Alien Skin Market by Lizzy Bequin

CHAPTER 19: DAGGOTH

High above the polluted atmosphere of Gilaamar Secundus, a solitary fighter ship drifted in orbit. Its narrow, pointed hull was black metal, making it all but invisible against the void of space except when the light of the twin suns caught it just right. When that happened, the fighter glinted like an obsidian dagger, the kind of weapon used by the Raksha of old, before the aliens of the Covenant had found their isolated planet and kickstarted their species from dwelling in huts to traveling among the stars.

Within the dome of the fighter’s cockpit, Daggoth reclined in his seat behind an array of blinking controls. He inhaled a deep lungful of purified air, which was a relief after the noxious fumes of the polluted spaceport. His orange eyes gazed out at the drifting stars, focusing on nothing in particular.

Mistress Nekrona’s words echoed through his mind.

“I want that creature. I must have it. Its skin must be mine—mine! Do whatever it takes to bring her to me…”

Those words had been uttered just half a span before in the shadows of the auction house after that other unknown Raksha had outbid her for the outrageous sum of twenty million galax. Mistress Nekrona had insisted upon leaving the auction house immediately. She did not take kindly to defeat of any kind, and once her mind sank its fangs into an obsession, she would not rest until she possessed the thing she wanted.

Now it was Daggoth’s job to make that happen.

Tailing the alien female and the other Raksha had been a simple matter. They had stuck out like a pair of sore thumbs amid the usual riff-raff of the spaceport.

It had amused Daggoth to watch from a distance as the little creature evaded her new Raksha owner and actually fled back to the auction house. For reasons Daggoth couldn’t even begin to fathom, she had freed the animals from their containment chamber, unleashing an impressive storm of chaos upon the skin market.

Perhaps her goal had been to exact revenge upon her former captors? If so, Daggoth had to admire the little creature’s wrath. She was more dangerous and resourceful than she first appeared. And also a little bit mad, it seemed.

He probably could have taken her in the spaceport. The Raksha with the glasses would have put up a fight, of course, but Daggoth would have bested him.

Nevertheless, he had stayed his hand.

The situation in the spaceport was too unpredictable. Too many drunken spacers stumbling about. Too many ways things could turn sour. One stray blaster bolt would be all it took for things to end badly.

Daggoth liked to work carefully and methodically. Like a skilled hunter, he would wait until the outcome was certain, and then he would strike.

So Daggoth had followed the other Raksha and the female. They had met up with two more companions and climbed aboard their ship. A real piece of junk. The thing hardly looked spaceworthy.

As soon as they were all aboard, Daggoth had rushed forward and affixed a small magnetic tracking device to the hull.

Now, nestled comfortably in his temperature-controlled cockpit, Daggoth eyed the computer monitor displaying an array of navigational data. His quarry had already made the jump to faster-than-light travel, so the tracker was no longer transmitting their location, but that didn’t matter. Daggoth had already gathered all the information he needed. Based on their trajectory at jump, along with the probable fuel capacity of a ship that size, it was obvious where they were heading.

They were taking the female back to Rak, by way of Betnt Koarth.

But they would never make it. Daggoth was going to cut them off. With his smaller, faster ship, he would reach the space station at Betnt Koarth well ahead of them and lie in wait. Then he would set the second part of his design in motion.

Daggoth sent a transmission out to Mistress Nekrona’s much larger ship, letting his employer know his plan. Then he moved his own ship into position.

Stars swept across the glass of his cockpit as he aligned his fighter to the proper trajectory and engaged the interstitial drives. There was that old familiar sensation of velocity, G-forces crushing his body back into his seat, followed by a deafening boom as the void yawned before him and swallowed him down like a pill.

With the jump complete, Daggoth unfastened his harness and relaxed back into his chair.

Now it was just a matter of waiting while his ship rode the gaps between space and time at superluminal speeds. Betnt Koarth lay nearly two hundred thousand light years ahead of him, but the trip would only take a matter of days.

Normally, Daggoth would spend this time deep in meditation, but this time, he struggled to enter the trance state.

His mind was preoccupied.

Thoughts of the female distracted him.

After a full span of frustration, Daggoth finally relented. His fingers moved to the control board in front of him, and in an instant, every monitor in the cockpit filled with images of the alien female—photographic images recorded by the lens of Mistress Nekrona’s comm-orb back on Gilaamar Secundus.

The images depicted the alien female in all her naked glory. In some, she was shown bound to the wall outside the skin market. Other pictures showed her standing in the spotlight on stage inside the auction hall. Daggoth did not really need these images. The memory of the little alien female was already seared into his mind’s eye. But he enjoyed looking at the pictures, nonetheless.

He zoomed in to inspect various details—her silken hair, her amber-tinted eyes, the soft pink cushions of her gasping lips and the inviting darkness beyond them.

His cock pulsed, and it required a conscious effort to keep from ejaculating inside his pants.

The pressure behind his fly was immense, his cock swollen to such a degree of engorgement that it threatened to burst through the leather of his trousers.

Daggoth unzipped, and his aching member sprung free. He gripped it in his fist like a pilot’s control stick and began to stroke. The thin outer sheath of purple skin peeled down to reveal the bright orange flesh of his inner erection, and he groaned in blissful agony.

Just as before, images swarmed in his brain.

In his mind’s eye, he defiled the female’s body, dragging his stiff and drooling cock over every inch of her bare skin. He humped her without mercy, slotting his cock into every gap and crevice he could think of, the cleavage of her chest mounds, the cleft of her ass, the pits of her arms, her wet and moaning mouth.

Daggoth snarled as his fist clenched tighter around his cock, rifling up and down his thick shaft with a climbing tempo.

His chest felt tight, his breath short and shallow.

His free hand clicked the controls, manically scrolling and shuffling through the images on the monitors until he found the one he wanted—a close of view of that dark triangle at the apex of the alien female’s thighs.

The picture showed only fur and the merest hint of her crease, but Daggoth had seen the anatomy hidden within, soft pink folds glistening with slippery excretions. He had felt her narrow, wet hole.

Daggoth’s skin fired with lust, warming the cockpit with his insane body heat.

He writhed and groaned in his seat as his jerking continued.

He imagined the female on her back, helpless and struggling beneath him, her tapered thighs spread apart in a wide V. She fought him, but she was no match for his strength, and he easily held her open, exposing her pink center.

What was that oozing slit?

What was it for…?

In his fantasy, Daggoth aligned the underside of his shaft between the alien female’s separated folds and humped madly, dragging himself against her crotch with a sawing motion while her body spasmed beneath him and her juices coated the bottom of his erection and his throbbing balls.

His cock swelled to the point of bursting. His sacs tightened against his base in anticipation of his release.

The Raksha mercenary stilled his hand, and his hips rose out of his seat as he thrust his cock upward into his fist. Shlk—shlk—shlk—

His knot swelled.

His climax exploded like thunder.

Daggoth roared in blissful agony. The sound of his own voice was nearly deafening within the confines of the small cockpit. His muscles convulsed as long, sticky ropes of hot semen unspooled themselves from the tip of his cock, drawing pale slashes across the image of the alien female on the monitor in front of him.

It seemed like an eternity before he finally stopped coming and slumped back weak and exhausted in his pilot’s chair.

“Void…”

He had made quite a mess. His thick spend dripped down the monitor in pale arcs and pooled on the control panel. Damn it. What had he been thinking? He would need to clean that up before the circuitry got damaged.

And worse, he had defiled the memory of his lost mate. A feeling of self-hatred gripped him.

He needed to atone.

After he had cleaned up his spillage, Daggoth retrieved something from the compartment beneath his seat. It was a small lash with nine knotted thongs of braided leather cord. Ever since the death of his mate and his daughters, Daggoth had taken the implement with him everywhere. It served as a reminder of his sin—the sin of surviving when everyone he loved had died. The sin of not being able to protect all that he had held most dear, all that had once given his life value.

Sometimes the pain was the only thing that made him feel alive anymore.

Daggoth slung the short whip over his right shoulder, and the knots lacerated the skin of his back, raising parallel stripes of orange blood and adding to the innumerable wounds that previous lashings had etched upon his flesh.

The Raksha hissed in pain, but his face remained emotionless.

He repeated the process with his left shoulder, then his right again, then his left, silently counting off the blows in his mind.

He realized he had forgotten to switch the monitor off, and it still displayed an image of the naked alien female. Her amber eyes stared out at him, moist with tears, seemingly horrified by the sight of his self-flagellation.

Daggoth turned the monitor off, but those amber eyes remained in his vision, wet, pathetic.

As he continued beating himself, the words echoed through Daggoth’s mind again…

“I want that creature. I must have it. Its skin must be mine—MINE!”

This time, however, it was not Nekrona’s voice that spoke those words. It was his own.