CHAPTER 9
Every morning, I wake with my face in Becky’s pillow. What’s remarkable about this morning, however, is that when I reach consciousness—Becky is still sharing it.
I blink into her hair, my cheek pillowed by cotton softness and her hair strands. And her neck is directly beside my nose. I don’t know why I do it, but I drag my face over until my nose brushes against her mastoid bone, finding the spot directly behind her ear. Back and forth, I rub her here— nuzzling, this is what humans call nuzzling—finding her indescribably silky. I can see why humans enjoy this. Breath susurrating out of me, I turn and bury my nose deep in her mane.
She smells like something I’ve come to learn is called the vanilla bean, and while I’m not certain exactly what a vanilla bean is, I do find I like the scent of it.
Shafts of daylight aren’t filling the room yet, telling me that it’s earlier in the morning than I’ve ever risen before. And yet I’m awake, and strangely restless.
When I shift my body, I find out why.
I’m lying mostly on top of Becky, and there is nothing between her body and mine save for my undergarment and her nightgown.
Her posterior rests directly against my pelvic region.
This, I imagine, is the major cause of my pissing organ’s excitement. It’s harder than the cast iron driver I use to pound steel posts when I’m putting up fenceline. Grimacing at the way my organ is insistently straining against her bottom, I shift—and my shaft prods her, making my body freeze .
Why does that feel so good?
Astonished, I stay frozen for a good while, trying to assess myself. And while I do, Becky twitches in sleep, and murmurs, “ Baby.”
Instantly concerned, I fish my hand under the blanket and above the pillows she supports her underside with until I’m covering her belly.
Inside her, the tadpole rolls, but lazily. Also resting, I gather.
I watch its brain activity, but it doesn't seem distressed. Nor does Becky.
With dreamlike slowness, Becky’s hand slides over mine, silky skin smoothing over my fresh calluses, and her movement releases a stronger burst of her vanilla bean smell.
And then she rocks her hips back against mine.
The movement is slight—but my reaction is explosive. I tighten my hand over the mound of her belly, absently confirming that the tadpole’s brain activity still appears normal, quiet in sleep as it lies curled up inside her—as I plow my hips against her backside, grunting at the momentary relief it brings me.
Wetness slicks the head of my shaft, causing the material between me and her to grab and stick, torturing me with sensation.
Although it becomes apparent I’m not alone in this torture. Becky moans softly, and presses up against me harder. She eases her hips forward, lessening the pressure only to redouble it when she shoves into my front again, the insistent motion of her hips making my eyes cross.
“Creator,” I growl, burying my chin into her shoulder. Crushing my beard into her skin.
Her breath begins to pant from her, and her body makes a slow back-and-forth shimmy that feels exploratory and has me drawing my face away far enough that I can watch. She’s mostly still under the blanket, but our forms are plastered to each other, and although her eyes remain closed, she appears frustrated, a frown line furrowing her brow.
My breath catches in my throat when the prod of my cloth-trapped pissing organ slips between her thighs and gets caught there, shoved against the fabric of her nightgown and trapped by my undergarment. She makes a soft grunt. And then my eyes widen as she very obviously invites me to breed by reaching back and closing her hand around the bulge of my stiffened length.
“Becky!” I cough into her hair, hitching my hips hard against her, trapping her hand.
Her body stills.
I growl, and to my shock I close my mouth over her neck, letting her feel my teeth, urging her to continue with whatever she’s planning.
My growl seems to soothe her. Either that or she responds to the possessive hold my mouth has on her flesh. With sleepy fingers, she hooks her thumb into my boxers and draws them down. Not quite freeing my pissing organ but it’s a clear invitation—and that’s all I need.
I shove my underwear the remainder of the way down and scrabble to find the hem of her nightgown. But I can’t.
Desperate, I jerk the covers off us both. Becky gasps and begins to sit upright, but my field of vision is clear and I go to work. I yank her nightgown up until it bares the curve of her surprisingly delectable-looking backside, and with a strong thrust of my hips, my erection prods again between her soft, heated thighs, hoping to penetrate, this time unhampered.
Her body turns as solid as rock.
Her brain explodes with activity.
For once, I don’t read it; I wrap my arm around her swollen middle, hold her close, and I shove my pissing organ into what I instinctively know is my target.
My focus narrows instantly. All I’m aware of is our joining. For the first time in my entire lifespan, I experience the feeling of stretching sleep-slickened labia, and revel in the wonder of them tightly clamping over the head of my shaft. Undone, I bare my teeth .
Becky makes a choked gasp, and bent over her, I curse. Oceans below. She feels incredible. Her walls squeeze me even tighter and urge me inside her.
I told her once that my people couple through the sterile and highly refined process of pairing genetic material. There is nothing sterile about what Becky and I are presently engaged in. What I’m doing with her isn’t refined either. Not in the least.
Yet it’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever done. Perhaps the most incredible discovery I’ve ever had. I draw back my hips and push forward, sinking an inch deeper. I repeat the motion, retreating and sinking deeper between her legs with each successive thrust. Wet heat greets me, so good I’m forced to close my eyes in bliss.
She's heavenly.
From her throat, I hear a strange throaty sound, and she exhales a ragged, choppy breath.
I grab her hip, and plunge into her deep.
“Ah!” she cries, her hand flying back and slapping down on my thigh as my body forces itself tight to hers. And for some reason, her little squeak of sound heightens my pleasure. With starved movements, I begin to chase more noises out of her, riding her hard as I dare.
The tadpole is being rocked inside its watersack. Thankfully, it lulls with our every lusty motion.
My thrusts speed up, the pneumatics in my knees making soft puffing sounds. As pleasure blinds me, my thrusts turn shallow.
I explode inside her.
That’s the only way to explain the experience of ejaculation.
My grip on her hip goes slack, my hand slipping over her front—and my thumb bumps something that causes Becky to bark a word and buck.
Panting into her neck where my chin is pinning her, curious, brain clearing slightly, I brush my thumb over her again—and she emits a choked squeak and jumps under my touch .
Still hard inside her, I spear forward as I brush her again, with purpose. I’ve read about human mating habits. It was fascinating and grotesque for the most part—but one subject that intrigued me was the female sexual response, which is mostly activated by a small penile-like organ devoted entirely to the female’s pleasure.
My fingers nudge under the fat lip of Becky’s mons, pinching gently—
She squeaks and twitches hard. There it is.
I drag my tongue over her neck, tasting the lightest sheen of sweat as I roll and press and rub along the sides and top of her organ. I watch the side of her face, nudging my nose behind her ear, heaving my excited breaths into it.
She shivers in reaction. As my fingers work, she keeps her eyes squeezed shut, and bites her lip and whimpers and whimpers, growing louder and breathier, her body coiling under me—until she yelps and goes dead still.
Inside her brain, however, her activity turns into a supernova.
Her thighs quiver hard, and her whole body starts to shake.
She likely experiences other beautiful reactions—but I’m dumbstruck when her inner walls begin to rhythmically milk my pissing organ.
It should be disturbing.
But it’s amazing.
My hips bang against her backside as I thrust into her hard enough to bring my breeding sac smacking into her wet flesh, the sound as exciting as the scent of our mingled arousal. Adeptly she wrings another explosion of Yonderin seed out of me with her inner ministrations.
My hips move slower and slower until they cease their insistent pumping into her. Even so, I hold onto her tightly, unable to let her go.
“You’re amazing,” I tell her, breathless .
Her chest rises and falls rapidly, her breathing increasing even faster than while we were coupling. “I thought you were Joel,” she says brokenly.
I raise up enough to see her face. “Why? He’s dead.”
Confoundingly, Becky chokes out a sob. Her hands come up to cover her eyes.
Feeling unsure and discombobulated, I bring my hand to her shoulder, and rub her muscles there like she’s done for me. I like the touches she’s given me, and I find them very relaxing, so I hope they translate the same way to her.
To my intense relief, as I stroke her, they do seem to help calm her shuddering tears.
“I was mistaken,” I admit to her. “And I apologize.”
“Mistaken about what?” she asks, breath shaky. She’s producing tears again.
I had no idea human grieving included such tear production. Humans must consume an ocean’s worth of salt to replenish what they drain from their eye ducts.
“Sex is very pleasurable, and I hope you invite me to service you again in the future. I want you to know I will no longer view it as an unsightly duty.”
“I don’t even know what to—to say to that,” she says tiredly, even though we’ve just woken up. She plants her hands on the bed and rises with some difficulty.
I move to help her until she’s sitting up. She murmurs a toneless “Thanks,” and leaves the bed, waddling oddly to the siphon room, where she shuts the door with startling finality.
I stare past the door, focusing on the activity centers in her brain, wondering if I’ve done something horribly wrong.