Page 19 of Taken
“Yes, Lacchus,” I hiss, encouraging him.
He ruts into me harder, slamming his hips home, and I come undone, orgasm toppling over orgasm until sometime later, he empties inside of me while screeching up at the sun.
Spent, we lie there, panting underneath the charring rays of the desert’s heat for another few minutes until his cock shrinks back down to size and he can actually pull it out of me. The squelching sound is obscene, and so is thesplershof wetness that soaks my trimmed bush, my thighs, my ass.
“Ooph!” I squeak when his massive knuckle prods my asshole, struggling for entry. “I don’t know about that hole, buddy.” I tense up and he lets me pull away—for a second, before using the hand around my hip to flip me over onto my back.
He screeches in my face, showing me all of his fangs and I hiccup and hold up both hands. “Let me explain!”
But he doesn’t let me explain, not even as I point and gesture wildly in the direction of the Sucere Chamber, or after tossing me over one shoulder, when I start to beat on his back. He just slaps my ass—hard, but not hard enough to shut me up—and takes off back toward camp.
ChapterEleven
Lacchus
The owelay female has not accepted my mating. Even after I traded all of my teeth tokens for her bath, new softer bedding and clothing suited for her size and shape, she continues to try to run from me every day.
And every day I let her escape.
The primal instinct in me to hunt and capture is too strong a pull to ignore. So, I make up some excuse to leave her for a few moments, knowing that when I come back, she’ll be gone. And then I chase.
Catching and rutting her as punishment in my larger form was an accident the first time. I could not fight my desire and I greedily accepted the lovely way her much smaller body arched into mine.She likes it.Though she may fear me and my tribe, she cannot deny her pleasure. And like the feral beast that I am, I take that pleasure from her, wielding it as a weapon. I fuck her hard enough to weaken her body, hoping that it will weaken her resolve, but it does not.
In fact, as our tribe continues to migrate farther south, toward the mountains, her attempts become more ambitious…and slightly more calculated.
She waits a day. An entire day with no attempts. She preens in front of the mirror when I present her with new clothing. She fixes her hair into a fascinating style—knotting it in twin chains that go down the back of her head. She joins us as the fires light that evening and when the unmated females rise to seduce potential mates, she joins them.
She does not know our language or our customs, so I know that there is a large chance she does not realize her slight. Other Vironai males and females watch me as she stands, waiting for me to intervene as she approaches the fire’s violent light, but I do not.
I’m curious about this female and the strange, underground tribe that she comes from. I cannot speak to her. Cannot communicate, it seems, in any way except for the one. Yet there are things about her that feel familiar. Her face shape and skin color are not unlike ours, as Vironai. A slightly paler brown, though with her little dots and unusually colored eyes, she stands out.
Her most notable difference is her size. She stands a head shorter than the shortest Vironai warrior here and seems to lack any sort of knowledge and tools—genetic or learned—to defend herself with. She seems naive to this world, setting off as she did across the Barrens with no weapon and very little water. Yet…she sets off in the same direction every time. What is she looking for? And why, today, did she not try again?
I was a little grumpy when I returned to my tent this afternoon to find her still there, admiring her reflection. I have begun to look forward to the hunt. I do not possess her subtle seduction. The only way I know to initiate intimacy with her is to take. And because she did not run today, I could not think of one viable reason to punish her beneath my cock and now I’m aching.
The wind is a warm rush, unusual for the Barrens, which are typically cold after the sun sets. She is dressed in the clothing I provided her. A thin band to cover her breasts and a skirt made of the same frex-frex hide most things are made from. Though they may be disgusting creatures, she makes their treated skin look ethereal as she spins toward the fire.
Most of the other two dozen or so females who have gotten up to dance have paused to watch. I am spellbound, not only by her movements, but by the fact that she has such confidence. She smiles, and as the young drummers look to me for approval, I nod, granting it. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and as she dances, I pretend that she only dances for me.
The Vironai are a violent brood and everything we do carries that essence. When the Vironai females of my past took my rut, they did so with teeth and talon, fighting my hold and encouraging me to use force to mount them. I stopped enjoying that years ago.
The Vironai males typically watch the unmated females dance and war on the sidelines, testing each other in the hopes to claim the female of their choice before her dance ends and any other can take her. The females are no different. Their aggressive movements are all sharp and hard. It is not unknown for females to take petty squabbles out on each other around the fire, tripping each other, throwing elbows and heels, drawing blood.
But as my dancer picks up her pace, spinning and sinking her hips, rolling her stomach and using her arms in melodic, dizzying ways, the Vironai don’t fight her. They don’t fight this. Instead, the drummers start a new beat, something softer, with more rhythm. A broom-brush—an instrument we rarely use—to create a deep ohm sound is picked up. An older Vironai male blows into it, his mate seated at his arm, touching his lower belly, intoxicated…as we all are.
The unmated females resume dancing beside my owelay, and I notice their motions are less hostile, smoother. There’s laughter when my owelay trips and runs into two women. They help right her with smiles on their faces. They comb their fingers over her hair, asking her about the style. She seems to understand through gestures and makes an offer to twine their hair. She takes a seat—a seat next to me—and does the hair of a dozen Vironai females for the rest of the night.
She is swaying on her feet as we return to my tent, much to the disappointment of the dozen more females—and several males—who wanted their hair spun, but I noticed her arms tiring. She is a small female, slight of figure, and I cannot help but think back on the many different beings in the strange cave below the earth where we found her. I wish I could ask her about them, but cannot.
I am wrought with tension as we return to my tent, which, as we migrated farther south these past two nights, I’ve enlarged. I’ve replaced the bedding and I know that I will need a larger trunk to accommodate the things I’d like to have for her. I want to replace the carpets. I want more things that this world does not have and I worry. Do those things exist in her underground chamber? Do I not offer enough? Does she doubt my ability to provide for her?
I am frowning down into her smile, which remains fixed as she looks up at me drunkenly, offering herself to me. I drag my clawed finger down the center line of her chest, over her breast band, her exposed stomach, to the top of her skirt. I want her with a desperation that borders on insanity, but I am wrought with confusion, harboring doubts about my ability to please her and keep her without using rope. The urge to tie her to me is strong, but I set my rope down on top of her chest. I know better than that. Because rope might be strong enough to keep her from leaving, but it will not get her to stay. She has to want that.
I resist her advances and reject her, pointing at the bed. She lies down and I lie beside her, never once fearing that she will disappear in the night, for why would she? Even naive as she is, anyone with half a mind would know that crossing the Barrens at nightaloneis a death sentence.
So when I wake just before daybreak to find the space beside me empty and cold, her clothing left behind and her filthy and tattered gray rags missing along with the rest of her, I know then for certain that my mate is an idiot.
I take off into the still-dark sky and sprint toward the northern horizon in my Mpo form. I have never wanted my larger shape, but now I am grateful for it. With a mate this foolish, I need it.
