*****
Out to Lunch
2001 Angelia Sparrow
****
 
 

"Hello, Elim."

Oh, yes.  He’d say it just like that.  Those liquid eyes, how they would burn with desire, that
lovely goldenbrown skin flushing.  He’d know why he was here, but be nervous anyway.

(Hands stroking over lower abdomen, touching the slit, triggering the lowering of genitals.)

And he’d come to me and try to kiss me.  But I’d say "I believe you are a bit...overdressed,
doctor," with too much emphasis on the "doctor."  He’d take the hint and begin to strip, giving
me a lovely show.

(Hands too lightly on the tough skin, barely teasing the scales of the shaft)

"Like this, Elim?"  I would love the sound of my name from his lips.  And I’d watch hungrily as
he dropped each piece of clothing on the floor, revealing more of that smooth skin.  His shirt
would go, and I’d ogle that bare chest with the bizarre nipples.

(firmer strokes now, and rubbing the scales)

"You like this, don’t you?"  He’d swirl teasing fingers around his nipples (why _do_ the males
have them?) and stroke them down his belly.  "How about this?"  He’d undo the uniform trousers
(and does he know how badly I sabotage those so that he’ll keep bringing them to me for repair?)
and let them fall.  For some reason he’s already barefoot.

(circle thumbs around both heads, lightly, lightly)

And he’d come to me then, all gold and drowning-pool eyes, and then I’d let him kiss me,
contrasting my own grey skin with his gold, his heat with my coolness.  And then he’d tell me "I
want you, Elim.  I want all of you."  He’d tongue my face scales as he enumerated.  "I want to
lick you, feeling the edges of these scales with my tongue.  I want to kiss you."  And he would.

(One hand pressing both heads together as the other rubs the scales of the shaft the wrong way)

"I want to stroke your chest."  He’d pull up short.  "But you don’t have nipples, Elim, so I
can’t play with them."  "Cardassians aren’t mammilian," I remind him.  He’d work on down.  "No
navel either."  He’d stroke the towel across my lap onto the floor.  "But where?"  "Dr. you’ve
forgotten your training," I would chuckle.  "Stroke me and see.  He’d stroke me and bring my
slit open and my penis out.

(Rubbing harder, harder)

"Elim, I can’t.  It’s too much."  The words would be music.  Exactly what I want to hear.  The
twin heads would seem to distress him and the ridges of scales on each side, which I think are
nice, he can barely look at.  "Suck it anyway," I would demand, with one hand in his hair,
forcing his marvelous eyes to look at me.  Those huge liquid eyes would fill with fear, the most
potent aphrodisiac of them all.  He’d lower his mouth reluctantly and lick one of the heads.
"Do it well, Julian.  I am eager to return the favor."  I would lick my lips, letting him see
that my tongue is as forked as my penis.  Let him imagine the two prongs of it wrapping around
his testicles while the firm part cradles him.

(Harder, harder, easing off.  Hands slowing in their ministrations.)

He’d take both heads, licking between them, sucking, nipping at the scales.  He’d be good, but
unpracticed, and still too squeamish to get through my thick skin with his teeth.  I’d be
wanting to teach him more, but not just yet.  "Are you ready, Julian?"

(Hands increasing, almost clawing at the scales, wringing at the heads)

"Please, Elim, no."  But I’d know the begging was for show.  He’d do it because it aroused me.
The eagerness with which he’d move to straddle my thighs would give lie to the words.  "Don’t
hurt me.  I’ve never had a male before, of any species."  He’d have prepared himself before he
came to me, since humans are delicate.  I’d love it when he lies to me, telling me all the
things I want to hear.  I’d love the fear in his eyes, so well-faked, as I begin to push him
down, letting one head and then the second broach him.   Oh, that heat!  Humans are
a decadent pleasure.  He’d moan, and slowly stretch to compass the whole shaft, as thick
as a female’s wrist at the base.  Then, the real work would begin. I’d want to hear more of
his delightful lies, his false fears.  But he’d be so transported as to be inarticulate.
So I’d stop, and let him recover until he could speak again, and he’d tell me
everything I want to hear.  How he wants me, how he fears me, how uncomfortable I am inside him,
what he’d like me to do to him, what drew him to me.  And I would make sure he climaxed first,
stroking that slim singleheaded penis, as he spoke, and then, without warning him, beginning to
move again.  Finally, he’d explode over me, and I would spend into him, and we would sag
together on the lounger.  "Elim," he'd sigh in my ear, and I would kiss him, letting
my tongue play along both sides of his mouth.

(Gushes of seed, and a slowing of hands.  Deep breaths, deep breaths.
Closing of clothes.  Washing hands.  Leaving the back room.  Hands unlocking the door,
and turning over the "out to Lunch" sign. )
 
"Ah, Doctor.  Here for your trousers?  Yes, they're finished."

*end*