Mark is running over our skin. I see him as a red smear on the alien’s cheek. This is a mortal sin, an act of infidelity. The angel-alien rubs me on that little nub, stirring feelings I have not shared with anybody in a very long time. Mark never touched me down there except to push his prick inside me.
“Who are you?”
“I am Tusk,” he says. “I am the soldier come to bring you to justice."
As he says the word justice, his fingers pinch my clit lightly. I let out a shocked moan.
“I haven’t done anything wrong."
“You are spreading your thighs for me after I slayed your bonded human mate. You are ripe for mating, awash with desire after an event which should have left you absolutely destroyed. You should be crying and screaming, begging for mercy in case I kill you. Instead, look at you.”
The beast wraps his hands in my hair and turns me to face the pretty mirror which hangs in decorative fashion in the lounge. It is covered in a light mist of Mark, but I can still make myself out in it, my flushed face showing far more arousal than fear.
“You little human monster,” the creature growls in my ear. “Death arouses you, doesn't it. Killing produces a carnal thrill in your twisted flesh.”
“No,” I moan. He doesn’t understand who I am or what I have been through.
“Yes,” he snarls in turn. He carries me roughly through the room before pushing me face down over the couch arm. My skirts fly up over my waist, my nether regions exposed to the gaze of the creature. I hold my breath and wait for some terrible travesty of nature to occur. I can feel the carnal intent rolling off this creature. He has slain my mate, and now he intends to dominate me. He may be alien to me, but this is a pattern of conquest as old as time, written into the very fabric of my psychosexual being.
“Admit what you did, woman.”
“I did nothing!”
He strikes me. Hard. I feel a flash of heat burning across my raised cheeks. I scream and begin to beg for mercy.
“Please! Sir! Stop! I didn’t do anything! I don’t know what you’re talking about! Please don't hurt me! I’ll do anything you say!”
If there is one thing Mark taught me before he died, it was how to grovel and beg.
“Stop your lies,” he says, slapping me again. And again. I know he is capable of much greater aggression than this. I saw him kill. He is going out of his way not to harm me, even as he makes absolute certain to hurt me.
It has been a long time since I was spanked this way, held down and brought to justice. There must be some guilt in me because every time his alien palm lands, I feel a brief spark of relief along with all the more predictable pain, fear, and humiliation. I stop begging. I stop fighting. I start surviving. Each stroke is followed by a deep breath, a curling of my toes, and a drumming of my feet. My flesh burns with alien fire, every harsh slap of his rough palm followed up by a perfectly calibrated scratch of alien claws, ever so lightly over seared skin. He is taking more than pleasure in my punishment. He is an artist, and I am his canvas. His work is one of discipline and domination, the medium being my skin and my soul.
I lose track of the number of times he strikes me, or how many times I cry out, helpless and plaintive. It becomes a constant ebb and flow of sensation, little moments of release and relief when he stops and inspects me.
I feel his fingers swiping up the seam of my sex with a casual ownership which I would find terribly offensive if I weren't caught up in the terrible, awful, wonderful events overcoming me.
“You are even more soaked,” Tusk says. “You enjoy pain, and fear, like all the most dangerous human females. Your species is wired to be dominated and claimed by the most violent warrior. Good news, Margaret. The most violent warrior you could ever imagine is here.”
He is right. I am throbbing between my legs. I can feel a singing heat and a clenching desire which remains unsated. My heart is hammering in my chest. I cannot think of anything to say that might calm this beast, but aside from spanking me he doesn’t seem to have any intent of destroying me.
He holds me there in that position, bent, spread, and open. He lets me feel my own reaction. He makes me sink into the moment. My arousal should be in decline, but it is not. The longer I feel his clawed hands pinning me down, his large, booted feet pushing mine apart every time my ankles attempt to slide back together, the more I feel that insistent throbbing at the very apex of my lower lips.