She woke up first. Laying for a long while listening to him breathe. The room was getting lighter. She was confused. Knowing one couldn’t acclimate to the deep dark of the spaceship. It wasn’t like on Earth, where there was ambient light and your pupils would eventually adjust. Then she realized the lights were programmed to come up slowly. With a gentle whitish cast. Did he have a sunrise too? Probably. Were his lights set to his home world sunrise? Was this homesickness or simple routine and health for him? She heard a hitch in his breath and he sat bolt upright. Flinging a hand over his head. One of the ridges, near-horns of his head catching where she hung low in the hammock at her hips. She bit her tongue to keep from making a noise and slid away from his sharp claws, his head. 

“Forgot,” he said. Not sounding apologetic, but merely explaining himself. He inhaled deeply. “Different scent,” he grumbled. 

She lifted her arm, smelling herself. Unembarrassed to do that particular move in front of him. What did he care? She still smelled like rinseless soap. And she realized that’s what he was remarking on. 

When he’d last been close to her, she’d likely smelt rancid. Blood covered, sweating, dripping both of their cum, and just the deep down, baked-in stink of being in the casket. The round of sleep drugs, followed by Go. The Go sweat. And her sweat had an unnatural chemical flatness to it because she’d stopped eating food and had been living on an IV drip. 

“Bad?” she asked.

“Different,” he grumbled. 

He didn’t smell like much of anything to her. She was guessing, though she hadn’t read anything to say this was the case, that his sense of smell was finer than hers. Something of him reminded her of walking in a summer mist– odorless but somehow still mineraly. Or even a specific and odd childhood memory– a greenhouse, mist going down on sage and mint leaves. Not the herbs themselves, but the smell when water hit the leaves. 

She wouldn’t want to stink to him, though. If he preferred her unbathed, she’d be willing to go longer without it. If he wanted her to smell like strawberries, she’d figure out how to do it.

He held his palm under his nose, like he was cupping something to it. 

“Like chaar,” he said. 

She listened to her translator bipbipbip. Whirring in an attempt to catch up. Finally, just saying brightly, unfound. 

She shook her head, he couldn’t see it. Swinging his legs out and throwing himself from the bed. Stretching. She hurriedly got out of the hammock. Fetching his uniform from out of the closet. Hanging it carefully from one of the hammock hooks. Retrieving his boots. He watched her do this, continuing to stretch. Also seemingly without embarrassment for his own nudity. As he slid on the uniform, she got closer. He stiffened, then relaxed, but watched her carefully. Doing up his various buttons. Turning again to retrieve his belt. That he snatched from her. 

He must have a weapon, or clearance badge, or something he didn’t want her to have access to. Fine. Good to know. 

She pushed him to the bed again. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and shook her hard enough that her neck twinged.

“None of that– busy,” he said.

“No,” she said gently, letting her neck relax to be bent at an unnatural angle. Reaching for his ankle, she lifted it onto her shoulder. Reaching over her shoulder to put on his sock. Guide his feet into his boot. Tying a clumsy knot with her stiff fingers. Doing the same to the other one as he watched the proceedings. 

“Breakfast?” she asked. 

He shook his head. Of course, what was ‘break fast’ to him?

“Morning… fuel?” she asked. 

“Chaar,” he repeated, pointing out to the front room. 

She frowned briefly. Which was rewarded by him scooping her off the floor. The thin part of her waist in the crook of his elbow, feet and head toward the floor. Being carried into the front room. Set down beside a too-tall wall-mounted counter. A rehydrator. A microwave. A kettle.

He tapped hard between her eyes and pointed to the kettle. Switching it on. Reaching behind it for a tin. Twisting it open. An ultra-fine powder inside. Tapping her face hard again. Taking a spoon from off the handle of the kettle, dumping two spoonfuls into a glass. 

The water boiled, and he poured. 

“Chaar!” she said, delighted. Nodding. Unsure if he knew nodding yet. “Yes, I’ll do this from now on.” 

He lifted the cup out to her, and she pursed her lips. Terribly thirsty now that she saw liquid. He clapped a huge hand over her mouth, though, lifting it closer to her nose. She took a deep breath and wrinkled her nose. He wasn’t wrong that she probably smelt like this. It smelled like a densely, vitamin-rich, ozonic glass of salt water. 

He began pacing and drinking. Stopping to grab a tablet off the back of his front door. Reading, sipping, pacing. 

She stood by the counter. Looking surreptitiously at everything on it. Her stomach rumbling. Not wanting chaar, that was for certain. But needing something soon.

She still had Doc’s chocolate, but that wouldn’t soothe her thirst.

“Sir,” she said, when he was hanging the tablet back up.

Huff.

She touched her bottom lip– cracked from their first encounter, and dry and damaged now. “Thirsty.” 

He punched a panel over her head with the side of his fist. It sprung open. She hadn’t known it was a cabinet. Pulling down one of those squared jellies that could be hydrated with a small amount of water. 

Plunking it into another glass. Using a short nozzle that pulled off from the handle of the kettle, he squirted about a teaspoon of water over the jelly. It sprang outwards, splashing the edges of the glass in a rush. About two full cups of water. She wanted to spring at it and start gulping like a dog anbutidn’t.

“Thank you,” she said. 

Huff. He indicated it by tipping his chin toward it. She took up the glass in two hands– a little too big for her to comfortably hold in one, and she was unsure of how dexterous she could be with just the one anyway. 

Gulping hungrily. Nothing had ever tasted as good as this did. Watching him watch her over the rim of the glass. She could suddenly feel her stomach heaving. It had been too long, and now she was shocking her system with too much cool, clean water. She swallowed the gorge. He saw her do it. Taking the glass away from her and putting it high over her head back up in the cabinet. 

“Sick,” he said.

“No,” she said, rubbing her throat. “Overindulgence. Dumb pet.” 

“Dumb Pet,” he seemed to agree. “Slow down.”

“She will,” she said. 

“Work,” he said. “Will return with Pilings bedclothes. Nutrition, MD nutrition.”

“No subterfuge, no sabotage,” she said, resting both hands on her chest. “Good behavior.”

She smiled, and then wasn’t sure if he’d be able to tell the difference between smiling and animalistic bared teeth. 

“Good.”

Alone again, she took inventory of Jack’s things. The broken razor she tossed into the refuse chute. It did her no good. Ditto shave cream. Ditto hair oil– it smelt like him. She kept the soap, the petroleum jelly, the anti-inflammatory cream, skin oil, the toothpaste, and mouthwash. Two sets of uniforms. Suit, belt (the buckle missing– was that too much like a weapon as well?), socks, thermals for spacewalking. She tossed his boxer shorts, they disgusted her. Kept the undershirts, not as bad. Boring, bad books. A good deal of pornography. Also tossed. One useful deck held the basic library downloads, though. Novels. Encyclopedias. Dictionary. Atlas. Manuals. Cookbooks.

Her stomach rumbled again.

After a bit of a struggle, she managed to push his desk chair against the countertop. Clambering into the chair, and from the chair onto the counter to retrieve the water he’d put out of her reach. 

She sat back in the chair. Sipping very slowly. Legs crossed up under her. She got dressed slowly as well. Tucking in the bottom of the undershirt. Putting on the uniform. Having to fold over the waistband of the pants to keep them up, tying up the bottom of the shirt. Happy to put on socks. Sliding back and forth in the front room for several minutes. Humming low and hoarsely as she did. 

Reading and sipping water slowly again. Looking at the cookbooks and knowing she shouldn’t. Oh, for pressed tofu! Greenhouse onions, greenhouse apples, cashew spread. 

She heard the touchpad and dove for the floor. Just as before, he ignored her. Moving around, setting down things. 

“Only short,” he said, tapping claws into the top of her head as he walked by. 

She wondered what it was about Refaite that made his speaking shorter. Or was it really the fault of the translator? That was an irritation. Not that it mattered.

“Pet,” he said, tapping his thigh, standing by his desk. She crawled over this time, seeing how her knees felt. Still pretty terrible. Settling down by his feet. 

“Food,” he said, indicating a rubber tub of ready-meals. VaVacuum-packedags. No labels, just pictures. And the pictures were less than helpful. It didn’t matter. Her stomach rumbled again. Wondering what terrible version of lentil stew, protein pasta o,r egg drop soup she’d get. 

“Thank you,” she said.

“Pet,” he snapped again, making her look up at him. He plucked something from his breast pocket. The last thing she’d seen go into that pocket was drugs and Jack’s badge. It looked almost like fruit leather, or maybe animal hide.

“Snack for Snack,” he said. Wondering if that was genuine humor on his part. 

He held it out toward her. She rested both hands on his knee closest to her, leaned forward a,nd took it from his open palm, delicately taking the edge in her front teeth. Unsure of what she was being offered, but hardly liking to refuse. Still trying to figure out what worked for him… What… turned him on.

She heard two explosive exhales from him. Which could be disgust or anger. But he left his open hand outstretched near her and leaned forward to watch her. So she took that to mean he did like that slavish behavior. 

She began chewing hesitantly. And then more enthusiastically. Taking the edge in her hand to help her tear it. It was like beef tartare, almost. Oozing, deliciously meaty a,nd energizing. Like animal flesh but coated in honey. Somewhere between organic sweetness and good, raw flesh. 

“Thank you, good,” she said, still gulping and chewing. What would he care about table manners? “Thank you, very good,” she added as she was chewing her second bite. 

He scratched claws along her hairline as she kept eating.

“This appetite the next time you’re draining,” he said.

She looked up at him. Nodding and chewing. What a way to put it. Though she appreciated the communication. All right; enthusiasm, hunger for him. She could do that. 

After he left, she picked through her food options. At the bottom of the box was a thin, small pillow, three blankets, and a sheet. Inventorying the food. Finding something that was either pasta or worms. Rehydrating it. Eating it straight from the sack. Only just slightly less delicious than those first huge gulps of water. 

When she was working, she’d been treated to some gourmet meals. This blew all of that out of the water. Sated, she lay down on the front room floor. Rolling into one of the blankets– thankful that they smelled nothing like Jack. Finding the few translations of Refaite stories in the library deck. Trying to discern meaning in the utterly alien. Wondering how good the translations were anyway. 

She had fallen back asleep on the floor when she heard the touchpad again. Shifted a little to watch him coming in. Once more, ignoring her. No greeting, no surprise at however he happened to find her. 

He sat at his desk chair. She crawled over. Resting a hand over the top of his boot, the other on his laces. He flicked his claws at her in a ‘continue’ gesture. She took his shoes off in much the same manner she put them on. Then she stood up, beginning to undo her shirt, then tilted her head at him. He made that same, dismissive ‘continue’ flick. So she did. Finishing undressing, she sank down into a crouch. Letting her hands crawl up his legs, reaching for that button fly again.

“Please,” she said. “I want you. I’m hungry for you.” 

“Show me,” he growled. 

She undid him again with her teeth. Knowing he had enjoyed that. Dove on him again, instantly taking him past comfort in her mouth in a facsimile of being famished. Touching more of him this time– still trying to figure things out. His inner legs were clearly tender– he responded positively to touch there as well as his chest. Breath speeding up even more if she pressed her fingers alongside his forearm blades. Keeping well away to not cut herself, but alongside it. Still suckling furiously, faster than she had previously. 

Astounded that it hadn’t already occurred to her, she let herself loose. Moaning through her nose. Playing at arousal made her oddly aroused. When she thought she was getting into a good rhythm, he crushed her. Hand on her upper right arm, the other locking easily around her waist again. Lifting her and depositing her firmly in his lap. She shifted around, so her back was to him. Spreading her legs so she was able to keep him between her legs. Then crossing her knees, trying to give him that tight, soft fuck. Because he clearly enjoyed that. She started working, bouncing in his lap. 

“Good,” he grunted, hips beginning to thrust beneath her. 

She started to feel that upward climb. Thinking excitedly, while vaguely disgusted with herself, that if she worked at it, she’d come on him again. 

“Do it again,” he growled. She wondered what– feeling a brief fright that he’d read her mind.

“What, sir?” she panted, the heels of her hands braced on her forearms, making sure to keep up that stroking he seemed to like. “Whatever you want.”

“Activate yourself,” he growled again. Both of his claws suddenly crushing in at her hips. Grinding her into him. She gushed, the combination of that hard press down, of his ask. She’d faked orgasms for men. Even faked masturbation. This was entirely different, somehow. She angled herself to get that long, tortuous ride along his shaft. Clit scraping along him. Gushing again, wetting both of them quite suddenly. He felt it, working her harder and faster. 

Reaching down, she grasped his wrist. Lifting it from her waist, up along her torso. Locking his forearm around her throat. He made some new noise– something between a grunt and groan. Lasting longer than either of those sounds. She pressed him harder and he followed her lead. Just enough that she could feel immense pressure, her breath slightly shorter. Still easy enough to keep riding him. Continued to stroke his arm as well. 

She didn’t want to think about how she’d urged him to choke her again. Nor how well he seemed to like it. She just let that first orgasm come.

She liked hanging onto his wrist with one hand– using it as leverage to keep riding him, especially as her lower body went weak. When she felt that thrum and heat from him, she started struggling. He grunted, fighting her back. She weaseled out from under his crushing elbow, using her sweat to slick against him and get away. He exhaled, grabbing her hair. She just wriggled until she could get her mouth back on his cock. He understood and stopped trying to jerk her back into position. 

While swallowing him wasn’t easy, or even pleasurable necessarily, it seemed better to do that than let him douse the floor, his bed, or the chair. 

Crushing her head in his palms, she began that ultra-quick swallowing she was still perfecting. It was getting easier every time. Thinking about how he, in fact, could crush her head– had the ability to collapse her skull. The only thing really stopping him is he didn’t seem to want to. 

She slid to the floor as he finished. Resting her forehead against his knee, feeling his temperature drop again. 

“More, sir?” she panted. 

Grunting, he grabbed her by both wrists. Jerking her upright as he stood from the chair. Spinning her around so quickly that she was dizzied, flinging her into the chair behind him. It felt like climbing into the bucket seat of a sun-warmed car, getting into it after him. He kept one arm jerked high above her head, lengthening her spine, stretching her long as she knelt on the seat of the chair. Tugging her forward, he slid his already-half-hard again cock between her upper arm and breast. She understood, keeping her arm close to her torso to once again give him that soft space to thrust into. He huffed again, starting to fuck her like that. 

Leaning her face forward, she found herself nuzzling into his torso. Still in his shirt, her hair getting caught on a button. She’d never had this before, and found herself enjoying it immensely. There was something very provoking, or almost sexy, about the way in which he used her body. The things he liked. Or seemed to like. Something akin to an engaged or creative human lover. But it was just an instinctual response on his part. She liked that he liked where she was soft. The things that had made her insecure in another life– soft thighs, soft upper arms, big tits, rounded tummy– he reacted positively to. 

“Do it again,” he said, shaking her by her upraised arm. 

She tried looking up, to be able to watch him, but could only see the unrolling, huge expanse of his chest– not his face. Still, she crossed the arm he was fucking to the front of her torso, instead of keeping it sealed to her side. Spreading her legs a bit, touching herself slowly. Waiting to see how he’d respond. 

He just kept fucking her as he had been. Seemingly uninterested and unworried about what she was doing. Feeling her own breath speeding up. Unconsciously associating just the feel of him sliding back along her breast with that same movement between her legs. 

Her throat must be healing, she realized– could hear her more-normal cries. She had hated how she sounded in real sex– high-pitched and mournful. She’d rather liked losing her voice. Sounding more husky or serious or masculine. 

She began humping into her fingers– it had been so long since she’d touched herself, she realized. Longer even than when she’d left Earth. God, it felt good. Even the heat of him against her armpit felt delicious. 

With his free hand, the one that wasn’t keeping her arm raised, he crushed her face into his torso. The back of her head buried in his palm. Muffling her into his shirt. And for some reason, that finished her. Sobbing tearlessly into his uniform. After only a minute or so, he finished as well. Feeling that engine-like thrum in his shaft. His cum hit the back of the chair, and she felt it making its slow descent until her calves were coated. But she didn’t mind. He finally let her go. She turned around, head cocked, deciding whether to try cleaning up with her mouth again. He saw her lean forward and grabbed her by the shoulder and hair. Throwing her, somewhat gently, to the floor.

“Bigger mess that way,” he said. Gesturing with a downward palm in a doggish ‘stay’ motion at her. She lay pretty willingly on the floor. Deeply satisfied and humiliated in a way that meant nothing. The embarrassment of having a dumb crush, or tripping while alone at home. 

He came back out with what looked a lot like a handheld vacuum from Earth. Smaller, certainly, with a finer nozzle, but still– familiar. And he did begin vacuuming. It was nearly silent, and he filled up the compartment quickly. Going to the refuse chute and emptying it right down there. Filling it up twice from the chair. Once from her own legs. She was glad he didn’t seem to think that jizzum was sacred, at least. 

“Next time,” he grunted at her, gesturing with the tool at her.

She stood up to take it, but he pushed her back down again.

“Next time,” he reiterated. 

He went to put it away. She reclined back on the floor. Thinking about offering her other side, her tits again when he came back. Shocking her when he crouched down next to her, making her scramble up onto her knees. She didn’t feel the urge to run or hide from him any more, at least. Barely even needing to do her little grounding trick to remind her not to run. But she didn’t expect that, and it made her move. Trying to figure out what position he’d want, or what he needed next. He shocked her again by reaching between her legs. Swiping the back of his hand right against her. Making her shiver and squeak. He lifted his knuckles to his face. Inhaling deeply. She watched him, trying to not get in her head about what was happening. Then pressing his knuckles to the flat of his tongue. 

Huff.

Reaching back between her knees again. Rolling the back of a rounded claw directly over her hood. Making her clench her thighs on him. Instantly letting go again. 

“Here?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” she said, desperately begging herself internally to not back away or try to close herself off from him. She wanted to throw herself backward but didn’t think he’d take well to that. 

He rolled his finger again, spreading her. Still sensitive and drenched clit sliding against him. Her stupid hips jerked forward. He turned his hand so that he cupped the whole of her pubis in his palm. Claws sinking into her buttocks, the heel of his hand firmly at the top of her pubic bone. She leaned forward, reaching up and grabbing his rounded upper arm, his shoulder. Clinging to his massive arm. Just to brace herself, so she didn’t have all her weight on her knees. Laying herself along his arm like a balance beam. 

Suddenly he squeezed, the muscles of his palm flexing against her. Still humiliated, she started humping his hand. Holding onto his upper arm for dear life, letting herself ride his hand. 

“Sir,” she said heavily.

“Shut up,” he said. “Do it again, little female.”

So she did, grunting like an animal, riding his arm and hand. Oddly reminiscent of early masturbation– humping pillows and the like. Except he was hot and firm. The musculature in his shoulder at least nominally reminiscent of humans, therefore feeling wonderful to hang on to,

She gushed into his palm, falling sideways onto the floor. Laying, panting, watching him stand up. Seeming to stand forever, head near the ceiling. Moaning again, watching him lap her up off his palm.

“Palatable,” he said. Pausing. Touching his jaw, seeming to suck his teeth. “MD treat.” He added after a long moment.

“Sweet,” she said.

He shook his head. Sweet was apparently another translation impasse. Like chaar. She wondered what else they’d come across.  

 He got up, moving around, grabbing the tablet off the back of the door again. Sitting back at the desk chair. She slid next to him. Sitting cross-legged by his knee. When he set down the tablet, she rested two fingers on his knee.

Miming holding food to her mouth, she asked, “dinner?... Food?”

“Hungry?” he asked back.

“No, for Pet to make you,” she said. 

“No,” he said. “Mess hall. Social preservation.”

She understood him perfectly, but still wanted clarification. Wanted to ask him, laughing, if ‘social preservation’ meant that it would be rude for him to eat alone. Or if it was something rather more sinister– that if he didn’t make an appearance, questions would start being asked. 

After another few minutes he shifted, shand e went to retrieve his boots. Helping him get them on. Reaching up to detangle a length of her hair from around one of the buttons on his shirt. 

He went toward the door. Always making sure to angle it such that she couldn’t watch what he was doing. Turning back around, he brought all his claws together, holding them up by the corner of his far wider mouth. Mimicking her ‘food’ pantomime.

“Snack for Snack, though,” he said. 

Laying down and reading more about Refaite. So little about social systems, she was finding. That was irritating. Wondering if they had some kind of ‘Growing up Refaite’ book. Like the books she was given about menstruation and the like. Thinking that would be fairly handy to her. What did he need? What were his maintenances? 

He wasn’t gone long– two hours or so. Coming back in just like he usually did– ignoring her. Settling into his desk chair. She sat back the way she had been, at his knee. 

After half an hour or so, he shifted, rolling his chair back so he could face her again. She slid in between his open legs, wondering if he wanted more from her. She didn’t mind it, if that was the case.

“MD said bandages off,” he said. 

“Oh!” she said. She’d forgotten they’d long passed how long Doc had said she’d have to wear the bandages on her hands. She raised her right hand to her mouth, starting the tug with her front teeth. The Brute rapped her hard between her eyes again and then took her hand away from her mouth. Slitting a claw down the middle of the back of her hand, bandages falling away in a whirl. Doing the second. She flexed her hands. Possible scars, she thought. But maybe that was just whatever remainders of sealers Doc put on her. 

“Working?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. 

Plucking a package out of his breast pocket, he slit that open easily too. Laying it flat in his palm again. This was pure gray. Looking decidedly unappetizing. She leaned forward, newly naked hands on his knee. Trying to take it from him like she’d taken the jerky. But her teeth sunk right into it. Like butter, avocado o,r canned meat. She grabbed his wrist, tilting his hand closer to her face, at a down angle, and licked instead. It was good– tasting rather like offal– that dense sort of organ taste. Reminding her of pate. 

She looked up at him as she ate. Gratified that he seemed to really like being licked. She’d put that away for later use. His breath was heavy, his gaze intent. She cleaned up his whole palm. Then delicately lapped up the claw he’d used to open the package, just in case there were any lingering remains.

He gripped her hair, giving her a shake before she was finished.

“Careful,” he grunted. “Sick.” 

She remembered Doc’s warning about his poisoned claws. She hadn’t been thinking about it at the time. She’d been lost in the play-acting– was it even an act this time?– and forgotten the admonition. Besides– he so clearly didn’t intend her harm any more– god, she was being so stupid– she’d just forgotten herself. 

“Thank you,” she said. 

“Good for you,” he said. “Good nutrition.”

Deciding to make a risky play– oh god, this wasn’t a play, this wasn’t just to gauge his reaction or any other kind of manipulation, it was just what she wanted to do– she leaned forward. Resting her chin on his knee, her palms on his bare foot (claw). 

“Thank you for taking care of me,” she said. 

He went still and she stayed still. Didn’t add anything or wriggle. Or even hide her face or eyes. With a human man, she might have. Played at being coy, or innocent, or needful. She was pretty sure that any of those mannerisms; ducking her head, fluttering her eyelids, shaking her hair around her face, only made him think of deception. 

“Like a pet,” he said. 

“Right,” she said. “She can take care of you, too.” 

Huff.

Amusement? Derision?

She moved back from him slowly. Crawling a few feet before getting up and going into the back room and bathroom. Knowing she was taking another little risk, but doing it anyway. Returning with his “shave kit” and what reminded her of a dry brush for human skin. Setting it on his desk, she tapped her nails on the desk like he tapped his claws to make her pay attention.

“If you want, and you show me, I can,” she said. Tapping the top of the kit. She liked the noise they made. Noticing that for the first time in years, her nails were growing. Healthy, not tearing or biting them. No time, no energy for senseless anxiety. 

He watched her carefully. She stared back at him. He picked up the brush first– the base was a round, curved along the top. Fitting into his palm very comfortably– it would be big for her, of course, but no matter. Brushing it briefly on the vestigial horns on his head. Setting it back on the desk. Opening the shave kit, he tapped his arm-blades. Showing her how to pick and clean. 

“Does it feel good?” she asked. “Or hurt?”

“Nothing hurts,” he said, definitely sounding sharp. 

“Irritating?” she rephrased. 

“Pleasurable…” he said. Pausing for a long time. Doing that thing where he shifted his jaw back and forth like he could chew out the words he wanted. “Tranquilizing.” 

She clambered up into his lap, facing him. Stretching backward, arm behind herself to retrieve the brush. Dropping it between them. First resting and running her hands over his face. Feeling how hot he was. Waiting until his heat was transferred into her hands. Taking her time to brush him afterward. Listening to his breath, watching his face. How hard, what he liked. Smiling internally when his head dropped against the back of the chair, eyes closing. 

She went until he got sleepy-warm, his breath deepening. She carefully slid from his lap. Settling a little ways a way with a blanket and her book of kids Refaite myths.