Page 58 of Stripped By the Alien

“Be careful,” she pleads and takes a step away. “The tape pulls out hairs.”

I let go of the tape corner. “Ah. I’m unfamiliar with that feature.”

Nora pulls a finger’s width of tape off her skin and winces. “I don’t even have any hair there, but…”

“But it sticks to the skin itself,” I observe. “Hopefully you’re not doomed to keep wearing it for the rest of your life. Indeed I hope you won’t be wearing it as much as a heartbeat from now.”

She winces again. “The glue is too strong. It sticks like…”

“Like repair tape,” I complete her sentence. “Yes, it’s meant to stick to the outside of the Beast. It would need to be extremely sticky. May I?”

I bend down and set one antenna to vibrate at about the right frequency, then touch it to the tape. I fine-adjust the vibration and the tape suddenly drops off the female all at once, ending up in a little heap on the floor. “I’m told it took generations of our Brood before the breeders were able to make a tape that would lose its stickiness like that.”

Nora looks down at the heap at her feet. “So next time, I need you nearby if I’m going to get it off?”

I bend down and sniff her hair. “Do you object to that?”

She looks up at me. “No.”

I reach out to stroke her soft, smooth chest. “Neither do I.”

18

- Nora -

The cabin holds a pleasant heat. Starlight spills across the wide viewport in slow silver bands, painting the edges of the big bed and the curve of my bare hip. I lie open for him, needy as ever, yet the edge of desperation has softened into something deeper and more deliberate.

Krix’vorr lowers himself with a grace that belies his size. Eight feet of living armor and restrained strength, yet every movement is measured. His antennae drift over my skin first, feather-light, tasting the salt and warmth of me.

Then his hands follow. The softness of his fingers trace the line of my collarbone, the soft underside of my breast, the yielding give of my waist. He makes a low, continuous sound in his throat, half click, half murmur, as if translating the feel of me into his own language.

“So soft,” he rumbles. “No shell. Only this… warm give.” His mouth follows the path of his hands. The textured length of his tongue drags slowly across my ribs, dips into the hollow of my navel, then higher again to circle a nipple until it tightens under the careful pressure. He lingers everywhere the light touches, mapping the differences between us with almost reverent attention. Where his tongue has passed, he leaves a cool trail with a clear destination, but he meanders going there, not rushing.

When he reaches the dark hair between my thighs he pauses. One antenna brushes the curls; his eyes narrow in quiet wonder. “This covering is strange. Soft as the rest of you, yet different. Hiding, not really protecting.”

He strokes it with the pad of a finger, then lowers his mouth and draws the strands between his lips, tasting, learning. The sensation is so unexpected, so intimate, that a shiver runs the length of me.

He notices. A deeper sound vibrates through his chest. “You like when I touch it.”

He does it again, slower, while his free hand slides along the smooth inner surface of my thigh, spreading me wider.

Every place his mouth and hands travel feels newly discovered. The cool smoothness of his carapace contrasts with the living heat of his tongue. The careful strength in his grip never bruises, only claims. I feel intensely seen, almost unbearably.

My bare human body is turned into something worthy of this slow worship by the most dangerous creature in the known reaches of space, and that's a thrill all its own.

By the time he settles between my legs I am trembling for an entirely different reason.

He shows me himself once more, the intensely exotic and alien shaft that can make me feel so good.

I'm writhing with need, but I appreciate the unstated question. “Yes, yes. Take me!”

He presses forward with exquisite care. The first stretch is a long, deliberate claiming. His alien cock sinks into me inch by textured inch, giving my body time to open around every contour. When he is fully seated he holds still, antennae brushing my temples, green eyes locked on mine.

“I love how you take me,” he murmurs. “How perfectly you shape yourself around me.”

He begins to move. The rhythm is unhurried, almost languid, each withdrawal a slow drag of ridges across sensitive places, each return a deep, complete filling.

I try to hold myself at the edge, to stretch the moments, to savor the impossible reality of being opened and cherished by him. Yet his skill is relentless in its gentleness.