by Loki Renard
"What the hell are you doing?”
“You’re going to be spanked because that is how humans are most effectively disciplined. Enough sensation in your ass, and you’ll become obedient.”
“I’ve been hit before, John. It never made me obedient.”
“I’m sure you have. I’m sure you taunted your previous owners into brutality many times, but this will not be brutal. This will be effective. A punishment for your body and your mind.”
“Now you’re making it sound like some kind of… OW!”
I am cut off mid-sentence by another slap, delivered crisply and sternly to my ass.
“When I am punishing you, you will behave,” he lectures. “Enough with the mouthiness, my bratty little human.”
“I’m never done with the mouthy…EEeooWW!”
He’s not going to let me finish a sentence. He’s going to make my ass feel like it’s on fire before he’s done with me, and I probably deserve it.
“Quiet," he orders. “You may express your pain, and you may cry, but anything more than that and I will thrash you.”
He emphasizes his words with several firm swats which jolt my sex against his thighs. Every time he slaps me, my hips press against his leg and the softness of my legs gives way to let the ridge of my pubic bone meet the unyielding natural armor of his thighs. I find myself jerking and squirming, futile attempts at escape which only serve to make me grind myself against him until I am humping him like a horny dog, the bud of my clit caught between a rock and a hot place.
“Ow! Ow! Yes… ow!”
“I know this punishment burns your pride as much as it does your seat,” he lectures. “And I know what else it does, how your sex is getting wetter by the moment, lubricating in anticipation of my complete conquest of your rebellious body…”
I don’t know if he’s trying to turn me on, but it’s working. Every stern thing he says makes me clench tighter. He’s in total control of me, but instead of feeling scared and abused as I have felt every time an alien has tried to break me to their will, I feel safe with him.
He understands my body in a way others never have. He knows how to keep the slaps at a certain intensity, raining down on my squirming cheeks until I gasp and squirm and squeal for mercy, and then pausing for a moment to let that heat sink in.
“We are a disciplined species, and you will be a disciplined pet.”
“I won’t be a pet,” I growl, my rebellion quite intense and genuine. I like this alien. He handles me with something approximating care, but I will not be his pet.
“What will you be, then?”
“Your friend?”
“My human friend whom I spank and own? My human friend who shares my bed and wraps herself around my cock? If you want to call that friendship, then you may call it friendship. I don’t care what small mouth noises you choose to make, but it will amount to the same thing.”
“Oh, will it,” I hiss.
I know he is right, but that only inflames my desire to defy him all the more. There is nothing like being told that I am owned to make me want to rebel against that ownership.
“You can spank me all you like, I’m never going to obey you,” I promise him, just as his palm lands square across both my cheeks, jolting me against the hard ridge of his thigh.
“The first part of that sentence was right,” he growls. “I can spank you all I like.”
And he does. He keeps spanking me, on my ass, across my thighs, even landing a few harsh slaps between my legs, against the tender mound of my sex. I buck and squirm and I curse him with every word I know in every language I know, but John has decided to prove a point, and that point is that I am going to be sore and wet.
I can hear my own arousal when he rubs my pussy, my outer lips sliding against each other with the lubrication my body is producing.
“You’re drenched,” he tells me with no small measure of triumph in his voice. “You’re ready to be fucked long and hard, aren’t you, human.”
I cannot admit the truth, that the harsher and sterner his punishments are, the more I respond. He doesn’t need me to admit it. He can sense my desire as much as I can. He can feel the wetness of my sex on his fingers.
“I’m not going to fuck you,” he says. “You’re going to fuck yourself. You’re going to put that pussy on my cock and show me what a good little pet you can be.”
He lifts me up to straddle his body. He remains sitting, but his cock is free and thick and dominant, standing erect between my thighs as he slowly lowers me onto it. I feel myself spreading for him. I feel my inner walls giving way, the slick arousal of my spanking making it easy for him to impale me on his cock. All the way down I go, aided by gravity and those massive hands which keep my hips in place as he sheathes himself deep inside me until my clit settles against the hard ridge of his pubic region. My toes can barely touch the floor.
“Now,” he orders. “Dance your pussy on my cock, human.”
He is capable of filthy dominance like no other. I have been ordered around before. I have been punished before. I have never found myself with a red hot ass and my pussy wrapped around an alien cock, squeezing as hard as I can because my body loves the way he feels inside me, and because whether I want to admit it or not, he has made me submit to him.
I can’t say anything. I can only whimper and moan as he makes me fuck myself on his cock, flexing my thighs to move up and down his massive shaft, spreading my tight, spanked pussy wide around his alien girth. His massive clawed hand closes lightly about my throat, holding me like a collar of flesh and claw.
“Faster,” he orders, reaching around to slap my ass. I find myself rising and falling, sweat running down between my breasts with the exertion of giving myself to him this filthy way.
An orgasm rushes through me, tight pleasure exploding out from my clit and resonating through my body, but that doesn’t change anything. His big palm whips against my ass again and once more the order comes.
“Fuck yourself, human. Worship my alien cock with your hot, little cunt.”
His words are pure filth, and my body responds by heading towards another climax at record speed.
John
I am going to exhaust her until she can’t sass me anymore, until her attitude is worn out of her. I watch her pussy lips swell with friction and desire. I watch her drench my cock in her human fluids of arousal, and I spank her deserving ass until she climaxes again, wriggling around my dick like the naughty little fuck pet she is.
I am not going to be able to hold back much longer. I want her as much as she wants me. I need to spend myself in her. I want to fill her. But not in her naughty over-fucked cunt. There is another hole.
“On your knees,” I growl, plucking her from my dick before she can steal another orgasm. I put her on the ground between my thighs, and holding her neck in my hand I keep her mouth in the right position, her pouting lips parted for my cock as I fist it and spend my seed down her deserving throat.
When I am done with her, I put her back to bed. She is still drenched in my seed, and her sex is slick and ravaged, but she looks satisfied and most of all, she is calm. There are no more challenges to my dominance, no more attempts to goad me into reaction. She has experienced my reaction. It is still written in hot marks across her beautiful ass.
“Sleep, my little human,” I tell her. “Soon, your new life among the scythkin begins.”
Climax
Itch
He used me.
He took me in every way, all the way to my soul. I wake up with an ache between my thighs, in my ass, but for once, not in my heart. John has a way of overwhelming me with his carnal conquest and making me forget about everything I never wanted to remember.
I stretch and squirm in the bed, attempting to get comfortable and knowing I’ll fail. It feels like I have been asleep for a long time. I am used to waking up and feeling terrible. I am used to the world feeling heavy and strange. I am not used to feeling light, as if my body doesn’t
weigh me down. I am used to carrying the weight of a hundred worlds on my shoulders, but John has somehow taken all that burden. Maybe he has fucked it out of me.
Slipping out of bed, I get something to eat out of the replicator, a pastry with pink icing, and then I go to the cockpit where John is sitting in the pilot’s seat.
Today is a day of beauty, or so it seems. The window to the universe at the front of the ship displays one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. A shower of pure light dances all around us, enveloping the ship in little fractal pieces of gleaming space dust.
John
“Wow, this is pretty,” she says. “Look at all the sparkly things!”
It is pretty. It is also a debris field. I have seen these before, in the wake of attacks by a particularly cowardly sect of those who rebel against our species’ right to procreate.
To my human, we are awash in dazzling light, but I know better. I know the beauty of the scene belies a tragedy, and one which is immediately personal to me.
I run a scan, already knowing what the results will be. I don’t want to read them. I don’t want to acknowledge the tragedy which is currently only looming at the verge of my consciousness. If I don’t see the results, then I can pretend that there is some other explanation for this space dust gleaming with obsidian innocence.
I look down. Not because I want to, but because my eyes seem drawn to the console. There, writ in green characters, is the truth I wish was a lie. We are now cruising through the remains of my broodkin’s ship, slicing through space like a thousand sharp knives, none of them bigger than the size of my palm.
“What’s wrong?”
She’s by my side, knowing without knowing. Human intuition is a powerful thing. Hers is astounding.
“They’ve been killed. My brood. This is debris from the ship.”
“Fuck,” Itch says. There’s not much else to say. Fuck indeed. A scythkin lives and dies with his broodkin. We were hatched together, fought together for survival. And we should have died together.
There’s silence, a lot of silence. I have nothing to say. Itch is clearly trying to think of something to say.
“It’s not your fault. They left without you.”
“They left because I was late.”
“Still. They could have waited, right? Might even not have died if they had. You would have done a proper check to the ship, I bet. Like you did to this one. I bet they didn’t check theirs.”
“You have all the tact of a chainsaw,” I tell her. “Go to your bed. I have to think.”
Itch
Suddenly it is my bed. Not our bed. Suddenly, I’m not so much his as I am an inconvenience. This is what happens to pets. We’re the center of attention until we’re not. I know he is dealing with a great loss, but if I am what he said I was, wouldn’t he want me close now?
Even if I wanted to be his, even if I could allow him to think that he owns me, I can’t stand this sudden rejection. It’s not personal, but it feels personal. If I truly meant something to him, he would want to hold me close, not send me away.
I turn around and I go to bed, just as I am told. I do not want the grief rage of a scythkin unleashed on me. I don’t recognize John right now. He’s cold, and he’s distant. Everything that was fizzing between us, the energy we were sharing, it has been cut off in an instant and I feel suddenly utterly alone.
I want to comfort him, but I don’t know why. He doesn’t want my comfort. He doesn’t want me at all, it feels. I wonder what he’ll do now. Probably sell me to someone and go on a rampage. Scythkin are the rampaging type.
Lying on the mattress, I look up at the ceiling which separates us from the vacuum of space, and I start to feel guilty for being angry at him for being gruff with me. Maybe I owe him something, one entity to another. He saved my life. Maybe I should try to help him, even if he doesn’t want my help.
I get up and tiptoe toward him, careful not to get too close, though it doesn’t really matter how close I get. If he gets angry with me and decides to hurt me, there’s nowhere on the ship I can escape to. I am afraid, but I want to try to trust him.
John is sitting with his head in one hand, his sharp blades largely retracted save for the dorsal one which runs down the middle of his back. That remains erect. His horns are folded back along his head. Altogether, I am looking at a picture of defeated grief.
“I can help you.”
He jerks his head up and looks at me with a blazing gaze. “What can you do, human? Can you put my broodkin back together? Can you undo the past and make me have been on time?”
He’s angry and I know he’s blaming himself. I also know from historical experience that it is a very fine line between an alien who thinks he owns me blaming himself — and an alien who thinks he owns me blaming me. I have been beaten for previous owners’ mistakes and moods more times than I can count. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that the only reason he was late to his ship was because he decided to save me. Some might think that was a lucky stroke to have avoided becoming space shrapnel. Apparently, John doesn’t feel that way.
I sulk back to my bed, feeling sad for him, and sad for me too. Sometimes I can forget that he is so alien. He looks wildly different from me, but he doesn’t feel different. Interacting with him is almost like interacting with a human. But at times like this, it is made apparent just how different we really are, and how little I can do for him.
John
A lone scythkin. Is there anything more pathetic in all creation? I think not. Especially one who has lost his broodkin because he was late for the battle. Though technically, it was not a battle. It was a dishonorable attack made at a distance by those who want nothing but to destroy us. Not because they will breed in our bones, or use our nutrients for commercial purposes, which would at least be understandable, but because they don’t like us.
I can sense the human looking at me. I do not wish to appear weak in front of her, and I know that she will consider this a display of weakness. Humans like to get loud when they are wronged. They paint their faces and beat their drums and they declare war. It is not enough for a human to engage in war, they have to declare it first, so everybody is clear on what is happening. I always thought that was rather sweet.
“Come out here,” I say, gesturing for her.
She comes out with short steps, and I know I have made her hesitant. It does not take much to frighten a human, and I need to be careful not to scare her. She has nowhere to escape to, but the moment she does, she will flee if she is afraid of me. I can feel our connection stretched out like a thread between us. Sometimes it feels elastic and tight. Right now, it feels gossamer thin, as if it could blow away on the next stellar wind.
Itch
I go to him.
Everything is telling me to keep my distance, but he has called and like the good little pet I pretend not to be, I come.
This time I get closer. Close enough to see that he doesn’t just look sad. He looks broken.
A rush of anger sweeps over me. How dare someone make this big, strong man feel this way? No. Not a man. An alien. I just thought of him as a man. Maybe there is some inner man-ness about him. Maybe there is some connection between our species, like he says. All I truly know is that I feel protective toward him. I want to make him feel better. I don’t know how to make a violent alien feel better, so I put my hand on his shoulder and think.
“We could hunt them down and kill them,” I suggest.
“What could I kill that my entire brood could not?”
“Maybe they were caught by surprise. Maybe you won’t be.”
“You are thinking they were attacked by an honorable enemy who announced their presence and engaged in open war,” he says. “They were not. This is what I was trying to avoid when we left the station. Remember how I checked this ship from stem to stern before we boarded? It seems my kin were not so careful. They were attacked by the Q’Ren. They must have neglected to check the ship for explosives before
they left port.”
That seems careless, but I know better than to say that out loud. Speaking ill of the dead is not encouraged in any culture or society of any species that I’ve ever met, besides perhaps the bastardi. They are a species of aliens who invert almost every common convention. I was briefly owned by a bastardi a few years ago. He perished, and I was made to attend his funeral as chattel of his estate. I listened to his friends and family give speeches about him. There was not a single one who did not call his character, life choices, and personal scent into question. At the end of the proceedings, everybody agreed that he would have been pleased with the funeral, and also that they were glad he was dead.
That will not help in this situation, as John is very clearly not happy that everybody he has ever cared for has been turned into space glitter by the Q’Ren, whoever they may be.
“So, it was sabotage?”
He nods. “A Q’Ren spy must have gained access and planted explosive charges.”
“How is that possible?” I can barely imagine how anybody would sneak onto a scythkin ship full of scythkin who didn’t want them there. These aliens are perceptive and more dangerous than almost anything.
“Never underestimate the Q’Ren. They operate completely independently of one another. They are united by a shared ideology, but there is no Q’Ren home world. No center of operations. Every Q’Ren operates on her own.”
“Her?”
“They are all female. They come together across species to wage war on those they wish to destroy.”
“And who are those they wish to destroy?”
“The scythkin, mostly.”
“Is there a reason they want to destroy the scythkin specifically?”
“They are in competition with our matriarchs for breeding locations, but unlike our matriarchs, they are not warriors. They are cowards.”
“So, they are females who wanted to breed, but their breeding areas were…”
“They lost them in battle.”
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. I can tell he is absolutely miserable, deeply grieving the loss of his family. I am told families are important. I have never had one myself, but I’ve seen previous owners with theirs and they seemed very invested in them.