by Aline Ash
I let out a small breath. “And what do you want in return?”
“I wish to hear about your dream,” he replies.
His insistence in hearing about my dream is borderline creepy. But if he can really help ease this insufferable fucking pain, I guess it doesn’t really matter if I tell him or not. It’s not like it was some erotic, wet dream I have to be ashamed of.
“Fine,” I say. “Deal.”
Kon gets to his feet and pulls a small jar from somewhere I can’t see, then grabs a stool and sets it down beside the cubby.
“Lay down. On your front side,” he orders.
“Don’t your people dream?” I ask as lay down on my stomach.
“Of course,” he replies. “But I have never heard somebody laugh as they dream before.”
I nod as if it makes perfect sense. And maybe on some level it does. Hell, I have a hard time knowing up from down these days, so what the fuck do I know? As I lay there, he gently slides my tunic up, exposing my bare ass. As the air hits it, I hiss in pain and squirm in discomfort as the memory of being exposed like I was, in front of all those prisoners, comes flooding back. I feel my face burning red again and tears squeezing from the corners of my eyes. I had never felt so vulnerable and exposed as I did last night. But then, just as he was before I drifted into sleep, Kon is there. A soft, soothing noise issues from his throat that almost sounds like a purr as he leans close to me. And when he puts his hand on my head and starts to slowly stroke my hair again, I feel a sense of calm and peace descend over me once more.
“You are okay,” he says, his voice nearly hypnotic to me. “You are alive.”
“I’m okay. I’m alive,” I repeat back to him as if I’m in a trance.
“Good. You have a number of bruises and cuts on your backside. I am going to apply a salve,” he says. “And as I do, you will tell me about your dream.”
His tone leaves no room to argue or renege on my deal, so I guess I have no choice but to tell him. I groan in agony when I feel him apply a cold, wet, viscous substance to my skin. He moves his hands, working it into the cuts on my ass.
“Your dream,” he prompts me.
“Right. So, back home on Earth, I was a cop,” I begin. “And I was dreaming about a good bust.”
I tell him the entire dream and how it made me feel. Kon listens attentively, seeming to be hanging on my every word and only interrupts when I say a word he does not recognize or his universal translator chip can’t decipher and he needs it explained.
I keep getting distracted though. The feel of his hands on my body sends small currents of pleasure running through me. It makes me think about the way he’d explored my body, the way he’d touched me. It reminds me of having his fingers inside me, my senses all recalling the blend of pleasure and pain that gripped me.
“Your story,” he prompts me, his voice slightly huskier and breathier than before. “Finish.”
“Right. Sorry.”
As I speak, I see his nostrils flaring, as if he’s truly a predator that’s scenting the air. And it makes me wonder if he can smell my arousal. I cut a quick glance at his crotch and see that his cock is thick and rigid. Yeah, he can definitely smell me.
I clear my throat and keep talking, trying to ignore the sight of his massive, engorged cock and how wet his touch is making me. If he’s distracted by the sexual tension crackling in the cell, he’s doing a much better job of hiding it than I am.
He seems fascinated by my story and I can’t imagine why. I mean, in the bigger picture of police work, it’s small potatoes. I snagged a weenie wagger. It’s not like I took down Jack the Ripper. But I do remember it being one of my first busts and something I was really proud of. So that’s probably why it featured in one of my dreams—a little bright spot in this world of misery I’m existing in.
And when I’m finished with my story, I realize the stinging in my ass is gone. I don’t hurt anymore. Yeah, my ass feels like it’s been slathered in cold snot but I’m somehow pain-free. I turn and look at him.
“That is amazing,” I gasp.
“It is made from the root of the ho’typ plant on my homeworld,” he replies as he puts the top back on the small jar. “After I secured my bid to be your Punisher, I purchased a jar, knowing you would require it.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I feel almost human again.”
“Thank you for sharing your dream,” he replies. “It was…fascinating.”
My eyes linger on Kon’s for a long moment, and I can feel myself growing impossibly wet. The big Tabiean inhales deeply, an inscrutable expression crossing his face, but I know he’s smelling my arousal. As if answering my thought, I see that blue nimbus appears around him again. So I wasn’t imagining it. I suppose it’s a Tabiean thing to glow when they get aroused. Strange, but no stranger than walking, talking, giant lizards, I guess.
As I lay here, my mind is spinning with a myriad of thoughts as my body thrums with desire. I long to feel his hands on me again, to feel his fingers moving inside me. And as I watch him shift uncomfortably on his stool, doing his best to hide his long, thick erection, I know the same thoughts are passing through his mind as well.
The sexual energy filling the room around us is enough to power Boston for the next hundred years. I lick my lips, moistening them as they suddenly grow dry, and see Kon’s eyes fixed on the tip of my tongue and mouth. The need is burning a hole through the center of me.
I clearly knew how to stay away from men and how to control my desire for all my life. And yet, with Kon I can’t simply push it away, as hard as I try. It’s like a splinter just beneath my skin, a constant irritant that I can’t ignore.
Kon clears his throat and stands, moving to lean against the wall on the other side of the cell. It’s as if he is trying to diffuse the sexual tension by putting himself as far away from me as he can.
It doesn’t work. The entire cell is filled with that tension and there’s no escaping it.
Eventually, though, his silence, coupled with my exhaustion, takes over and lulls me into a deep, thankfully dreamless sleep.
Chapter Seven
Marissa
When I wake, I see that night has fallen outside and am slightly disoriented, not knowing how long I’d slept. But I have to admit that I feel much better. I feel really good, actually, and it makes me wonder if that hippo plant salve or whatever Kon had called it had some sort of topical narcotic in it or something. Or whether it really did accelerate healing as he claimed.
I just can’t see something working that quickly. But then, there was a time not all that long ago when I couldn’t believe that talking lizard and furry purple cat-people were a thing either, yet here we are.
“If you are to survive here, I should explain to you how the system works,” Kon announces as I’m still trying to clear the sleep from my head. “You have to know how to work within the system. I must teach you how to look after yourself.”
“Why, are you going somewhere?” I ask.
A strange expression crosses his face, but he is unreadable. I can no more pry the thoughts from his mind than I could squeeze blood from a stone.
“I will simply say I may not always be here to protect you,” he replies. “And in the event I am not, you must know how to survive.”
I don’t know if he’s talking about being killed, being paroled—if parole is even a thing here—or what. But whatever it is it’s important to know, so I give him a nod and pay attention to what he has to say.
He explains that this prison operates like some creepy and violent reality show run and viewed by the Gargolians. They broadcast everything that happens within the prison, and the individual prisoners are rewarded with points they call astrat, that function as the prison’s currency, for acts of violence they commit. It sounds like a sociopathic, homicidal version of Big Brother.
Everything in this place is legal, including rape and murder. I just had the unfortunate luck to murder somebody who meant something to one of the
guards. I still received astrat for the kill but I also earned the hatred of one of the more sadistic Gargolians in the place. Yay for me.
With these astrat, you can buy almost anything. There are apparently very few things that aren’t available for purchase legally, but just like in the prisons on Earth, the black market thrives. Goods, like food or medicine, can be bought with astrat and then exchanged for other illegal goods and these can be sold further. Both prisoners and the guards enjoy this prison economy. Due to his wins in the amusement fights, Kon is a local star and has enough astrat to get almost anything from the outside. But the downside to the astrat system is that the prisoners with the lowest scores are often selected for the more vicious events they hold, events guaranteed to end in a grisly death, which are very popular with the Gargolian audience.
The viewers of this horrible program can bid on fights, they can bid on punishments and torture, they can bid on any sick, twisted, sadistic thing you can think of, including who fights in their featured matches. He also tells me that the producers of this show will often set things in motion to guarantee a more spectacular event. They’re always trying to increase viewership, which means increasing the level of violence in the prison in the name of ratings and money.
“So, you will need to ensure that you keep your astrat high,” he explains. “Which means you will need to get used to killing.”
“Wonderful,” I say.
A flutter of nausea churns my belly as I absorb his words. I have to kill to survive. But I’m not a killer. The thing with that Gargolian woman was an accident. I didn’t actually kill her. How am I supposed to intentionally take a life?
“Do you understand all I have told you?”
I nod because there’s nothing left for me to do. In this new world I’ve been crammed into, it really is kill or be killed. And I don’t know that I have it in me to do what it takes to survive.
The chime sounds on the door, and it slides open. The big guard who hates me, G’rin, steps in with another guard pushing a cart that floats on air like it’s magic. I’m still amazed by the technology of this place, and though I’d love to learn more about it, I don’t know that I’ll live long enough to get the chance.
“Feeding time,” G’rin announces.
The guard pushes the cart against the wall with a loud thud and moves behind G’rin, who is standing there looking at me with those cold reptilian eyes.
“Production liked your little show in the arena last night,” G’rin says, his voice harsh and raspy. “They liked it a lot. Viewers too. They loved watchin’ the Beast here punish your weak flesh.”
“Glad to hear it,” I snipe.
“Liked you so much, in fact, production’s made a point of puttin’ you on the fight schedule,” G’rin goes on. “Gonna throw you in the pit to see if you can keep that head on your shoulders.”
Kon crosses his massive arms over his chest and stares daggers through the Gargolian.
G’rin flashes him a wide smile. “Production also wants to know how you and your little pet here are getting along. Thinks it makes for a good show.”
A low, deep, rumbling growl passes Kon’s lips. “I will not be viewed in my cell. Have you not learned that lesson already?”
G’rin shrugged. “We already got the cameras in. While you were in the arena last night.”
Kon’s low growl grows louder, and the inscrutable expression on his face melts away, one of a dark, abiding rage taking its place.
“I will break them too,” Kon says.
“If you can find them,” G’rin taunts. “They’re better, smaller cameras. Not easy to see.”
“I will find them,” Kon tells him.
G’rin leans closer to Kon and lowers his voice, but I can still hear every word he says.
“I know you like your privacy and don’t like to be viewed. And there’s a way to get your privacy back, Kon,” G’rin says then turns to look directly at me. “All you got to do is kill your bunkmate here. She dies, so does the interest in watching you when you’re not killin’ somebody.”
Silence descends over the cell, and the air is thick with tension. I stare at G’rin, rage building within me at his casual suggestion. Along with the rage is the fear that Kon might do just that. I mean, I don’t really know this guy. He’s an alien and a criminal. Just because he’s been playing gentle with me doesn’t mean he won’t still kill me to regain his privacy and to earn some extra points. I cut a glance at the big Tabiean and can’t gauge which way he’s leaning right now. I’d like to say he would never even consider it given that he’s cared for me. But the truth is, I can’t be sure.
“Just a thought,” G’rin chuckles.
The guards leave the room, and a moment later, Kon picks up the stool he’d been sitting on and hurls it against the stone wall of the cell with all of his strength. There is a sharp crack a split second before the stool shatters into a thousand pieces. He throws his head back and lets out a roar of rage that reverberates around the cell so loud, I’m afraid it’s going to split my skull open. It sends a lance of fear straight through my heart and I cringe backward, tucking myself back into the sleeping cubby to get out of range of Kon’s rage.
Slowly, he starts to calm down, though I can see it’s taking a Herculean effort from him. He stands with his back to me, but I can see his entire body heaving as if he is still gripped by rage and breathing heavily because of it.
“I hate this place. I hate the guards,” Kon says without turning around. “But most of all, I hate the guntas who watch this. Who force us to dance and kill for their amusement. I would tear this all down with my bare hands if I could.”
Kon finally turns around, and although his face is still twisted with rage, he seems to be on the downslope of his explosion. I let out a small sigh of relief. An enraged Tabiean is not something you want to see, let alone be trapped in a small cell with. I now know this.
He sits on the edge of the sleeping cubby, a look of frustration blended with defeat upon his face. I don’t know what Kon did to get himself thrown in here. For all I know, he’s a victim just like I am. Perhaps he too was stolen from his homeworld. But he is not somebody unaccustomed to, nor afraid of, violence.
I can see in his face that he’s done his fair share of killing, and not only in here. As a cop, I learned to read these things very quickly. And although Kon is not human and my instincts about him can be wrong, I somehow do feel that he is not the same sort of criminal that the Gargolians in my first cell were. He has killed, but he does not take pleasure in it. There’s something very different about him as if he despises violence just as much as I do.
“It does not matter,” he says softly. “I will not be here much longer.”
I cock my head and look at him. “What do you mean?”
He hesitates, looking almost as if he realized he had spoken out of turn. But then that mask of cool indifference he usually wears slips back into place and the moment is gone.
“Nothing,” he says. “You are required to fight tomorrow. You need to rest and let the ho’typ salve finish its work. You must heal.”
“No, I want to know—”
“You will sleep.”
Kon slides into the cubby and lays down. He takes hold of me and pulls me over to him. I nestle myself against his soft, downy fur, doing my best to quiet my racing mind. It was such a cryptic comment, and I have no idea what he meant, but it makes me shudder. Kon perhaps thinking I’m cold, wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me tighter to him.
With nothing left for me to do, I close my eyes and try to shut my mind off enough to get some sleep. If I have to fight tomorrow, Kon was right, I need to rest and heal.
Chapter Eight
Kon
The first thing I become aware of is her scent. It is layered and complex. I can smell her sweat, her natural aroma, and as she stirs in my arms, The second thing is the warm, soft press of her flesh against mine. She fascinates me, and all I seem to want to do is protect h
er. To save her from the vast collection of terrible beings that lurk in this prison.
I revel in the feeling of her warm, delicate body against mine for a moment longer. I listen to her steady, rhythmic breathing, and inhale her aroma, savoring her heady, intoxicating fragrance. My jura thickens even more, and I shift uncomfortably to avoid pressing it to her.
Although I want this female, I must continue to deny myself. Letting myself travel down that path can only have grave consequences for me, my friends, and my people. I know if I claim this female as my own, I will let myself get distracted. And the fate of my world and my tribe depends on me keeping control of myself and my head on straight. It depends on me being focused and with the bigger picture always in mind.
Careful not to wake Marissa, I slip out of the sleeping nook and walk to the spring. I drink down a couple cups of the cool water, letting it refresh me as it cleanses my thoughts. I let it wash away the irrational emotions that have sprung up with me. Refilling my cup again, I carry it over to the low, flat stone in the corner and take a seat. I watch Marissa as she sleeps, listen to her murmuring, and watch her chest rise and fall in that steady, even pace.
There is something about this female that clouds my mind. Compromises my judgment. It is making me soft and weak at a time when I can least afford it. There is too much at stake for me to be feeling the way I am. And yet, I cannot shut those feelings off. I have tried numerous times. I continue to grow softer. Weaker. More sentimental.
Before Marissa came, the Gargolians would throw prisoners to my cell for amusement. They would bid amongst themselves how long a given prisoner would last. It often was not long. I desire my privacy. I desire to be left alone. They tried to give me a roommate a couple dozen times. I lost count somewhere after the fifteenth prisoner I tore apart and left in a bloody, mangled heap for them to clean up. I do not enjoy killing, but I take solace in the fact that they were dangerous, violent, evil criminals the universe is better off without.