Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
Days pass. We spend our time talking, with occasional notes from the scientists to direct our conversations. Ask about his people’s technology. Ask what he knows about the galaxy outside of his home planet.
X and I talk and talk. Sometimes we speak about the topics the scientists request, and sometimes others.
I teach him more of my language, and it’s shocking how fast he learns.
His speech becomes smoother, both grammar-wise and in his ability to sound more like an actual human.
I remember Mulford’s notes, suggesting that his kind could possess a high level of neuroplasticity to help them imitate and blend in with other species, and wholeheartedly believe it.
I am certainly not as quick to learn when he attempts to teach me his own language.
Many of his words are impossible for me to pronounce, requiring low hums in the chest or throat that I can’t produce, but I learn a few simple phrases.
Gok means “I.” Auzh means “you.” Voj means “we.” He teaches me left and right, day and night.
Other terms don’t translate well; our conversation about measurements of time leaves us both confused.
He seems baffled when I tell him how old the other scientists are, and likewise, I can’t wrap my head around the numbers he gives me for his species’ lifespans, but it’s difficult to determine what exactly a year means for both of us.
I do what the scientists ask, and they deliver me food as a reward. They even send me fresh clothes when I request them. I’m able to wash myself in the bathroom and change while X looms in the doorway with his back to me, growling at the mirror on the other side of the room.
But still, they don’t provide anything for X.
He insists on remaining in his human disguise, but his form is becoming frayed around the edges. His skin tinges bluish, stretched too thin over his bones. His eyes take on an odd inhuman glint, and his pupils are disconcertingly large.
He is fading. And my certainty grows that the scientists don’t intend for me to get out of here alive.
Yet…X shows no signs of being tempted to eat me. He barely speaks of his hunger. Though they don’t help much, I insist on sharing my meals with him. He accepts the food from my hands, but he eats mechanically, with no pleasure, and his condition steadily worsens.
Still, I feed him. Because it alleviates some of my guilt, and because it feels important. I know now that he only uses his hands for gentle uses, and so it feels intimate for him to feed me with them and for me to return the gesture.
I know that he still cannot subdue his instincts. But I don’t need him to suppress them entirely. I just need him to be able to hesitate, at least for a moment, if I accidentally trigger them. I want the thought of harming me to be inconceivable to him.
So I do everything I can to endear myself to him.
I speak to him gently, touch him and let him touch me in return, care for him in the small ways I can manage in this cell.
He grows increasingly more affectionate in return.
Protective, almost clingy. He begins to sit between me and the mirror, as if he means to shield me from the gazes of the scientists.
At night he holds me close, as though he fears someone will try to take me away from him.
Part of me feels guilty, like I’m manipulating him.
Using him. And yet…while my actions may have begun out of self-preservation, I can’t deny that I’ve started to enjoy being with him.
I like sleeping with him and holding hands.
I’ve grown to like the way his tentacles hold me close and rub my back in the middle of the night.
I like how he is so gentle with me despite being so strong and fierce.
But I don’t know how I feel about him viewing me as his mate. About the potential of bearing his children. I’m not sure if such a thing is even possible for us, and I don’t know if he realizes that.
It’s become normal, after a few nights, for us to fall asleep entangled in a mess of limbs. I’ve even gotten used to occasionally waking up with his raging hard-on poking against my thigh or ass; after that first night, he’s always respectfully shifted away as soon as he noticed without commentary.
But tonight, I lie awake even after his breathing slows, with an ache between my thighs that is becoming harder to ignore.
I’ve grown so used to his scent that I hardly think about it now.
But at times like this, I become all too aware of it again.
Entering my lungs with every breath, making my thoughts glaze over and the apex of my thighs ache.
It’s getting hard to ignore the way it affects me.
It drives me crazy, sometimes, overtaking my mind until all I can think about is how badly I want to feel something good.
And I want him to feel it, too. He’s been weakening noticeably over the last few days. I want to soothe him. Plus, admittedly, to remind him why he’s keeping me around even as he slowly starves.
I bite my lip. Do I dare? With the cameras in the room? We do have the privacy of the sleep chamber, at least…
Swallowing thickly, I grind my ass against the stiff length pressed against me. Slow rolls of my hips, until he hardens against me, and then stirs as he awakens. His hands tighten on my hips.
“Shh,” I whisper, and he obediently doesn’t make a sound.
He barely seems to be breathing. I bite my lip, pressing my hips back against him.
“I—” I pause, swallow. “Do you…” I’m not sure how to phrase the question, especially fearing the scientists may be listening.
“Jak’auzh dhag?” I attempt clumsily in his language after a moment.
Do you want help? The same question he asked me several nights ago.
For a moment he is as still as though he’s frozen solid. And then, slowly, he dips his chin in a nod.
The sleep pod grants us some amount of privacy, and it’s possible the lab is empty at this time of night, but I don’t want to make this too obvious in case the scientists are watching.
I slowly reach back between our bodies and let my fingers drift down to where I felt the press of his cock.
My fingers brush over fabric. And then, all of a sudden, that fabric disappears, and I’m touching flesh.
I swallow a gasp. I almost forgot; the clothes were never real, just a part of his disguise.
I have so many questions about his ability to replicate different materials, but as his hips jut forward to press his cock into my palm, I recall that I have more pressing matters.
I stroke him once and hear the hitch in his breath.
My thoughts are a confusing jumble. Part of me feels this is wrong.
He isn’t human, as the strange ridges along his cock remind me with every slow stroke.
Yet I can’t deny that I also feel powerful.
Especially when he’s already growing rock-hard in my grip.
I draw my hand back, and he rumbles a quiet complaint. But a moment later I spit into my palm and wrap my hand fully around him, giving him another light stroke from base to tip.
He thrusts his hips up, seeking more, as a guttural groan leaves his throat.
“Quiet,” I remind him. He growls but obeys. I give him another, firmer stroke as a reward. The angle is awkward, but it’s doable.
My slow progress isn’t just for teasing him, though I am having fun with it.
Judging from his reactions, he is very, very sensitive.
It reminds me of what he’s said before about how long it’s been since he felt anything good.
I want to give that to him. But I don’t want it to be over too quickly, nor do I want the scientists watching us to be a part of this personal moment.
I’m sure they’ll suspect what we might be doing if they’re watching his vitals or hear anything, but I’ll have to make do with the privacy we have.
So I stroke him slowly, slowly. I can feel his panting breaths against my neck, his thighs trembling.
My hand begins to stroke him at a faster rhythm, and I squeeze my own legs together, turned on by the flesh-on-flesh sound and X’s reactions.
He lets out a desperate little sound low in his throat, but I can’t move my hand any faster at this awkward angle.
After a moment, he grabs my hips and adjusts me.
I lose my grip on him, squirming in confusion, and he presses a knee between my thighs to force them apart.
A moment later, his spit-slick cock slides into the gap between my legs.
His hips roll slowly, fucking between my thighs.
Oh. My head lolls back. I’m on fire, clit throbbing in time with each of his slow, careful thrusts. He’s using my body to get off…but it feels good to be used. So good that I have to bite down on my lip to prevent myself from making any sound.
With another muffled groan and a last, shallow thrust, he grunts and shudders, and I feel the first spurt of his cum between my legs.
Then comes more, and more; I’m shocked by the amount of it, slick and plentiful, soaking my pants as he grinds desperately between my thighs. Finally he relaxes, gasping for breath.
“Did that feel good?” I ask softly, a little shy now that it’s over, even with his cum drying on my pants. I run my fingers through it and lift it to my face, curious. I can’t see it, but I can tell he’s produced much more than a human would.
X nuzzles against my neck. “Very.” His grip on my hip loosens and his hand skates up, under my shirt, over my stomach. “I want to make you feel good, also.”