And . . . okay. I’m a little curious about what all that equipment would feel like on a girl, but I’m more interested in bathing than playing hide the sausage. I eye the water he’s now thigh-deep in, and he crosses his big arms over his chest.
Right. My turn. I’m still scared of the fish from earlier, but if he’s in the water, I assume it’s safe. I move closer to where he’s at, though, just in case. And I am shivering with cold, so I need to either get in the damn water with him or re-dress.
I look at my filthy clothing and decide to get in the water. I can still smell blood and the mess from the hold on me, and I desperately want to get clean. So I take a leap of faith and get into the water.
It smells like rotten eggs, which I’ve heard is what underground hot springs smell like. I don’t care. The water’s warm like a bath, and considering that it’s snowy and bitterly cold, I love it. I moan as it hits my limbs and then I sink deeper, trying to submerge my entire body into the scalding water.
It feels amazing. Right now I could kiss Vektal for bringing me here, scary fish and all. I splash water over my limbs, rubbing at them to get rid of the nasty smells of the last ten days of captivity.
Vektal moves next to me in the water. He says something, then hands me more berries. He motions that I should squeeze them and then rub the juice on me. And maybe I don’t move fast enough for him, because he takes the berries from my hand and squeezes the juice onto my shoulders. Then his big hands start rubbing it into my skin.
I stiffen at first, but his touch is very matter-of-fact. It’s like he realizes I just want to get clean and won’t monkey around, despite the enormous erection he’s sporting that says otherwise. And it’s kind of . . . sweet, I guess. He’s not touching me to be a creep. He’s touching me because he wants to show me how to use the soap. I begin rubbing the strange, fruity-smelling lather over my arms and legs, and when he scoops a handful off my shoulder and begins to wash my hair for me, I moan with pleasure.
Being clean has never felt so amazing.
I hear him inhale sharply. Hear the vibrating purr start in his chest again. He murmurs something, voice thick, but all he does is wash my hair. No demanding touches. No insisting of anything. Just pleasure in touching me. In pleasing me.
Actually, other than the fact that he startled the hell out of me with the oral sex thing, he’s been kinda sweet. Everything he’s done has been designed to please me and give me pleasure. I digest that small bit of information. Maybe it’s the Stockholm syndrome talking. Maybe it’s the fact that with Vektal, I’ve felt safe. Safer than I have in the last two weeks. But I don’t mind his touch. In fact, I kind of like it, probably a lot more than I should.
I can’t look at him while I’m—we’re—bathing. My cheeks feel hot, because every so often, he leans in closer and prods me with that enormous cock of his, and it makes me think of dirty things. Of his mouth on me. The suede-like feel of his skin against mine. His warmth. His intriguing scent.
“Shorshie,” he murmurs, his hands caressing my scalp.
“Gee-or-gee,” I correct him. There must not be any g sounds in his language, because he slurs them.
“Shorgee,” he tries.
“Gee,” I prompt.
“Shhhzhee—” he begins, then stops and tries again. “Corgee.”
I giggle. Corgi? Not quite. I turn around and point at my mouth to show him how to move his tongue. “Georgie.”
His fingers brush over my lips in a tender caress. “Zheorzhe.” Then, he tries again. “Geeeeorgie.” His g is practically purred.
“Very good,” I say, my voice soft. I’ve just now realized that I’m practically pressed up against him and I’m naked.
“Georgie,” he repeats, purring my name again. Then he takes my hand and places it over his chest, where he rumbles like a cat. “Georgie sa-akh Vektal.”
The way he says it, with my hand clasped against his heart, makes me think it has a bigger meaning than I’d like to imagine. His gaze is intense, as if he’s waiting for me to respond.
He’s an alien. I remind myself of that, even as it occurs to me that I can convince him to help me—help us—escape the other aliens. The captors that want to sell us.
This has to be a multi-layered plan, I figure. Vektal’s planet is cold as hell and, judging from his gear, probably isn’t past the Stone Age. But I refuse to give up hope of a way back home. I just know it’s not going to happen with the little green men or the ball-headed aliens. They think we’re cattle.