"May I have the whip again, please, Father?"
She's already been scored with several marks from my power whip. It's starting to make her look ugly. I mean, uglier than usual for a Humon. Anyway, my neck hurts. "No, you don't want the whip right now. Remember, you wanted to rub my neck."
"Did I ... ? I mean, I thought I, I wanted to, um ... "
I reach into my sewing basket, under the disguise of fabric and pincushion, and make a slight adjustment.
"Oh, Father! Your neck is so beautiful! May I touch it, please?"
"Of course." I roll onto my belly; she straddles me and begins to knead the tense muscles of my neck and shoulders, and then those of my back. Ah, how lucky I have been lately! Lucky that this not-too-ugly Humon was greedy. Lucky that she happened to visit my homeworld and that she knew I owned something of value. And lucky that I caught her in the act of trying to steal it. Now it has made her mine, not by Ferengi law, but by my own law.
I'm tired of the backrub. "Lick my lobes."
"How did you know I wanted to do that?" The Humon, Vash, is overjoyed to give me any kind of oo-mox, of course. Vash. I can't help but laugh at her name; it's the Ferengi term for "earwax-eater." Her tongue teases me, tickling, exciting but not satisfying. That will change soon enough.
She rolls me onto my back and stops to adore me. I sit up and take a moment to study her strange Humon body, naked of course, and shiny with sweat from the heat of my world. Parallel welts rise across her back and down one shoulder, drawing my eye down toward her long, skinny torso and fat Humon behind. Her lank, alien hair trails to one side of her tiny head. The mental capacity of a pack animal, these Humons. But they know enough. "Eat me out." I roll onto my side and try to pretend she's a Ferengi female.
Her lips and tongue go deep into my left ear. Oh, glorious oo-mox! Most Ferengi females don't even know they can receive pleasure from it. Of course, most Ferengi females haven't declared themselves Quonax, male-by-choice, or aquired a female lover as I have.
I can't help but stare at her Humon udders, dangling before me, large and strangely exciting. I notice that she has her fingers stuffed into her own genitals, working manically as a grug in the jungle. Primitive species, almost no aural sensitivity. The civilized among us climax by oo-mox alone, only mating animal-style for procreation.
I'm about to ... "Vash! Harder! Oh, Great Exchequer! Lower! Vash!" I smark, thrashing about and almost throwing her off the bed.
"Ishka! Ishka!" I'm smarking so hard, I can't manage to punish her for using my real name.
After a few moments, I push Vash away and forget about her. My mind's wandering ... oh, she's back. Her mouth is full.
"M hmve sum lomvely spmre piem, Fmther."
Yuck. "I'm not hungry. Swallow it and go to your corner."
"Yes, Father. Thank you." She goes to lie on her rug by the door.
I reach into my sewing basket again and turn the thought-maker to "sleep" mode. That'll keep her out of my lobes for a while.
END