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Alien Cargo [M30s,F30s][alien][horror][cum][penetration][oral]
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Author Summary
Historical-Pea-348 is in Oral
Post Body

CW: isolation, trafficking, claustophobia, discussions of sex work, drugs, killing, murder, death threats, blood

She knew it was going to be bad. But like most moments of discomfort, straight up pain, or disgust, she thought she’d be able to handle it. Lord knows, she’d handled plenty of both. This was worse than any other experience. She thought she’d be able to power through on the promise of getting off-world and getting paid. That this wouldn’t be really different than any other bad deal she’d struck with men previously. Somehow, it was worse. Because there was discomfort, pain and disgust. And boredom. And fear. And numbness the likes of which she hadn’t experienced.

She had known, of course, that what they were doing was at least frowned upon, and to some extent totally clandestine. She hadn’t known that it was, in fact, totally illegal and a complete secret. 

When they sat in the bar, him pitching, her nodding along, she thought it was going to be like other short-term terrible deals. Maybe she’d be sitting in his cabin all day. Cleaning his outfits, making his one-serving of food. Going hungry herself. Unable to bathe or stretch her legs. Getting banged and playing along like it wasn’t boring and vaguely gross. She’d done it before. And most of the time, it wasn’t terrible. Just sort of sticky and irritating. The men who had hired her to do such things in the past were just sort of lonely or incompetent. Or both. Needing someone to feed them, coddle them, and drain their balls. She had thought Jack was going to be the same.

She should have known by the way she was snuck aboard. He helped her clamber into something that was built like a hyper-sleep crib. Not as nice as that though– it reminded her more of those old antique wooden caskets she saw in movies. Then his footlocker was piled on top. 

She had gasped, sitting upright and about to leap out of the casket when he pushed her back into it. Glancing around she saw she was not in fact in a cabin room, or even a dorm, but very clearly the cargo hold. Explaining to her that he’d keep her hydrated and full of nutrients but that she couldn’t come out. If she wanted, he had bootleg hyper-sleep drugs. In that very first second, she almost said ‘no.’ Then realized she’d utterly lose her mind awake in the box. Thankful, once more, as she often was, that she’d been sterilized years ago. 

So mostly, she slept. Or whatever state hyper-sleep was. Not real sleep, but not full consciousness. All thinking having dream logic and the rambling sort of nonsense story-telling of déjà vu. Both eerie and ordinary. 

He’d wake her, with that terrible zing of drugs. It made her face and ears itch terribly. Wanting to tear the hair off her head, and shake out her body. Like instantaneously developing a rash, or as though the whole of her skin became one great, throbbing cold sore. It raised body temperature, metabolism and heart rate. Leaving her panting and hot. She hated it even more because she knew he mistook all those symptoms for arousal. 

It felt as though he woke her fairly frequently, but she couldn’t be sure. Time passage was impossible to gauge, and he didn’t keep her abreast. She was pretty sure it was once a day. And from what he wanted, and how quickly it was all over, it seemed as though it had to be fairly frequently. Sometimes he’d just lift her into a half recline, fuck her mouth prefunctorily and let her slump back into the box, tossing sleep- drugs onto her chest. She’d hold it in her fist in the dark until she went crazy. Kicking, legs shivering and rolling in the box. Fists popping against the sides, thumping the back of her head over and over onto the floor of the box. Then swallowing the drugs and going under again until he came back. 

She was glad and sad she never felt hunger or thirst. The IV lines did their work well. While she was awake, she did as much stretching and movement as she could. She didn’t feel any loss of muscle or power, but it seemed prudent to do what she could when she could. He often liked her prone or supine. But she’d find a way to prop herself on hands or knees and move as well. She wondered often why he didn’t just get a some simpler sex toy than a whole human. He seemed like he’d be well sated with a silicon-soft vacuum. But she didn’t question it. There was money in her account. Enough to be totally alive on a whole new planet. 

Time went on like that. She heard nothing but her own voice, his grunts and groans, his ‘no’, ‘yes’, ‘stop it’, ‘like that’, ‘pretend to like it’ and the ever-present and totally ignorable sounds of the engines. She never heard anyone else in the hold. 

She would sing sometimes, very, very quietly for the few hours she was awake, and he wasn’t there. Just for something to do. To stretch her lungs. She knew it was dangerous to do so– what if another crew member heard her? But it was the only thing that felt good to do.

Even the small-movement yoga and muscle clenching didn’t feel good, it just felt like maintenance. 

There were two more present worries. One, that she might still be losing her mind, and she couldn’t tell because losing it, and noticing it, didn’t happen concurrently. When she lost her mind, it would necessarily be so gone that she wouldn’t be able to tell it had ever existed. The less worrisome problem was how totally and completely she hated Jack. She’d willingly give up half the money
 Maybe even all the money
 To be able to kill him at the end of the journey. 

One day (was it a day?) it felt like he woke her twice in a very short time frame. Once to use her mouth and then again what felt like not long afterward. 

When the journey had first begun, he’d tried to engage her in some conversation. And she’d tried to reciprocate. Other men she’d done this service for usually enjoyed some level of conversation. Sometimes a sort of play-acting at romance, or at least simple familiarity. But he was bad at it, and clearly uninterested. And the longer she spent in a poor-man’s hyper-sleep daze, the less capable she was of putting on her customer-service voice and playing along. 

If this had happened earlier on, she might have asked him, “how long has it been? I felt like you were just here” but now she didn’t bother. Partially because she just didn’t care, partially because she didn’t expect a satisfactory answer, and mostly because– what was the point? If it had been an hour, eleven, or three days, it didn’t matter. 

The total journey was a little over six months– on-planet. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to how often she was awoken. She was fairly sure it was more frequent as time went on. Simply because he appeared frustrated and bored most of the time. As if he’d finished his daily tasks aboard ship and didn’t know what else to do to with himself but come fuck her. 

She was ratcheting herself out of the casket– she was fully comfortable now, bitterly thinking of it as the casket– when he popped the heel of his hand against her forehead, trying to knock her back in. 

It wasn’t that it hurt as much as it was supremely annoying. Especially when her skin was still zinging from the wake-up drug. Besides, it was enraging to be directed like a recalcitrant dog instead of directed with words. 

“Turn over,” he grunted.

“I don’t fuck in the box,” she said.

Getting used was the one period of time she could clamber out. Be able to move and shift, spread and stretch. 

“Today you do,” he said.

“Jack–” she began to say, before he rapidly slapped her twice in the face. He’d never hit her before.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” he muttered. “It’s been a shitty fucking day, and then you’re being a bitch too–”

Biting her tongue, thinking about shooting him in the head and taking down the whole of the ship along with him, she turned over. Getting up on elbows and knees at least. Ostensibly to give him room to join her, but just to be able to change position and move. 

Getting fucked today was particularly irritating– not quite painful, just abrasive. At least he never lasted long. She couldn’t be sure– she didn’t keep statistics, after all, but she was pretty sure Jack was the quickest lay she’d ever had. He certainly made up for that with how frequently he wanted it. He was young– but not that young. Just useless, she thought. 

It was weird to be thinking of it now, but she wondered when and if she’d ever have good sex again. Sometimes she dreamt of good, clean, satisfying sex. Actually getting wet, actually losing herself in it. She’d probably take a break from men for a while. But maybe in her new life she’d find some good, interesting man. It had been a while, but that didn’t mean it was impossible or undesired. 

Jack suddenly collapsed flat on top of her. Shocking, he didn’t do that, even during or after orgasm. He was usually leveraging himself off her as he was finishing. The shock of that was compounded by the sudden, near boiling heat of something pattering around her head and shoulders. Like being in a too-hot shower. 

She couldn’t help but panic, struggling to get out from under him. Jack wasn’t much bigger than her, and was quite fit. But he still had about sixty pounds on her. Besides, she didn’t have much maneuverability in the box. He felt impossibly heavy, and unmovable. She tried to breathe deep, take her time and try to figure out what was happening. Her face crushed into the minimal foam in the base of the box. 

She could hear her breath whistling and whining, though– moving towards a panicked whooping. Especially since the liquid hadn’t stopped flowing– whatever it was, it wasn’t jizzum– far too much for that. 

Finally, in one Herculean heave she got her arms out from underneath herself, swimming upward away from him as well, and grabbing the lip of the casket. 

She tugged herself up and forward, slithering out from under him. Lubricated by sweat and– she licked the side of her face, and then spit. Blood. Definitely blood– acrid and iron. 

This didn’t help the panic. Nor did the wake-up drug still swimming in her. Her hands and feet were cold, as were all the high points of her face. Her hair seemed to be crackling off her skin. All she could think was out, out, out. The word itself had lost meaning, now it was just an internal chant, a desire to escape from weight, stickiness and threat. 

“Ah-ha,” a voice said, far over her head. 

Another presence didn’t lessen the fear– it ratcheted it up. Because she knew she wasn’t supposed to be here– definitively a stowaway. Worse, she knew it wasn’t a human voice, but that mellow stutter audio she associated with translators. Possibly not a human at all.

Naked and literally coated in blood, she fell out of the casket. Falling to the floor of the cargo hold and immediately leaping to her feet. Her soles slid out from under her. The metal of the floor beneath her would be slick regardless, but was impossible to navigate while she was painted in still-warm blood. 

She had no plan, as such. Her brain was smooth, prey-animal blank. She just kept moving forward. If she could have thought, she would know there was nowhere to go. While the hold was fairly vast– encompassing nearly the whole belly of the ship– there was nowhere to really hide– at least not for long. Realizing that she was bathed in blood, and could smell herself, it wouldn’t be long until she was quite literally sniffed out. But still, she ran. 

At least as far as six feet– the furthest she’d moved from her casket since she’d been interred. And then was quite suddenly grabbed by her upper arms and lifted bodily from the floor. Easily. In a way that she’d never left the field of gravity before. About five feet from the ground. Still unable to think like a human at all, she began fighting. 

“Human?” the voice asked. 

She reached out with both legs and kicked as hard as she could. It just left her swaying in the air. She finally managed to focus– seeing the smear of Jack’s blood (Jack’s blood?) and her footprint on a torso (a torso?)

“Down!” she cried, her arms feeling like they were slowly sliding from their sockets like overcooked meat. 

She wasn’t given that, but the pain got her to stop reacting in pure shock and to think for a second. The thing that was holding her was a Brute– she knew that was a specist thing to call them, but she couldn’t for the life of her pronounce (or even really remember) what they called themselves. 

Besides, she hadn’t had much interaction with any of the non-humans that humans were in contact with. She only knew the slurs humans called them, and that some of them called humans. Like how Grays didn’t like to be called Grays, that it was rude to call the Luys Tents’ or ‘Pusses because they looked like Earth sea creatures, and that Brutes didn’t like the go-to human word either. Grays called humans Orcs pretty frequently– thinking them dumb and violent. The Luys called humans whatever their word for ‘cripple’ was– because they had fewer limbs. A few of them had encountered Victor Hugo and jokingly called humans Quasi, short for Quasimodo. She wasn’t sure what Brutes called them because she’d never seen one in person. 

“Yes, human,” she finally panted, going still, hoping that her lack of movement would trick him.

“That explains that,” the voice said. Sounding oddly gentle and ruminating. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You’re hurting me,” she said, swaying again. 

“I’m going to kill you,” it said, still that recorded radio-mellowness in the voice. “But I mean right now, are you sick? You’re small, you’re cold.”

She froze for a moment over the threat. And then tried to fight again. Kicking up, straining her core and attempting to kick the hell out of its chin, its torso. Hoping that because it was bipedal and humanoid, that anatomy would win out. That a kick to the face or chest would have some stopping, or at least some stunning power. 

“Head security,” the Brute rumbled away at her, unimpressed with the full force of her legs pummeling him. “I had assumed Officer Pilings was embezzling, or doing substances. But instead I’ve encountered contraband of a different sort.”

She shrieked a little over being called “contraband” and tried to kick again. He had both her wrists over her head in one hand and grabbed one of her kicking legs as well. Giving her a brisk shake. Tossed like she would be in a hammock at sea. It made her suddenly nauseous. Between wake-up drugs, total panic and the smell of gore rising from her, she only just managed to swallow it.

“Sick,” he muttered. 

With both his arms out, holding her away from him, nothing felt better about her predicament. She understood, at least in part, why she felt cold. Besides being nude and sinking ever further in total fear, he felt very hot– almost like a fevered human. His skin was
 almost flesh, but not quite. She’d be able to tell the difference even without virtue of sight. He had something like a fin (a claw?) on his forearms. The left one positively slathered in gore. That must have been what had killed Jack. 

“Oh,” he said. She wished the translator didn’t exist. It was too jarring to hear the recorded gentleness of the tech in contradiction to him. They might not like being called Brutes, but there was a reason why that was the term that sprung to the human mind. “Female. I see now.”

He lowered her to the floor. She played along, intending to scramble away from him once she had her footing. He caught her in the crook of his elbow, however, her back to his chest. She immediately started coughing, esophagus slowly getting flattened under the curve of his forearm. And now that fin blade was too uncomfortably close to her face. If she shifted, she’d cut herself on it, she could tell. Besides, there was flesh, Jack’s light skin, and something that looked altogether too close to bone chips trapped in the crannies of the fin. She turned her face, gagging and choking. 

“Weak,” he said. “I know you humans are. I’m just surprised he risked it all for a rut animal.”  

She wanted to fight or scream again, but it was quite beyond her. His arm compressing further all the time. She was lifted from the floor again, putting more pressure on her throat. She hung on to his forearm, carefully avoiding the weaponized part of his body. Trying to lift, trying to breathe. Her chest heaved. Her vision narrowing to a pinpoint. Everything going sepia toward the center of her vision. She would have panicked, if she could, when her feet and hands went cool and tingly. She knew this wasn’t shock any more, or drugs. This was an utter lack of oxygen. She was going to die in the arms of an alien, sticky with Jack’s blood.

For whatever reason, the idea of dying with Jack’s useless gore on her made her move again. And at least for an instant, the Brute hadn’t seemed to expect any fight. She managed to shove herself deeper into the crook of his elbow, giving herself some breathing space. Taking in a whooping breath, that hurt her lungs as they reinflated. Feeling like desert ground trying to take in water. Thrusting her own elbows into him hard, leaning forward, arching her hips back into him. 

In his surprise, he dropped her to the floor. She cried out, began crawling, feeling like her knees and the palms of her hands were shattered from where she landed. She couldn’t move far or fast. She was still sobbing in air. The Brute was unmoving. After crawling two agonized feet, she looked over her shoulder. He was just standing there
 Watching her.

It made her understand the hopelessness of the situation. He didn’t have to pursue her. He would get her. She couldn’t hide. He would find her. She couldn’t fight, he could provably outfight her. There were no weapons aboard the ship– except for him. 

“I’ll admit to a small amount of curiosity,” he said. 

She was confused, and still sort of dragging herself along the floor as she listened. Didn’t know what he was curious about. Or if he fully understood what that meant. She snarled, almost thinking about trying to regain her feet again. 

“Are you worth it?” he asked. “To end up spineless in a box with a uniform around your ankles?” 

Referring to Jack. He most certainly had died ignominiously. Not even allowed to finish. For some reason, that made her grin ferociously. She thought it was funny that he hadn’t, but it was also a grimace of pain. 

“Hm,” the Brute said. 

Taking the few steps toward her, he scooped her from the ground again as she mewled. Unable to even put up a louder or angrier noise. Hanging from his bent arm like a bad cat, he walked back toward the casket.

That got the fight going back in her. Thinking that he was going to put her back in the box. It wasn’t merely the sharing the space with the corpse– it was the simple fact of being anywhere near that casket. 

“See?” he asked, shaking her over the box. Letting her see how oddly accurate he’d been when he said Jack had ended up ‘spineless.’ 

It just made her give that apeish, bitterly triumphant grin again. 

“Oh, hate,” the Brute said, as if pleased. She wondered if the translator was capable of discerning tone, or if she merely imagined it. “You hate Pilings. Then it really wasn’t worth it.” 

Snarling, she fought on his arm. Spitting and turning. Unsure of what the point was. But too angry to stop. 

“Mates
 Colleagues
 Coworkers,” the translator stuttered, running through each word in a snappy fashion. “Said the humans feel good. That’s the other part of the curiosity.”

She went still. Wondering if this were another opportunity to escape. Reaching out with the hand closest to his body, she stroked whatever was near her. 

“We do,” she said. 

He let her fall to the ground again. She managed to slow herself by throwing her arms out, catching the walls of the casket and slowing her descent. But wrenching her arms once more. Instead of trying to escape, she turned back to the Brute. Stroking again. Doing her best to be seductive– would he understand or appreciate any of those things? Upturned eye and opened mouth and out-thrust tits? 

Glad for a few things. Again, that he was roughly humanoid– estimations could be made. That his flesh, while decidedly not human, didn’t feel bad. That he was warm– she was cold. That he’d given her some possible in. 

“Before it’s all over for you, I’ll have you,” he announced.

The intention was still dispatching
 Murder, then. Regardless, whatever happened next would give her time. 

“But not when you’re filthy,” he said. Grabbing her by the hair, until she screamed, slapping her hands over his grasping one. He finally understood that wasn’t a good enough handle to lift her and grabbed her by the upper arm. Lifting and trotting her across the cargo room floor. Going to a door in the wall. She panicked again, thinking he’d lied, or rethought his plan and was going to toss her into the airlock. Instead, it was just a closet-sized space off the cargo hold. Supplies, tech. Then she saw the chem burn shower in the far corner. Just a pull chain and a plastic tarp. He threw her at it. Stepping in, she pulled the chain. Of course, the water was weak– there wasn’t much in there. It was for emergencies. Still, she started crying. Turning from him and swallowing the sound. It just
 felt
 so damn good. Opening her mouth and taking a swallow of it. The oddly flat taste of kept water. Still. Water. Watching the blood fall off her in swirls. He reached around the tarp and she gasped. But he just turned his left arm under the spray, also letting the blood wash away from him. 

Before she was done, having that final moment of real humanity, real cleanliness, he pulled her out. Dragging her back to the hold. 

Right on the opposite side of the hold was the actual airlock, she realized. A wide, curved and too-thick window. All she could see was darkness. Pushing her toward it, she fell into it. His hand on the back of her head, he pressed her face into the glass. She shivered. Freezing cold. Total, deep-space blackness on the other side. Pink water still pattering off her. All of her skin goose-pimpled.

“Aren’t you glad I didn’t send you out there?” he asked.

She went silent. He pushed her face in harder, her cheekbone bruising against the curve. 

“Yes, thank you,” she said, hesitantly. He let up some pressure. The right answer. Play along. Be subservient. She understood now. 

Rolling her face across the ice-cold glass, she felt him get closer to her. 

“Don’t kill me yet,” she said, surprised and delighted how well she maintained a semblance of silky seduction “Don’t you want to see what they were talking about?”

“I do,” he said, suddenly the whole length of his body against hers. “Show me.” 

Just as suddenly, he let her go. Leaving her gasping. Feeling the urge to run again. It wouldn’t end well for her if she did that. He seemed to enjoy the play– the give in and give over. She could do that. At least for a while. Try and figure out some plan beside dumb escape. She was about to fall to her knees again, start with oral sex like she would with a man, and realized the size differential was such that she likely wouldn’t be able to physically reach him from her knees. Propping her hips against the bottom lip of the window, she leaned forward. Pleased again that his uniform was built exactly like Jack’s. Army-style button fly. Easy enough to handle. Reaching around his waist, drawing him closer, she popped the buttons open with her teeth. 

Further relieved to find the
 equipment
 similar. He would be a very well-endowed human, but not absurd. The bigger problem by far– the word purposeful in this instance– was girth. Far wider than a human. Still, she thought, manageable. Lapping at him, looking up, gauging his reaction. He exhaled, hips tilting into her. So she went more firmly to work. Difficult and uncomfortable to take him fully in her mouth, but not impossible. Breathing slowly and deeply through her nose, however. Filled edge to edge. She was briefly worried when he went utterly still. But then he began working with her. 

For a while, the only sound was the low thrum of engine, the sounds of her suckling and deep breaths and his occasional plosive exhales. 

“This might be what kills you,” he said, once more, sounding thoughtful more than anything else. 

Momentarily confused, she glanced up at him. And was then drowning. Exactly like being held under too long at the swimming hole. The aching lungs, the hot sinus’ the desperate need to have air, not liquid. Panicking again, hands fluttering on him, trying to push him away. Realizing she’d made a mistake. Thinking that because he wasn’t entirely unfamiliar, that she understood him– or his workings– at all. Understanding that he was orgasming, but not at all anything like she’d experienced before. And his temperature was rising. That, at least, was oddly comforting. Clinging to him in the cold of the hold. 

She was trying to back away, compulsively gulping, and then trying to swallow another mouthful before the first was down her throat. His hands wrapped around the back of her head, holding her in place. Burying himself deeper, in fact. This increased the sensation of drowning but also sparked fear again. His palms (the center of his claws
?) were bigger than the back of her head. His fingers wrapped all the way around. The two longest rested over and below her wide-open eyes. 

He let her go just as quickly. She slumped to the floor, falling back on her heels, legs splaying in all directions. Head hanging, mouth cracked, nose dripping, tears and drool slathering her face. He stepped a few inches back from her. She was unsure if it was disgust that made him back away, or if he was just trying to take inventory. She held up a hand. 

“Not yet,” she said hoarsely. Almost stunned by how torn-up her voice sounded. Her throat certainly felt raw. 

“Not yet what?”

“Don’t kill me yet,” she clarified. Bracing her palms on the floor, about to get back up. Really, truly exhausted. And worse, definitely injured. Especially through her shoulders, her terribly bruised knees and elbows. Her jaw ached, her lips felt cracked in a hundred places. There was a deep and abiding pain between her shoulders as well– she thought perhaps from when she had pulled herself out from under Jack’s literal dead-weight. 

Another low, huffing exhale from the Brute. Amusement? Could he be amused?

“Firstly, I’m impressed with your hardiness,” he said. “The limits of human capability and stamina are confusing to me. At once whining and impossible to demolish. You’ll drag yourself forward, complaining all the way. But you don’t die. Also
 Do you think my curiosity is sated by what just occurred?”

Glancing up at him, still trying to catch her breath. Feeling dreadfully
 full of him and trying once again to read his literally alien face. It was like developing a sudden handicap, dealing with him. Never knowing how much she’d relied on tone, body language and expression. How sensitive she’d been to all those little invisibilities, and how necessary they’d been to her survival. She guessed. She interpreted things based on previous experience. But that gave her no information in regard to his motivations, desires or plans. 

Much like being unprepared for what his orgasm was, she was realizing it apparently wouldn’t be like a human– one and done, a refractory period. God, why didn’t they do any kind of other species biology or anatomy in school?

While she was grappling with this exhausting new fact, he reached down again. She locked her arms in tight against her torso. Afraid of being lifted by her arms again and coming apart at her joints if her body weight was tugged into the air again by them. She’d rather have her hair ripped out at this point, then her arms wrenched again. Scraping sharpness against her forearms– something like claws, or closer to talons, making her arms go loose, he grabbed her at the thin part of her waist. Fingers locking under her rib cage, lifting her again. 

“Thank you, better,” she panted. “This hurts less.”

That huff again. 

“Hardly my concern,” he said. “I’ll send you into death broken and numb if that’s my pleasure, little female.” 

Deciding to be unconcerned with that statement, she reached between them. Beginning to pump him with one hand and realizing it would be more effective with both. Floating about a foot off the floor, his hands clamped around her waist. A little scared, and a little pleased he was hardening in her hands again. 

“A good thing I get to indulge and then destroy you,” he said. She was beginning to hate the gentleness of the translator even more. Because it was confusing, and because it hardly left him sounding aroused. Even though she was quite sure of that fact– based on how he was reacting, and moving into her. “I won’t have one of those monstrous little beasts bursting from you.”

She’d heard, of course, that there’d been some cross-breeding problems– especially off-world. But she thought that was urban legends, or tabloid mix-ups. But maybe it wasn’t. This Brute would know better than her– was presumably more well-traveled. And seemingly more familiar with other species than herself– or at least had interacted with them more. 

“You humans are so
 tender, you keep them,” he said. 

Either he or the translator had a problem finding the word for tender. 

Her arms were getting tired. Hands feeling abraded, upper arms getting deep-down sore.

“I’m clean,” she said. “I can’t. You can indulge utterly, without concern.” 

“No need to lie,” he said. “It hardly matters, you’ll be dead before anything manages to implant.” 

Swinging her legs out, she locked herself around his waist. Letting herself slide down until she was just resting on his upraised
 cock. Glad for her spittle, his previous orgasm, he was well-lubricated, and she began slicking along his shaft. 

“That’s right,” she said. “So why would I lie?” 

Another exhale– closer to a snort this time. His hands spasming on her painfully, crushing into the soft parts of her tummy. Talons leaving bruised indents along her spine. He liked this. So she sped up, making the movement wider and longer. He helped– letting her loll backward, helping her move. 

Two terrible and momentous things happened in a split second. The first– she locked down what her possible plan of action could be, or at least what her negotiation would be. The second was that she suddenly realized she was aroused. That it wasn’t just his
 spunk, her spit that made movement easy, but that she too was dripping. Coating him in honey. The shape of his lower torso felt delicious when she slid in close to him, her ever-swelling clit bumping up against him and his high heat. And that, because of how wide he was, her split was kept spread open, and thus her clit was riding along him and against him over and over again. 

She could have laughed about how she was now chasing orgasm. But why not? Even if everything went entirely bad, why not come one last time?

So she did. Making sure, of course, that he was engaged. But he certainly seemed to be. Holding her ever closer, helping her roll and work. Leaving her feeling almost weightless. Feeling his heavy breath on her, almost snorting into the top of her head, his cock thumping against her, pumping and working. Wrapping her hands around the back of his neck, she let herself go over. Her orgasm sounding painful, and unlike herself. Still hoarse, her cries sounding burnt. 

“Say thank you,” he said, as she panted, going limp against him. Trying still to rock on him and give him his, but everything in her was so loose and done-in. 

“For what?” she snarled back, barely able to get the words out.

“I know what happened. You enjoyed yourself. So say thank you, dumb little animal,” he said. 

“Thank you,” she said, getting back to work in earnest. “Thank you.”

Shifting quite suddenly, letting her shoulder blades thump into the wall behind her he had her totally impaled. The sound that came out of her would have been a scream if her throat wasn’t still so damaged. As it was, it was just a strangled noise. Sliding down his cock, feeling like she was being split apart. She wished she would be allowed to settle, come to rest, allowed to acclimated. But he started working her up and down like a toy on himself. 

Worried, suddenly, that if he came as he had before she’d be doubly ruptured. There was nothing else for it though. Grabbing his neck again, she tried to help. Giving another croak when she felt that wind-up again, now familiar from the first time. He’d get physically hot first, cock throbbing and thickening once more. She braced for it, but still cramped and cried. Thumping her face forcefully into his chest over and over again– trying to drown out the discomfort in her guts by inflicting more pain on herself. Thumping her fists uselessly and powerlessly against his torso. 

“Go ahead and die on it, if you can’t take it,” he said. 

Baring her teeth up into his face she stretched backward, as if to make her torso longer, give herself more space to take the intrusion. And then it was over again. She let her legs drop from his waist, and he shrank out of her. She grimaced, listening to his fluid patter to the floor between her legs. 

Grabbing him by the front of the uniform, she tugged him forward. Back toward the casket. There was a plinth it rested on, something she could stand on. Surprised that he willingly followed her. She couldn’t have dragged him with strength alone. He seemed inclined to play along. Or he was still curious. 

Stepping up on the plinth she put her back to him. Momentarily nervous for a variety of reasons. Smelling the flat iron stink of Jack somewhere near her. And viscerally remembering that the last time her back was to the Brute he’d choked to the edge of her demise. Leaning forward, grabbing the edge of the casket, tacky and thick with blood she reached behind herself. Grabbing that weaponized fin on his arm, pulling him in close to her hips. Cutting her fingers in the process, feeling the welling heat of her blood falling on his skin. She didn’t shrink back or flinch though. Trying to prove a point, unsure whether or not he’d see it and understand. Now that she was a few feet off the ground, their hips were better aligned. Spreading her legs, she backed up. Mounting his half-hard shaft again, as she had before. Riding him again. His hands landed on her heavily in response. One on her lower back, helping to guide her back and forth. The other on the back of her head. 

“How many humans were supposed to be onboard?” she asked slowly, working even slower.

“One. Pilings,” he answered. 

“What did he do here?” she asked, feeling herself unwillingly getting wet again. Praying that he wasn’t a science officer or management of some kind.

“Unit Supply Specialist,” he said, claw spasming on her lower back. 

Inventory. Bullshit. Inspections. Load up, load out. That was perhaps why he’d been able to cover his forays into the cargo hold for so long. And go uninspected. 

“I could take his place,” she said. “Now there’s still only one human aboard. He’s not important. You don’t have to finish me. You had the resources for one human. One for one. No big change.” 

She heard a mild bleep sound and looked behind herself. Watching him tug loose one of the two stickers and three wires of the translator. Growling at her– for the first time using his real voice, his true vocalizations. It froze her. If she thought the uneomtional mildness of the translator was terrible, this was worse. 

His claws became crushing around her skull. She gasped as he pushed her head down far, until she tipped forward into the casket. Inches away from Jack’s corpse, face instantly sticking to the blood-soaked foam underneath her. She heard that same bleep again, knowing he’d reconnected the translator.

“Do it again,” he said. “Enjoy yourself one more time. Go out in pleasure. I like to see it.” 

She wondered if that was his intention– if that was his pleasure. If when she finished he’d suddenly crush her skull between his hands. Choke her from behind. Feel her shake in orgasm and then finish her death struggles on his erection as well. Shove that blade into her spine like he had Jack, and his cock right behind it. 

It wasn’t that any of it was a turn-on– not the fear, not the translated certainty or her tormentor’s dead body right in front of her. It was total overload. And terribly, it made her body entirely reactive. She let go of the edge of the casket. Letting her body weight rest on her hip bones as she got pummeled. Covering her mouth, hoping he wouldn’t hear the croaking of her orgasm. 

He must of felt it though. She heard that exhale again, ascribing amusement and triumph to it. She tried to pull herself away, shield herself in any way, sure of that bladed blow coming down on top of her. Instead he was inside her again. She groaned without noise, all the air in her leaving her. Lungs flat again. He was buried in her, she felt broken. Worse, it punched another small orgasm out of her. And it felt as though something snapped. Something strung too tight and breaking in some central part of her. 

Each thrust hurt– both from being stretched wide and pounded into the side of the casket. Her back hurt. Everything that was already damaged throbbed. She reached behind and above her, both hands grasping onto his forearm above her head. Still keeping her head down and trapped inside the casket. Attempting to dig her nails into him and clearly making no headway. Fingers scrabbling along the fin again. Cutting herself on little razor points she couldn’t see. He felt her fighting and suddenly let up some pressure. Letting her turn her face a little. Whooping in another big breath and when the oxygen hit it made her come again. She felt herself clamping down on him, practically milking the cum out of him. He felt it, sealing his hips to her. She heard her whistling, pathetic noises. Knowing it was screams, unable to raise her voice. 

Once more trying to stretch herself taller, as if to make space for his deluge. He didn’t pull out like last time and she reached underneath herself, grasping her lower stomach, trying to ease the waves of cramps he brought on. Finally, he let her go. The sudden, terrible loosening she had, his cum coating the insides of her legs, soaking her feet made her go entirely limp. 

Instead of giving up though, she turned around. On shaking legs, stepped down. Raised her bleeding hands up to him. 

“Is your curiosity sated?” she asked. Sticky, more tired and beaten than she’d ever felt. But standing upright.

“Yes. The little female feels delightful,” he said. 

“Then keep her,” she said.

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