Toy

Vincent realized, despite the barbarous with which the males that had attacked his unit, this female was nothing like them. There was a raw coldness to her that had nothing to do with rituals, order, honor, and everything to do with something far more personal.

She hauled him up by his grabbing his head, claws digging into his scalp with force that was just shy of making him bleed. But it hurt, and he screamed. And every scream and curse made that odd, lilting purr of hers louder. What he could see of the room involved a table, which she had set some objects on. Vincent only noticed them out of his peripheral vision, so couldn’t conclude exactly what they were.

She hung him by his metal bonds from a large hook that extended down from the ceiling. He sensed this was a make shift use for it, but what the normal use would be, he didn’t really care to think about. There was a metal snick, the sound of a blade being unsheathed.

She made sure he saw it. These were not the long, serrated blades the males used to impale prey. They were curved along the tip, like sickles, and sat more forward in the mechanisms of her bracers.

Sharpness wise they were honed to the same edge as a scalpel, made for pristine, precise work, rather than simply gutting, tearing, or impaling. Her face moved close to his, breath hot, wet, though strangle devoid of any sort of odor.

Her mandibles clicked, flared, and then flexed back together, catching the smallest portion of skin between them. Her head pulled back, pulling the skin taught, away from his collar bone and throat. His pulse throbbed against her mandibles, and she breathed deeply of the ebb and flow of his mix of dread and loathing.

She had seen many human males. This type was her preferred appearance to work with in terms of her own stranger appetites. He was tall, as humans went, about 6’5, and shaved bald, save for the slight patch of hair at his chin, which was salt and pepper, meaning he wasn’t a young human male, but nor was he ancient. Human hair could fade in color at an early age, so it was hardly a good indicator.

Physique wise he was in shape, with enough fat rounding out his features not seem overly masculine. But neither was he bulky or flabby. It didn’t become humans to look so buff, in Rhooke’s mind. That was something only Yautja males managed successfully.

Those wide, clear hazel eyes near burned a hole in her with how he glared at her. Inwardly, she laughed. That glare wouldn’t last, not with what she’d do. She almost lamented it. Almost, save for the fact that humans were easily replaceable.

Her mandibles pressed down on the fold of skin tucked between them, and she rolled it back and forth, bruising it between the tapered points. Finally, she released it, and let it snap back into place. Circling him, she repeated the process on another fold of skin on his throat, until all along the circumference of his neck were dark, formidable welts in the shape of four sharp dimples.

Now, her question, in her mind, came down to this; to slash his clothing to ribbons with a flurry of swift movements, or, divulge him of it in a much more artistic fashion?” She pondered to herself. The later seemed much more fun, and would be unexpected. He’d already seen the death of his friends at the hands of brutal male strength while using the blades.

Subtlety was more useful in this circumstance. She faced him, deliberately brandishing the blades. She then slid her hand until the very tips of the blades were parallel with his torso, and dragged downwards. The blades where so sharp that the fabric didn’t utter a ripping noise as it was cut, so much as a sort of whispering sigh. Slowly, she turned and circled around him. Pressing the blade tips once more parallel with him, she sliced down neatly.

Then, grabbing the fabric in fistfuls, she yanked down, hard, rending the dully colored fabric from him in one smooth gesture of her fists. So far, he didn’t seem nervous, still angry.

That was fine, for her purposes. If it took longer for the fear to build up in him, it just meant she’d have more time breaking him down, piece by piece, until he was something useful to her. Well, he was useful now, but not for her main occupation. Breathing out, her mandibles pulled taught, she kept them from betraying her thoughts to him.
----

Vincent felt himself grow cold when she lined those blades up with him, expecting evisceration at last. But…she simply, in one delicate gesture, had used them to shred his shirt. This was getting strange. Far too strange, far too quickly for his tastes.

Belatedly he wished he’d done some kind of research after hearing the ghost stories about these creatures. He breathed out slowly, doing his best to steel himself as the bitch slid, kneeling in front of him, and bringing those wrist scythes up to his groin.

Fuck, no, not that, no. No way in hell! His mind screamed at him, panicking finally rising in him at the thought of anything sharp that closed to something so delicate. To that piece so closely linked to his pride, and major arteries, of course, and bleeding to death. Which would take a while, which how he was hanging like this.

She growled a low warning, maw flaring again. She gripped his leg and yanked painfully on it. He realized it was a warning to be still. Well, at least that meant she wasn’t intending to chop him up. For the time being, at least.

Those blades came up with infinite slowness, and practiced precision. They hooked into the waist line of his slacks, and with one jerk, sliced through with a clean, even parting of fabric.

The pants where composed from thicker fabric however, and did make a rather noticeable sound. That, combined with the fact he could feel the coolness of the metal graze that oh so delicate portion of his skin, made him fight to not writhe and scream.

He swallowed, feeling his throat grow tight. She circled him, again, her movements, now that he focused slightly, like that of some very big hunting cat, the addition of her markings adding to that metaphor. He clung to that epiphany, wrapped his trembling mind around it, and used it to somehow equalize the growing dread, confusion and rage that boiled in his stomach and fought for control.

This time, she didn’t bother to repeat on the other side. She yanked, ensuring her hand also took a fistful of the thin underclothing that was between the pants themselves and his skin. Again, her arm jerked with a force that would have ripped limbs from their sockets, and tossed the ruined scraps aside. She stood again, looming down at him, eyes narrowed, those strange tusks and fangs clicking together.

His nude form was free of hair, save for a line of dark hair that started under his navel and ran down to his groin, the trail of it getting slightly wider the lower it went. It was naturally fairly close cropped to his skin. He flushed somewhat, though modesty seemed trivial, given the entirety of the situation

Then, she grabbed the back of his head, and wrapped that strange, flesh and teeth muzzle around his face. Her mouth opened up, and the warm wetness of her tongue shoved its way down his throat. Vincent nearly gagged, shuddering and trembling in revulsion, but the feeling of her truth teeth bruising his lip in warning made him hold still.

The press of her honed talons on that soft spot at the base of his neck, where the spin and head fused into one, was also a warning. He sucked her tongue, avoiding her eyes for the moment, his own close.

The texture was rough, but not wholly strange. Knowing what he did, he assumed perhaps it served a similar purpose to the tongues of other large predators. That…would be bad in this case. Exhaling, he suckled and bit at the tongue, curling his own tapered pink muscle around hers, teeth finding her gums and digging in, rolling the flesh until he felt it give slightly.

If it hurt her, he couldn’t tell, for she purred, the noise drifting into a higher lilt with the jolt of his teeth. Finally, he gasped, because it was becoming hard to breath.

She growled, but must have understood. She yanked her head back with enough force that she left his lip bleeding, face scratched from where her mandibles had dug in. Vincent finally screamed, and the female threw her head back, making that strange, gruff noise that could be nothing but mocking laughter. Vincent’s head drooped to avert his gaze from her, refusing to let her see the lurid red tint just under his eyes.
---

Rhooke licked his blood from her fangs, tusks, and the outer edge of her mandibles, the metallic bitterness of it pleasant, in its own way. But not nearly as pleasant as the wave of fear he’d been swallowed up in when she disrobed him.

That had been utterly extraordinary. She could feel the first stirrings in her own body. Rhooke smiled inwardly, for she had learned that with enough primal emotions, that little difficulty of needing to be in estrus to mate comfortably could be overcome. True, it generally needed a violent, or negative emotion, and one couldn’t become pregnant from it, but it worked.

Slowly, but oh did it work. Human males being smaller and free of a textured phallus made it easier as well. Not that she would ever let anyone know that.
Even as a female of her kind, with a status like hers, that would have been too much.

It did not matter for the moment though. Clearing her mind of its wandering, she turned to items on the table. One of them was a sizable whip it was shorter than the ones generally carried on hunts, for various reasons.

One, there wasn’t enough room for her to use that particular type in this room. Two, they were heavy, and did not yield the kind of dexterity she needed for something like this. She uncoiled, the leather hissing softly as it slapped against the floor. Rhooke looked down at the human.

“Listen, Vincent ooman, and listen well. If you flinch while I swing this, it will slice you open. And it will either kill you, or hurt so much you will wish for death. So, do not move and we will see just how strong you are here, yes?” She tapped his head to make her point, then moved about two hundred feet from him.

Her arm coiled back as if the whip weighed nothing. Which wasn’t true it all, it was a heavy thing. She let her gaze fall to a spot on the wall just behind his left shoulder. Her arm arched back, taking the whip with it, sinuous, graceful, and deadly. It came forward, uncoiling, sailing through the air to crack loudly, mere millimeters above his shoulder.

For the moment, Rhooke ignored any sensory signals she was getting from him. This was not the time to be distracted, as delicious as that distraction might prove.

Her eyes moved to the opposite position on his right shoulder. Arm came back again, brought the coil of the whip back, slinking through the air silently, and then snapping back, unfurled shining fury to sound thunderously. So very close to that smooth, delicious pinkness, so vulnerable, and easily broken.
----

Vincent hung with death’s stillness while blood and the sound of that whip unfurling roared in his ears. His breathing bordered on hyper ventilation, but he knew he’d risk movement if it got that far. But calm breathing simply would not come, no matter how many times he reminded himself that she wasn’t going to strike him directly.

The logical part knew, and wanted to comply. But the rest of him refused that truth. The animal part screamed at him to scream, to wriggle, to jerk; to do something, anything to evade that horrible, monstrous snap.

She was behind him now, and his heart was in his throat, stomach rolling. He was grateful for the lack of food within, for it wouldn’t have remained there. His stomach unclenched somewhat, and he drew a breath. The whisper of her pulling the whip back sounded behind him.

Vincent’s heart slammed against his chest, and the snapping hiss filled his thoughts. The crack sounded this time somewhere along his mid back, the very most tip of the dreaded coil of leather and sinew licking his skin.

Her angle must have changed, for the next he saw out of the very corner of his eye, the tapered black tip kiss first his left hip, than his right. And it was never more than the merest tickle.

All the power was in the sound, not the touch. But it was enough, enough to make his mind wild with fear, and finally, finally he writhed and let out a noise of anguish. Not quite a sob, it was too low, too curt.
----

Rhooke purred at an intensity and volume that was almost a roar. She smelled and tasted that sob more than heard it, and it made her nearly dripping with lust. The first moment of defeat was always the sweetest, like that first day of heat when everything was intense, primal, and heartrendingly barbarous.

She felt her loins knot together tightly, and drew breath. She needed to be cautious, for it was ill luck to flaunt such things on a ship full of male Yautja, no matter what time of the season it was.

She set the whip down, the coil of it hanging off the table, and strode over to him. Pulling him from the hook, and bracing her body for the weight of him as he fell, she gripped his wrists in one hand, and his jaw in the other, curling her face into another wicked smile. Then, she let him drop. He had the sense to kneel, curling his legs under him and looking up at her expectantly, his hazel eyes wide.


Good boy Rhooke thought inwardly, and reached up behind herself to begin unlatching her armor. She’d specifically forgone her mesh body armor because it was well, tedious to get on and off in this type of situation, and really not needed.

And unlike the non-descriptive choices in leather the males tended to use, hers was a very specific, very lush and ornately patterned hide from some beast they’d found. And her bone ornamentation of choice were all small and delicate, most some species of avian. She ensured their meat was used to make up for the use of their bones.

Finally, her chest piece popped loose, and she groaned. Even with specially created armor, fitting her chest piece over them was a tight fit. Her belly and torso where the same blood crimson as the rest of her hide, but lacked any kind of pattern.

Her nipples where small compared to the rest of her breast, and had no discernible aureole. She unbelted her loincloth and lower body armor pieces, letting them clatter to the floor, exposing the ridge of her sex, which glistened with her readiness

A draw of breath, and she sighed gentle, letting the air touch her skin. Her mouth worked in and out and she cupped his skull from behind once more, bowing her legs just enough to spread them and press her sex against his mouth. Purring gently, her eyes met his and she silently nodded at him. Despite his fear, he caught on, nuzzling between the bright, swollen curve of her sex.

His tongue pressed the lips apart, swathing a patch over them. He was slow, seeming to explore, or perhaps to draw out what was inevitable. She didn’t care either way, as long as he knew that stopping would be something he’d regret.

Rhooke relaxed, but kept her talons digging into his scalp as a way of guiding his head. Her hips jerked up and down slowly, pressing her sex against his face. He sucked in a breath and nuzzled her mons apart, searching. He found that bright bud of flesh and clamped his teeth around it.

The edges of his teeth where flat enough that it hardly hurt her, but the pressure was enough to make her hips seize and jerk, hissing and growling in violent pleasure.

There was just enough of that edge of pain to make her have to fight to thrust. If she did that, at her full capacity, he’d end up slammed against the table a few feet away. So, she dug his talons into her flesh, gritted her teeth, and her mandibles, and did her best to let her movements be restricted to slow, languorous rolls of her hips.