The Alien Warrior King's Accountant (Royal Aliens 4)

He doesn’t have hair, but he isn’t bald. Instead of bothering with hair, his skull sweeps up into a sharp fin type arrangement. Like a mohawk, but one gleaming sharp-looking scale.

You could call him a shark alien, because he has scales and fish have scales, but fish alien does not sound sexy and this guy exudes sexual energy from every dragon scale on his body. I don’t think he really fits into earth categories of animals. I think he is one monstrous entity all of his own design.

My gaze drops and I become all the more aware of those massive shoulders, and that powerful torso which is scaled and likewise iridescent. He shines like a nebula, one whose deep black pants cover parts of his anatomy which I find myself very curious about.

He is half-dressed, but that is half more than me. I mean, I’m not naked, but I’m in my pajamas. And by pajamas, I mean a stained, oversized t-shirt and men’s boxers because that style was briefly in ten years ago, and I’m still into it now. I don’t have a lot of call for fancy sleepwear. There’s not been anyone to see me in it for a long time.

“I am Tyrant, King of Apocalypse. Ender of worlds. Destroyer of empires. And you… are my accountant.”

He introduces himself with great gravitas and a kind of elegance which does nothing to diminish his powerful demeanor. He’s sort of like a big, scaled regency king.

I’m still trying to work out what to say and what to do. This is real. 100% real. I was warned about this. I was supposed to be ready for this. But I’m not ready in any sense of the word.

“Yes,” I say. “Mr. Rogers told me to expect you. Uhm. Okay. Let me… let me get a few things…”

King Tyrant (did I heard that word correctly?) makes an impatient sound and shakes his finned head with a decisive negative expression which apparently transcends planets.

“The solar winds will be shifting soon enough, human. What adorns you now is admirably suitable, though it does show a great deal of your alluring leg-fur.”

Leg fur? I look down at my exposed calf and see that his description is embarrassingly apt. I haven’t shaved since the plague saw us all confined to our homes. Nobody has seen me from the waist down in literally months. He is the first. And possibly now, the last.

This is humiliating. This is terrible. This is a nightmare from which I am seriously struggling to awaken. Maybe I’m just dreaming. Maybe what Mr. Rogers said to me lodged in my subconscious, and now I’m having a silly dream about it. That would make a lot of sense, arguably more sense than what appears to be actually happening.

I pinch myself on the arm, which is actually harder to do than it seems because I don’t actually want to hurt myself so I just end up sort of squeezing my arm flesh in a way that just feels weird, and probably looks weird if King Tyrant’s expression is anything to go by.

No matter how much I twist and grab, or how much it actually starts to hurt, the alien remains, a persistent beast before me with his scaled chest, his shark or maybe is it dragon-style hair, and… an expression of absolute lust directed at me with laser precision even though I look about as gross as I’ve ever looked.

What’s going on here? I think back to what he said. About the alluringness of my legs. And then I realize it wasn’t some backhanded negging comment like a douchebag would try in a club.

He likes the leg hair.

Does that mean he likes me? At least superficially, in the way all physical beings sort of have to decide if others are appealing or not?

It would seem so.

Wow. Most guys would turn around and head for the nearest hills if they saw me right now. I have been putting on pounds all during quarantine and basically losing contact with my sense of personal hygiene. My bra has become a second storage facility for snacks, when I remember to wear one. Which I’m not, understandably because I was sleeping.

I need to get cleaned up. If he likes me like this, he’s going to really like me when I have basic hygiene in hand.

“Let me put some pants on at least. And I need my computer.”

“We have all the computational power you could ever need, human. And we have all the clothing you could ever carry. Come. The solar tides wait for no one.”

This is my fault. I should have prepared myself. I should have put some clothes on at least, just in case Mr. Rogers wasn’t having a nervous breakdown after all. But how was I supposed to know that aliens are real, and that sometimes they show up at your front door and command you onto their ship?