“Oh my God!” she shouts. “Knot My Alien Mate!I love this book! My copy went missing…”
Dove and I exchange a knowing glance.
Dove has this game she’s affectionately titled:Read and Weep.
It goes like this: Dove straddles me while I lay on my back on my silk sheets in my bed. As often is the case, I am completely naked while Dove is still mostly clothed—she’s in a bra and oversized sweater. She’s wearing these cute, white panties with daisies on them and I catch a glimpse now and then, wrapped snugly around the curve of her lovely hips.
She’s given me the bookKnot My Alien Mate. It’s a raunchy sci-fi novel about a woman who gets abducted by a blue-skinned, split-tongue, eight-foot alien. Naturally, they spend their whole time fucking on his jungle, alien planet.
My task is to read the book out loud to her. While I read, Dove sits on my thighs and slowly, tenderly, traces a long, soft feather over my naked skin. If at any point I stammer or stumble over a word, I have to restart the chapter.
If it doesn’t sound challenging, you should know that after about fifteen minutes of this soft feather caressing the side of my neck, tickling the dip of my hips, and teasing the most sensitive spots of my swollen, leaking cock, I can barely think straight, let alone read a single sentence without moaning.
So far, we’ve readchapter fourabout twenty times.
I read out loud: “She sank down on his enormous manhood. She felt herself stretch around him and the hardened ridges on him sent chills of pleasure through her. Her thighs quaked as she slowly accepted his foreign girth, inch by inch, and…and…”
“And?” Dove repeats. She grips my hip, digs those sharp, kitten nails in.
The warring sensations—the burst of pain at my hip mixed with the too-light strokes of the tip of her feather grazing my erection—makes my cock jerk. I groan. I sweat. I try to refocus on the story, but I can barely see the words on the page.
I try to buy time: “I have a question about knotting,” I say.
“Go ahead.”
“So the…alien…his uh…knot…stays swollen the entire time he’s inside of her?”
“Mmhm.” The flick, flick of her feather makes me shiver.
I pant. I writhe. “What if…what if the alien needs a break?”
“The alien doesn’t get a break.” She presses a single, solid kiss to my chest, right where my heart is. It anchors me and I close my eyes for a brief, lovely moment of reprieve. She must feel my heartbeat pounding against her lips. She shifts, straddling one of my thighs, and even through the fabric of her panties I can feel the heat of her. The thought of slipping her panties aside and ending my torment by sinking myself into her tight, sweet heat is more than I can bear. My body flexes, drips, and I’m making a mess of us, my abdomen wet and stained. She drops the feather—now ruined and sticky—and picks up a brand-new feather. “The alien,” she says, “should keep reading. You’re getting to my favorite part.”
She traces it up my thigh and the new softness is like fire on my skin. I grip the book as my eyes roll into the back of my head.
We’re not coy. Ophelia catches our exchanged looks and squints at us. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“Nope,” Dove lies.
“Not a thing.” I follow suit.
“Mmhm.” She flips the copy over to admire the painted edges. “This is a special edition, too. How the hell did you get a hold of this?”
“The perks of owning a bookstore.”
Dove knits her eyebrows. “You own a bookstore?”
“I do.”
She looks at me like I’ve just taken off my skin-suit in front of her and revealed a lizard head underneath.
“Okay,” Ophelia says. “Youhaveto see this.” Then she takes out her phone, scrolls through it, and hands it over to me. “This was the gang last year. Wearerecreating this photo, by the way, so everyone get ready. Do not fuck this up for me!”
On her screen is last year’s group photo. I stare at it. There are a few of the same people in this photo—Ophelia, Dove, Phantom, Princess. But Dove doesn’t look like herself at all. It takes me a couple seconds to even pick her out from the crowd. Her hair is a shocking, bright blonde. She’s dressed in a cute, pink baby doll outfit.
A man stands behind her. He’s a ginger wearing a Christmas sweater and a grin that says he’s a lucky bastard and he knows it. He has the hollow of her throat cradled in the palm of his hand. He holds her to him possessively.
I hate him. I hate every single one of his perfectly white teeth.
