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"I would not ask you to touch me," he states again. "It is all right, Bee. I merely wanted you to look because it makes me feel good. That is as far as it can go."
I'm so very confused by this conversation. I turn around and frown up at his face. He's no longer smiling and cocky, the “champion” as he likes to proclaim himself. If anything, his expression is downright unhappy. "You're confusing me, Victor."
"Bee," he says, and his voice is low and gentle. His expression is still vaguely sad, as if something amazing has been dangled in his reach and then snatched away again. "There is nothing I would like more than your hands upon my cock, but I would never ask for such a thing. I cannot."
I lick my lips, keeping my gaze glued to his. I'm not going to look down at his massive body or tight hips or the cock that feels as if it's taking up all the space in between us. "Because…it'll make you lose control?"
He shakes his head. "Because it'll hurt you."
Hurt me? I fight the urge to roll my eyes. I mean, he's a big boy, but it's not as if I couldn't handle that sort of thing. I steal a quick look down, and as I do, he runs one finger along his shaft, from tip to base.
And I really look at him. Those bumps under his foreskin were not bumps at all. They're spines, covering the shaft of his cock. They all face in one direction, and I come to the realization that if he pushed into me, it'd feel great. Coming out, however…
My eyes go wide. I stare up at him, at his sad, wry expression. "Look only," he says. "You are too soft to do more than look. That is why I only ask for kisses, Bee."
"You have barbs on your cock," I point out, stunned. Of all the things I expected him to be referring to, this certainly wasn't it.
"I do." He grips his shaft, squeezing. "But it doesn't mean you cannot look."
When he starts to move his hand, pumping to pleasure himself, I grab his wrist. "What are you doing? You're going to hurt yourself."
He huffs, the sound more amused than pained. "Maybe I like it when you stare."
I squeeze his wrist, indicating he should let go, and when he lifts his hand, it's bleeding. I flip it over, brushing a finger over his torn palm, and realization hits me. I look up at him. "Oh, Victor. Is this what you were doing? When you were self-harming?"
He shrugs, but that hint of amusement is on his face. "It was worth it."
I make a sound of pure frustration. This man is impossible. "You're not allowed to masturbate if you hurt yourself in the process. I won't allow it."
"Because you don't like me touching myself?"
"Because I don't like you hurting yourself, you stubborn ass!"
"Asshole," he corrects, and gives me another toothy grin. "The guards say I am 'asshole,' remember?"
I am going to start screaming in frustration in a minute. This man—this alien—is impossible. Fine. He wants me to use words he'll understand, I'll use them. "If you touch yourself like that, it makes my cunt dry up, all right? It makes me not want to kiss you because it'll lead to you hurting yourself, and that displeases me more than anything."
Victor's amused expression disappears. "Fair," he says, his tone almost sulky. He drops his hands to his sides and nods at the shower. "Show me how to clean myself, then."
18
BEE
My fuming only lasts through his shower. I'm getting mad at the wrong things, I realize. I shouldn't be mad at Victor for touching himself and taking comfort in the only thing he can. I should be mad that he was put into an untenable situation with nothing but misery around him. I should be mad that whoever modified him fucked up his body with spikes and tusks and now goddamn penis barbs.
I also come to the realization that I'm mad because he's made me feel things that I haven't wanted in forever, and now that I'm starting to want them again, I can't have them.
But that isn't Victor's fault, either.
He opens the lavatory door and sticks his head out. "I am getting water everywhere, Bee. How do I make it stop?"
I jump to my feet. "Use a towel to mop yourself dry? Wrap it around your body?"
Victor shakes his head. "And destroy it? We just got it."
Good point. "You can towel off and avoid your spikes, maybe."
"How?"
My face heats at the thought of me showing him how to towel off, but I remind myself that this is just another thing he's unfamiliar with. How can I possibly expect him to know how to practice good hygiene if he's never been given a chance? "All right, I'll show you."
