Bambi's Alien Abduction

by Aubrey Cara

  Keeping his spooky eyes locked on mine, he sits down. He’s still nearly as tall as me and just as intimidating sitting down as standing up. “I will deal with the matters of my planet after…”

  “After what?” I asked foolishly, my trepidation rising.

  “After I administer your cafkah.” His voice is deep, his words menacing. “By my count I owe you two.” He pats his knee, and my belly flips. “Now, come here.”

  “Oh no.” The thing is, I’m not into a lot of kinky shit. I don’t need fifty shades of anything. I don’t hold a secret desire to be tied up or told what to do, but spankings? They have a weird effect on me. I had this jerk boyfriend, freshman year of college, who was, at his best a lousy thirty-second lay. But he would spank my ass before sex, and I kept him around a lot longer than I should have because I was into it.

  Super into it.

  I doubt Oathar’s spanking will be nearly as pleasant, but just the threat of what’s about to happen is causing flash flooding in ladytown junction. I hold my hands up as if to ward him off. “Whoa there, big guy. Don’t you think we should talk about this?”

  “No talking.” Reaching out a long arm, he snags my wrist and propels me forward over his lap.

  I squirm around on his oak tree thighs, trying not to lean my weight on his cut. “You’re going to hurt your leg,” I argue.

  “The only thing that is going to hurt is your posterior.” He flips my skirt up, and I feel the scrape of his claw before air kisses my ass and my panties fall to my ankles in shreds.

  Oh my heavens. He’s cut my undies off. My only pair.

  “Your actions endangered yourself and the workers of this mine.” That’s the only warning I get before he lights up my rump-shaker like it’s the Fourth of July.

  I whip off his lap, and he shoves me back down. My struggles are useless. I kick out, but he holds my legs down with one of his own before his hand comes down again. I can’t hole in the embarrassing squeal escaping me. I squeeze my thighs together and flex my ass, squirming, but the smacks keep coming.

  Each stinging smack to my booty hurts like he’s branding his handprint on my booty. I cry out and reach to cover my continental divide, but he grabs my wrist and holds it to the small of my back.

  “Insubordination will not be tolerated,” he lectures. The clapping sound of his hand on my flesh ricochets off the little cave walls as my ass burns like a forest fire. “Anyone could have been killed. What if I had already implanted my yhar? What if you were injured?”

  Hair clings to my face as tears stream from my eyes with the humiliating indignity of it all. The second his hold loosens, I reach back again, covering my bottom, and he pins my wrist to the small of my back a second time, not missing a beat. His paddle-like hand comes down, and a whimper that has nothing to do with pain escapes my throat.

  The heat of my bottom is turning into a heady rush of satisfaction I’m powerless to stop.

  “Please, no more,” I cry even as my traitorous hips rise eagerly for attention. I squeeze my knees together, but it in no way alleviates the pressure building in my fun zone. There’s about to be fireworks over ladytown junction.

  In terms of immediate gratification, a few more whacks will be hitting the spot, quite literally.

  His hand settles on my warmed-over bottom, kneading the tender flesh, doing nothing to cool down the eager beaver inside me. I can tell the moment he realizes I’ve been enjoying myself more than I should.

  He sniffs the air.

  His egg-launching billy club inflates against my hip.

  I’m nearly too aroused to be embarrassed, but my face heats even as I wave my tush, hoping for more.

  His long fingers delve between my legs, and I hold my breath while he boldly goes where no other Alogorian has gone before. His claws are retracted as he spreads my wetness along my lady bits.

  “Your mating instinct has awakened?”

  Avoiding eye contact, I bite my lip and shrug a dainty shoulder.

  “From the cafkah?” The incredulity of his voice is a tad humiliating.

  Geez, can’t a girl enjoy a good cafkah now and again?

  He’s quiet for a long moment, and I chance a peek over my shoulder.

  He’s inspecting his wet fingers. He spots me watching him as he’s bringing his digit to his lips. A feral gleam lights his eyes as he tastes me. That is definitely hotter than it should be.

  Poised, waiting to see what he will do, I’m flipped upside down, my ass in the air, my thighs on his shoulders. “Holy mother.”

  His long tongue darts out along my core, lapping at me, and I melt. I’ve been in some strange positions, and I can certainly roll with this. He parts my folds, diving in and out as he tastes and explores. All worked up from the spanking, it does not take me long before I’m gripping onto his muscular thighs while I moan in delight.

  The world spins again, and suddenly I’m straddling his waist, and he’s reaching between us and whipping out Mr. Man.

  Holy mother of alien cocks. The term “wrecked pussy” comes to mind at the sight of this thing. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

  He lifts me by the waist, and I grab ahold of his shoulder to steady myself. “You cannot deny your mating instinct.”

  “I’m not denying per se—” He grabs my hips and rocks me against his hard length, not for penetration, but for tease.

  “You need my root deep inside you.”

  Whoa, boy. Do I ever.

  I grab his ridges and bring his mouth down to mine. He doesn’t let me control the kiss. His sensuous lips sip at mine until his wondrous tongue turns demanding.

  My toes barely reach the floor, so I settle for grinding on his wang as he holds me against him. He paws at my shirt, and I whip it up and over my head so he doesn’t tear it with his claws. He palms my breast, growling into my mouth, and I groan, my body swamped with blind need.

  “More,” I command. I want him moving inside me, hard and fast—

  “Yon Tor? Is that you in my yura? Yon Tor, is all well?”

  It takes a second or ten before the pounding on our rock slab of a door penetrates my sex-muddled mind.

  Oathar curses. “I swear to the ancestors, I will have you implanted with my yhar before the second moon reaches zenith.” Lifting me by the waist, he sets me on my feet.

  I whimper a little. I was so close.

  Too close.

  Mother Mary, I was about to bang an alien who probably shares ancestry with Godzilla. And, in all the romp-time fun, I forgot what sexy time with Beast Boy really means. Little Alogorian babies.

  My legs are unsteady as I snatch up my shirt and try to catch my breath.

  When Oathar picks up the slab covering the door as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, the muscles in his arms, shoulders, and back flex tight all the way down to his perfectly sculpted ass. My mouth goes dry. My brain is a little overheated right now and has yet to send out the message I’m not DTF to the rest of my body.

  I smooth my skirt down but realize too late the remains of my panties are still on the floor in the middle of the room, a scrap of pink cotton accusations.

  “All is well, Norik.”

  Norik’s nostrils flare, and he sniffs the air in confusion. His eyes go straight to my undies, his mouth opening and closing. “My apologies, Yon Tor.”

  “No need. I have matters that must be attended to before we may leave for my domicile. May Bombee and I make use of your yura for a time?”

  I hide my smile. At least one good thing came from our make-out session. I’m back to being Bombee.

  “Of course, Yon Tor.”

  “Excellent. Have some sustenance prepared for a shift from now. Cooked strips of meeka or gupa would be best. Not too well done. Bombee’s blunt teeth are not capable of masticating well.”

  Norik bows. “Right away, Yon Tor.”

  “Have it set out in the ancestral cave. We will eat there, and have Jhyr and Niin join us. And Vhars. He should be informed of wha
t is going on. Your presence will be appreciated also, Norik.”

  Oathar turns in the doorway giving, me an appreciative once-over, and I flush. “I am taking Bombee to the bathing hall. Please ensure we are not disturbed.” Oathar gives Norik a pointed look. If Alogorians blushed, I’m quite positive the burly foreman would be turning red right now.

  “Come.” Oathar holds out his hand and I sigh, taking it.

  “You really need to stop telling me to ‘come’ like a stray pet,” I mutter. And I really need to stop enjoying how well my hand fits in his. And stop my body from swaying toward his like a cat in heat as we walk.

  I try to take my hand back, but he grips me tighter.

  We make our way down a passage that is more hallway than tunnel. The floors are still rough-cut stone, as are the walls, but the floor does not slope, and there are doorways instead of side tunnels along the way.

  “Is there a directive you prefer?” he asks.

  I make a face, because no, there is not, and change the subject. “Your son is a giant shit.” I’d prefer seeing Niin again more than I do Vhars.

  Oathar bristles, but a sadness fills his eyes. “He is not bowel matter. He is only young.” He says this as if it’s an excuse he’s made for Vhars before, but no longer believes.

  “How old is he?”

  “In Earth solars? He would be close to twenty.”

  Dear heavens, that’s nearly as old as I am. “And how old are you?” I’m curious to know how far his December is from my May.

  “I am around thirty-five of your Earth solars. My father arranged my first breeding when I was young. He was a second son and did not think he would ever need to sire young. My uncle, the Yon Tor before my father, and his two sons, died in a shuttle crash. His sons hadn’t participated in a breeding season yet. As a result, my father became Yon Tor and had me late in life. By the time he was eligible to mate once again, he was too old. It is one of the reasons he encouraged me to find other compatible breeding species. We need a more ready ability to breed.

  “My father was one of many Alogorians who chose to live off world. When he returned to rule, he realized we needed to make changes in Alogoria. Too many of us were choosing to leave instead of staying and breeding.”

  The heated way his gaze rakes over me over reminds me of my role in his and his father’s plans. I can’t imagine the weight of responsibility that rests on their shoulders. In a way, my heart goes out to both of these men who want what’s best for their planet, but I can’t help resenting being played as their pawn.

  The echoing roar of water and steamy warmth hit me before I see it. Whatever I was about to say dies on my lips as he leads me into what must be the bathing room. It’s a cavern, really, sculpted out of the side of the mountain. The ceiling is high and rounded. The usual salmon pink color stone is shades of purple and magenta. A twenty-foot high, and possibly even wider waterfall runs along one long wall. Steam rolls off the water.

  “How is this possible?”

  His lips tug up at the corners. He seems pleased with my reaction. “Water runs under the mountains. It is pumped up here, and filtered as it drains down through carbon and sedimentary rocks.”

  The room is full of moist air, and I’m hit by a gentle spray as I get closer to the water’s edge. Without stepping into the wading pool in front of the falls, I pad over to the end closest to us and hold my hand under the gentle falls, gasping. “It’s so warm.”

  “This mountain is connected to the ancestral caves and has magma chambers running deep below the surface,” he boasts. “The water below the mountain is actually too hot even for Alogorian skin but naturally cools somewhat as it travels through cool stone.”

  I glance over at him and do a double take. So focused on the water, I didn’t notice him shucking his pants and boots, and he is standing there in all his glory…but his penis is gone, as if it never was there.

  I point, my mouth opening and closing.

  He looks at me and mutters something that sounds a lot like, “humans” under his breath. “Many species do not wear their genitalia outside their body. I imagine it is uncomfortable and dangerous to have it dangling about at all times.”

  “Yes, but where does it go?”

  He chuckles in a way that sends warm tingles of pleasure through me. “It will appear when it is supposed to.” He pulls me to him. In two quick moves, my shirt and skirt are on the floor.

  I squeak. “What are you doing?”

  “We are bathing.”

  “Together?” I cover ladytown junction, but he goes for my bra with a contemplative frown.

  He tugs on a strap. “How do you remove this contraption?” His nail elongates and I panic.

  “No-no-no. I can take it off.” Before I can reach behind me to unclasp the garment, he snags the front strip of cloth between my breasts with his claw, and my bra pops open, my breasts bursting free like a pop can of biscuits. “You destroyed my only bra!”

  In a fit of ridiculous modesty, I throw my arms over my chest as if five minutes ago his tongue wasn’t doing search and rescue mission in ladytown.

  With a disapproving sound, he moves my hands, fully exposing me to his gaze. “You may bare yourself to me. I enjoy the sight of your human flesh.”

  Whoa boy.

  The way his heated gaze trails over me, stopping at all the appropriate places, is making it hard to remember why I need to keep my knees locked.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Elder’s Wisdom

  There is no more spiritual or sacred endeavor than creating life.

  OATHAR

  Bombee’s modesty is a curious thing. She shuffles her feet, her eyes downcast, hands fisted by her sides, and I catch her mating scent once more. Much like her reaction to the cafkah, I do not understand this. Nor do I understand this driving need inside me, begging me to mate her.

  My root is prodding my slit, and her eyes widen in surprise as she takes a step away in fear. I grab her wrist, halting her retreat. “Do not be afraid, Bombee. It is natural for my root to emerge this way.” I take her hand, placing it along my seam, and she gasps as I elongate in her touch.

  While she explores me in fascinated wonder, I can’t help but cup her orbs, weighing them. I give one of the dark buds a cursory pinch, drawing a hiss of sound and her startled gaze rises to meet mine.

  “My nipples are sensitive,” she says but does not move to stop my touch.

  “Knee-pals,” I sound out the word for the buds as I draw on the points more gently now.

  Under a layer of soot, her delicate skin is flushed a warm hue, alerting me to her fever to mate. Her breath is coming more rapidly. There is so much of Bombee I want to learn. From tasting her, I know her eggs are ready for my yhar, but I must see to her needs before I can fully take her. She is mine to care for, and already I have taken her out in the Storm of Ghbril, Niin said she was nearly stung by a xahk, and I nearly lost her to a Monrok.

  I also railed at her over the cave-in, but I am to blame.

  Bombee is a little warrior who has been taken from her planet. Of course, she would try to escape. I could see plain on her face, when she spoke of the Monrok saving her friends, her desire to find them was predominant, to all else. She did not understand just how dangerous the Monrok was. I knew and I still let her go with him with no other protection than Niin. And I enjoyed administering her cafkah far too much.

  Taking her hand off my aching root, I lead her to the slope to wade over to the fresh water pouring in. I unwind the plaits in her fur, allowing my fingers to sink down to her unridged skull, feeling along the top for horns.

  Her eyes close in enjoyment. She shows every indication she is ready to mate. Her need is fragrant in the air, yet I wonder again at the human state of being horny.

  I turn us so my shoulders bear the brunt of the water, suddenly worried the spray will be too warm or too harsh for Bombee’s delicate skin, but she pushes in beside me, smoothing the tangle of her fur away from her face, moaning lo
udly.

  “This feels amazing,” she coos.

  Indeed, the hot stream is glorious on my aching muscles, but it’s nothing compared to watching Bombee bathe. Water sluices over her, highlighting her glorious curves. I want to run my hands over her, pet the little tuft of fur over her mound.

  “You have any soap?”

  Distracted by thoughts of how it will feel to plant my root inside her, it takes me a moment to realize she asked me something. “Sohp?” Like many of her words, this does not translate.

  “Oh, come on. You know, something that you clean yourself with that smells pretty.” She mimics rubbing herself with her hand.

  “Of course.” I scoop up some sands where we are standing and plop it in her hair, scrubbing her scalp.

  She screeches, “Did you just put sand in my hair?”

  “Yes, you asked me for sohp. Is that not what you wanted?”

  “That’s not soap. That’s sand!”

  I shrug. “What is the difference?” It is infused with the oils of the ashwana blossoms and what we use to clean ourselves, although we do not have fur.

  She lets out a long sigh, like she’s been through an awful ordeal. “Soap is a lot less gritty, for one thing.” She scoops more sand and scrubs at her underarms and legs, leaving angry red trails where the sand has scraped at her skin.

  I grab her hand, stopping her from injuring herself further. “Is it hurting your flesh?”

  She rolls her eyes at me and shakes her head. She does this often, and I wonder if it’s a human thing. “A little exfoliation won’t hurt me. If this were a spa, I’d probably be paying through the nose to have some spa therapist rip my skin off with this stuff.”

  I have no idea what this means. A medical practitioner who rips off skin? “Why would you pay through your nostrils?” How is that even possible?

  She does not answer, only takes another handful of sand and rubs around her elbow and down her arm. “At least it smells good, right?”

  I nod still watching her with concern, but some of the areas she’s scrubbed are already turning a healthy shade of pink, fading from the angry red they were. I relax and grab sand to wash myself. Yet again, I feel as if I am somehow failing in caring for this human.