Gifted to the Alien Warlord (Petra Palerno’s Filthy Shorts #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Despite the shit card I’ve been dealt by getting abducted by aliens, I try to make the best of it. As a stripper on Earth, maybe I’m lucky that they wanted me to dance in space. I mean, I have a skill set a lot of the other girls don’t, and the aliens took notice.

I'm always the girl booked for the biggest clubs and their most important patrons.

Right now, I’m dancing in my plastic security bubble for what I can only describe as a very official-looking, slimy yellow sluglike alien in a back room of his mansion. He just stares at me with those antenna eyes, tiny mouth agape.

I swear his brain would explode if I had a pair of Pleasers I could clack. The seven inch heels really made the best impressions on Earth. Is it weird to admit that I miss the noise the acyclic platforms made as they smacked into each other?

The guy must be a big deal because the scaly purple aliens that hold me captive bring me to what looks like his home. Unlike most nights, they also turn off my translator chip. So while I can normally understand what they’re talking about, I have no clue what their clicks and hisses mean.

Doesn't matter, I know what I'm here to do.

I start strong with a flip of my long blonde hair before running my hands down my chest, stopping right above my crotch.

Slug man gasps, and good thing—I sense that there are some unspoken stakes at risk tonight.

Even if I don’t know the language, I can spot a whale no matter the species. This slug is a big spender, and I’m the house favorite.

I do a good job because staying compliant gets me more privileges than the other women. It's not a monetary cut of whatever my alien captors are raking in—I’d have no way to spend it—but the thought I’m earning something makes me feel useful.

When I’m finally done performing for the slug guy—something I hope never makes it to my résumé—my alien captors, a hive minded species called the Deenz, return. Their tiny mouths are twisted into weird little smiles. But, like always, their fly-like eyes show no emotion.

The slug mumbles a question in goo-speak, and one of the purple jerks lets out a laugh before shaking his head. Nope. Even for him, that’s a hard pass.

But the slug doesn’t take it well, his face screwing up tightly. Hell, you can almost see steam coming from his ears as he screams like a very slimy child throwing a temper tantrum. But when my captor draws the blaster at his side, I get nervous. The threat of violence shuts the slug up quickly.

He looks back at me, fury just behind those dangling eyes, just before my handler clicks a button on his datapad.

I jolt forward, my hands braced against the thick plastic of my pod as it drifts backward and out of the room.

I float through the halls, staring at the ornate decorations of the slug’s home.

Closed doors pass by until I reach the main entrance.

My gaze cuts to the only cracked door, and I swallow hard.

The walls are lined with cryopods, each holding a woman—human, like me.

Their faces hover behind a thin layer of frost, skin waxy and still, eyes half-open in eternal shock.

A shiver crawls down my spine. In the center of the room sits a metal bed, bolted to the floor, thick restraints hanging loose like they’re waiting patiently for a set of wrists.

My throat closes. I squeeze my eyes shut before the rest of the image can stick.

There is no good in dwelling on what might happen. The purple aliens make it obvious, even without my understanding the language, that we are leaving.

When we arrive back at the ship, I expect my bubble to be opened so I can go join the other women in the bunks. And even though the hatch is unlocked to my tiny prison and my translator chip is clicked back on, I’m not taken to where the other women are held.

Instead, I’m standing awkwardly in the holding bay as the alien types something into its datapad, obviously annoyed.

“Quldo really has another thing coming to him if he thinks he can have you gratis. We’ve spoiled him for far too long,” my handler complains to me.

Slug man has a name—Quldo. You have to make a weird retching motion with your tongue to say it right.

“I can’t sell you anyways, you’re promised to Warlord Mekkra.” The purple alien grabs me by the arm and leads me to a door I’ve never entered before. As it swishes open, it reveals a small windowless room. My captor pushes me inside, and I trip over my own feet, landing hard on my hip.

“I’m p-promised to who?” My throat is dry, and the room in Quldo's ship with the bed in the center keeps flashing in my mind.

“Warlord Mekkra.” The purple alien sneers. Even though its eyes are fixed, I’m sure it would roll them if it could.

“But I’m doing a good job!” I yelp as I scramble to my knees. “I’m the best dancer.”

“And that makes you the most important bargaining chip now, doesn’t it?” it says cruelly before slamming a sticky purple hand on the door lock and shutting me into the room's inky darkness.

I used to worship the sun, throw on my tiniest bikini and put on a dubiously low SPF.

I don’t know how many days I’ve been in the dark, but fuck do I miss the light.

It’s been so cold here in this unlit cell.

Hell, I’d even take dancing in that stupid plastic bubble over this.

The spotlight makes me sweat when I perform for the crowds of aliens.

I almost wish I was allowed to take off the weird polyester bandage-style one piece that our purple-skinned captors make all the human women wear.

But that shouldn’t be all that surprising…muscle memory and all.

I wish I could say the fact that I’m dancing for aliens is more shocking…but honestly, the aliens are just there for the show. Human men don’t seem that much different from the males I’ve encountered off Earth. Same as back home in Tampa. I guess a customer is a customer no matter the galaxy.

Most abductees fight like hell to escape, and I did at first when I finally realized what happened. That is, until I saw the dark vastness of space outside our ship. What was the point in fighting back with nowhere to go? So instead, I try my best to stay alive.

I dance, I keep my mouth shut, and I’m not punished like some of the other women. I managed to talk my way out of those terrible alien Spanish fly shots they give the majority of us, too. I’m enthusiastic enough without them, thanks to years of working the pole.

For the record, I’ve never been ashamed of being a stripper—and I was damn good at it.

I always said that if those men were stupid enough to hand over their money for some illusion of control, that was their problem.

I paid my bills. I knew my angles. I could unravel a man with just a fucking look.

And I sleep just fine at night knowing I use those same skills to keep myself safe. No shame. Not even a flicker.

I pull my knees tight to my chest and rock, the cold metal floor biting through my skin.

The skills I think will keep me alive—the charm, the performance, the pretending—might’ve just signed my death sentence.

I can’t stop thinking about that room, about those women frozen mid-life, and whether this Mekkra bastard has his own collection.

Monsters keep company with monsters.

Tears burn down my face, hot against the chill, only the second time I've cried since they took me. If I have the choice again, I think I’d step out the airlock into the inky blackness of space. The cold would be quicker—kinder than I’m sure this warlord will be.