Wild Beast: A Rough Sci-Fi Romance

“Fucking you is not enough, is it,” he says. “You need to be bred. Hard. Frequently. And publicly.”

I moan again, his words turning me on far more than I want to admit. He and I are entangled. That is what happens between captive and captor. All the energy it has taken for him to mate me, take me, and finally try to wring out the last vestiges of intelligence from me, has bonded him to me as much as I to him. He grazes his teeth over my neck and bites down with a fraction of the strength that is his to employ. Does he want to bite down fully? I think he did, once. Now it is all part of his rough play.

His fingers are not enough for either of us, but he’s going to make me beg for his cock. He’s going to listen to me whine and plead for his seed. That is how it is between us now. I am dependent on him for everything, and he loves it.

Volt pulls his fingers from my pussy and presses them between my moaning lips.

“Taste yourself,” he encourages me. “See what a needy, filthy little thing you are.”

I feel myself clench with unsatisfied desire. He knows what it does to me when he plays with me this way, when he frightens and arouses me, but leaves me without that final release. I hear the chains jangling as I tug on them with the same automatic responses that my pussy is also forced to obey. I want to come. I want him to let me shake and shudder against him, ride his rough alien cock.

Suckling on his fingers is all I am allowed for the moment. It is a small pleasure, but it has to be enough. I make the most of it, lapping around his digits with a slow sensuality, hoping that I might tip him over his personal edge in turn and make his resolve break down.

“You could already be in pup,” he murmurs.

He’s right. He has taken me more times than I can count. There has been no barrier between us. I have been as vulnerable with my body as I have been with the truth—but he has only recognized one of those honesties, the one he can feel.

The chains make harsh noises as he pulls them off the hook, and me with them.

“You knew what was going to happen, didn’t you?”

How do I answer that? On the one hand, there is no way I could ever have possibly known what would unfold. On the other, it was probably only a matter of time and anybody could have predicted it. These vagaries do not make satisfactory responses, so I stay silent as he pulls me over his massive hard thighs. I have the brief satisfaction of feeling my clitoris rub against his rough furred thigh, tingles of near orgasm rushing through me, finding every part of me from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes. In his grip, I am more alive than I ever have been.

I face the floor of his ship, this dungeon a place made specifically for me. The floor looks like flagstones, though it is nothing but light, electrons manipulated to make me feel like the most helpless little prisoner who ever lived.

“You never admit anything, but your body tells me you know you are guilty. Look at the way you respond to punishments and discipline. You crave them. Don’t you, Penelope.”

He knows me too well, but he doesn’t understand me.

“Please…” I don’t even know what I am asking for. Mercy? He’s never going to show me mercy. It’s not in his DNA. He is a beast at his core, with desires and hunger and a simple, animal way of handling anything that gets in his way. He can eat it, kill it, or fuck it. I fall into the third category, and a fourth made just for me. He can punish it.

The remnants of my underwear fall away uselessly as he palms my cheeks. His hand is large, and the underside of it has a particular leathery texture that makes being spanked by him feel more like being paddled. I know this because in my many hours of captivity I have learned how every part of him feels when he is punishing me.

“Admit your guilt, human.”

“No!” I refuse out of reflex and out of need. I am not guilty. I cannot be guilty. I refuse to… “Ow!” His palm lands as I knew it would. I have become intimately acquainted with the rough contact of his skin on mine. I have learned not to tense my muscles, but to breathe out, not to try to tuck my tail and hide, but to lift my hips. The secret to taking a spanking is not to fight it. He taught me that.