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Her screams have to stop. She will alert the hunters to our position.
I take the knife at my waist and use it to cut the curling vine that hangs from the tree. Its sap is sticky and will bond the broken ends well enough once I finish wrapping the lengths around her open squalling mouth. Her shrieks are indignant, but this must be done. The girl from the stars has to be handled according to the ways of this world.
Putting her back over my shoulder, I keep walking. There are paths rarely taken. Places the tribe are afraid to walk. That is where we must go to be safe.
It is a long walk, but it has to be. I carry her up the ridges, toward the mountains. I find the narrow paths, the crumbling rocks. I traverse the crevasses that swallow entire hunting parties and leave them to haunt the hills. I can feel my ancestors here, the cool passing of their breath on my chest as I take my prize high.
She settles down after a time. Her struggles become less frequent, but never really cease. As we pass over a fallen tree that spans two cliffs she becomes very still. Fear makes survivors of us all, even girls from the stars.
There is a cave on the western side of the mountain, just within the tree line. It is hidden from the gazes of most besides the predators that roam these lands, and it is well prepared for occupation. Our ancestors used this place for their rituals. There are many chambers, recesses filled with artifacts. The one I take her to is the warmest place, where a fissure in the rock creates a natural chimney. A fire can be lit here, the smoke rising and drawn out of the vents above to be lost among the clouds.
I cut more vine than was necessary for her mouth—and for good reason. She will not be an easy captive, this little star female. I set her down and pull the remnants of the odd garment that covers her frame free of her body, stripping her entirely naked.
She makes muffled complaints through her gag, but I am not listening. I am looking.
She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
Her hair is silver like the stars. Her wide eyes are a pale gray, the hue of mist rolling over distant hills. Her features are small, neat. Her mouth, when it is composed, is a soft pink bow. Her body is soft, unaccustomed to work. She is no hunter. She is no gatherer. She has not interacted with the mud of the world, and she is weak in my arms, her struggles barely detectable even when she fights at full strength.
I wind the vine around her body, gentling her with soft murmurs as she wriggles. The vines will keep her contained, but they will not make her uncomfortable. I could sling her up like an animal, but instead I treasure her. I slip her hands to her sides and wrap them in place, use the vines to make a supporting cradle for her breasts. This is a long tradition of our tribe, handed down from the ancients. I wrap her as she needs to be wrapped, create a harness that keeps her arms to her sides, her breasts and sex exposed, her legs together so she cannot walk or part them, but her holes remain accessible if I bend her over.
Her sex is delicate, much softer and more tender than the females I am used to. When I was inside her, I could not believe her heat. She gripped me like she was made for me, her pussy tight and melting around me… the thought makes my cock hard again.
Now that I have her contained, and we are far from where the hunting parties will dare go, I release the vines about her mouth and allow her the use of her tongue again.
“You have to let me go,” she gasps. “I have to get back to my ship. I have to get out of here. You don’t understand. Please, just let me go…”
As she babbles, I work to start a fire. I suspect she will not tolerate the weather of our world very well. She has almost no pelt to keep her warm, and she is already shivering, little bumps appearing on her skin where her body is trying to raise those little fine hairs that would make her coat puff up if she had one.
I gather moss and small sticks, take the fire stones from their place and strike them together, kindling a flame that swiftly grows as it finds the moss and twigs. She is quiet, watching me. I can sense her curiosity and her intelligence, but her hysteria has no place here. I will not tolerate it.
