Chapter One
Graven
I watch her make love to them—because that’s what it is. I couldn’t call it fucking, or just plain sex, because it’s not. Every kiss of her mouth, caress of her body, and undulation of her hips is an expression of affection. She makes love to each of them—all four of them—at the same time—a female on each side, a male beneath her, another behind her.
I watch from behind a pillar, like the voyeur that I am. No one knows I’m here. Not that they’d care if they did know. She lifts her head and winks at me.
I freeze in my boots. Staring at her in astonishment, I wonder how she knows I’m here. The corner of her mouth lifts in a licentious smile, and she licks long and languorously up the center of the male’s chest who lies beneath her. But she watches me while she does it, waiting for my reaction as though mine is as important as one of her lover’s—or I guess one might call them patients rather than lovers.
When I asked someone her profession a few days ago, her occupation was translated to me as “sex doctor.”
Who knows with these aliens? The Fellamana, they call themselves. Their skin tones change colors with their emotions. Hers is a sensuous, calming sky blue, weaving in swirling patterns across her back and voluptuous curving hips. She isn’t human, that’s for certain.
Gods, I could watch her all day.
The male behind her, his skin a riot of desirous crimson swirls, powers into her, his cock moving in her from behind. She speaks to him in her alien tongue, encouraging him. I don’t hear his response, only that he obviously says her name, “Niva, Niva,” over and over like he worships her as a goddess.
She is. A sex goddess. At least, she is to me.
One female fondles Niva’s nipples, and Niva caresses the second female with a hand between her thighs. Niva’s whole body begins to glow. I move forward and press my hands to the glass.
This is the part I wait for whenever I come here to watch her. Something about when she glows, when she lights up from the inside like a star, makes them all come; everyone who’s touching her, whether intimately or merely with their hands, orgasms at the same time. Like she made it happen with the light glowing over her entire body.
When her light goes out again, they all lie with her on her enormous bed as large as her…I guess it’s her office—caressing and cuddling, smiling, a sated orgy pile.
This is my cue to leave. I don’t stay past the orgasms.
But she looks at me again, as though she saw me move. She gives a subtle shake of her head, and her eyes send me a soft invitation, as if to say, Don’t go.
I stay, as though commanded. I am so under her spell. I couldn’t disobey her if she ordered me to jump in front of a blaster.
They leave one by one; she gives them smiles, kisses, and hugs, speaking to them in her Fellamana language, laughing and teasing them. They’re grateful, but nowhere near as grateful as they should be. They’ve just made love with the divine. They should be backing away from her on their knees. But they go on with their days without her.
I back away, hoping maybe she will have forgotten about me, but she puts on a sheer robe of glistening material that does nothing to hide her nakedness and is merely a decorative garment, then steps outside the door and beckons me with her hand.
“Come,” she says with her singsong Fellamana accent.
My brows go up, and I don’t know how to respond. “I—um—”
She walks to me, and I watch her finger stroke my bare arm. Though I see it, I can’t feel it. I’m incapable of feeling her touch. My body doesn’t function right, not since the Ten Systems military experimented on me. I haven’t had any sensation on my skin in years. But still, she’s touching me. I gape at her like a teenager enamored with his first woman. It’s embarrassing, but I can’t help myself.
She’s smaller than me; everyone is smaller than me. I’m bioengineered to be large, a colossal weapon, but she holds the power over me. Her lush body is a dream, with full large breasts that flow into her broad hourglass hips. I’ve stared at her rounded, beautiful ass so many times in the last few days, I have to clench my hands against the desire to reach around her and cup it.
She leans close to me, her robe swirling around my legs, ensnaring me, drawing me toward her. “You are male, yes?” she asks with a lowered, seductive tone.
Many of the Fellamana have taken the time to learn some of our human language since we landed here on their planet a few weeks ago. I’m grateful she has, so I can speak to her. “Yes,” I manage.
“What is your name?”
“Graven,” I murmur, staring into her bright green eyes, mesmerized and memorizing them, certain this is my one and only chance to ever be this close to her.
She looks around, down the block, toward the main street where her people walk past, though none look this way, as though to make sure no one can see us. “You feed desidre, Graven?”
I stiffen. The desidre—she means the sex fever the atmosphere on this planet causes. Just breathing the air here fills the body with a need for sex, a raging desire to orgasm. It shocked me for the first few days, but I get regular doses of the antidote that keeps the fever from killing me. It still has to be relieved with daily orgasms to keep the toxin from building up in the blood. Breathing here is a potent aphrodisiac. The Fellamana have evolved to withstand it, but it’s no surprise that theirs is a polyamorous society. Not to mention voyeuristic. They have sex constantly and publicly, and they’ve made it clear that we have a standing invitation to watch anytime we choose.
“No,” I answer tightly. I haven’t jerked off today, I don’t add. It’s bizarre how these Fellamana talk about sex like it’s a regular meal of their day. After ten years of being in the Ten System Empire’s military, where sex was deemed an unnecessary, inconvenient part of human nature to be suppressed, it’s been a shocking change to have it so openly celebrated here.
She glances over my shoulder again to be sure we’re not watched. “Come,” she whispers and grasps my hand, leading me toward her “office door.”
My feet obey her, following her, but my mind knows this is a bad idea. “Uh, no, that’s not— I don’t think— Niva, you don’t want me.”
She tilts her head at me as though she has no idea what I’m saying.
Great. We are at the limit of her vocabulary in my language, and I know very little of hers, except… “Hulda,” I say in Fellamana, the only word I’ve learned. It means stop. I had to learn it the first time I came into town, and some Fellamana expressed sexual interest in me. Luckily, consent is sacred in their culture, so it works every time.
She drops my hand like I’ve burned her and looks at me with the most confused expression. I’ve shocked her. I’m guessing she’s not someone who experiences rejection, ever. She says something else I don’t understand.