by Dixon, Ruby
Just that small touch is enough to make my loins tighten. This is what it means to want a female, then. I know that in the past I have been pumped full of every drug known to science—adrenaline boosters, steroids to increase my muscle mass, endurance extenders, and a variety of injectable cocktails that would amplify all the traits they wanted to increase in their beast-fighter.
I know that included in those cocktails were drugs to inhibit arousal. My cock works as well as any other, I imagine, but it has never responded.
It responds now. I can feel it jutting from my fur, the head seeping with need at that small touch. It would be nothing to push her down into the snow, to push her thighs apart and sink into her, to claim what I have always wanted. To take.
But then she would not smile at me and call me fraaand, and I want that, so I ignore the stiff pain of my cock. Perhaps I can do something about it later.
“Do you speak Praxiian, female?” I ask when she struggles forward another step, panting, only to end up waist-high in snow. I put a hand on her arm and help her forward, hoping she does not notice the parts of me that ache at her nearness. “It is the only language I know.”
She turns to look at me, then babbles something in that fluid, drawling language of hers. She gestures at the beach and then points at the mountains, and even though I do not understand her words, the message is clear. She is escaping. We cannot stop until we are far away.
And it is clear she does not speak Praxiian, or she would have answered me thus.
Willa is also tired. Her steps become more struggling with every drift we cross, and we have barely gone out of the scent range for the slavers’ camp. If they come after us, they will be able to find us. I do not know that she has much more in her, though. She is human and fragile. We need shelter, far enough away that they will not find us, or a place we can easily defend.
That seems more likely.
The next time her steps sink deep and she staggers, I haul an arm around her waist. She yelps but then clings to me when it is obvious that I am trying to help her, and her arms go around my neck, her breath whispering against the ruff of fur at my throat.
My cock extends again, stabbing into the wind.
She murmurs something even as she clings to me, and I haul her with her weight hefted against my side as I wade forward. I want to tell her that I have endured many a survival arena, where I was dropped onto a dangerous wilderness with no weapons, no supplies, and a dozen enemies. I have come out the victor every time. I can scent better than most, thanks to my enhancements. I know when someone is coming so I can avoid them. I can scale trees—or mountains, as is the case with this barren place.
I can keep her safe.
But I cannot tell her any of these things because she will not understand me, so I remain silent, plunging forward. The snow grows deep in certain areas, stinging my still-extruding cock, and it eventually withers and retreats back under my fur. I ignore the female clutching at my fur and concentrate on my surroundings. There are many scents in this world that are familiar to me—the stink of sulphur and distant sound of rushing water that tells me of a hot spring. The scent of felines crossing over a trail that I avoid. Snow. Plants that carry a faint, acrid scent and manage to grow despite the thick blanket of snow. The heavy, musty spoor of another animal.
And farther, into the hills, the scent of old campfires and ashes and the very old scent of mesakkah feet.
I veer outward, seeing nothing but snow and more snow and distant, craggy cliffs that will probably take all day to get there, if I continue to slog through the thick layer of snow. It does not matter; that will be our destination. The scents are less strong here, which is encouraging, though the smell of felines remains.
I can deal with felines. It is slavers I seek to avoid.
I settle in for a long walk. Willa’s weight is nothing against my side, and she occasionally protests, indicating she wants to get down. I ignore these protests. I know we will make much better time if I am the one doing the walking. She might have the will to do it, but not the strength. So I keep my eyes on the distant cliffs, my senses alert for pursuers.
Even as I walk, I cannot help but fixate on Willa. Her soft scent fills my nostrils, her fear-scent gone. Instead, all that remains is a pleasant musk from her body and the smell of the leather clothing she wears. Her hair is a fragrant cloud that brushes against my shoulder, and the occasional puffs of her breath that mingle with mine make my cock harden painfully. I cannot help but notice the feel of her teats against my side, the clutch of her fingers in my fur, the clasp of her thighs against my hip.
My cock spits seed as I walk, dribbling down my length and freezing in the icy weather. I want to reach down and wipe it clean—more than that, I want to reach down and stroke it until the pleasurable ache stops—but I do not dare. If she sees me do so, she will worry.
I have never touched a female, but I have heard other males talk of mating. I have seen quick, fierce matings in the arena, when a gladiator is given a female prize, but those are few and far between. I try to imagine myself mounting Willa, sinking my cock deep between her thighs, but when I do, I picture her cringing away.
I do not look like a human. Or a Praxiian. Or a’ani, or mesakkah. I am all of them and none. A beast.
And Willa is beyond appealing. I think of her gentle eyes and her smile, and I think of her legs clasping against my hip. I am naked. I could push her into the snow and rip the leather leggings off of her body. I could fall upon her like I have seen gladiators fall upon their prizes and rut until my hunger is slaked. A hot tremor flares in my groin, and my sac tightens. I bend over suddenly, panting as need rushes through me, and my cock spurts with release.
“Gren?” Willa’s hand pats at my mane. “Fraand?”
I hunch over, dropping her to the ground and hiding my shame. Is this what I have to look forward to? Spilling seed constantly in her presence now that the chemical inhibitors are out of my system? It will be torture.
More than that, I will frighten her. After all she has done for me, that thought wounds me more than anything.
I would die for Willa. She has risked everything for me.
So I crouch, panting, until the need shivering through my body dissipates. I glance down, and my lower fur, shaggy on my thighs and groin, is coated with crystalline ice where snow has melted and refrozen against me. My cock is hidden beneath my pelt once more, and there is no sign of my shame other than a great deal of ice around my groin.
“Gren?” A gentle hand brushes a thick lock of my mane away from my face, and then Willa crouches next to me. Her expression is troubled and confused. She is not afraid, or ashamed.
She does not know what I have done, then.
I straighten as much as I can, and pick her up once more, heading for the cliffs.
5
WILLA
I worry about Gren.
Well, there are a lot of things to worry about, like how far we’re possibly going to get before the others come after us. I worry about poor Pashov, who we’ve left with a massive egg on his noggin. I worry that we’re wandering into dangerous lands that we both know nothing about.
But mostly, I worry about why Gren keeps hunching over and stopping. It happens far too often this day. I’m tired, but I can walk, and I have a spear to use to get me through the worst of the snow drifts. I knew this wouldn’t be easy—I expect “easy” got left behind on Planet Earth—but he won’t let me walk. He just hitches me against him and carries me like a toddler on his hip. Everything’s fine for a time, until he slides me off his side and hunches over in the snow, clearly in pain. After he recovers, he takes a deep, shuddering breath, picks me up, and then continues the relentless grind to get towards the hills. He’s pushing himself too hard, I know. It’s clear he’s in great pain, but he doesn’t want to stop.
Then he does it again. And again.
And me, I don’t know what to do. I keep trying to walk, but he ignores that. It’s almost as if
I’m still relieved when we get to the cliffs and he sets me down, studying them. I study them, too, my hand shielding my eyes from the light despite the milky, anemic sunlight of this place. The cliffs are a little more…forbidding than I anticipated. They’re almost completely sheer, and the striated rock is covered in ice and cuts high above us in what has to be at least fifty to a hundred feet tall. I’m reminded of the crazy plateaus in Arizona, except with a lot more snow and ice. Either way, we’re not crossing that tonight.
Or ever.
“Gren, let’s set up camp here,” I tell him, and surreptitiously check his health. He’s not breathing hard at the moment, which is good, and his eyes seem clear enough. But we’ve done enough travel for one day and hopefully I can convince him of that. I reach for the leather pack he has slung over his other shoulder. “Let’s stop here, all right?” I repeat the word “stop” a few times, then the word “camp,” and it isn’t until I pull out the roll of furs that he understands what I’m saying.
“Stop,” he says, agreeing, and drops to his haunches, studying the area…and me.
I look around. There are a few plants clinging to the bare rock, but other than that, there’s snow, snow, more snow, and an enormous cliff. None of this screams shelter, so I decide to make my own. I take Pashov’s spear, wander around until I find a spot at the base of the cliff that looks like it’s slightly protected, and start to set up camp. There’s no foliage we can use, but I have the spear, and I use it to prop up one side of the large leather blanket, wedge the other into the rocky cliff face, and then we more or less have the world’s ugliest lean-to. I crawl inside and the worst of the breeze is kept out, so this should do for tonight. Sure, I’m sitting on snow, but beggars can’t be choosers and all that. I dig through my bag, and I have fire-making supplies…but no wood, and no dung chips like I’ve seen Harlow and Liz burn. Whoops. This could be a problem. It’s not too bad out, though. There’s snow, but my new cootie is keeping me warm enough. I’ll probably be a little chilly tonight, but I tell myself it’ll be just like camping.
Outside of the lean-to, I see Gren crouch in the snow, watching me.
“Y’all come on in,” I tell him, and when he doesn’t move, I pat the ground next to me. I could swear a flicker of surprise crosses his face before he tentatively moves a bit closer. It’s like he’s not entirely sure he heard me correctly, so I repeat the motion until he joins me under the tent. “You’re breaking my heart,” I tell him as he tensely sits next to me, ready to bolt. “I’m your friend, Gren.”
“Friend,” he agrees, studying my face.
“We’re going to rough it tonight,” I tell him brightly. “And we’ll figure more stuff out tomorrow. I figure we can take this one day at a time, you know?” And I pull out the waterskin and offer him a sip. We’ve shared it throughout the day, and if I notice him licking the spot where I had my mouth before he did, I don’t say anything. Maybe it’s a custom of his people. “Who am I to judge, right? You have Southern folk, and country folk, and my mama was the worst of country folk. She put the red in redneck.” I shake my head sadly, thinking of how much I’d love to go back in time and punch a few people in the face, starting with Uncle Dick and Mama. “You can have bad manners around me,” I tell Gren. “Ain’t nobody to care but us.”
He sips the water and then hands the skin back to me.
As he does, I snag his hand, because I notice again the dried blood crusting his fur. “Wait,” I tell him softly. “You’re hurt. Oh, I’m such an idiot. Of course you hurt yourself. Here, let me doctor you up right,” I tell him, keeping my voice low and easy like honey so he won’t get freaked out. I take the last of the water out of the skin and wet down one corner of the spare tunic. He’s very still, and I pull his hand toward my breast so I can see the wounds. “You’ve gone and gouged yourself all over, sugar,” I murmur to him. I dab at the wounds, doing my best to extract sticky fur from them and wash them clean. I hate that he’s torn himself up, but I’m glad he’s free now. “Never again.”
Gren is very still, and when I finish one wrist, he automatically hands me the other. I flash him a smile, and as I do, I find myself blushing even as I look down. He’s watching me with intense scrutiny, and we’re so close that I can feel the warmth emanating off his big body. He’s as tall as any of the other aliens—who aren’t exactly shrinking violets—but with his hunched shoulders, I suspect that if he stood completely erect, he’d be taller. Maybe he can’t, though; maybe he’s as erect as his people get. He’s definitely a different kind of alien, though his tail looks similar and I feel like I’ve seen his big, dark claws somewhere before. The soft fur is less on his hands and feet, I notice, and thicker on his lower arms and thighs. The pelt of him is thick on his head and shoulders, thins out over his biceps and through his waist, and thickens again in vulnerable spots like his groin. It’s interesting in that it looks less like a full body coat and more like adornments to his already impressive body. His fur is the same shade as his skin, or at least I think it is, but when I clean his wounds I notice that his skin is an even deeper shade underneath, and the bare parts are soft and supple. I run my fingers over his knuckles, because he’s got four fingers and a thumb, like me. The other aliens have three fingers and a thumb, but he’s got a tail like they do.
I look up, feeling shy, and we lock eyes. A jolt flutters through me, and I press my thighs together tightly. There’s something about his face that calls to me. It’s not the beauty of it, not by traditional standards. He’s not like anyone or anything I’ve seen before. His hair cascades around his head in a dark ruff, and he’s got a large nose that is not quite a snout, not quite human. It’s some bizarre cross, and if I had to compare it to anything, I suppose it would be to a cat. He’s got sharp cheekbones and deep-set eyes, and his fangs are so big that they distort his mouth. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they weren’t natural to him or his people, but why would anyone adjust that sort of thing? There’s nothing pretty about his face, no, but his eyes are sharp and intelligent, and I remember the way he carried me all day, even as he collapsed with exhaustion.
“Friend,” I say very softly. “I’m glad we’ve got each other here.”
In response to that, he gets up and bolts from the tent. I catch a glimpse of a dark erection before his twisting body moves out of my vision, and I feel terrible. I’ve made him embarrassed, somehow. All that touching made him react, and he’s probably leaving because he finds me unattractive and pushy. I don’t know his culture and I’ve probably violated a lot of alien courtesy laws.
“I’m real sorry,” I call out. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
I feel just terrible.
It’s silent. I hear nothing but the wind whistling. I’ve tried so hard to be his friend and here I’m making it worse. I don’t feel unsafe around him, strangely enough. Maybe I should, considering that it’s just him and me, alone in the snow, but I know instinctively he won’t hurt me. Hasn’t he had a dozen chances to do so already? Instead, he’s held me carefully even as his wrists and ankles bled and he staggered in the snow.
And here I’m making him uncomfortable.
Guilty, I get to work in the lean-to, making things comfortable. There are really no blankets, so I set out a few leathers to lie on as best I can, and find a (hopefully) clean patch of snow and fill the waterskin, then put it inside my tunic so the contents will melt. I get out the food Angie sent, and I wait, hoping for my friend to return. “Gren?”
He returns a few moments later, his fur damp all over, as if he took a bath. I feel even worse at the sight of that, because I worry that he's trying to wash off my touch—or the fact that he was aroused by me. "I just want us to be friends, all right? I would never ask for more. I promise." Even if I wanted to.
Gren watches me guardedly, then says something in his strange language that sounds like coughs and growls.
"Why don't we just eat?" I hold out the pouch of food, offering it to him.
His stomach growls.
For a moment, I think it's his weird language again. When I realize what it is, I push the bag toward him. "Please, eat." I take a small handful of food for myself, then offer him the bag.
He very carefully takes a handful as well, then begins to eat. It's quiet, the only sound that of us chewing our food. His stomach continues to growl, and I remember how much he ate back at the camp, and how he practically snatched at the food in his haste to eat. Trying to be discreet, I study his stomach. His abs are washboard underneath the slim line of fur—like an over-enthusiastic happy trail—that goes down his belly, but I wonder if he's too thin, muscles too defined. We finish our food and I offer him the bag again.
Gren doesn't take it.
Frustrated, I pour another serving into my hand and then offer it to him. "Seriously, I want you to eat."
He hesitates, watching me, and then leans in and carefully lowers his mouth to my hand.
I freeze, startled. Did he think I was trying to feed him like I did back at camp? I'm embarrassed, because all I wanted to do was make sure that he had enough to eat. We need to figure out how to communicate with each other if we're going to be each other's only company. For now, though, I remain where I am, letting him eat because it seems impolite to snatch my hand away.
Then, his tongue grazes over my palm, and I feel that hot shiver move through my thighs again. My pulse heats up, and I can feel my nipples prick in response as he carefully tongues every crumb off of my skin. I……oh.
I wasn't expecting that.
I swallow hard, slowly pulling my hand back when Gren is finished. I imagine he's still hungry—it's not enough to feed a full-sized person, much less one of his stature. I should offer him the bag, let him eat to his fill. That's what a normal person would do, right?
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