Alien Alphas: Twenty-Three Naughty Sci-Fi Romance Novellas

by Grace Goodwin

  The short dress, made of animal skin, exposes most of her toned legs, and if she were to bend over just a bit, we would all see both her pussy and the inviting cleft of her bottom, and its promise of pleasure for the warrior who defeats her.

  My father smiles. Is he remembering his first hunt? Does he remember chasing my mother? He still bears the scar she gave him with the bone knife so like the one carried by the virgin we are watching. The scar on his face is silver, like his hair. How often have I heard him boast of the day he earned it? How often have I seen my mother’s flush and smile as he brags of how she sank her blade into him before he sank his cock into her?

  We are a proud race. We are a sexual race. Even the old ones fuck, and boast of fucking.

  The female in the clearing is walking stealthily. She is looking to her left and right. She should be looking behind her, for she does not see what I do. My brother, Rothar, is prowling through a patch of underbrush, quiet and catlike. She circles, her eyes scanning the perimeter of the clearing, but she does not see.

  He is still as stone now. He must be careful. Men have died on Claiming Days. If a female kills a male, she only has to re-enter the ritual once more. If she kills a second, she is free, and equal to the men of the village.

  This female has killed before. She is cunning and dangerous. It does not surprise me that Rothar wants her. A virgin like this, once conquered, will bear strong children. I sense my father’s fear. He has lost three sons in war. He only has two left. He does not want to lose one today, not like this.

  Careful, my brother.

  I hope he can sense my silent warning. The ritual feeds the fire inside an Ythilian warrior, and Rothar is already a hothead. I grip the arm of my stone chair but do not betray the emotion I feel.

  His cry resounds throughout the valley as he leaps from the undergrowth. The virgin turns, swinging her arm in an arc. My father cannot keep his composure; a strangled cry escapes him as blood seeps from the crescent-shaped cut that now runs from Rothar’s right nipple to his left hipbone. But it is not a deep cut, and my brother leaps back, evading what would have been a killing blow had the slice been deeper.

  They circle one another; this female will not run now. My brother is faster and stronger. To flee would put her at a disadvantage. She must face him, and she does, bravely. My cock is hard. I want to be there. I want to be in his place. But I am not. My time will come, but this is Rothar’s day.

  He is smiling. She is not. Her face is a mask of defiant fury. She tosses the knife up in the air, and catches it in her left hand as she reaches for the second blade housed in a sheath slung across her back. She’s armed with two weapons now. She lunges forward, but Rothar is fast for his size. He drops and rolls. She misses and falls forward, losing her balance. Her blade hits the ground. My brother leaps up and kicks it away. She only has one knife now.

  He laughs at her. I know he’s trying to make her angry, to enrage her into a mistake. Her face is unreadable. She’s unbelievably fast as she curls into a ball and rolls between legs he had parted in a battle stance. Rothar jumps away just before she can hamstring him with the blade. And I can see that playtime is over for him. When he faces her, I see uncertainty in her eyes, for my brother is angry now. He’s realized what he’s up against.

  She leans down and swings a cupped fistful of dirt in his direction—a clever move had Rothar not anticipated it. Being in battle has him prepared for anything, and when she tilts her upper body to the right to affect her attack, my brother moves in to strike her raised shoulder with the flat of his foot.

  It’s not a hard kick, but enough of one to throw her backwards. She staggers, desperate to right herself, and fails. As she hits the ground, he is on top of her. I see the flash of a blade. She’s screaming as she tries to cut him, but he catches her wrist and holds it aloft. Their eyes lock as he squeezes. He could easily break her wrist, but I know he doesn’t want to, and I imagine the relief when she drops the blade with a cry.

  Rothar clutches her, rolling them both away from her weapon. She is on top, then he is, then her again as they roll. But he is always in control. Her cry of fury rings through the rocks. My brother stands, picks her up, and turns her away from him. He lets her go, and this, too, is by design. She begins to run, but only gets a few paces before he catches her. This catch and release is repeated, each time making her feel more helpless as he emphasizes who is predator and who is prey. Her breasts bounce as she makes each journey of only a few yards. Her confidence is replaced by fear. She has been outmatched. She knows it. Today she will be claimed.

  Each time Rothar catches her, he releases her in the direction of a small group of smooth boulders. On his final capture, he leans her over one. She kicks and cries and claws, but when he pulls her skirt up, I can see how her inner thighs glisten. He is the first male to make her wet. The other died before he could honor her with mastery.

  My brother grabs his wild virgin’s hair. Her head jerks back as he rips the front of her dress and his fingers find her breasts, hanging there like ripe fruit. He pinches first one nipple, then the other. She grits her teeth and cuts her eyes at him, but does not cry out. She will make him earn her response. My brother slaps her ass. The sound of his hard palm on the springy flesh only increases my longing for a female of my own.

  I watch as Rothar kicks her legs apart. Her pussy is spread open, and wet. Despite her defiance, she is trembling with need for him. Her body calls to him, even as her mind seeks freedom. Rothar unsheathes his cock, rubbing the head of it against the deep pink folds of her pussy. He could tease her more, could remind her again and again of his superior strength, but he is merciful. The dangerous dance is nearly over. She will be his.

  She whimpers when he enters her. He is not gentle, and she puts up one last fight before falling into sweet surrender. Her earlier cries of anger are replaced by moans of passion tinged with sadness, for she has lost more than just her virginity. This maiden warrior has now lost her freedom, and while she will always be afforded respect for having killed a male, she will be ruled over by my brother for the rest of her life. She will answer to him, and he will have dominion over her body. She will be his to protect, to fuck, and—when necessary—to punish.

  It is our way.

  “She could have been yours.” My father is watching me watch my brother. I glance at him, then turn my attention back to my fortunate sibling. After coming with a shuddering cry, he’s pulled himself from the spent body of his mate, and is lifting her into his arms.

  Yes, she could have been mine, as could any of the other women now forever bonded to the men who tamed them on the fields below. But then again, there are still more warriors in the hunt than there are virgins. I will not be the only one without a mate. Only three warriors remain who have not joined the hunt, and I am among them. Our chance is coming.

  “Next time,” I say, clasping my father’s shoulder. But as I stand, I’m already dreading the wait. My cock aches for what my brother enjoys. I’m past time for mating. I need a female. But I also need the loyalty of my warriors. The War of the Seven Stars went on for far too long. The raids were brutal, both on our primary mineral resource of Flame Stones, and on our females, who were unexpectedly abducted by the hundreds while our warriors were on the battlefield. It was the latter that forced our surrender and the treaty. What else could we do? For the first time since our ancestors left Earth to hybridize with the Arthulians, we Ythilians were on the brink. Another setback and the society we had worked for would die out.

  We are a proud race. This defeat was hard on my warriors. They would have fought to the end. They did not want the treaty our leaders proposed. But there was no choice. We had to make alliances with both our enemies, and with other planets like Earth, who backed them. Old grudges die hard, and even after centuries, those on the green and blue planet resent our ancestors leaving to start a new race with the Arthulians.

  It was difficult, coming home to this village, living the life of a chiefta
in after so much time on the battlefield. I have turned my attention to other things—to leading, mediating, training for any future battles. To mating. I look forward to that most of all. As battle weary as I am, the only thing I truly long for is to vanquish a strong female on the fields. To feeling her fall beneath me? To sink into her quivering body as she finally submits? It’s a dream that fuels my existence.

  On the next Moon Festival, I will mate. I have waited for my fellow warriors to claim their females. I will wait no more. My time is coming.

  Chapter Two

  Two years later

  Anya

  “Why do you always have to do these things? Why do you always have to push the boundaries?”

  Laylah’s voice quavers in anger. I don’t want to look at her. I don’t want to see her judgmental expression. I don’t want to fight with someone who doesn’t understand ambition. She has a good job. I’m still trying to make it as a researcher, and this is my chance.

  “Please stop lecturing and help me get into this thing. I can’t tell the front from the back.” I shouldn’t snap at her, but I can’t help it. I expect her to refuse, but to my surprise, she steps forward, yanks the stolen garment from my hand and holds it up.

  “This is the front,” she says, “if you can call it that. But let me repeat: this is a bad idea. The two top rules in the Earth Guide to Ythilian Tourism were explicit, Anya: No stealing and no entering restricted areas. You’ve broken them both.”

  I pull off my traveling robe and take the tiny skin dress from her hand. “So far I’ve only broken one. And if those village virgins didn’t want their dresses stolen, they wouldn’t leave them laying out on the rocks.”

  Laylah fixes me with a look of disgust. “It’s part of their religious ceremony, Anya. They...”

  “Save the lecture,” I say as I pull on the dress. It’s surprisingly soft, and molds to my body like a glove, even if it is a little snug on my full breasts. “I’ve done nothing but study the Ythilians. I know why the dresses were there. I’m not stupid. The virgins pray for the Moon Goddess to infuse the clothing with strength.” I kneel and reach in my bag for the ochre-colored clay I collected from a stream bed and smear it on my face, recreating the ceremonial patterns I’ve seen in what few pictures I could find of the ceremonies. I’m pleased with the effect and turn to Laylah when I’m finished. “So. What do you think?”

  “I think you look convincing enough to get sexually assaulted,” she snaps.

  “Wrong.” I kneel again, reaching for the tiny bones I’ve collected. “I’ve got the perfect hiding place for the best vantage point. The biggest danger I face is not getting run over by the other virgins rushing through the gates.”

  “I wish you would reconsider.” Laylah’s tone has softened from anger to worry. “I mean, what if the stuff you left in the cave isn’t there anymore?”

  “It will be,” I say with conviction.

  “And you’re sure your transmitter batteries are still working?”

  “They have a three-month life,” I tell her. “I hid everything when I came here for that migration of those bird creatures... the ones that look like giant ostriches?”

  “You mean the lawkers? The ones that can kill you?” Now she’s just being sarcastic.

  “Yes. But they’re gone now. They migrated through the fields. That’s how I was able to get in with the last tour, remember? I hid everything in a cave before they closed the fields for this barbaric festival I’m about to expose.”

  “It must be nice to have all the answers,” Laylah snaps.

  “It’ll be nicer to get a promotion when I expose what the regular tourists don’t see when watching this ceremony. This piece, Laylah...” I grow quiet. “It’s the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. The public viewing stands are purposefully centered over what they call the Love Field. That’s where the less aggressive females go, the ones who want to be caught. I want to document the brutality the Ythilians don’t show the tourists. I want to throw back the veil on this misogynistic culture, and raise real questions on why we’re even in a treaty with these alien brutes.”

  “They’re not full alien. They’re half,” she corrects me, and I frown. I’m the expert here, not her. I know the Ythilians are half-human.

  “They’re nothing like us,” I say quietly. “They only look human. But the males are larger, more aggressive. You’ve seen them. They’re wild.”

  “That’s awfully biased for someone aiming to do an objective piece.” Laylah quirks a brow. “You’re supposed to be a science writer, aren’t you?”

  “It’s not biased to prove what you already know,” I argue. “This Claiming Day ritual? It’s primitive. Our people deserve to know what kind of culture we’re assisting through the tourism exchange. I’ll be lauded for exposing this. You’ll see.”

  “Well, I don’t know anything about it,” Laylah says, picking up her pack. “I’ve rented the Hoverpod like you asked. Beyond that, I want no part of this.” She pauses and then reaches out to hug me. “Damn it, Anya. Don’t get hurt.”

  “I won’t!” I say vehemently. “You’ll see.”

  I pull my traveling robe over the new garb and fix the hood so it shields my face. It’s another of the rules. The Moon Festival coincides with the period of peak libido of Ythilian males. The planet elders had wanted to restrict travel to male tourists during the festival, but the Council of Sevens denied their request. Beggars can’t be choosers, and once a planet opens itself up to tourism, they cannot dictate terms to participating planets. Human women can watch, too, but we are required to stay covered in mandatory traveling robes, lest we draw the attention of the Ythilian males.

  Now the requirement is working to my benefit. The robe provides good cover as I join other tourists watching the naked virgins rush to the rocks for the ceremonial dresses. There’s always more than enough since the females sometimes fight over them and the garments get torn. The surplus allowed me to steal the one I’m wearing under my robe, and I’m glad I’m not down there with these fierce savages who snatch up garments and clutch them to naked breasts, feeling for energy imbued by the moonlight. Silly, superstitious fools. The one I took didn’t feel magical. But under the robe, it does feel tight.

  I push through the crowds, staying wary of my surroundings as I navigate toward where the newly arrayed virgins are traveling toward the gate that opens to the mating fields. I walk parallel to the path until I reach a rocky outcropping. There, I shed my robe and rub reddish dust from the ground onto my pale legs and arms before walking down the slope to join the others.

  Ythilian males may be huge, but the females are not, so I blend in. The clay adorning my face masks the differences. The Ythilians have high cheekbones and slightly slanted eyes. They are a beautiful, intense race. They look fierce, even at rest. I keep my head down now as the females around me chatter. The mated women, who’ve come to support them, are praying aloud, asking their gods to grant the virgins a male strong enough to vanquish them. I understand them only because of a small implant—mandatory for every inhabitant on every planet in the Seven Stars System—that enables the brain to automatically translate any interstellar dialect.

  To my side is a woman with a ringed scar around her arm. It is a badge of honor, for she was not claimed. One more ring, and she will become a female elder, entitled to lands and position. But that is not what these females want. The real prize, in their backward minds, is their own defeat. Some will not fight as hard as they should; those are the ones most spectators see. But these females? They won’t make it easy. They are armed with knives sheathed in straps around their thighs or waists. Most will still fall to lie under warriors who will ram their cocks between their legs. That most prefer this fate to freedom infuriates me. I swallow my distaste as we edge toward the gate, ready to break with the group and hide in the rocks so I can document the action.

  The huge gates swing open, and I must run to keep from being trampled. Around me, the virgins are fanning out.
There is safety in numbers, but these virgins aren’t looking for safety; they’re looking for a fight. They’re looking for a conqueror.

  I hear a cry and look back to see a huge warrior springing from behind a gnarled tree. I panic and freeze, but he runs past, sprinting after a lithe virgin whose breasts bounce tauntingly as she grins back at him. He’s been waiting for her, and she’s been waiting for him. I might as well be invisible as they head toward the southern Love Field. They will pretend to fight there, for the amusement of the tourists, before she gives in as she planned to do in the first place.

  But the real battles? They will happen here, and I will document it.

  I run and run, remembering the path I took to the rocks where I’ve hidden my equipment. It all looks the same this time, and I am afraid. What if I misjudge? But then I see the rock I’m looking for. The top looks like a spike; it’s the landmark I remember and I scale the sloping rock face until I find the cave. I’m barely inside when I hear a sound below. I scramble for my camera, relieved when the tiny light comes on and hide behind a rock at the cave mouth just in time to see someone come into the clearing.

  A virgin I saw at the gate—the one with the band of scars already around her arm—steps out from the rocky outcrop below me. She has unsheathed her knife and is looking up. I freeze, thinking she’s seen me. But I’m wrong.

  “Jalis!”

  A deep voice calls her name, and eyes flash in her painted face. She grins and rather than run, she drops down into a fighting stance, spreading her arms to look bigger. The voice that called her name is coming from above me. Pebbles rain down across the opening of the small cave where I’m hiding as an Ythilian warrior descends. He’s large, and wears a loincloth. He carries no weapon.

  “I will avenge my brother today,” he says, his words ringing across the clearing. “I will take you as my mate. You will lie under me, and continue our bloodline. See how my cock rises for you already?”