Alien Interludes (38 page)

“Al Earther women feel this good?” he asked. “Must get clan. Must get Matara.”

Rachel grinned and puled his head down so she could kiss him. Sojan’s arms remained clutched around her, making her feel safe. His kiss was a little rough as he began to pul free of her. She gasped into his mouth to feel the thickness of him moving against sensitive bits within her sheaths. He withdrew until only the tips of his penises remained inside, making her feel way too empty. He refiled her, stil being careful while moving a little faster.

In and out, taking her, gaining confidence as her ragged fingernails clawed at his back. His thrusts grew stronger, went deeper as his tongue plumbed the depths of her mouth, seeking penetration any way he could have it. As youthful hungers began to take over, Sojan grunted with each plunge, the sounds he made turning bestial. The harder he rode her, the softer Rachel felt herself becoming, absorbing the strength with which he possessed her. The pulse of pleasure was gaining momentum, heating her core with every beat of the alien’s hips against hers.

His arms slid away, laying her on the floor. The hard surface beneath Rachel matched the solid body of the Kalquorian and the steel with which he made her his. Sojan reared back, kneeling once more.

He never missed a beat of the steady rhythm he’d set. Grasping her calves, he raised them into the air, making a vee shape of her legs. Her ass came off the ground too, making it impossible to move much.

Now she was open to him, not only for his sensual assault but also to his avid gaze.

Sojan groaned loudly as he watched himself disappear then re-emerge from her womanhood. His sexes glistened from their combined wetness, shining in the pale light. Rachel knew he saw much better than she in the dim light, knew she was on ful display. His hands holding her calves exposed al her secret flesh to him. She’d never known such vulnerability.

It made the pounding of her heart louder, made the flexing of her womb headier. She was re-igniting al over, feeling the sparkling delight even in her fingertips and toes. Rachel grabbed Sojan’s thighs. In the position he’d put her in, this was al she could get hold of. He growled at her, his groin thudding harder against hers. Oh glory, he was going to make her come again, if he could last a little longer. Her insides were coiling tight, spiraling up to a bright point. If he could just last…

“Matara, please,” he gasped. “Please, Ray-Ray, you must pleasure now.”

Almost, my beautiful alien boy. Almost…

Sojan’s hips pounded wildly against her, and the friction was relentless. Rachel’s guts curled in on themselves, wrapping into knots, the tension so taut she thought she might double over. Her nails drew stripes on his legs.

“Maaataaaraaa…” He ground the word out between clenched teeth. His tempo became erratic. He was losing control.

Sojan’s cocks jerked within her. She actualy felt them pulsate, as if she’d been invaded by writhing serpents. He screamed as the climax he’d fought against escaped his control. Like a cord snapping in two, Rachel’s straining body released al at once. She went with him, her mouth opening wide in a soundless scream of completion.

Sojan cried out with every powerful thrust of his hips. Rachel crested and fel so many times she lost count. She thought her heart might burst from her chest, but the sensual agony was beautiful, as beautiful as the fresh faced man-boy pouring his seed into her womb.

Sojan shuddered one last time. He gathered her in his arms before roling onto the floor, taking her with him so that she lay on top of him. “Thank you, Matara,” he sighed. “So kind to me. Thank you.” Rachel smiled, her sex stil quivering in the aftermath. She thought she might like going to Kalquor just fine.

* * * *

The white and purple lights of the coming transport were closing in on Sojan and Rachel’s position. They waited for it, standing side by side outside where the prison gates had once stood. The Kalquorian had wanted to carry her to this spot, to keep the strain from her poor, battered body. Being kept safe in his arms had been a difficult thing to resist, but she did. It was time to be strong again, Rachel decided.

Time to come out of the dark and chance life once more. So she had climbed from the Hole, had crossed the debris-strewn prison yard, and had left its boundaries for the last time. She was ready to face her uncertain future on her feet and under her own steam. She wouldn’t even sit on the ground though after the wondrous sex everything ached right down to her bones.

Sojan watched the approaching shuttle, his face a little sad. “I won’t see you again. You wil be taken to medical, made better. Then sent to your choice of Earther colony or Kalquor. I stay here, look for more Earthers to rescue.”

Rachel tapped the handheld he had indicated she should keep.
If I go to Kalquor, maybe we’ll meet again.

He shrugged. “Not for a long time. After Earth, I wil be on assignment some other planet. Signed for military for many years. Ambition to command some day.” She smiled at him.
You will do very well, Sojan. I know I’m impressed with you.

He kicked at the rubble around his feet, the expression on his face so
aw shucks, ma’am
that she opened her mouth in silent laughter. Yes, he did remind her of Marcus. Her beloved had always been embarrassed by compliments too.

That memory queled her amusement. The thought of what she’d lost brought a wad of ache to her throat.

She felt guilty for leaving the world behind she’d shared with Marcus. Yes, life under the tyrannical yoke of Earth’s fanatical government had been hard. The hel of imprisonment and torture at the hands of her own people had been horrendous. But Earth had also seen many a night in Marcus’ arms, hours of pleasure, days of shared laughter. Leaving that part behind hurt more than she could have imagined.

Rachel looked at Sojan as he watched the shuttle closing in, lowering to land on the flat expanse of cracked asphalt that had once been the prison’s parking lot. So big and strong and yet stil just a boy.

She sighed. To be that innocent again. She envied him. And she knew it was better to leave him behind and let him find a woman just as hopeful for the future as he was. As she and Marcus had been once upon a time.

God, she suddenly felt so old.

As if sensing her downturn in emotion, Sojan moved so that their bodies touched. His arm went around her shoulders.

“Many clans wil beg for your attention. Good men, men who wil give al they possess just to know you.” He smiled. “I wish I had longer to be with you. But I am glad to know if you choose a clan, they wil appreciate their fortune. It takes my sadness away.”

Rachel leaned into him. Typed as the transport landed, preparing to take her away from her dying home.
I will never forget you, Sojan. I will never forget how you saved me
.

In so many ways, he had. What had appeared on the surface as just a sexual encounter had given Rachel something back, something she thought had died forever. Something more important to her than even her life.

“You are beautiful, Ray-Ray. I am luckiest man for little time I had with you.”

He gave her one last kiss to send her on her way.

The End

Other books by Tracy St. John

Unholy Union

THE CLANS OF KALQUOR SERIES:

Alien Embrace

Alien Rule

Alien Conquest

Alien Salvation

Alien Slave

THE NETHERWORLD SERIES:

Drop Dead Sexy

Please visit Tracy’s website at http://www.tracystjohn.com/

and Tracy’s blog at http://tracystjohn.blogspot.com

Folow on Twitter @TracySaintJohn

Coming June 8 from New Concepts Publishing (http://newconceptspublishing.com), the second instalment of the Netherworld series: NETHERWORLD II: BLOOD POTION NO. 9

The creaking of the old wooden stairs and the thumping of many feet warned me I was about to have company. I tucked my book under my arm and went to the mirror on the wal. Its luster had long faded with age but it stil reflected wel enough to make sure my upswept red hair maintained its pristine style. Yep. I looked pretty swel for a dead gal.

I made my way across Rebecca Sanderson’s sitting room past the ornate armchairs. The skirts of my Victorian-era dress whispered across the Oriental rug lying upon the wide planks of the hardwood floor. Rebecca herself was long gone, not having become a ghost upon her demise as a tottering old lady. I often wondered what happened to the others not locked into Earth-bound existences. I wondered why I hadn’t gone where they had, why I was stil stuck here.

My name is Brandilynn Payson. I was murdered earlier this year by a vampire serial kiler who had issues with women of questionable morals. But that’s another story.

I sat down on the tufted sofa with carved wood trim and arranged myself just so. Fresh flowers graced the table in front of me, right next to the silver tea service. Their lovely fragrance stil couldn’t mask the mustiness of age that comes with old houses and their furniture. It doesn’t matter how much you clean and air out an older place; it stil somehow carries that scent of years past.

I could hear my visitors near the first room down the hal of the second floor of the historic Sanderson Cottage, located on Goose Creek Island, Georgia. The whole island was once a summer retreat for the ridiculously wealthy, but now it’s a state park. Al the cottages are stil here, though the milionaires are long gone from this beautiful spot: the Vanderbilts, the Pulitzers, the Rockefelers, and the Sandersons themselves. Their winter homes remain, lovingly maintained and receiving their due appreciation from tourists.

I looked over my dress with a critical eye. I’d changed its color and trim no less than a dozen times tonight, and I thought it looked pretty good. Ruffles at my neck, wrists and the hem. Emerald green to match my eyes and flatter my porcelain skin. Darker forest green details. Even the lace-up boots matched, though I kept them hidden under the sweeping skirt. I hate my size 9 ½ feet.

No corset, of course. I’d died a size 4, working out and counting every calorie to maintain my figure, which my income hinged upon. Appearances were everything in the world I’d lived in. One of the nice things about being dead is never having to climb on an eliptical machine again.

I closed my eyes and felt for the earth’s natural magnetic pulse. Sanderson Cottage sits a few yards from Goose Creek itself, a little stretch of water coming from the intracoastal waterway. Water is also a marvelous energy conductor, and I drew on the power it created. It fed my non-existent body, making me tingle at my fingertips and toes. I was almost ready.

Steps approached from down the hal. A velvet cord in the open doorway kept the tourists out of the late Rebecca’s sitting room, alowing them to admire from afar the fine antique furnishings the Sandersons had used when they were new. As the smal group of no more than ten persons at a time drew near, I opened the book I held as if reading it while I continued to draw energy. My prop was the latest colection of sonnets by the Bard himself, who stil creates beautiful tapestries of words after al this time.

One more gulp of energy, and I was ready. I opened my eyes and pretended to read my book as the tour guide and her entourage reached the doorway.

The tour guide, a self-assured woman of about forty and stil tan despite our being only two weeks from Haloween, had a clear voice with enough Southern twang to charm, but not enough of one for Yankees to make fun of. She sounded genteel, not redneck-y.

“This next room was Rebecca Sanderson’s sitting room. The silver tea service was a gift to the family from President Cleveland.” A woman interrupted the guide’s spiel. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that her blond hair was going frizzy from our notorious southeast Georgia humidity. We were currently having a hot spel, a last visit from the past summer as so often happens in October.

“Did the re-enactor’s dress come from Mrs. Sanderson or is it just a costume? It’s beautiful.”

The tour guide, Bethany was her name, looked at the woman with wel-played confusion. “We don’t use re-enactors.” I chose that moment to stand and leave the room via a connecting door to the smal lavatory that no tourist saw. The extra power I’d drawn bled away a little at a time, and I knew I faded from sight a few steps from the washroom. I was rewarded by the gasps of the onlookers. I couldn’t help but grin as I listened to the excited chatter. Another stelar performance.

They’d seen a real ghost al right, but not Rebecca Sanderson’s. I wondered if they’d be as excited to know they’d actualy sighted a murdered escort. I’d been one of over two dozen victims of the Fulton Fals Ripper, now dead himself and unlamented.

Another aged mirror greeted me in the not-so-wel conserved bathroom (after al, who wants to look at the toilet Rebecca Sanderson once squatted on?). I played with my hair, smoothing my palm over the smooth parts, curling my finger around the curly parts. Bethany finished her spiel about Rebecca’s sitting room to the now breathless tourists, and they moved on, no doubt hoping to spot another spirit roaming around. Sorry folks, I was the only one, and I’d been hired to do it. Sightseers love a haunted house, and they paid good money to catch a glimpse of a ghost. We’re hard to see.

A familiar voice spoke cautiously from the sitting room entrance, one that was thick with a down-home accent. “Brandilynn?” I tripped out of the bathroom, happy to see Lana Minchew. She was a round apple of a woman, heavy handed with her makeup, a terrible dresser, but an absolute sweetheart of a gal. She was also psychic, and one of the few living persons who could sense my presence and hear me.

She wasn’t alone. Taylor Alen, a clairvoyant, and Taylor’s girlfriend Patricia Keith were also on the other side of the velvet rope. The trio of women made a very unlikely looking group. In contrast to cuddly, lumpy Lana, resplendent this evening in a ruffled orange polyester blouse and black leggings – no doubt in honor of quickly approaching Haloween – Taylor was no-nonsense casual with her short brown hair and slender body clad in a polo shirt and khaki slacks.