Chapter 4
Morgan
When I was a surrogate for Korchik and Trign'dar, it was arranged for us by the research team.
They worked out all the details for us, and we just had to agree to them.
Even then, it was hours of reviewing everything, ensuring it all made sense, confirming that the arrangement they set up was going to work for me.
There were also about a million waivers I had to sign, and although Korchik was sensitive and attentive, rigorous about making sure that our coupling was pleasant and intimate for us both, it was in a lab.
With an entire team of witnesses.
But they lit candles and did their best with mood music. So that was something.
But my independence is important to me, so I refused the assistance of a social worker for arranging this.
Instead, I have a brand new notebook in my overnight bag with a three-page list of questions at the beginning and ten tabs color-coordinated to those questions to give me all the space to take detailed notes about the answers.
And the moment we get into the "studio" — Crusher's bedroom — he takes my backpack from me, tucks it in a closet, and I never see it again.
I never think about it.
I never ask the questions.
Instead, we spend the next hour chatting and snacking.
Crusher has an ego the size of, well, him, but god, is he charming.
He's brash, shameless, bragging about his web show — I think he's one of those sex advice podcasters?
If that's a thing here? — and boasting about his sexual prowess like he needs to convince me, even though this is just a job.
Rent-A-Womb. Rent-A-Boob, too, if he wants to go that route.
He's also effortlessly sweet, flirtatious, and eager in equal measure.
He's interested in the world I came from and doesn't understand half of what I say but asks dozens of questions to try to get there.
His muscles flex, his gaze lingers, his body grazes mine casually.
He massages my feet when I comment on how they haven't figured out soles for us yet, and although he eats most of that cute charcuterie board his partner made for us, he inspects every morsel first, then nudges the best of them toward me.
I'm sure this is just who he is. If I ever meet his friends, I'll find out he's a flirt with everybody.
But it feels good. It would be so easy to forget that he's hired me to be a surrogate and sink into the fantasy that this is a date that's gone really well, and we're just easing ourselves into the inevitable.
And it's been so long since I've seen a human man that I really don't have a physical 'type' like I did once upon a time.
I could no longer say what makes a man handsome, if it's even anything physical or a simple act of chemistry.
And I didn't know if that's the science sort of chemistry or the metaphorical chemistry.
But I enjoy looking at Crusher, and I'm intrigued by him.
Crusher inspects a vibrantly purple chunk of fruit with a melon consistency and studded with white, pearl-like seeds. Instead of setting it down on the pride flag bee, he holds it to me. To my mouth. Just an inch away, so easy for me to close the gap.
His fingers are incredibly foreign. Just two of them, each one thicker than all four of my fingers combined.
Not a nail but a hoof wrapped almost entirely around each one, but fleshy in the center.
Yes, there's a barnyard quality to them, but they're impeccably cleaned, the hooves filed and smoothed.
I use my lips and my tongue to pluck the fruit from between them.
It's sweet and juicy, so rich in its warm, almost spicy flavor that just one bite is enough. I close my eyes and allow myself a pleasurable moan as I savor it.
"Beautiful," Crusher murmurs, and when I open my eyes again, I find his gaze trained to my mouth. "Is it delicious?"
I nod.
His eyes don't shift in the slightest as he picks another chunk of the purple fruit and holds it to my lips.
I take it. I let my tongue linger between his fingers for just a moment. Then I moan again.
"Is this your first time having duskmelon?"
I nod again.
Another fruit, and this time, Crusher leans in a little closer. He smells like cut grass and sweet musk. His breath is warm on my cheeks. His fingers remain just an inch from my lips. "Is this your first time with a mino?"
"Yes."
"You have a bit of juice on your lip. May I?"
I nod and then hold still, expecting his finger to swipe across my lip next.
His giant tongue darts out of his mouth from nearly a foot away and licks across my lips.
It's drier than I'd have thought, faintly rough like a cat's but thicker. And it is long. He says, "I'd like to undress you," and when I nod, he proves how dexterous that tongue is by using it to release the top button of my blouse. The second, the third, until the fabric falls away from my chest.
Bras have been an adventure here. Most species who have similar builds and a need for containment rely on corset-style garments or compression tops.
Some of us have been good with that, but I'm not the only one — especially since giving birth and breastfeeding a gargoyle spawn — who isn't. It’s a problem being worked on, but in the meantime, I have ruched triangles on a band, clipped in a racerback style in the back.
It . . . works.
It definitely seems to work for Crusher. His eyes are wide as he leans back, nudging the triangles away so he can watch better. He doesn't ask permission before he traces the firm, pale flesh along the curve of the fabric.
I don't mind. He's so intense with it, so mesmerized, that it feels like worship. For these few minutes, I'd like to be his goddess.
I reach for his shirt, though, because I don't want him to think I'm not into this.
"No," he says quickly, but there's nothing rude about his tone. "No, you're the star of this show, right? This is what everyone's here for."
An odd thing to say, but I have to deal with a lot of odd things with these shoddy translators.
We got hung up for a solid five minutes because Crusher was talking about a favorite candy that was, for some horrific reason, being translated as mold scorpions.
I stroke his cheek instead, surprised and delighted by how velvety the fur is.
"Look at these," he murmurs. "Gorgeous. So taut and heavy, these tiny, perfect teats. Shareable, too. Do you do that? Do humans share? Do females keep harems of mates? Or do you have litters of young?"
I giggle at that, and I'm not even startled when his tongue swipes across my mouth to taste my giggle. I'm betting that tongue goes everywhere.
Everywhere.
"Not usually. Some do — to both, I suppose, l — but usually, it's one partner, and they have one baby at a time."
"That's minos, too, once we settle. One partner, one mate, for life."
I flinch at the reminder of Frank, apparently in another room, collecting video feeds for the inter-species studies scientists. We're being too intimate.
Or maybe not, maybe he's just trying to tell me that, because minotaurs only have one serious partner, Frank understands that no matter what we do here, it's not serious. We're just making this a good time.
Crusher returns to my buttons, and I lean back on the bed to give him access.
I haven't done much to lose the baby weight, but Crusher doesn't seem to mind that, either. He doesn’t know human beauty norms. He's genuinely interested in the soft, loose flesh, tracing the pale stress marks, pressing his snout there and inhaling.
His head lifts, startled, then drops again and inhales more deeply.
"What is it?" I ask, not sure if I should be concerned.
"Your scent! Holy cud, is that your pussy that smells so heavenly?" He grabs my shorts and panties at the hips and gives one sharp yank that, thanks to his long arms, pulls them right off my legs. He parts my legs just as roughly.
Korchik had already seen diagrams of the female human anatomy before we undressed, and when we got to the point of him between my legs, he still hesitated there.
But that's not Crusher. No, Crusher's tongue immediately drags along the entire length of my slit, slurping me up carelessly, sloppily, devouring me.
And then he stuffs his tongue inside me.
I cry out in shock, the sensation so sudden and overwhelming I can’t even tell if it’s pain or pleasure.
Crusher’s eyes snap to mine, but he doesn’t stop.
He spins and twirls his tongue within me, prodding against my walls, exploring without any sort of delicacy, and I swear he’s deliberately moving it around in such a way that even though he’s not thrusting it, it’s working at my entrance.
“Oh, fuck!” I gasp. “Oh, fuck!” My eyes roll back, and my hands grab at the soft and plush but impermeable blanket. I’m guessing it's waterproof.
This is going to be a mess. He’s a giant bull. I’m already dripping, even if his tongue has effectively plugged that. I’m not going to hate on the waterproof bedding.
“Crusher, please,” I whine. My eyes lock onto the ceiling, noting for the first time that despite the interior looking like any house I’d expect to see in the suburbs, the ceiling is that same dark brown, smooth, matte, gingerbready material of the exterior.
With white beads adorned by pastel discs. What the fuck.
“What the fuck?"
Crusher grunts, but whatever he just hit inside me that has me blurting expletives and making my neurons go insane, he’s now putting all his attention on.
My muscles tense, my legs curl up, and he wraps one gigantic hand around my thick thigh as the other takes hold of my hip.
He holds me in place as his tongue lashes my insides, and there’s nothing I can do except moan and whimper and cry out as his tongue thickens and forces me to stretch.
Then he forces his tongue deeper, but he has to bury his snout in my vulva to do so. His nose is cold and damp and whacks against my clit, and I . . .