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Zakoar shakes his head and closes his eyes, running his palm over the metal dome of his skull. It's just metal on one side, I notice, the rest of it shaved and tattooed and his horn cut down to the barest stump. He looks lethal, though, and when his eyes lock onto me, I shiver. "I want…" He shakes his head again. "Not this."
My stomach clenches and it takes everything I have to stay completely still. "How can I please you?" I whisper. The dream of the farm planet suddenly seems very, very far away.
He scowls. "Quit looking at me like you're so keffing terrified. Makes me feel like a keffing monster." He runs his hand over his skull again, then mutters, "If I wanted that, I'd have gone to the thrice-damned cantina before this."
Zakoar doesn't look at me as he says that. If anything, he seems acutely uncomfortable. Like this is all not going how he had planned. Well, that's the story of my fucking life, isn't it? Shit going absolutely off the rails? I want to snipe at him, to point out he's not the one suffering here, when he glances over at me and there's this absolutely miserable expression on his face.
And suddenly…I get it.
Of course. He wants me to dance, because when I was in the window, I amused myself with fantasies. I smiled at him and gave him come-hither looks. I tried to entice him into saying hello with just my eyes.
It's not about my body. It's never been about my body. It's about me, and my fear is making him second-guess himself.
All right, then. Time to put the fear and uncertainty aside and give the man what he wants.
I raise my arms over my head, my breasts jiggling with the movement. His gaze goes there, and when he looks back to my face, I smile at him. It's not the nervous, fawning smiles I've been giving him ever since he bought me. I'm back in the zone, thinking about my fantasies from in the window. How I always imagined that the fierce-looking metal-jawed mesakkah male would come to the glass, punch through it, and rescue me from my situation. Well, it's happened, but not quite in the way I imagined. Doesn't matter. I picture him as a lover, and this is our wedding night. That I want to make him realize what a catch he's got in me. That I'm the sexiest woman on this entire station and he needs to realize it. I slide my hands over my breasts, pinching my nipples lightly. And as I do, I fuck him with my eyes. I promise all kinds of things, gyrating in front of him, just as I did when I was in the window.
It's easy to sink into the fantasy again. Easy to have him in front of me and make him the object of my teasing, as if I'm choosing to dance and not the other way around. I move with the goal to entice him, but it's more than just my body. It's my spirit, it's the way I move a little closer to him, encouraging him to touch me, and then rocking my ass in front of his face when he doesn't reach for me. The window might as well be between us for all that he moves. In my mind, I'm back in the cantina, he's the object of my affections, and I want to make him lose his mind with lust.
I'm not entirely surprised to feel that I'm getting turned on as I dance. He's been the focus of my fantasies for so long that it feels natural. Of course dancing for him is going to make my pulse pound between my thighs. Of course watching him catch his breath as I touch myself is going to give me a thrill. Because now that he's close by, I can see his expression when I dance for him.
All that frustration in his eyes, the impatience, is gone. The longing has returned.
I slide my hands to my pussy, teasing it before rolling my hips and spinning slowly around, just as I did in the window. I've never fucked a mesakkah—one of the blue, horned aliens—but all the giggling I've heard from the other women at the cantina has told me that it wouldn't be a chore. That their large cocks are covered in ridges and there's a spur that hits the clit with every thrust. It sounds ridiculous, but I think about that now. Maybe that's why I'm obsessed with him—because he's mesakkah—the guys with amazing dicks—and yet he seems different. Lonely. As if he's starving for love.
It's a crazy thing to think about a man plated with metal, but it's my fantasy, so I let it ride. I think about him getting off that couch and sweeping me into his arms like the most tender of lovers, touching me all over and making sure I come before taking his own pleasure. I think about him whispering words of love as he caresses me. How afterward, we'd sleep cuddled up together, entwined, as if we can't bear to be apart because we're so in love.
