Swept Off Her Feet (2 page)

The night before they set forth, Glendevtorvas met with his father.

“This is the only hope left to our race, my son,” the retired
Chyya
commented in his scholarly voice. “You must deal with a rebellious colony of our distant genetic brothers and sisters who might care nothing for our plight. Talk marriage, first. Peace and compromise. Only should those diplomatic overtures fail are you to talk war.”

“I hear your counsel, Father, and find wisdom in your words. Truly, I am sick to
Deth
of war and would seek out no new conflict. Yet, more than my tiredness of warfare, I am weary of the constant loneliness my life has been these last twenty years. Diligently hope we find this colony, Father. Hope they are willing to come to our aid. Because I cannot vouchsafe the survival of my honor should they have what we need, and deny us…”

Chapter One

“Of all the days to be late,” Glennora muttered under her breath, shifting her packages to fumble in her purse for her keys.

“Gotcha!” she waggled the keys in triumph. “
Damned
chemical spill…and isn’t it just my luck getting caught in the worst traffic jam San Francisco’s seen in a year. Sure put paid to that long, soaking bath I’d planned.”

Conscious of the relentless passage of time, of the countdown to departure-hour, she wrestled the front door open and rushed into her apartment, dumping an armload of shopping and papers onto the coffee table. Toeing off her shoes, she quickly stripped, slinging clothes left and right in a trailing line from living room to bathroom as she rushed towards the shower.

She ducked her head as she whipped past the ornamental hall mirror, deliberately avoiding the disappointing image reflected in the glass—no time to waste bemoaning her looks, something she couldn’t change. She hurried on into the bathroom, again averting her eyes, her many full-length reproductions in the mirrored walls, shaking her head and harrumphing as she recalled Lori’s oft repeated attempts to make her feel beautiful. Her sister’s groove-worn phrase was: “Nnora, you have an otherworldly beauty which defies description.”

Yeah, right! she snickered as she gathered her washcloth and towel. Defies description as in, no one can think up a way to describe me without hurting my feelings.

Despite her foster sib’s soft-hearted compliments, Nnora knew she was no great exotic beauty. Standing at an even seven feet and tipping the scales at two hundred, thirty-eight pounds, she figured she had a long wait before her prince came along to sweep her off her feet.

The grandfather clock in her living room struck the half hour. She brought her wrist up and glanced at her watch. “Good lord! Look at the time!”

Unlatching the band of her timepiece, she leaned over the sink and popped out her custom-made colored contacts. In her hurry, her clumsy fingers took longer at the task than usual. After rinsing and storing them away in their small carrying case, she tossed them into the back of the medicine cabinet and closed the door with a satisfied dusting of her hands.

Her 20/20 vision did not require assistance and she hated wearing the contacts, whose sole purpose was to make her eyes appear human-normal. To add insult to injury, she had to use the daily wear kind since her eyes could not tolerate the extended wear brand of contacts.

“Yes!”
She pumped a fist in the air, exulting over the fact that, as of three hours ago, she had officially begun her summer-long vacation. She gleefully anticipated three months of freedom from the irksome daily contact routine…among other things.

A small zip of excitement ripped through her as she stepped into the glassed-in shower cubicle and adjusted the thermostat with a practiced twist to the sleek, faux gold handles.

Hot water gushed out, cascading down her long black hair, sheeting over her quivering body. She lifted her face into the spray, eyes half-closed against the streaming water and allowed the flow to relax her tension-knotted muscles. After a long sybaritic moment under the pounding spray, she turned and presented her back to the downpour, groaning softly as the water’s massage aroused her sensitive nerve-endings.

Methodically squeezing shower gel onto her bath sponge, she lathered vigorously, scrubbing until her skin glowed, all the while trying to ignore her peaking nipples and seeping cunt.

How ironic, she thought, re-soaping her sponge and attacking her legs. Now that I am coming to grips with my life, no longer Jones-ing for what I can’t have, I find out I’m more alien than I ever imagined.

As it turned out, not only she was an alien Princess from Mars, she was a Princess in sexual heat. Horny as a she-cat and mad as hell about the situation.

This entire situation went against the grain of what she felt was her nature. Like the foster mom who’d raised her, she prided herself on being pragmatic and down-to-earth. She didn’t consider herself to be flighty, a woman easily swept off her feet…romantically or otherwise. So she was not best pleased with the discovery that she would have to go through these cycles of
pava—
the
Rb’qarmshi
version of ovulation the women of her race underwent every one point five Earth years—twice more before she could hope for relief.

She had also learned that while in
pava
, in addition to her breasts and pussy, every inch of her skin—especially her scalp and shoulders—became erotically sensitive areas, responsive to the lightest touch. Having learned the mind-stealing pleasure she gained from masturbation carried a high price, she tried not to stimulate herself too much. Every orgasm wore off more quickly, the unfulfilling pleasure rapidly giving way to the relentless, knife-sharp ache of escalating need. Her father’s colony boasted not a single eligible male to assuage her biologically induced lusts, and she’d learned the hard, humiliating way that a human male couldn’t assuage her heat. Her unlamented ex-husband, Ronald “the Rocket” Waldon had been the proof of that.

Of course, she’d gained all this information after having suffered ignorantly through her first
pava
. Before entering
pava
, she had felt mild arousal and sexual desire as she matured—after all, watching Arnold Schwarzenegger materialize as a naked cyborg was enough to spark the gonads of any breathing, ovulating female—but she had never experienced anything like the passionate, all-consuming yearnings that flamed hotly under her skin, stoked and fueled by her body’s biological imperative to breed, to take a mate.

She’d met Ronald half way through her first year-long cycle. Tortured with the incessant, burning, aching needs of her newly awakened body, Nnora had thought the husky pro basketball player to be the answer to her insecure, romance-starved dreams. Instead, he’d been her monumental marital mistake. Nearing the end of his less than illustrious career, Ron had wooed her with a player’s practiced ease, scheming to bolster his failing earnings with her foster-family’s money. Unfortunately, she hadn’t learned the truth of Ron’s machinations until after their marriage ceremony.

Oh, he had fooled her good. He had seemed so sincere, or perhaps—she was now able to admit to herself—she had been desperate for affection and acceptance. She had wanted to be normal…and there was nothing more normal than marriage. Right?

Ron’s flattering lies, coupled with the desperate sexual hunger of her first
pava
, had made her capitulation to his studied seduction a sure bet. The intensely physical side effects of her sexual heat hadn’t helped her rational thinking processes much and she acknowledged, ruefully, that she had been a ripe plum for Ron’s picking.

Almost from the moment she said “I do” the relationship ran into problems, translating her dream of normalcy into nightmarish reality. Recalling the emotional desolation of those days, she swallowed sickly, leaning her head against the tiled wall of the shower and let the echoes of her ex-husband’s angry accusations reverberate in her mind.

Grip me tighter, damn it! I’m swimming around in here. No way were you a virgin, Nnora. My own hand is tighter, you whoring slut! You’re looser than a two-bit Harlem prostitute…

She idly swirled the cloth about her belly, lost in dark memories, wishing for the hundredth time she had learned the truth of her otherworldly heritage before embarking on her marriage fiasco. She’d been a virgin—still was, for that matter.

How could she have known the vast difference between her body’s internal scale and that of a human woman’s? Who would have guessed that Ron’s cock—while impressive on a human scale—was incapable of matching her pussy’s dimensions and could not meet her fevered needs, let alone extend far enough to breech her maidenhead?

After a few months of mounting frustrations and increasing bitterness on both their parts, the marriage had dissolved by mutual disagreement. Her foster family, in their uniquely wonderful ways, had formed a solid wall of support for her.

Explaining the break-up to her sister, Nnora had half-joked, “I guess I never stroked his ego enough, and he sure as hell never managed a stroke deep enough to
reach
my sexual cravings…let alone appease them.”

Poppi Brewster, bless him, had absently noted that the divorce had taken longer than the entire marriage, then offered to hire some goons to rough Ron up.

However, her fondest memory was of Hattie Brewster herding her into the kitchen for one of her “momma-daughter” talks, sitting her down and gazing deeply into her eyes as if to assess the damage to her baby. Her foster mother, who had been vehemently against the marriage from the start, held her hand as she said, “Nnora, you just came through a mighty troubling time. Much as I wanted to steer you clear of this mess, it was your mess to deal with. Now, before you go off getting into some more mess, I have a story to tell you.”

Nnora had settled down to listen, knowing the futility of trying to rush her mother. “All right, Mom, I am all ears.”

“It was winter time and a newborn chick was freezing. He cried out for help. A cow, hearing the chick’s cry, took pity on the little one and dropped a load of manure over the baby. Well, that made the little thing furious and while it sat in the steaming pile, fuming at the cow, a fox came along and plucked it out. Before the chick could say ‘thank ye kindly’, the fox quickly brushed the manure off the chick and ate it. And the moral of the story is: not everyone who drops a load of shit on your head means bad by you, and not everyone who plucks you up out of a pile of shit is doing you a favor.”

Nnora remembered she’d felt a headache pounding behind her eyes. “Mom, I keep trying to associate this with my problem, but I just don’t get it.”

Mom Brewster had slapped her knees and pushed herself away from the table. “You thought you were pretty miserable not having any boyfriends or going on dates. Then along came that fox, Ronald and plucked you up. He dumped a whole load of dirt on you, as if making you feel an inch high added to his own height. Compared to what that devil was shoveling, that first pile of manure ain’t looking so bad, is it, baby?”

“No, Ma’am!” Nnora had meekly replied. When Mom Brewster—world-renowned biochemist responsible for decoding the final key element of the human genome—spoke Ebonics, Nnora listened.

Before they left the kitchen, Mom had also addressed her fears of going home. “No matter where you go, you are always going to be our baby. Nothing’s going to change that, Nnora. You just stop your fretting and go meet your other family. Your Daddy’s been struggling to climb out of a pile of shit, too. You can either help each other out, or wallow in it. What’s it going to be?”

Mom had been right, Nnora acknowledged, stepping under the spray to rinse off the peach scented suds. She had been afraid that embracing her biological family would mean losing her adoptive one. Fortified with her Mom’s reassurances, she found it easier to anticipate the upcoming trip with a growing amount of pleasure.

Mom was right about so many things. Her life pre-Ronald hadn’t been too bad. Since her failed marriage, she’d taken the time to appreciate what she had and find contentment in simply being herself. She had friends she had gained while in college and more importantly, she had a loving relationship with her foster family.

Perhaps most important, her failed marriage had driven home the fact that, annoying
pava
cycles aside, she simply wasn’t the passionate type—she just hadn’t cared that much that she couldn’t get off with Ron.

Lost in thought, she yelped in surprise when the water suddenly turned from warm to icy cold. Ruefully cursing her wandering attention, she skipped back and away from the chilly downpour.

Reaching at arm’s length to shut off the water, she hugged the back of the stall, determinately abandoning her painful train of thought. “I am damned sure not going to allow any past misfortunes to add to my worries concerning this coming trip.”

Groping blindly for a towel, she snatched one off the warming rack. Wrapping her dripping hair in the warm terry cloth, she vigorously rubbed the moisture from her knee-length tresses, closing her contact-free eyes in blissful pleasure. She twisted a bath sheet about her chilled body, reveling in the instant warmth.

She stepped out of the shower and flipped on the overhead fan to dissipate the swirls of steamy mist floating on the ceiling. Bending under the sink, she took out the hairdryer for a quick blow-dry, careful to minimize the stimulation to her scalp.

Clenching her teeth, she fought the urge to fondle the beaded tips of her aching breasts, knowing just how fleeting the momentary relief would be. The flow of warm air wafting over her hair and scalp made her stomach muscles clench, squeezing a dollop of heated cream from her empty vagina. She squirmed, rubbing her thighs together, and the movement applied unintentional pressure to her aching clit. The pleasure slammed through her, weakening her knees and her determination.

She gave up trying to resist turning the blower nozzle of the hair dryer towards her spasming cunt. Dropping her towel, she played the sultry air across her swollen labia, letting it caress her throbbing vagina, and surrendered to the resulting volcanic rise of passion.

It felt so good.

She widened her stance, half-squatting against the cool tile of the wall as she played the warm breeze over her sensitive labia. Her clitoris swelled and stiffened, poking from beneath its protective hood. She held herself open with two fingers of her left hand while employing her middle finger to stab at the stiffened bundle of nerves, alternately circling it then pressing it hard against the floor of her pubic bone.

“Hhhmmmmm, sooo
goood
!” she whimpered, continuing to stimulate her ravenous cleft as the hot air blasted the folds of her pussy. She licked her lips, wetting the parched flesh as she ruthlessly directed the stream of heated air so it flowed over her aching clit and pussy. Placing the nozzle closer to her weeping entrance, her free hand forced her lips wide open, allowing the contrived breeze to blast its way into her hungry depths.