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3
Lyssa
“Here,” he says. “Dress yourself.”
He hands me what he made for me. My head is fuzzy from orgasm, and I feel quite unsteady. I pull the suit on while sitting on the bedding, pulling the leggings up over my feet and then slipping into the upper part of the jumpsuit. He got my size right. Perfectly right.
I don’t want to know what he used to dye the fabric this color. I am sure it is biological and horrific in origin, but that is how things are here in the frozen wastes of a far-flung planet inhabited by the physical embodiment of evil.
“Thank you,” I say as I dress myself. I’d like to keep him from seeing me naked, but he’s obviously seen me naked in so many ways just now, so I try to pretend like I’m not bothered by the way he is looking at me, as if his interested masculine stare doesn’t make my nipples rise and my clit tingle all over again. He is very attractive. Exceptionally so. His body has been honed to physical perfection with all his brutal murdering.
I zip the suit all the way up and relax as I feel myself finally clothed. “I know I am not precisely… I mean, I know this isn’t the ideal way to come to a place, but I have to say, I have never been so comfortable or so satisfied.”
“I am glad you are satisfied,” he smirks. He enjoyed watching me lose control. He made me feel so many overwhelming waves of pleasure that I don’t mind finding myself shipwrecked on his little ice island. “You are easily pleased, human.”
“You don’t know how inept men can be with their loving,” I tell him. “Most men want to get their dicks in as quickly as possible and just turn a girl into a come donut.”
“Come donut,” he repeats. “What a phrase. How very… edible.”
We are getting along. I know we shouldn’t be. I am his captive, but hell if he hasn’t taken better care of me than anybody else has in a long time. I know there’s a syndrome where a captive starts to identify with her or his captor, but I presume that is supposed to take longer than a couple of hours. I suspect I am uniquely broken by some very bad treatment that will probably follow me for the rest of my life, one way or another.
“You should rest,” he says. “Stay here and allow your body to continue regenerating. I need to patrol.”
I sit down on my bed, such as it is, being a pile of furs and little more, and I wonder what to make of my situation. I suppose it is something like a cross between a one-night stand and a hostage situation. So far, he has been very generous. He could have fucked me, shoved himself inside me and torn me to erotic shreds without any regard for what would happen. Instead, he has shown self-control and made sure that I came first. I have been in relationships where my orgasms were entirely irrelevant. This alien bounty is outclassing every guy I’ve been with and he’s not even really trying.
