My father nods to some Fellamana who greet him as we pass. “I wish you would worry more about caring for yourself right now,” he says to me. “You’re the main attraction in the Sex Games tomorrow, and you have your international tour coming next week. You should really take some rest days to heal yourself before you go.”
“I don’t need rest. I want to help people.” The thought of having a day with no sex also makes me so unspeakably sad, I have no desire for a day off.
We arrive at our multifamily housing unit. It’s large, multiple stories, which is good, considering over twenty people plus six children live here communally.
“Speak to your mother and your aunts about it, please?” he cautions me before we enter the communal dining room. Dozens of voices hum on the other side of the doorway. “They’ll have some guidance for you. The healing work you’re doing takes energy. You must rest if you want to maintain your strength.”
“I’ll talk to them,” I agree. Though I’m not sure there’s anything, whether a need for rest or a council law, that will stop me from healing and/or fucking Graven back to good health the next time I see him.
Chapter Three
Graven
The Sex Games—I hear about them, and I can’t not go. Especially not once I learn Niva is the star exhibition. Or whatever they call it. I have no idea how “Sex Games” work.
They begin after sundown, and all the Fellamana nearby begin to file toward an arena in the center square. It’s an enormous structure made of the same clear glass as everything manufactured in this alien civilization. The stadium seating fits at least a thousand, and at the spotlighted center is a stage, which is basically made of what looks like a ginormous bed.
I move with the crowd, bumping into no one. It’s an art form to be as large as I am and move with stealth. It involves making no waves and moving with the people around me. There are plenty of humans, those in the rebellion, who’ve come to spectate. We’re not such an anomaly to the Fellamana anymore, since humans have been here over a month now.
I don’t speak to any of the humans, though; I don’t dare. They might find out who I really am, how I don’t belong among the rebellion, how I’m a traitorous bastard. If they knew who my father was, they would shoot me on sight. And I don’t mean shoot to stun. Shoot to kill.
A few human women pass me on one side, happy, gleefully chatting with the Fellamana, obviously looking forward to the Sex Games. These games will be my first, but I’ve overheard some of the rebels saying they enjoyed the last ones a few weeks ago when they went. I guess they happen once a month or so.
I’m glad they’re happy. They were miserable in the Ten Systems oppressive military regime, forced to hide their gender behind masks and voice scramblers. I’d never seen any of their faces until I landed here, and they’ve never seen mine, luckily.
I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not part of the rebellion. I escaped my father’s Ten Systems ship when it landed here. He attacked their rebellion with the intent of killing them all.
I wanted no part of it. I snuck off his ship, hid in the forest, and stayed behind, relieved to escape him. He took off because he hated being on this sex planet so much, he retreated before he managed to crush their rebellion. I’ve since been passing myself off as a silent, biddable member of the rebellion he failed to destroy. There are a thousand of them, and they still wear the same Ten Systems military uniforms as I have on, so it’s been shockingly easy to blend in among them, despite my size.
But even though I left my father’s ship, it doesn’t mean I’d be accepted as part of the rebellion. If they knew I was Captain Dargule’s son, given his reputation as an infamous torturer and sociopathic lunatic, it wouldn’t matter to whom I declared allegiance. I’d be dead just because of the DNA I carry.
I overhear the rebels near me as we walk in, though I don’t look at them, and I say nothing.
“Remember our Assura won the last Sex Games,” a human woman brags to a Fellamana female. “You’re still sore because a human beat out all the Fellamana for the prize.”
The Fellamana laughs and responds in her singsong accent, “That was one time. It won’t happen again.”
“Are any humans participating tonight?”
“Not sure,” she shrugs. “All I know is, it’s Niva’s first games since she came into her Exstare, and the pressure on her to win is very fierce.”
I have no idea how one makes a contest out of sex or how one goes about “winning,” but I’m about to find out. Anything to get to watch Niva again. She will win, no matter what the competition. I’m certain. Who could watch her make love and not see her for the most beautiful creature who ever lived? I don’t know.
I can’t believe I gave her my real name.
I never should’ve done that. If the human rebels heard my name, Graven, they’d know who I was instantly.
The women talk on and don’t look twice at me. They wouldn’t recognize me, since in the Ten Systems military, we never removed our helmets, and though I was the first experiment gone wrong, there are many others who’ve been genetically engineered to be almost as large as I am. So far, no one has questioned me, and I mean to keep it that way.
I hope Niva doesn’t tell anyone my name. My life is in her hands.
Maybe that’s a good thing.
Maybe it would be good if she told the humans who I was. I’ve thought about turning myself in a few times. Niva revealing my identity would make the decision for me. The universe would be better off if I, the spawn of the evilest captain in all the Ten Systems, were at least locked up, if not dead.
An announcer’s voice calls through a sound system of some sort, speaking in Fellamana. I don’t understand a word of it, but the audience rushes to their seats, their voices quiet. I find a free space by the front railing and stand, loitering, not wanting to take a seat but not wanting to take up too much space, either.
A trio of two Fellamana, a male and female, and one human woman, take the stage. They’re dressed in the most erotic clothing I could ever imagine, if you call it clothing at all. It covers everything except their sexual parts, breasts, vaginas, and cocks accentuated and exposed by the garments.
They begin their sexual scene—and it’s a staged scene, obviously planned, with sex toys and positions acted out in a kind of erotic sex dance. The judges’ score tally is kept off to the side, counting the number of orgasms had by each person, and at the end, an artistic score is given as well. This appears to be how the competition is rated and judged.
Three more scenes play out of various pairings of humans and Fellamana, each one more interesting than the previous one, but every time they appear, I hold my breath, praying it’s Niva’s turn. But it’s not. Each time, I’m disappointed.