Ardor on Aros by Andrew J. Offutt Read Free Book Online Page B

another—and then a slackening of it, a dull hurt that faded slowly as she wallowed, crushed into dust that was soft but highly unyielding. She had cried out as she awoke. Now she pressed her lips tight and lay as still as possible, trying to still her groans. Eight-foot Vardors are built proportionately big all over.
    Yell? She would not. That would have increased his pleasure: violence comes natural to all us males, including the blue-gray almost-men of Aros. Wiggle? Try to throw him off? Buck, try to twist away? She knew better. That is known as passion, and is reserved for situations in which the woman is a participant, not an object. It’s women who are still and quiet who create unhappy husbands and get written about in articles in psychology journals and the women’s magazines. (There, I mean, on Earth; we are forced to struggle along without Family Circle and Helen Girlie Brown here.)
    The Jadiriyah lay still and quiet. And felt it, broadcasting with tremendous power. Perhaps I’ll go into Arone Frequency-modulation (mental) later.
    Well, she was not quiet still. I was very conscious, as her brain was, of her one anxious movement. I was astonished at it, astonished that she could think of such at such a time. Where was her horror? Where was the shrieking anguished shock and revulsion and horror that traumatizes American girls in similar circumstances, some into amnesia or catatonia or the male-hating lesbianism that is a sort of catatonia?
    Absent. She was not exactly overjoyed at this penile penetration in which she was far from a willing participant, but she accepted it with singular aplomb. Her prime thought was to gain all possible clitoral stimulation. She succeeded, and my astonishment grew: she was there at the peak before Ard was!
    Had I been in any doubt about being on a planet other than Earth, the reservations would have vanished then.
    It was over very soon, and he was lying on her/me/us, even heavier in the gasping ennui of his exhaustion. “I” felt the pain lessen as his hugeness diminished and he sighed wearily: post coitam omnia anima triste est, someone said a long time ago, but it’s more tired than sad.
    There was another flash of pain as he pushed back, regarded her for a moment, smiling, then rose to his knees and stood. He went to relieve his companion Oth at her arms. I gritted my teeth, trying to prepare myself for the Jadiriyah’s broadcast of the next oversized invader.
    He comes, with some pain, though less than the other one. I clamp my mouth tight. HE is even huger than Ard. The pain is less, now, but it hurts. He is so heavy! But I shed no tears. Perhaps I will weep later, if they do not slay me. If I am to be slain I shall not give them the satisfaction f my tears! I regret the cry they’ve already heard from me. Kro Kodres would have been better than this. Easier and less painful. He is big, but not Vardor-huge—where is he? Could they have caught him? Could these be the same ones who pursued him, after he left me here to lead them off and return to take his pleasure later? Perhaps he is dead! Mixed emotions…he deserves no less than death, but…if he is, then I have no hope of rescue, no hope ever of seeing Brynda again! And all the time I have waited here!
    Unh—! He batters me, this beast, like the clapper of a great bell rung by a madman. But…I cannot be still…ah, that’s good! Such an effort; he is concentrating on himself, not me, but I am sure he is trying not to pleasure me—which takes effort on his part, the monster! Ah…good…good…it rises, like water, warm water…flowing up…over me…enveloping me…aAHHHHHHH!
    She arrived, and then he did, and then I did, helplessly. Sprawled on my belly, I could only groan and strive to grind myself into the satiny dust. My diaper-like briefs, I thought, would be stiff tomorrow.
    The Vardor, his business finished, slid back. He pushed himself to his knees and looked down at the girl. Cursing her for an