CAVE ALIEN

by Renard, Loki

  I do not know how old she is, but it seems to me in this moment that she is eternal. There is something indestructible about this girl. In this place, at this moment, she is femininity itself, a succulent, curvaceous archetype of all that which is beautiful and ripe and desirable in creation. Her entire body moves with her song, full hips swaying, eye sparkling. She is nude, but unlike other humans, does not seem ashamed of it. Her braids are coming undone, the natural curl of her hair as wild as her song, sung in time with the growling of the volcano.

  I have borne witness to many natural beauties in my time, but none of them have done anything more than arouse my instinct to conquer. I was made to see beauty and to claim it, ravage it until there is nothing left. This female arouses an entirely different instinct in tandem with the need to conquer: the desire to protect.

  Strange. Scythkin possess. We rarely need to protect anything. It is not the way we work. We conquer, use, and move on.

  Another thought is worming its way into my mind, slowly, because I am distracted by the woman’s beauty, and charmed by her song.

  This is Earth.

  I can feel it in my bones, though I do not understand how it could be here. There is nothing logical to suggest that Earth could exist here and now, given that I was just in battle around the empty space where it once was. But everything about this place speaks to the cradle of human life, and none so much as this singing girl, who sways gently with the breeze, closing her eyes on occasion with an ecstatic expression. She is sweet, and innocent, and graceful, and she is full of natural beauty. I feel a pang inside my chest, a region of my body which is very much not given to pangs, when I realize that she, and everything else in this place, are inevitably doomed to terrible tragedy. We have seen the end of Earth, but now, caught in the dewy glow of a world made fresh in the morning light I can feel the hand of eternity on my shoulder, as if this woman has always stood in the field and sung her song, her fingers drifting through the soft heads of grain planted in uneven rows.

  Nothing in my biology allows me to appreciate natural beauty with anything more than the desire of a predator spotting prey. Our kind is made to seek out nutrient rich planets and destroy them. But our kind is also made to travel in clutches. And I am alone. There is no such thing as a lone scythkin. Even when we separate from the clutch, we are in constant contact, but since I was thrown from my ship and sucked into a temporal void created by the reappearance of this planet I have felt the full force of my unnatural solitude.

  Earth should not be here.

  I should not be here.

  But she is here, and that makes everything perfect. It turns all wrongs into rights. It makes the fact that I was dragged out of my life, through an unseen barrier in space, thrust into what feels like a past which does not belong to me, perhaps marooned on a temporal island where I am sure to never see those who share my blood or brood ever again, almost seem like a sacrifice worth having made.

  I breathe this fresh air in, and I watch this woman and I wonder what I did to deserve this beauty. Was I good? Does the universe reward the most brutal along with the most virtuous? I make a little snorting sound at the idea of the universe rewarding anything. Creation as I know it is nothing other than a meat grinder designed to spawn life and snuff it out almost as quickly.

  The wind picks up a little and parts the swaying grain. I am gifted a better view of the woman who sings. I see the light dash of freckles over her nose and cheeks, I see the flash of her amber eyes, the way her red mouth moves with the song. Everything about her is beautiful and pure, untouched in every way.

  Virgin.

  The word rises inside my mind. That is important, somehow, though I do not know why. I have never cared if the females I plunged myself inside were pure or not. It was better if they weren’t. A scythkin’s rutting is best reserved for a female who already has full possession of her erogenous capabilities.

  The wind changes. Instead of carrying her song to me, suddenly the breeze blows it away. And instead of me listening to her, she senses me instead, my scent carried by the wind. She turns, her eyes widening as she stares up at me, a looming creature of horns and fangs, standing dark and ominous in this perfect place.

  I stand my ground, not bothering to try to conceal myself. It is too late. She has already seen me, and I was never made to hide. Nothing about me is small or subtle, and nothing about me blends in with this soft world of grain and femininity.

  The song dies on her lips.

  I have killed the music, and the absence of it feels like pain.

  Tres

  They told me not to sing. So many times. They told me my songs bought ill-fate and misfortune to the tribe. That is why I sing out in the fields away from the village. They cannot hear me out here, cannot tell me to close my mouth and return to preparing myself for sacrifice.

  I did not believe the warnings before, but the veil between this world and the next must be thinning with Hyrrm’s rumbling because my song has summoned something dark and dangerous. It stays even when my song stops, a rough creature, looking down at me with eyes which burn like the lava lakes in the mountains above us.

  My body tells me that I have come in contact with a predator. The hairs on the back of my neck all rise individually in a slow ripple which carries down over my spine and across my arms, chills covering my body until they find my extremities and terminate in a cold rush which sweeps back to my core. I am frozen in something deeper than fear. It feels as though I have become stone. I cannot move. I cannot do anything other than stare, trying to take in the sight which reveals itself between the swaying strands of grain.

  Those eyes stare into mine and I feel the connection that is made when two beings with souls are connected via gaze. It is powerful even between people, but with this being, it is amplified. I am sensitive. I have always been told that I was strange. I feel things other people don’t seem to notice, or refuse to acknowledge.

  I open my mouth, looking for a word, but it’s not a word that comes out, it’s a note. A clear sound which trills from my soul and travels across the space between us.

  His lips part and I see the fangs inside his mouth. Long. Sharp. Like the beasts which prowl the jungles we avoid. Out on the river plains the only sharp teeth we need to worry about are the scaly ones which swim in the water. We get most of our water through small channels dug in the banks, channels which even now are running through the crops between us. What channel could hold a beast like the one I am now looking at back? None.

  The fangs part. He speaks.

  “Beautiful.”

  The word resonates through me, a compliment from a creature which does not look to me as though it should be able to speak, but we have all heard tales of the entities which roam this spirit haunted land. Everything has a spirit, even the crops which tickle my skin with the soft motions it makes with the wind. I wonder if he would be solid if I touched him, or if he would blow away with the breeze.

  I reach for him, even though I should be running. He speaks my tongue. Nobody speaks our tongue; we are the river people and the sounds we make do not translate well to other groups. When travelers come by, raiders or traders or hunters, we can almost never speak to them. But this creature knows the words in my soul. He speaks with a rough beauty which matches the lightness of my song, making me hum softly.

  A growl emerges from his throat. It is not an aggressive sound, it is a rhythmic sound, an enticement to my song which is teased back from my lips. He makes the sound again, and again, creating a line of bass over which my trilling sounds flow like the water rushing over rocks at the river’s edge.

  I have never sung with anyone besides Hyrrm, but this creature finds the lower registers I could never reach and matches them with my song, making it richer and more potent. Our voices entwine and become more beautiful together than they were apart. I never knew that my song was looking for another song, but I can feel the full melody flowing through me, made richer and more intense for his accompani
ment.

  There is nothing left for me in this world of man, but it seems to me that the one beyond is already laying claim to me. This encounter feels more real in seconds than all the interactions I have had with my fellow humans in the many years I have been alive. His bass stays constant and rhythmic, allowing my song to rise and fall as it will.

  I am being enchanted.

  Seduced.

  Those powerful eyes, those sharp fangs, those twitching horns, all suggest a beast who would be better to run from than to sing with, but I cannot help myself. The music wishes to be so strongly, it uses me as its instrument, and it claims him too, entwining us in an intimate embrace of souls.

  “Mine,” he growls the word in the middle of his serenade. He reaches for me, his hand massive, his claws long and sharp enough to cut air, but they do not leave so much as a mark on me as his fingers wrap around the tender flesh of my upper arm and pull me close.

  I am innocent. I have been kept pure. But I have all the instinct of a woman, and I know that the excitement rushing low between my thighs has a meaning and a purpose. I bask in his burning gaze, searching his eyes for clues as to his identity. He says nothing about himself. There are no words in his song, only the deep rumble which is powerful enough in and of itself to block out Hyrrm’s sounds. I have a sense of knowing that if I was made for anyone, I was made for him. Fire has always awaited me. I didn’t know it came in the form of a huge beast with little resemblance to my kind.

  His touch makes my heart race. Not a word is said between us. The song has done the work and now we are linked together. I feel recognition for this creature in my soul, a deep knowing. With every passing note and trill, I believe even more strongly that this is who I was made for. He must be the embodiment of Hyrrm, come to claim me early. I do not know how to resist, even if I wanted to. Women in Trelok’s tribe are not taught to say no. The word is barely used except when he uses it.

  His hand begins to wander my body. Every place he touches me seems to come alive anew. When his second hand takes hold of my hips to pull me forward and then lay me down in the grain, my song stops again. This time it is replaced with soft moans as this massive beast who is twice the size of me dives head-first between my thighs, his horns laid back over his head as he begins the thorough ritual of claiming my flesh.

  Is this death? The moment of dying? Have the villagers been spared the act of sacrifice? I do not know. My mind is muddled, my thoughts confused with lust. I am condemned and the condemned must be pure, but I want pleasure before the end comes to me. I want to know what my body is capable of feeling, because this strange touch is stirring up a heat inside me to match Hyrrm’s own intensity. He breathes against my sex, soft currents of air teasing me as his hands roam my body, finding little places I didn’t know felt good. I have always thought of myself as nothing more than meat waiting to be given to the mountain, but these feelings, racing through me, are igniting an understanding of myself which feels like nothing less than a revelation.

  “Oh!” I let out an exclamation of surprise which is far too little and also far too much as his tongue plays along the slit of my sex. This is the place I must remain pure, but those thoughts are chased from my head the moment I feel the flickering wetness against the sensitive parts of me. I thought I was all more or less one thing down there, a pocket of flesh never to be used. But his touch shows me that there are parts of greater sensitivity, one particular little spot which, when stimulated with a caress of his tongue, makes me cry out with excitement I cannot control.

  He growls almost constantly, his voice a purring rumble which blocks out the sounds Hyrrm is making. The day is starting to wane around us, gathering shadows making it more difficult to see, but I don’t need to see. I only need to feel.

  My head falls back, my mouth remains open, my cries no longer lyrical, but desperate as he feasts between my thighs, the motions of his mouth rough in some places but tender in most casting a spell of pleasure over me, binding me in toe curling place as I spread my thighs and surrender to the beast.

  I do not know how long the pleasure rolls through my body. I have lost sense of time, and of place. The world I know has melted away and been replaced with a new experience of such intensity I can only focus on it.

  Vulcan

  I have to claim her. My mating appendage is rock hard and ready to penetrate any kind of female cavity, including the one spread out before me, wet and puffy, guarded by the softest ramparts of female flesh, topped with ruby red hair. But there is something preventing me from doing more than pleasuring her tender flesh. I hope it isn’t what it feels like, something so disgustingly human I can’t even believe I am thinking the word: chivalry.

  As much as my flesh cries out to be inside the tight little hole I am exploring with my tongue, I know she is not ready. She is tight, and she is pure, the skin of her hymen still somehow intact. I sense that is important, perhaps to her survival. Human males can become aggressive if the seal on their female is broken when they come to poke her with their pathetic flesh swords.

  No human will ever have her. She is mine.

  I have to fight for clarity, remember where I am and why - or at least, where I think I am and why I might be there.

  Instead of slamming myself inside the appealingly tight little hole, I instead focus on the orgasms I am giving her. She has trembled and squirmed her way through several already, each one making her sweat and wail, her toes curling, heels sliding against the rich soil, her hips rising to my mouth, delivering the chalice of her body to the dangerous maw of my alien mouth.

  I have to be very careful not to hurt her, to use the agility of my tongue to pleasure her inside and out, slipping past the barrier of her hymen to penetrate her sex, tasting her innocent juices, then flickering out again to wrap around her engorged bud and even stroke there, up and down, tighter and then looser until she yells and wails with another one of those human climaxes which seem to overrule every sense in their limited bodies.

  “I can’t…” she breaths. “I can’t take anymo……OOOORRE!”

  Her voice rises to a new pitch as I suckle her puffy lower lips, clit and all, into my mouth and hum gently against her tender places until she writhes again, bucking like a wild thing. I love the smell of her, the wet mess of her sex, the red hair matted with her juices and my mouth, her thighs, belly, and breasts all slaked with salty sweat.

  This is a beautiful madness I am perpetrating, entirely against regulations, but what hot blooded scythkin could resist a virginal maiden willing to wrap her legs around his head and ride his mouth as if her life depended on it? That is what she is now doing, grunting and rutting and using me for her wanton pleasure with no regard for life or consequence.

  Tres

  More. I need more. I can sense the weakening of my body, the pathetic stamina which is stopping me from fully enjoying everything this beast has to offer in one tryst. My time is so short. There will never be another moment like this.

  “Please,” I whimper, my hands running over his strange body, jointed and ridged in ways no human form could ever take. “Please…. I need more…”

  More comes in the form of a finger thrust inside me, a digit which slips past the thin barrier denoting my purity, and finds the eager depths of my wetness. Yes. This is what I have always craved, something hard and strong inside me, a rutting member which makes my female senses soar. I know he has more for me. The proper rod, the part which sits at the center of a man and makes all the decisions for him. I need that part of him inside me. I need…

  “TRES?!”

  I hear my name screeched in scandalized tones.

  I look up to see that we are no longer alone. The sun is rising and the girls who come this way to go down to the sheltered bathing spot have caught me entwined in the arms of the monster.

  He growls, his lips pulling back in a fearsome snarl to reveal the full length of his fangs, each one of them made to pierce bone. The girls scream and run for the safety of the
village.

  My monster lover picks me up in his arms and I panic. The cold light of day is making me realize what madness this has been. Hyrrm still rumbles beyond, sending fresh clouds of thick smoke and ash into the air. Whatever this monster is, it is not Hyrrm. I have been seduced by something demonic, unnatural. I have displeased our mountain guardian… the enormity of it all makes me scream with fear. What have I done? Flailing and wriggling, I cry for the beast to let me go. He does, and I run, fleeing in the direction of the only thing I have ever known, the village where I have lived my entire life, and the people to whom I owe mine.

  I do not look back, even once. It isn’t until the eyes of the others come upon me that I am able to see what I was doing, catching a flash of myself through their gazes and realizing that I was being defiled beneath Hyrrm’s gaze, a faithless act from a traitorous woman. They will tell. They will tell, and then truly terrible things will befall me, I know it.

  I must throw myself on the mercy of Trelok, and hope that he still allows this day to go as planned, though I know in my heart it is already too late. The dawn on which I was supposed to die has already broken. I should be in Hyrrm’s molten embrace at this very moment.

  But the message has travelled far faster than I can. By the time I arrive, sweat laden, back at the place I have lived my entire life, it is all over.

  Trelok is waiting, along with the elder wives and the rest of the village. They are almost all female. Trelok does not admit to producing male heirs. At least that is what is said. Every now and then, a woman labors and instead of a baby being born, there is a basket put into the river to float away. This tribe of flaxen haired souls stare at me as I return. I know they see the marks of the monster’s love upon me. I try to hide the blushing marks and the light scratches where his strange body encountered mine, but there are too many to hide. All night long I gave myself to him, let him play upon my body and draw lust from the core of me, the desire which should have belonged to Hyrrm.