Rog pulled Yul tight to his chest, his strong arms wrapping around her lithe frame like hungry pythons. They stood in her quarters, aboard the Aegis, and although the picture window was nothing near as large or fantabulous as the one’s on Bravo, neither of the two had gotten past the “wow” factor as the cosmos sped before their embrace.

Easing his grip, Rog moved his hands to Yul’s face, and cupping her cheeks bent to press his lips to hers as a man in the desert does to a tin of cold water. Yul’s lips were soft with a firmness to match her age and Rog never tired of the way she moved them to and fro. Female Hynerians, among other things, had blue tongues, or should I say, every tongue had a unique pattern of blue, like the stripes on a tiger. Males did not. Whenever Yul licked her lips, in the seductive way only she seemed to be capable of doing, because of that unique pattern, the tip of her tongue looked like a spear, pointed and sharp. Rog could never put his finger on it, but just the look of her blue spear-like tongue sliding over her full lips made his knees weak and his loins come alive. And Yul knew it.

Rog had kissed many a blue tongue, as females were called back home on the ranch, but no one had ever kissed like Yul. She both took control and let it go with lip and tongue, active while appearing passive, soft and firm, quick and deliberate. To kiss Yul was nothing short of an intricate dance of wet flesh that took the mind by surprise and the heart by the backdoor. To feel her tongue under his lips while her long agile fingers combed the back of his hair, pulling him toward her as if she had him locked in place, well, Rog would never admit it, but the first time she kissed him like this he knew.

So lips slid and tongues danced as distant starlight twinkled as patrons at the opera, quietly approving the performance with a politeness born of dignity and breeding. Rog had long closed his eyes, although Yul often liked to peek, to see the effect she was having, to see the rapture on his face, to see a rough farm boy turn to muddle in her hands; and she delighted in a wicked way each and every time the expression on his face told her he was hers and hers alone.

So she let her hands drift down to his shoulders and around his arms as she pressed her nails into his back as an lioness would to claim her own. Her nipples were hard and her clothes thin and she knew he would feel her chest on his so she pushed herself into him on tip toes, the warmth of her arousal glowing blue with the natural light of Hynerian desire. As Yul pressed in, Rog let out a sigh as if she had squeezed it out of him and she had, although not by force of arms but by the magic of anticipation tickling his imagination. The only thought he ever had was she “was good, frailing good.”

Breathing increased as moans escaped parted lips and two souls joined as one before the vertical union of warm commerce. Rog was going to frail her or perhaps she was going to frail him, and as he would later say, that first night on the Aegis, on the way to Hope, not knowing how many more nights they might have together, well, he just said you had to be there.

Categories: Story, Rog, Yul