When She Dances: A SciFi Alien Romance (A Risdaverse Tale)

by Ruby Dixon

  I glance up at his face. From here, I can't see the metal part of his jaw, just the plating covering the top of his skull down to his eye socket and just below it. I'm positive his eye—at least one of them—is cybernetic, though it matches the other. Doesn't make sense to have all that metal covering his eye socket and then have the real eye underneath. It—

  "Eyes down," he reminds me in a low growl, pulling me closer.

  Fuck. Right. With an alarmed little squeak, I move practically in front of him, his hand heavy on my neck. I can't believe he's been my owner for thirty seconds and I'm already pissing him off. Tessa, you idiot. Pay attention or he'll send you right back…after using you. With a little shudder, I do my best to listen to my new owner's commands.

  He's silent, though.

  The big male leads me through the tunnels as if he's gone through them a dozen times before. People watch us as we pass, but no one moves to confront us or even beg for credits, which is unusual for the station. I don't get to leave the cantina much—okay, ever—but through the window, I've seen all kinds of shenanigans in the crowded halls of 3N. No one can walk ten feet without getting accosted by the station orphans, asking for handouts or to do odd jobs. Or some ambitious black market vendor will approach with wares that can't be sold in a shop, and they'll sell them to you for a steal. Or you get knifed for looking too rich. I've seen that happen, too.

  But no one bothers us at all. I suspect it's because my new owner is so scary looking and impossible to miss. Even with me—an expensive, half-naked slave—at his side, no one gives us a second glance.

  Eventually, we turn down one of the narrow shafts and there's a door at the end. A freight elevator. He grunts and gestures that I should get on, so I do. I clutch the tunic to my body, not daring to look up at him as the elevator surges, my feet practically lifting off the ground with the speed of it. A different floor, then. I've never been to a different floor on 3N. I've only been to the market sprawl, the big, open area where the cantina is located that's lined with shops, makeshift and otherwise.

  The elevator comes to a stop and the door flashes green around the edges. My new owner opens it with a touch and gestures that I should walk through. I hesitate, because the hall before my eyes is not somewhere I've been allowed to go before. It's like night and day from the market sprawl. Here, the condensation doesn't drip from the ceiling. It's not dark and shadowy. It's clean and well-lit even at this hour. The hall is open and airy, with a large window overhead showing the stars. In the center of the long hall is a tall tree framed by benches, and all along the hall are doors.

  Personal quarters. Expensive personal quarters.

  I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to be here. I'm pretty sure he's not, either. I didn't think anyone lived like this on the station.

  Or rather, I didn't think I'd ever see anyone who lived like this on the station. All the people I've run into are thieves, drunks, and slavers. Uncertain, I look back at the man that now owns me and I wet my lips. "Um…"

  His expression grows cold. "What, you think because I'm covered in metal I don't get a decent place to live?"

  My question dies in my throat. Am I judging him based on his appearance? I think for a moment, then shake my head. "I just…thought you lived in your shop. Like we lived in the cantina."

  The expression on his face doesn't change, and I worry I've fucked things up already. After a moment, he grunts. "You haven't had a chance to leave that cantina much, have you?"

  "Twice," I admit. "Once to run errands for Abuar, once for…a customer visit." I hope he doesn't ask me what kind of customer visit. Surely he can guess.

  The man nods. "How long were you working at the cantina?"

  "Almost four years." There were a few months right after I was captured that weren't anything I'd like to think about ever again. "Abuar was good to us."

  He snorts. "No, he wasn't. But I guess a known evil is better than an unknown one. Follow me."

  I don't know what to think, and that worries me. I follow meekly behind him, though, making sure to keep my eyes on his tail and feet. He's wearing boots, but his tail looks to be studded completely up the length of it with metal. I wonder if it's a pain fetish with him, or if the modifications were necessary? If he's into pain, he's got the wrong girl. I'm a total wuss. I swallow hard at the thought. It's not something you can bring up five minutes after being bought by a guy. Plus, slaves aren't allowed to have limits in the bedroom. Our limit is…well, whatever our master decides.

  The helpless feeling threatens to overwhelm me, and the knot in my throat grows huge. Please, please don't let this man be mean to me. Please let him have a kind heart under all this metal and the glowering exterior. Please be a big soft marshmallow of a man.

  I clear my throat and speak up. "How…how can I please you? Do you have rules?" Best to get this all out in the open so I know what to expect.

  "You can stay quiet for now," he growls, his voice a low, ragged sound. "Let me think."

  I clam up, swallowing hard. So much for marshmallow. I move my expectations to “cruel but fair.” Cruel but fair would be livable. I'll just have to watch him to predict what he wants. Maybe he wants me to anticipate his needs before he has them. Okay then. We go inside, and the moment we're in private, I go for the belt. Impress him with my mouth and maybe he won't send me back to the slaver in the morning. I can do this. I'm utterly terrified of saying or doing the wrong thing, but I can figure him out. I can make this work.

  Determined, I pin a smile on my face. He hasn't asked for my name, but no problem. When he lets me talk again, I can offer it. Until then, if he wants silence, he'll get silence. I'm going to make him happy he bought me, even if it kills me.

  It just might, if he's super-into pain. Ugh.

  My new owner heads down the long, quiet hallway. I look longingly at the tree—it's the first bit of greenery I've seen in years—and follow a few steps behind him. He stops at a door at the end of the hall and presses his hand to a panel in the wall. I notice that his fingertips are also metal, and his skin shimmers as if he's wearing even more metal underneath. I stare at his back, too. I'm familiar with the sight of it, of the bars and tubes and endless amounts of metal that crawl up his spine like a ladder. Clearly something happened there, and the first time I saw it through the window, it shocked me. Seeing it up close doesn't shock me. I kind of want to touch it…but I also don't want to get sent back. So no touching any metal parts unless he gives the explicit order. No gawking, either. I've seen him scowl at passers-by that gawked at him as he stood at the front of his shop. As a pale, pale human amongst a sea of red and blue and orange-skinned aliens? I get it. Oddities get stared at, and sometimes it's downright uncomfortable for the oddity. I'm used to it at this point—heck, I encouraged it, because I had the safety of the window and my ankle chain—but I know from watching him that he hates it.

  We step inside his quarters. At least, I assume they're his quarters. They're stark and severe, which makes me think of him. The living area is large, with a step-down area filled with pillows and a couch of sorts, like a big nest in the middle of the living room. There's a changing electronic mural on the ceiling that swirls and moves to faint humming music, and off to the side of the large, open living area is a kitchen space full of dispensers and a stone bar for eating at. There's an odd sculpture or two, and then a curtained area leads off to what must be the bedrooms and a lavatory. It's not huge by Earth standards, but on Three Nebulas, where space is at a premium? It's utterly luxurious.

  This man is rich. I don't know what he does—his shop is rather plain looking on the outside and I've never been inside. The customers he gets seem to be few and far between, so I suspect he's some sort of crime lord, and that terrifies me, just a little. Crime lords tend to show up in packs at the cantina, and they always pass their slaves around. I wonder if I've been condemned to a life of master merry-go-round.

  God. This gets worse and worse the longer I think about it.

&nbs
p; He turns toward me, his expression unreadable.

  Is he waiting for me to say something? Has he forgotten he told me to shut up? Maybe he's waiting for me to blow him instead. Biting my lip, I avert my eyes—because he didn't like me looking at him, either—and slink toward him. I move one slow step at a time and then put my hands on his belt.

  Then, I drop to my knees.

  This presents a problem. He's too tall. Even if I strained my neck, I wouldn't be able to reach his cock. Perturbed, I look up at him, a silent plea for help in my eyes.

  He crosses his arms over his chest. "What are you doing?"

  I feel a bit like a cornered animal. "You told me not to talk," I whisper, dropping my gaze again.

  There's a low groan, and when I dare to look up again, he's got his eyes closed, his hand running over the rounded dome of his half-metal skull. He looks annoyed, and the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach grows stronger. "You can talk if I ask you a question. And I just did. What are you doing?"

  "T-trying to please you?" I gesture at his crotch. "I can suck your cock, but I might need a stool—"

  He groans again, scrubbing his hand over his face once more. Then he looks down at me, his jaw clenching. He gestures at the nest of couches in the middle of the living area. "Go sit."

  Wordlessly, I get to my feet and scramble over to the couches. I perch on the edge of one and fold my hands in my lap, my heart hammering. I'm deeply, deeply aware that I am fucking things up more with every moment, and my skin prickles with terror. If he sends me back, I'll be auctioned off. I'll end up god knows where, doing god knows what. I just need to figure out what pleases him. I know he likes me—he watched me all the time, didn't he? He bought me? So I must at least look appealing?

  I'm panicking. I know that, but I can't seem to help myself.

  I watch as he moves toward his kitchen, turning on a few of the automated food dispensers. "Are you hungry?" he asks, and it sounds cranky to my ears. As if he's irritated that he has to feed me.

  "I can just eat protein bars," I reply quickly. "I swear I'm not picky." Abuar fed us protein bars all the time. They're dirt cheap and if they taste like dirt, well, they're food at least.

  He turns to scowl in my direction. "No protein bars in my house. Do you like noodles? Or do you require something else?"

  "Noodles are great," I say enthusiastically. Real food. I don't know what to think.

  He turns to the machine. "Do you have a favorite?"

  My mind blanks out. "I…don't know. Just serve me whatever. I promise it's fine."

  He mutters something under his breath and punches a button on the dispenser. "Tea?"

  "Water would be fine." I lick my dry lips and offer, "I can serve myself if you like. I can serve you, too. Just—" When he glances back at me, I let the words die in my throat. He looks irritated. Okay, no serving him. I sink back into the cushions, miserable. Damn man should just let me blow him. At least I know what to expect in a time like that. He's being kind, even if his attitude is sour and cranky and he sounds like he's about to snap at any moment.

  The big male sets a tall, elongated ceramic cup—the “bowl” of choice on the station—on the counter. He fills an identical vessel with water, puts them both on a tray, and brings it over to the pit o'couches. As he sits down, a leg extends from the tray, freestanding, and he pushes the contraption toward me. "Eat."

  My mouth waters at the scent of the noodles. They smell amazing, and I'm starving, but the need to please my new owner and save my hide is overwhelming. I give him another uncertain look, then take the long “bowl” into my hands. There's no silverware, so I tip the cup back and drink broth and noodles greedily. Once I start, I can't seem to stop, and I chug the entire thing as quickly as possible, slurping noodles and getting broth all down my chin. As I finish, I swipe at my wet chin, and I can't help but notice the look of revulsion on his face at my manners. "Sorry," I say meekly. "I'm used to eating fast."

  "I see that. Did you think I was going to take it away from you?"

  "I don't know," I answer honestly. "If you do, that's all right with me. You can do whatever you want with me."

  His eyes narrow and he rubs his chin, like he can't quite decide what to do with me. "You and I need to have a discussion before this farce goes on any longer."

  Farce? Oh god. "Okay," I reply, my voice shaking.

  6

  ZAKOAR

  This is not going as I anticipated. In my mind, I expected the little human to be grateful. That she would toss me those sultry looks of hers and smile at me. That I would take her to my bed and slake my needs on her, and everything would be fine. Pleasant, even.

  She is not smiling, though, or giving me enticing looks.

  She is terrified. Her entire body trembles every time I look in her direction, and she questions everything. When she dropped to her knees in front of me in a submissive pose, she looked so frightened that it made my erection shrivel.

  I wanted this female because I thought she was different. Because she didn't look at me with fear and disgust. Now I suspect I have made a mistake. I watch her devour the simple meal of noodles as if she's not been fed in years, and I want to grab Abuar by the throat and shake him. A slave is a person. I regret not being able to free the others, even though I have no desire for any of them. But I cannot change how the universe works, so I will focus on what I can solve. And I can make a deal with this human. We can both get what we want.

  The last of the noodles slurps into her mouth and she glances over at me. I must have a look of scorn on my face because she pales and cringes backward. "Sorry. I'm used to eating fast."

  "I see that. Did you think I was going to take it away from you?"

  "I don't know. If you do, that's all right with me. You can do whatever you want with me." She lifts her chin and tries to give me a smile, but I can tell that she's terrified of something. It's not sex, then. What is it?

  I rub my chin, studying her, trying to determine why she's changed into such a cringing creature. "You and I need to have a discussion before this farce goes on any longer."

  She looks as if she's going to vomit. "Okay," she says in the faintest voice, her eyes huge and full of terror.

  I get up and start to pace. What am I doing wrong? Is it something I said? Is she only brave in the cantina? Or did Abuar provide her with chemicals of some kind that assisted her mood? She has not smiled at me once—or if she has, it was an act of fear. I remember the way her lips curled as she gyrated in the window, as if she was dancing to entice me. She never looked at me with anything but interest. I glance back at her, wondering if I have somehow acquired the wrong slave. Some mesakkah joke that all humans look alike, but as I study her, it seems to be the same female.

  Just a frightened one.

  "Do you want me to blow you to take your mind off of things? Take the edge off?" She volunteers it eagerly, even if her expression is not one of excitement. "I can do that, and then we can talk about whatever you want."

  I narrow my eyes at her. "Blow me?"

  "Put your cock in my mouth."

  "Why are you so eager to put my cock into your mouth?" Not that the idea isn't enticing. It actually makes my cock ache with just how much I like that idea. But it feels like a trick of some kind, given that the look on her face is more fright than anything else.

  She licks her pink mouth, looking as if she is going to collapse, and then stammers out an answer. "B-because I want to please you. I don't want to go to auction. Please." A little choked sound catches in her throat. "Please."

  I pace back toward her and notice that she watches me. Her gaze never strays to my metal parts, and she never looks disgusted. "You think I will send you back?"

  "The-the slaver said you could if I made you unhappy."

  "I told him no." Her shoulders ease, and I suspect this is what is terrifying her. She doesn't want to be sold in an auction. This, I understand. I have seen them before, and they're awful, disgusting things where slave
s are paraded about—and sometimes used—just to entice reluctant buyers. There are some males that go to auctions just to “sample the goods” but rarely buy. If this is what's scaring her, then I can reassure her. "I am keeping you. He will not see you again."

  She relaxes, her pretty, delicate face no longer so drawn. "You're sure?"

  "I just said I was sure, did I not?"

  A real smile crosses her face, wide and relieved. "Thank you. I'll be the best slave ever."

  My cock stirs at the sight of her smile, at how her eyes light up this time. This. This is the female that has haunted me, and the hot yearning coils and slides through my system like a fresh influx of gear lubricant. "I'm going to claim you," I warn her bluntly. "I bought you for my bed."

  She doesn't bat an eye. Doesn't look horrified or disgusted. "I suspected as much."

  "Do you object?"

  The look on her face turns puzzled. "I'm a slave. I can't object."

  "If you do not want me to touch you, I will not. I recognize that you feel you have no power, so I would make this…transactional." Transactional sounds good. It sounds like I've thought this through logically instead of thinking with my blasted cock and spur. "I propose this: I keep you in my bed until I get you out of my system. It will likely take several weeks. Perhaps a month. Then, once I am done, I will take you to the planet known as Risda III. Are you familiar with it?"

  Slowly, she shakes her head.

  "It is a place of refuge for human females that have been enslaved. You cannot return to your homeworld, but a lord there has provided for the human refugees that come to him. You will be given a place to live and a way to make an income, and you will be safe there. What do you think of that?"

  "What's the way of making income?" she asks. "Whoring?"

  Canny little thing to pick up on that. "Farming, actually."