“Pleasure is the incentive,” I say. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Fetoji women may not have your ‘quick start button—’” And I have to admit, that’s a convenient feature of human anatomy. “—but they do feel pleasure internally. A great deal of it, evidently.”
“Yeah, but no woman comes every time, so—”
I frown down at her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, the guy always gets off. But the woman—”
“There is no imbalance of pleasure between men and women of my species,” I insist. “Biologically speaking, there can’t be.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because a man can’t come until the woman does. It’s the spasming of a woman’s inner walls that brings a man to climax, inducing him to release his seed.”
“Whoa, what? The woman comes first? Every time? From internal stimulation only?” Her eyes widen. “Are you fucking with me?”
I glance at the table in confusion. “Not anymore. But I would like to. Are you ready again?”
Syrie blinks at me for a second. Then she bursts into laughter. “Are you? Already?” She glances down to see that I am hard again, answering her own question, but in the interest of clarity, I feel like I should be direct.
“Of course. I wasn’t sure I would be, considering how long it took me to bring you to orgasm the first time—”
“You think that took too long?” She frowns. “I’m not sure I’ve ever come that fast.”
I’ve already surmised that copulation takes longer for humans, but— “But I must have thrusted two hundred times. Maybe more.”
“And the average for you is…?” She leaves her question hanging in the air between us.
“Four, in the beginning. When I am fresh. Ten, or so, during the last couple of rounds.”
“Rounds? Your people have sex in rounds? And also, did you say four thrusts? But then, sex would only take, what? A few seconds?”
I nod. “The first round. Subsequent rounds take longer, as we wear ourselves out.”
“Wait. Let me get this straight. Your species has sex for just seconds at a time, and that ends with you lacerating your women during the withdrawal, but they still want you again, for ‘subsequent rounds?’” Her eyes narrow as her gaze turns inward. As if she’s thinking. “How many rounds?”
“Eight or ten, depending.”
“Holy shit! You have sex eight to ten times in a row?”
“Yes.” I take her hand, fascinated with the blunt tips of her clawless fingers. How does this woman defend herself, with such weak human nails? Does someone care for her? Protect her? If so where was he when someone snatched her from her bed and dropped her here?
“Your women have eight to ten orgasms in a row?” Her obvious astonishment fades into a frown. “I mean, that comes with repeated vaginal lacerations, but—”
“No, it doesn’t. There are no lacerations. The barbs are too short to do any damage. They just scrape along the vaginal walls on the way out, to induce ovulation. But there is no injury, and as I understand it, the pain is fleeting. Woman often rear back and snarl for a moment, and if a man isn’t careful, he can get bitten.” I give her a heated smile. “But that in itself can be seen as a source of pride. Love bites are evidence of a man’s virility.”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course they are. Wait, go back. I’m still stuck on ovulation. Your women ovulate on demand?”
“Only if the man pulls out while his barbs are still…deployed. That’s why I was preparing to hold you still, even before I realized you didn’t know about the barbs. So that there would be no ovulation. Thus, no pregnancy.”
“You do that with your Fetoji partners? As a form of birth control?”
I nod, and to my utter bewilderment, she begins to laugh again. “What’s funny?”
“There’s an archaic human equivalent of that, though it isn’t used much anymore, because we’ve basically mastered contraceptives. When a human man doesn’t want to get a woman pregnant, he pulls out before he comes.” She shrugs. “If sperm doesn’t go in, a baby can’t come out.” She frowns. “In theory. But that takes an extraordinary amount of self-control, from what I understand.”
“I would imagine.” What I can’t imagine is why a man would ever be willing to withdraw before he has climaxed. In theory, he could then bring himself to completion by mimicking the woman’s vaginal clenching with his own hand, but his partner would get nothing out of such a selfish act.
“So you’re saying that if you had pulled out before your barbs had receded, it would have hurt, but only for a second?”
“That’s true for the women of my species. But I’m not willing to take the chance that it isn’t true for you. Your beautiful little human body is much more delicate than any I’ve ever touched. So when you’re ready to take me again, I will again wait to withdraw until you will feel no pain.” I lean down to drop a kiss on her upturned little human nose. “The advantage to that is that I get to keep touching you for longer. And, of course, that you won’t get pregnant.”
She smiles. “I won’t anyway. Human women ovulate on a hormonally-set cycle. Because our men’s ‘sex sticks’ are much less like a spiky magic wand than yours is. But even if that weren’t true, I still wouldn’t get pregnant, because I get a shot once a year to prevent ovulation.”
“A shot? From a gun?” I hope I’m misunderstanding something.
“No, from a pneumatic injector. Right here in my arm.” She rubs the outside of her right triceps. “So, you’re not going to get me pregnant. But you’re also not going to shred me on the inside, and expect to ever be allowed back in there again.”
“There will be no shredding. Again, that’s not how it works,” I assure her. “But there will be no scraping either. You have my word that I will never do that to you. But out of curiosity, how many strokes does it usually take your partners to bring you to climax?”
“I—” She frowns, evidently surprised by the question. “I have no idea. Too many to count, for most men. Although, the less experienced a man is, typically, the faster he finishes. Which is not desirable for human women, because it usually takes us much longer than a few seconds to orgasm.
“But your question isn’t even entirely relevant, because for human women it isn’t always about…thrusting. We rely pretty heavily on that quick start button. And often women don’t get theirs until the guy is done. If the women come at all.”
“Your men can climax without bringing their woman pleasure?”
“Yes. Easily. Often. I cannot emphasize how much of a regular occurrence that is.” Her voice has grown a little bitter.
“That makes little sense.” I can bring myself to climax by using my hand to mimic the tight, fluttery grip of a woman in the throes of pleasure, but during penetrative sex…? “Allow me to throw your own question back at you: where is the incentive for a woman of your species to engage in mating, if she is not guaranteed pleasure each time?”
“That, my friend, is a very good question. And I have another one for you.”
I reach up to tuck a strand of her long dark hair behind her adorably rounded ear. “Ask your question.”
“If you’re used to repeated but short bouts of…mating, how well do you think your stamina would hold up under repeated but longer rounds? Human-style?”
“I have no idea,” I admit, as I lean in for a kiss. “But I am eager to find out…”
10
Syrie
Exhausted, I collapse against the table for the third time in the past hour. My elbows and hips are bruised, and I’m pretty sure I’ve only avoided getting splinters in my breasts because of the soft pelt I finally thought to ask for several days ago, after the second time Lohr fucked me stupid from behind.
Always from behind. Always on the table.
Holy shit, the man’s stamina is amazing. He may look like a lion, but he screws like a fucking rabbit. As in, all the damn time. I don’t understand how he has time to catch and kil
l his food, because every time I walk by the table, he’s bending me over it, swiping whatever is on it onto the floor. Food. The scrap of leather he’s been cutting into thin but strong strips. The net he’s repairing. It doesn’t matter. There is nothing Lohr wants to use that table for more than fucking me. If I were going to be here much longer, I’d ask him to build a second one, just for sex.
As it is, I just make sure that we put that pelt down, to protect our food-prep surface. Which Lohr finds highly amusing.
He leans over me and presses a kiss into the center of my spine. His hands wander down from my waist toward my hips, and his tail glides up my thigh. I can feel him everywhere, and I don't think I ever want that to end.
It's strange. I've had several boyfriends since I left home for school, and I even truly cared about a couple of them. But there's never been anything like this in my life. Never anyone like Lohr. I've never wanted to linger after sex, and now I want to, not because I have no choice, but because I want to be close to him. Even if that means lying spread across his table like a one-man feast.
I’m sore, and that has nothing to do with the barbs. True to his word, Lohr hasn’t so much as scratched me with them, and the post-coital cuddling is actually pretty awesome. He purrs, and he fucking pets me. I think he’s still worried I’ll try to pull free and hurt myself, but there’s zero chance of that happening.
“Be still, little mouse," he murmurs against my skin.
“I'm trying," I assure him. But his petting and purring turns me on, which makes me wriggle and clench around him. Which keeps him hard inside me, and keeps his barbs erect. It’s a vicious, if erotic cycle. And he’s flawlessly patient, when I know damn well it would be easier for him to just pull out and let me punch him in the balls—I’ve decided that’s the human version of the Fetoji love bite—so he can take me again in a couple of minutes.
And I have to admit, I’m curious. His barbs don’t actually injure his same-species partners, and I’m pretty sure they won’t actually injure me either. But if I’m wrong…
It’s not worth it. And even if I wanted to try it, he won't take the chance.
“What day is Sunday?”
“What?” I crane my neck to look back at him, as his hand strokes down my side. “What are you talking about?”
“You said, in the stream, that even with no internal stimulation you could orgasm every day, and twice on Sundays. Which days are Sundays? I feel like that knowledge would give me a strategic advantage, with your cunt.”
My burst of laughter shakes my whole body, and I flinch when that makes his cock scrape sensitive tissue. “Damn it. Don’t make me laugh, while you’re still sporting barbs!”
“Why are you laughing? Are these Sundays a secret women of your species keep from your men?”
“No, it’s just a turn of phrase. Every day could be Sunday, where my clit is concerned. But I’d much rather come with you inside me.” Which reminds me…
I fold one arm beneath my face, and he tenses with my movement, afraid it will pull me away from him. And hurt me. “Blow jobs. Anal. Quickies.” I tick them off on my free hand. “Maybe even hand jobs.”
“What is this list you’re making?” His hand strokes down my back again and over my hip. I can practically feel him staring down at me. He is as fascinated with the differences in my body as I am with the differences in his.
“I'm making a list of things we can’t do, because of your penile barb situation.”
“I’ve gathered that a ‘hand job’ is when a woman of your species takes a man in her hand, but I have no real association for the other phrases.”
“I blow job is oral sex. Fellatio. Did they include that term in your language dump?”
“Oddly, no.”
“I mean, you’d shred my throat, because it’s not like I could just hold you there long enough for the barbs to recede. And I don’t think I can take what you’re packing in my— Never mind.” I can feel my face flush. “It’s better if you never even think of that one as a possibility. And a quickie is out by definition, because the barbs make you more of a lingerer. But if you can ‘take yourself in hand,’ maybe I can do that too. If you show me how to avoid the very tip, right there at the end.”
“I would never ask you to do that,” he says, sounding horrified by the idea. “What incentive would there be for you in such an act?”
I push myself up just enough that I can twist to look at him over my shoulder. “What incentive was there for you when you got me off, standing in the middle of the stream?”
“I got to touch you. To explore your body. True, it was torture.” His hand wanders over the outer curve of my hip, and I fight the urge to grind against him. “But it was a blissful torture.”
“Exactly,” I say. “It would be the same for me. I would love to see your face when you come.”
“Also, you mentioned the possibility of returning the favor. Which was intriguing until I realized you mean to take me into your mouth. That is not a thing Fetoji women do.”
“With good reason, I suspect.”
“Yes.” But now his gaze has narrowed on me in a way I’ve come to recognize. “Though there’s no reason I couldn’t use my mouth on you. Unless your quick start button has barbs I haven’t yet discovered.”
I laugh. “No. It does get firm and kind of…swollen. When things are going well.”
His heated gaze burns into me, as he finally begins to withdraw from my blissfully over-sexed body. “I am aware.”
I stand and turn to face him, and my arms slide around his neck, my hands tangling in his mane. “But for the record, licking it is a very good way to make use of the quick start button.”
“Syrie, come here,” Lohr says, and I turn from the kuuba fruit I’ve finally managed to put a crack in to see him staring, evidently perplexed, at a piece of leather he’s been working on for hours.
“You forgot the magic words.”
“Do I have your consent?" Lohr says, his brows dipped as he tries to remember the phrase exactly.
I laugh. I can't help it. "Wrong magic words," I tell him. "I was looking for ‘pretty please.’ And to be fair, people don’t really use that consent line much. But I think it’s a good one for you to know, in consideration of any future human/Fetoji interactions.”
Lohr frowns at me. “Do you think someone will drop another woman into my net?”
God, I hope not. But the truth is that I have no idea. Could whoever put me here be planning to do the same thing to someone else? "I wasn't dropped into your net," I remind him as I stand. “I ran into the net all on my own." But I'm not sure that correction improves his impression of me. "What’s up?” I laugh when he looks up at the sky. "It's just an expression. What do you need?”
Lohr stands, holding the scrap of leather, and to my surprise, he holds it up in front of me, then he frowns down at it, as if he's judging his work.
“Are you making this for me? Is this a shirt?"
“What, you thought that because I don't wear clothes I can't make them?"
"That's exactly what I thought." I frown at him as he sits on the ground again and returns to trimming the shirt-shaped piece of leather. “Why don't you wear clothes, anyway?"
“Because that's the only thing I can control around here. I can't stop them from sending in human tour groups and rendering my entire hut transparent without even a hint of a warning. But I can make damn sure that if those bastards want to see me, they'll see all of me."
Holy shit, that’s brilliant. He’s turned the voyeuristic nature of the park against both its customers and its employees. But… “Do you really think that's a deterrent?" I mean, maybe for the men, I can't imagine that seeing this much of him dissuades many women from coming on future tours.
Lohr only shrugs, already reabsorbed in his work.
"Is that the kind of thing Fetoji women wear?” Evah wore clothing of course, but I was too busy trying to get rid of her to notice what she wore, other than the leather s
kirt with a slit for her tail.
"Yes,” Lohr says. “I lack the materials and skill to make clothes like you're wearing now."
I sit facing him, my legs tucked beneath me, watching while he works. “That's really sweet of you. Is this because I was complaining about my sweaty clothes yesterday?"
“No, it's because you declined my suggestion that you forgo clothing entirely."
"I'm not just going to walk around in the nude."
"It works for me."
"That it does. But I hate to see you go through this much trouble when I'm not going to be here much longer."
Lohr’s hands pause. His entire bearing stiffens. Suddenly I feel guilty, and I'm not even sure why. "I've been trying to figure out why you might be here," he says, without looking up from his work.
“How could you possibly know that? I'm the one who was kidnapped, and I have no idea why."
"But there has to be a reason, right? Maybe that reason is more about me than about you."
I frown at him. “Why would this be about you?"
He looks up at me with a shrug. "I don't know. But someone dropped you directly into the path of my net while I was in the process of setting it. There has to be a reason for that. If you've been dropped anywhere else in this enclosure, someone else would've found you. Or something would have eaten you. I have to believe that was not the plan."
"Why would you believe that?"
"For the same reason you believe it. The gel soles on your feet. If your kidnapper wanted you to die, he wouldn't have bothered protecting your feet. Someone dropped you here between the ezaki I was hunting and the trap I had laid, and that someone made sure you would be able to run. How could that not be about me?”
I blink at him, surprised. He's really given this a lot of thought. But there are parts that he can't possibly understand, because there are things he doesn't know about. Like my family. This is about them. It has to be. If I was dropped into his path specifically, it was to keep me alive long enough to demand the ransom. As for the location—Ratera III—that has to be a middle finger aimed at my parents.
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