He stutters, hesitating, searching for words and repeating every sentence I’ve said and each question, too while I try to roll my jealousy and disappointment into acceptance.
There’s no point in crying over something I can’t change, or wanting something that isn’t possible.
Igmora believed heavily in Fates and that ours are all already written by the universe because nothing is new, because everything has happened in infinite universes born before and because everything will happen in infinite universes to come. Again and again, the cycle repeats itself. He will always be clan chief. And I will always be pleasurer.
“Raingar,” I say, trying to sound assured in a way I don’t feel. “Which will it be? Bare-assed in your great hall or someplace more private?”
Raingar gawks. He stays gawking for a long while, but I don’t break his gaze as he searches mine. Finally, his shoulders slump forward and he rubs the space between his eyes.
“Follow me,” he grumbles as he trudges out from behind the throne and off to the wide hall that branches left.
Curtains separate the left and right corridors from the great hall. They’re large breezeways, too, and this left one is quiet. It leads to several smaller rooms that I know make up his private quarters. A place I haven’t been and won’t be permitted.
Painted a deep, almost brown-blood-colored red and studded with heavy metal bolts, the closed doors at the end of the hall taunt me just a little, because before we reach them, we stop short.
He opens a door on the right to reveal a bedroom, likely guest quarters. They’re plenty spacious, though only one wall has a window. He rolls up the flap covering it to let in even more light than the skylight overhead does.
A bed large enough for two Lemoran sits against the right wall. It has a wooden base and four posters, a pearly white cloth draped between them. I wonder if Raingar has even been in this room before, because he starts at the sight of the bed, like he’s surprised to see it there, and quickly turns away from it. Crossing to the far side of the room, he pushes two chairs aside and stands between them directly in front of the window. He holds out his arms.
“You really mean for me to take off my trousers?”
“Yeffa.”
He gives me a penetrating look. “And it won’t be weird? I can’t ensure that my cock will behave itself. Like I said, I’m not used to pretty females touching me without trousers on.”
“It might be a little uncomfortable, but I promise I’ll be professional. It won’t be any different than if you were a random male coming into the shop.”
“Have you touched other males at the shop without their trousers on!” He shouts at me.
I frown, not liking his tone one bit. “They wore undergarments, but yeffa, I fitted an Asgid male and two Hypha males, Gorman being one of them.”
Raingar looks positively possessed. His gaze flits to the door and he takes a threatening step towards it.
“Raingar,” I say, voice cracking just a little. “I know you purchased me as a pleasure female, but I was serious when I said that I only wish to pleasure one male…”
“Yeffa.” His glare turns to me and it’s both frigid and frightening. “I also remember that you said you know nothing of mates.” He grabs a decorative book from the nearby table and throws it onto the floor.
I jump. He closes his eyes. Then his hands move down to the single cord that holds up his pants, shoved through some rather crude-looking belt loops, and he pulls one end. The cord flies free and his pants immediately slip down over his rear. I glance at the floor and don’t make a sound, catching just a glimpse of that behind that is every bit as muscular as I imagined, but that just means I hear everything. Every little flutter of fabric. Every little movement of his large sandaled feet on the stone floor, and then his bare feet when he removes them.
I hear as he turns. I know that he’s watching me and I know that it’s the female’s responsibility to smooth things over to create a frictionless experience for the male, but I struggle to move, affected by the thought of him bare before me, like…he might be mine to take if only I were the right female or bold enough to ruin him for the female who will come after.
I hate her with a suddenness that borders on insanity.
And his clear jealousy at the thought that I’ve handled other males without their trousers on doesn’t help. Though I’m disappointed he could think so little of me, that I’d be abusing my position in the shop with Lyla and Timor to pleasure other males. Is that what I am to him? A shameless wanton with no self respect? I’ll have to prove to him just how professional I can be, then. Even if he is the one male I do want.
I take a deep breath.
“Well!” He shouts.
I react with a jerk, letting the fabric fall inelegantly from my hands. I gather it quickly and make my way over to him without speaking.
Kneeling on the ground beneath him, I try not to touch him as I pin the fabric around his legs. Well, I try not to touch him too much, but his skin really is a fascinating substance. Not at all like sandpaper, and not even like rock, really. It’s clearly skin, so tough and leathery. Yeffa, more like leather than rock. Like rock that’s been denuded over years and heated from within. Like a planet with a molten core sealed in stone. Like Lemora. Yeffa. He’s built like his mother planet.
“What?”
“Your skin is an incredible texture,” I say evenly, trying to keep my voice flat.
It doesn’t help, because a shiver shoots up his leg, the one I’ve got my hands on. I look up and meet his eyes. He seems mountains high from where I’m kneeling in a simple shift dress I cut quickly from spare fabric. The rest of the fabric I used to construct a dress for an Asgid female. Though I could have thought of a thousand other uses for the gorgeous material, Lyla insisted I keep the spare cloth. She said it would otherwise go to waste, though I’m fairly confident that the gift was simply another in a long list of kindnesses I’ve experienced since arriving on this planet.
Nob, before that. Since meeting my first Lemoran.
Him.
“Have you seen your skin? And you think mine is incredible?” He balks and shakes his head. “You have no idea what the red…” He chokes, but there’s no mistaking the path his gaze travels across my neck to the wide, boat collar of my shift.
He makes a louder choking sound when he realizes he’s been caught and looks straight ahead. Rubbing one hand over his face, he touches his horns and winces. It’s become so perfunctory to see, it’s starting to bother me.
“After I finish with your pants, I will apply soothing oil to your horns. I can see that they pain you.”
“You don’t have horns. What do you know of how they pain me?”
I frown, confused as to why I feel offended. Did he mean to offend me? Or maybe his words are used to create further distance between us. I’m touching his bare legs and now I’m suggesting to touch his horns… I’m not being as professional as I promised and I feel acute guilt because of it.
“I’m sorry,” I say, though I don’t know why. He doesn’t say anything, either, so I just finish pinning the fabric to him in silence.
The laces will go up the sides, so there’s no reason for me to dawdle along his front…but I still peek. How could I not?
I’ve been introduced to hundreds of holographic representations of male genitalia — from Oroshi tentacles to Oosa orbs to Walrey stems to Niahhorru plated cocks to the glowing and ridged penises of the Voraxians — and I know how to stimulate all of them. His Lemoran anatomy is nothing new to me…but he’s almost fully erect now and his erection is the first one I’ve seen in real life. And, despite how rude he’s been, I can’t deny that his penis is stunning. And the spurs…
“You don’t need to hold so still. You can relax,” I say, only because I realize how stiff I am myself. Stiff and warm. Even though the material of my shift is breezy and thin, I’ve got goosebumps and the cold stone below my bare feet isn’t helping at all.
“I
am relaxed,” he says through clenched teeth.
I don’t bother asking him again, but look away from the mass of his penis, which he’s somehow maneuvered down to follow the line of his left leg, though it looks painfully squished in the little of it that I saw in the gaping fabric around his waist. Lemoran males have four stones in their sack. Four. I want to taste all of them.
“There. What do you think?” I dust off my hands and go to the standing mirror beside the bed. I drag it over until it stands in front of Raingar and I watch him watch himself in it.
I try to focus on him. Just on his face and chest. Not on the painful-looking erection digging into the fabric of his pants, nor on the four stones I imagine hanging heavy beneath it, and definitely, definitely not on the dual spurs that I know are there, but only enlarge to fill the female’s front and tighter, rear hole when the male is lodged deep inside of her. When he’s emptying…
I swallow hard.
Raingar’s face scrunches up. His mouth twists. He rubs his eyes. “Is that…is that my butt?”
I snort and press my fingertips to my lips, “Yeffa, clan chief Raingar. That is your behind.”
“Why does it look so…hard?”
I laugh louder this time, though it does nothing to soften the pressure in my gut. “You have a very muscular behind, my lord.”
“Your…your?! Pagh! Stop that.”
I grin, flex both hands and clasp my fingers tightly behind my back. Provoking him is fun. Too much fun. “So Raingar, do you like the design?”
“Of course I like it. But I look like a male.”
“Did you wish to appear as a female? I can certainly make that happen for you…”
“Nob! Ohr…nob.” But his stone facade cracks. He grins and it’s a precious sighting. “I don’t wish to look like a female. I’m just not sure I like how provocative these pants are. It’s not like I’m trying to attract…” He pauses and it’s a profound sort of pause, one that fills me with questions. “Do you like the design of the pants?” He says, spearing me with his gaze and the weight of the silence that follows.
“Of course. I designed them.”
“Nob. I mean, do you like the way I look? In the pants. Not generally. Just in the pants.”
We stare at one another. I dare to smile. “Yeffa.” That’s all I say. I’m too apprehensive to say anything else. It feels like we’re dangling on a ledge but only one of us will fall. It will be me. He is clan chief. I was designed to take a beating.
“You do?”
“Yeffa. They accentuate your slim hips, your tight rear and your powerful thighs — all physical characteristics sure to attract your desired mate. Do you…do you have a mate in mind?” Ohr! Shrov! Xok! I curse in every language I can think of. Why did I say that?
“What? What! Nob! I don’t…you don’t…that’s preposterous!” He storms towards the door and then walks through it, leaving me standing there alone.
I don’t know why I feel so confused and flustered though. As if…there is something more to his words. Something that is mine.
I stand there uncertainly for another few moments, long enough for me to worry that Raingar might not be coming back. I’ve just taken my first step toward the door though when Raingar bursts back into the room in a flurry of heat and fury.
He’s breathing hard, his limbs nearly trembling, and one of his horns…it looks like more grey has flaked off in the last moments. I’m staring at it, but he doesn’t touch it. He just holds his arms out to his sides and glances at the heavy leather seat beneath the window.
“There,” he says.
“My Lord?” I say reflexively.
He growls, “There. That’s where you will oil my horns for me.”
An electric glow illuminates my belly. I try to quash it down, but it’s difficult and all my efforts just cause it to spiral lower. I nod. “I promise I will be professional.”
His heat crashes into my front. His finger slides under my chin. He tips my face up, up, up, so that I’ve got nowhere to look but at him. Straight into his eyes. I’m sucked in by the black and blue and purple and grey and orange and yellow and pink and sizzling green.
His mouth suddenly moves closer, closer, closer and I hold my breath, imagining for one fatal moment that he might be about to kiss me. He brushes his lips over mine so softly and quickly it’s almost like it didn’t happen. That featherweight touch is there and then gone before I’m even able to react to it. I whimper slightly, belly clenching dramatically as I mourn the loss.
“Whatever you like, Essmira,” he whispers against my cheek. “Just know, you don’t have to be.”
7
Raingar
Nob. This is a bad idea. A very, very bad idea. What am I thinking, kissing her like that? Pagh! She’s still finding herself and all that nonsense Merquin spouted. I’m supposed to be giving her space, time.
But I can’t. Because she touched my legs and she asked me about other females and I heard jealousy in her tone, maybe real or maybe just imagined, but I heard it and it was enough.
I pull away from her and she sways forward, like she liked me kissing her and as if she wants me to do it again. I can’t think that far ahead. All of this is too much for me right now. Withdrawing roughly, I go to the chair under the window and plop down in it. I rest my head on the chair’s high back and close my eyes. It’s better if I don’t look at her. My cock wants to devour.
The angry pressure in my half-constructed trousers doubles and then doubles again when I catch her scent. “This won’t hurt, I promise, Raingar,” she says and I chuff. She’s lying. She doesn’t know it, but she’s lying through her straight, square teeth. I’m already hurting but it doesn’t matter a bit because I’m going to keep hurting until she’s finished doing whatever she wants to me.
I hear her hands rubbing together, the sound of something slick between them. And then the smell, delightful and invigorating reaches me. It smells like freshly snipped herbs, the rich, spicy bark of a Sadaran tree, and just a hint of citrus. And she pressed it herself. Just in a few solars. She’s incredible.
The oil makes a slick sound as it melts against her red and brown flesh. I picture her hands, the little red curl by her ear. How far does the red go? How hot are her hands? How hot is the wet, dripping slit between her legs? What does it look like? What do her undergarments look like? Would she let me see her bare if I asked? She is a pleasure female, after all, and she said she didn’t mind it if it was just for one male. I could be that male. The sole recipient of the pleasure she wants and was trained to provide.
My thoughts are no longer mine. My cock has made a journey through my body to my brain and is rooting around in it, destroying all escape hatches, ejecting all reason, taking hold of cannons called lust and desire and firing at everything.
“Raingar?”
“Yeffa.”
“Why are your horns molting? I…was taught that Lemoran horns are one of the toughest materials in the universe — strong enough even to pierce Oosa hides — but yours seem to pain you. Does your pain have to do with the changing colors?”
“They are among the strongest materials in the universe. But they change colors…sometimes…” Tell her. Just tell her. End this charade. To the Grey Zone with Merquin and her attempts to dictate to me how to woo my female. Claim her first, then woo her. There will be time for courtship later, but my cock cannot wait. “They change!” I shout.
“Hmm,” she says softly. “You don’t have to tell me why if you don’t want to.”
“Essmira…” I snarl, but whatever I was going to say next is cut down when she touches me.
Her fingers, slick with the oil she created herself, apply a gentle pressure to the skin around my horns. Whatever’s on her hands is cool, but the temperature of her skin acts as a warming balm that comes right after.
“Essmira!” I heave out a breath, can’t catch my breath, stop breathing altogether.
My chest inflates and my eyes roll back in my skul
l behind closed lids. There’s a pinching in my lower back as her fingers still around my horns and she says, “Am I hurting you?”
“NOB! Don’t stop!” I gasp, dig my bare heels into the stone floor, try to stop the micro pulses of my hips which are seeking to drive my cock into her soft, pliant body. “Don’t…” I’ve never felt more aroused in my entire existence. The damn trousers are about to explode off of me as they squeeze around my hardening erection. I’m hard as an ohring board underneath her gentle ministrations.
She continues speaking as she massages the skin surrounding the base of my horns oh so ohring gently. “Is the pressure good for you?”
“Is this you behaving professionally?” I hiss, furious at the sudden idea that she’d ask another male this question in that seductive tone of voice.
She stills and starts to pull back, but my left hand reaches out before I can stop it and snatches her wrist. I hold her hand against my horn long enough for her to know what I want before I reach for her waist and, finding it, pull her closer.
She doesn’t speak but she obeys. Her fingers work their way up to the middle of my horns before she drags fresh ointment all the way up to the tip. She ohring…she’s handling my horns beautifully — wonderfully! — fisting them tightly. Does she have any idea that some Lemoran would consider this more intimate than the act of coupling itself? Nob, I think if she did, she’d be horrified, but I’m too much of a bastard to tell her to stop.
I grip her waist more forcefully, fingers digging into her skin as I fully submerge myself in the sensation of Essmira fisting both of my horns simultaneously. Her hands glide up and down from base to tip.
The exquisite pain of her hands touching the grey, flaking part of my horns is nothing compared to the pure pleasure I feel when she touches the white part. It confuses me, the contrasting sensations, but in a way I suppose it makes sense. The white part is hers, why should it hurt me when she claims it?
Taken to Lemora Page 12
