When She Dances: A SciFi Alien Romance (A Risdaverse Tale)

by Ruby Dixon

  A look of yearning crosses her face. "It…it's a pastoral planet?"

  I nod, hating the jealousy that surges through me. I want her to look at me like that. Doesn't matter, I tell myself. I'll have her out of my system soon enough and things can go back to normal. "Yes. It is very sparsely populated, and the majority of females there are human. I know of others that have made their way there and were welcomed. You would be, too."

  "It sounds lovely," she admits. "I would love to go." The human bites her lip and hesitates, looking at me. "Isn't this costing you a lot of money, though?"

  "Yes. But it'll be worth it."

  "To get me out of your system," she repeats, echoing my words. "Is it because I danced in the window?"

  It's because you watched me, I want to say, but it feels too vulnerable. I don't answer her, simply stare in her direction, letting her know I don't like to be questioned. When she nods and looks away, uncomfortable, I speak again. "Do you agree to my terms?"

  "My body in exchange for freedom?" She laughs, the sound small and bitter. "You realize you could have me either way? You've bought me."

  "I have no wish for a screaming, crying female under me," I say coldly. "Try to look somewhat enthusiastic when I touch you. Fake it if you must." Though I don't know if I'd want her to fake enthusiasm if she didn't feel it. Silence would probably be better. I think. I'm not entirely sure. I've never had sex before. I've always relied on my hand, assuming no one would want someone—something—like me in their bed.

  The human female considers this. "So you bought me to sleep with me, and then when you're tired of me, you'll send me someplace nice? Where I'll be free? Can I pay you back?"

  I shrug. "The money is of no concern to me." Getting her out of my head is. I haven't been able to focus ever since I looked out the entrance of my shop and she wasn't in the window. Getting my focus back would be worth the credits if nothing else.

  Her eyes fill with tears. "You're so nice…"

  "I am not nice," I immediately cut her off. I am not kind. I'm buying her to use her. "I am simply laying my plans out so you know what to expect. Do you agree to this?"

  She nods quickly, eagerly. "I would love to go to a farm planet. Whatever you want me to do, I'm in." A little smile curves her mouth. "Thank you so much."

  Why is she thanking me? I just told her that I intend to use her. I am going to take her to my bed and slake my needs on her. Me, an ugly, half-metal monstrosity. I don't understand why this pleases her, but so be it. "Quit thanking me. Like I said, I am not a kind male. I am just doing this to ensure my needs are met." Because I need her. I need her, and then I'm going to get her out of my system and get my head back to normal.

  "No apologizing," she says quickly, and there's a hint of a smile on her lips, like she's amused at my surly demands.

  I scowl at her, and it wipes the smile off her face. The moment it disappears, I feel like a keffing ass, and that just irritates me even more. Why is it that the longer I'm around her, the less I feel like I'm in control? I bought her so I could have control. I bought her because the thought of her being sold on the auction block to a stranger did gnawing things to my gut. That I couldn't bear for another male to touch her, or for her to look at him the way she looked at me through that window. I want her to look at me like that again, but she just keeps giving me wary glances. "Any questions?" I ask gruffly.

  She thinks for a long moment, playing with the hem of the tunic—my tunic—that she's wearing. The collar on her throat bobs as she swallows, and I realize I've forgotten she's wearing it. I hate the sight of it. I move closer to her and reach out to take it off. She goes utterly still, and I realize she's waiting to be groped—or worse. It just makes me even more irritated. I snap the collar and toss it aside, and then lean back on the couch, waiting for her to speak.

  She's going to refuse, I realize. Being in my bed is worse to her than captivity. Or she's going to try and wheedle some sort of deal where she won't have to touch me but still get what she wants. If that's the case…

  It'll just be credits lost if that's the case, because I'm not going to force a female to take my cock. I'll toss her onto the next shuttle heading toward the Risda system and try not to think about what a fool I am.

  Her fingers continue to play with the hem as the silence stretches between us. After a long, long moment, she looks up at me. "Do you…have a name? What do I call you?"

  I grunt. It's not the question I was expecting. "They call me Zakoar of the Broken Back."

  "Do you want my name?"

  I give her a narrow-eyed look. I don't know what her goal is. "No," I decide. "I'm not keeping you, so there's no point."

  "You have to call me something. It's Tessa." Her chin tilts up a little, as if she's being bold, and I can't decide if I'm charmed or irritated.

  "I didn't ask."

  "I know. But I'll probably respond quicker if you use my name instead of just 'girl.' I'm used to being around a lot of women, so it might not occur to me right away unless you use my name." She gives me an overly bright smile. "Do I call you just Zakoar or should I add on the Broken Back part?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "So I know what to yell out in bed."

  Her answer startles me, and I bark out a laugh. What to yell out in bed, indeed.

  7

  TESSA

  It's the first time he's actually smiled since I got here.

  I stare at my new owner—Zakoar of the Broken Back—and relax just a little at the sight of his smile. Only half his face moves—the rest a metal jaw—but I like the sight of it. It makes the corner of his one eye crinkle up with amusement and he looks softer, kinder. That's a relief, considering that he's been cold and remote ever since he rescued me.

  Well, it's not really a rescue, I amend to myself. He bought me. He's made it quite clear what he wants from me. He wants sex, no cringing, no crying, no moaning my fate. He wants me willing. Doesn't have to be enthusiastic, just willing. And in exchange…he's going to free me. I'm going to live on a farm planet.

  I'll see the sun again. I'll see green things. I'll be my own person.

  All for catching a little cock? I'm absolutely on board.

  This man—Zakoar—is hard to read, though. He watches me with intensity, but every time I speak, he seems a little…disgruntled. And he doesn't want to know my name. That's a little irksome, but does it matter as long as he's kind? A kind master is almost too much to hope for. But he's sitting me down and talking to me as if I have a choice in the matter. He's demanding sex…and then telling me I can refuse. That he wants me willing. He doesn't seem to grasp that my body hasn't been my own in years. Sex with a stranger is not my favorite, but…he's not exactly a stranger, is he?

  He's the guy I pinned all my fantasies on. The one I made up stories about to get me through the day. And if he hasn't turned out to be Prince Charming, does it even matter? He's been decent. He's been forthright about what he wants. He gave me the tunic off his back to wear so I wouldn't have to wander the streets naked.

  It could be so much worse.

  I study his smile with one of my own and notice when his fades and a look of heat enters his gaze. He doesn't say anything, though, just stares at me with that intense focus, and I wonder if he's waiting for me to take the reins? Or does he need something more from me?

  Well, if keeping him happy is part of the job, I should get to it. An idea comes to me, and I reach out and boldly touch his knee. I'm not entirely surprised to feel the hard metal underneath his trou—he's got a prosthetic leg. "Would it please you if I danced?"

  Zakoar's eyes gleam. He gives me one short, crisp nod and leans back amongst the pillows, waiting.

  Flustered at his silence—this would be so much easier if he said anything at all—I get to my feet. There's no music, and it doesn't look as if Zakoar's going to get up and turn any on. All right then, I wing it. I pull the tunic off and toss it onto the couch next to him, then slowly move, swaying to invisible music
. I feel a little stupid. A lot stupid, actually. But he wanted a dancer, and so he's going to get one. I shimmy in a circle and swing my hips, making sure to bounce my ass and move in the way that the aliens who always crowded around my window stage seemed to appreciate.

  I keep moving.

  Minutes tick past, and I steal a glance over at him.

  He doesn't look happy with me. If anything, he looks more frustrated. His jaw is set in that firm expression of dislike, made all the more obvious by the hard set of the metal part of his face. His eyes aren't warm in the slightest, and he looks impatient. Not bored, but irritated.

  My steps falter. I want to stop and cover my breasts, but I worry it'll make him even more upset. "Do you…want sexier?" I dip low, spreading my legs so he can see all of me.

  Zakoar shakes his head and closes his eyes, running his palm over the metal dome of his skull. It's just metal on one side, I notice, the rest of it shaved and tattooed and his horn cut down to the barest stump. He looks lethal, though, and when his eyes lock onto me, I shiver. "I want…" He shakes his head again. "Not this."

  My stomach clenches and it takes everything I have to stay completely still. "How can I please you?" I whisper. The dream of the farm planet suddenly seems very, very far away.

  He scowls. "Quit looking at me like you're so keffing terrified. Makes me feel like a keffing monster." He runs his hand over his skull again, then mutters, "If I wanted that, I'd have gone to the thrice-damned cantina before this."

  Zakoar doesn't look at me as he says that. If anything, he seems acutely uncomfortable. Like this is all not going how he had planned. Well, that's the story of my fucking life, isn't it? Shit going absolutely off the rails? I want to snipe at him, to point out he's not the one suffering here, when he glances over at me and there's this absolutely miserable expression on his face.

  And suddenly…I get it.

  Of course. He wants me to dance, because when I was in the window, I amused myself with fantasies. I smiled at him and gave him come-hither looks. I tried to entice him into saying hello with just my eyes.

  It's not about my body. It's never been about my body. It's about me, and my fear is making him second-guess himself.

  All right, then. Time to put the fear and uncertainty aside and give the man what he wants.

  I raise my arms over my head, my breasts jiggling with the movement. His gaze goes there, and when he looks back to my face, I smile at him. It's not the nervous, fawning smiles I've been giving him ever since he bought me. I'm back in the zone, thinking about my fantasies from in the window. How I always imagined that the fierce-looking metal-jawed mesakkah male would come to the glass, punch through it, and rescue me from my situation. Well, it's happened, but not quite in the way I imagined. Doesn't matter. I picture him as a lover, and this is our wedding night. That I want to make him realize what a catch he's got in me. That I'm the sexiest woman on this entire station and he needs to realize it. I slide my hands over my breasts, pinching my nipples lightly. And as I do, I fuck him with my eyes. I promise all kinds of things, gyrating in front of him, just as I did when I was in the window.

  It's easy to sink into the fantasy again. Easy to have him in front of me and make him the object of my teasing, as if I'm choosing to dance and not the other way around. I move with the goal to entice him, but it's more than just my body. It's my spirit, it's the way I move a little closer to him, encouraging him to touch me, and then rocking my ass in front of his face when he doesn't reach for me. The window might as well be between us for all that he moves. In my mind, I'm back in the cantina, he's the object of my affections, and I want to make him lose his mind with lust.

  I'm not entirely surprised to feel that I'm getting turned on as I dance. He's been the focus of my fantasies for so long that it feels natural. Of course dancing for him is going to make my pulse pound between my thighs. Of course watching him catch his breath as I touch myself is going to give me a thrill. Because now that he's close by, I can see his expression when I dance for him.

  All that frustration in his eyes, the impatience, is gone. The longing has returned.

  I slide my hands to my pussy, teasing it before rolling my hips and spinning slowly around, just as I did in the window. I've never fucked a mesakkah—one of the blue, horned aliens—but all the giggling I've heard from the other women at the cantina has told me that it wouldn't be a chore. That their large cocks are covered in ridges and there's a spur that hits the clit with every thrust. It sounds ridiculous, but I think about that now. Maybe that's why I'm obsessed with him—because he's mesakkah—the guys with amazing dicks—and yet he seems different. Lonely. As if he's starving for love.

  It's a crazy thing to think about a man plated with metal, but it's my fantasy, so I let it ride. I think about him getting off that couch and sweeping me into his arms like the most tender of lovers, touching me all over and making sure I come before taking his own pleasure. I think about him whispering words of love as he caresses me. How afterward, we'd sleep cuddled up together, entwined, as if we can't bear to be apart because we're so in love.

  Love. Ha. That bursts my bubble, just a little. There's no love here. It's transactional, just like he said.

  My fantasy dissipates, and I slow my dancing, turning to him, about to ask if he wants me to keep going.

  Zakoar jumps to his feet, and I see that the pupil in his right eye—his real eye—is completely blown with lust. "Come with me," he growls, grabbing my hand.

  I follow behind him as he steers me toward the back room—the bedroom, I assume. We pass through the curtains and sure enough, there's a large, square bed with no pillows and a blanket covering, just like beds in the cantina. This one looks soft, though, and the covering clean and expensive. He stops right in front of it and then jerks at his clothing, desperately tearing at it. He won't look at me, though.

  "Should I get plas-film?" I ask in a soft voice, not wanting to irk him. He gives me a jerky nod, fumbling with his belt, and I move to the attached lavatory, heading to the dispenser. There's one here, and it looks…full. I tear a sheet off, and something tells me that Zakoar doesn't get a lot of company, cantina whores or otherwise.

  I breathe on the plas-film to activate it, then move back into the bedroom toward him.

  He's naked and staring down at his cock. Or maybe he's just determined not to make eye contact with me. Either way…whoa.

  I've known that his chest is a zigzag pattern of metal and different shades of skin, most of them probably synthetic of some kind. He's got scars on top of scars, and even his arms seem to be swimming in more metal. I'm not sure what I was expecting below the belt, but…it doesn't disappoint. Zakoar is huge, of course, his cock just as ridged up and down the length as I've been told. The head of his cock is more prominent than expected, and the two large ball studs on the tip are unexpected, too. More than that, though, I'm surprised that the metal lines that move under his skin don't stop here. In fact, there's a large, silvery vein running up and down the length of his penis, blatantly obvious against the blue skin that, even here, seems to be scarred and two different shades. Even his spur is scarred, which is strange.

  All right, then. It's a great big cyborg penis. No big deal. As long as it fucks like a regular penis, there will be no surprises.

  I glance at Zakoar as I approach. His hand is on the base of his cock, and I can see the tip is coated with beads of pre-cum, but he makes no effort to look at me. I think about that unused dispenser of plas-film and the scars all over his body, and how deeply, deeply uncomfortable he seems to be right now, and I wonder if he's ever had sex.

  Not that it matters. Sex is like sneezing—it's a release, and sometimes it's not all that sexy. Most times, actually. It doesn't matter if he's fucked an entire mesakkah football team (or whatever the alien equivalent is) or if he's a virgin. I'm not expecting this to be anything but me as a convenient hole for him. He wants that fantasy girl in the window, so I need to keep on giving him that.

>   So I move to his side and drop to my knees in front of him again. I don't cower or try to look submissive like before. Instead, I toss my hair back and give him a bold look. "Shall I put this on you?"

  That metal jaw clenches. He nods. Just once, and the motion is so small and reluctant that I almost miss it.

  I hum to myself as I smooth the plas-film over him. For a metal guy, he's scorching with heat. His skin is flushed deep with blood, as if it's all pooled here and the metal vein is throbbing wildly as I smooth the plas-film over his shaft. He's larger than I thought, and the ridges more pronounced this close up. He twitches as I touch him, his hands clenched at his side, and I make my efforts as quick as possible. I tug on the film after it's on, creating a small reservoir on the tip, and then I get to my feet. "Where do you want me?"

  "Bed."

  "On my back?" I ask, turning toward the mattress. "Or do you want—"

  The words die in my throat because in the next moment, his big body is pressed up against mine. He moves me toward the bed, his cock stabbing into my back, and when the fronts of my knees hit the bed, I get on my hands and knees automatically. I can take a hint as much as the next girl.

  He thrusts against my folds, spearing nothing, and grunts. Then he does so again, and then he pauses over me. I can practically hear the gears turning in his head, and I need to head things off before he gets freaked out or embarrassed.

  "Wait just a moment," I murmur, leaning forward and pressing my cheek to the blankets. It pushes my ass into the air, my legs spread wide, and I bring my fingers to my mouth. I give them an intensely sloppy lick, coating them with saliva, and then move my hand to my pussy. I press my fingers against the entrance to my core, wetting it—and okay, showing him exactly where the target is, just in case he's as inexperienced as I think despite his savage and terrifying demeanor.

  Zakoar growls. Just growls, the sound deep and possessive. He pushes my hand away from my opening and in the next moment, I feel him fitting the head of his cock there. I try to relax, because I know the more I tense, the more it has the potential to hurt. He surges forward, and all the breath leaves my body as he plunges deep.