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And I slide a hand to my cock.
It aches. It's ached for hours now, ever since Bee's scent first drifted into my nose.
I free my cock from my trou and grip it tight. I'm not entirely sure of the motions, but instinct compels me to work the shaft with quick, fast motions. I imagine Bee's scent, and then I imagine Bee under me, her eyes soft, her mouth open as she breathes my new name. Victor. Victor. I squeeze and jerk until the need comes to a head and explodes out of me. With a muffled gasp, I soak the blanket with the wash of my release, and coat my hand, too. I wipe myself clean on a corner of the blanket and then move to the sink to wash off. As I do, I smell blood.
My palm is ripped open, destroyed from the barbs that cover my shaft. I'd barely felt them as I worked my cock, but I feel the sting now. Worse than that, I think of Bee. I think of pushing my barb-covered cock into her soft body and how she would cry out in pain.
My cock shrivels at the thought. Why do I bother even fantasizing? Even if Bee wanted to be mine, I could not have her. She is a soft, fragile alien, a human. And I am a splice with claws and spikes and a barbed cock. I am not meant for soft things.
It's a disappointing thought. I clench my fist, watching the blood rivulets cascade down my hand, and wish I'd been cloned from anyone else.
Someone that could touch Bee.
9
BEE
I don't see Riffin for days. At first I think it's just because his schedule changed, but when more time passes, I suspect he's avoiding me.
The guardsmen are terrible gossips. I wonder if any of them told Riffin that I'd been going into Victor's cell and that we talk for long periods of time? That when we speak, it's usually in low voices so we can't be overheard? That he makes me laugh with his sly comments and when the power went out, he protected me with his body?
I wonder if Riffin suspects something between us. The thought makes me squirm on my stool, as I sit, watching Victor fold his new blankets over the thick, hay-filled mattress on his bed. I should be paying attention to his movements—the bed-making is a basic skill as well as a test in patience and teaching him to be careful with his claws—but I'm distracted. Terribly distracted. I keep wondering if I should back off in regard to Victor. I've proved my point—that I can be patient and work with those that are difficult. I've made progress with him, and even if he showed signs of violence, I think he's come far enough that no one's going to “dispose” of him without asking questions. It'd be the perfect time for me to re-petition First Rank Novis about getting my job as Port's social worker and hand Victor off to someone else.
But I…can't.
He tries so hard not to show emotion, but when I arrive for the day, it's like he lights up from within. His eyes get a sparkle in them, and his tail flicks at the sight of me. I wouldn't say that he smiles—with his sharp teeth and those nasty, wicked-looking tusks, it's more of a snarl—but I've learned to recognize when he's pleased.
And honestly, seeing him is the best part of my day, too. I've been noticing which foods he merely eats, and which foods he relishes. I've noticed when his gaze falls on my figure if I wear a particularly attractive outfit. I wear my hair up because I catch him gazing at my ear, or my neck, and it makes me shiver.
He wants me to kiss him if he continues “behaving.” Victor hasn't brought it up again, because there hasn't been a moment alone, but it's lingering in the back of my mind every day. Every time I see him, I wonder if this will be the day that he asks again. If this will be the day I have to give an answer.
I keep telling myself I don't know what my answer would be, but I'm also lying to myself.
Because I keep showing up every day. And at night, I wonder what it'd be like to kiss him. I touch my mouth and wonder how it'd feel against his tusks or his hard, uncomfortable-looking mouth that is stretched over those tusks and never quite closes properly. I wonder what it'd be like to have one of those big, clawed hands brushing over my skin, touching me.
I almost touch myself, too.
I'm not quite there yet. Sex has felt “off limits” ever since I was stolen from Earth and made to serve in an alien's bed. It was a year of hell, and when I was freed, I found that all desire for any kind of intimacy had burned away. I felt like a pot that had been left to boil down on the stove, and all that remained was the charred residue. I was fine with never being touched again. Ever. It was enough to be free and to realize that I never had to have another man in my life.
