free rein to find pictures to go with the slang.”
