Open Season
A Patreon Faere Trade Novel
Sometimes it really sucks being female.
Juli Soon wakes up feeling lethargic and lazy. Her body sore, she wants nothing more than to snuggle up next to her boyfriend, Kyle Cross, and fall back asleep.
But her alarm rings, insistent and unignorable, next to her as she feels a hard, equally unignorable length push against the small of her back.
She sighs and tells herself to think. You have options; you always have options.
If she doesn't get out of bed to deal with one of them soon, she's going to have to deal with the other. She could stay in bed. Roll over to him. Or roll onto him. She could spend the morning touching every inch of him, trailing her fingers over taut, teak skin, before taking that pressing length inside herself.
Or she could hit snooze. She could cuddle close and sleep for ten more minutes. Then maybe ten more.
Both of which would definitely make her late. And she does not have time today. She wishes she did. But she already knows, with her cycle starting and the vote happening, today is going to be hell.
So she gets up. Turns her alarm all the way off. Stretches. Lights a candle, then another. And takes her first shower of the day.
She turns on the water, but not too hot. The steam—the heat and the comfort of it—will call her boyfriend to her, not to mention make her shower completely useless. She's trying to not smell like herself today.
Not that she smells bad.
That's actually the problem.
Juli stands beneath the lukewarm water and tries hard not to feel disappointed. Even disappointment can make things worse. Any heightened emotion will do it, even extreme boredom. So, she tells herself, get yourself under control. Remember, in the grand scheme of things, having an uncomfortable week every two months isn't the worst thing in the world.
But that doesn't mean she has to like it either. It's infuriating—or would be, if she wasn't keeping such a tight lid on her feelings—that, six times a year, her body doesn't feel like her own. That it belongs to her biology.
She reaches for her strongly scented, cycle soap and scrubs. Hard. Especially around her neck, armpits, wrists, groin, and feet, anywhere near any scent gland. As she does, she can smell herself on the air around her. It doesn't smell like anything on this planet, nothing native to it anyway. But it always reminds her of a dish she barely remembers from her childhood on Pixis, warm and homey and rich. She can't even remember the last time she ate it, much less the recipe to make it—not that she could on Earth, the ingredients a galaxy away—but her memory can still taste the savory luxury.
Every time, it makes her a little homesick for a place that feels more like a dream than anything. It makes her wonder what her life would have been like, if her parents hadn't decided to join the Great Migration when she was only four years old. Hadn't looked at the way overpopulation and pollution and war were destroying their planet, their lives, and given up.
She wonders if this scent—her scent, the scent of her people—would make her hungry instead of queasy. If nostalgia wouldn't twist with anxiety the way it does here.
"Morning."
Kyle.
Juli twists under the now floral-scented spray, grateful to see the bathroom door still shut. "Morning." She bites her lip guiltily. "Did I wake you?" She tried not to. She sniffs the shower, but smells mostly soap. Doesn't she? She sniffs again to be sure. The cloying scent of chemically created rose clogs her senses.
She hears him yawn. "No worries." The sound of him shuffling behind the door seems loud, even muffled by the shower, while he waits for permission. Biting her lip against the words—the invitation—she longs to say but doesn't have time for, she holds her breath and waits too. Until she can almost feel his shrug. He sighs. "I'm just going to go downstairs and start the coffee."
***
Hypnotized by the sound and smell of his girlfriend showering, Kyle's feet feel stuck to the carpet. He can't stop imagining her on the other side of the wood, water raining down her naked body. Not wanting to leave that door, not with the smell of her wafting out through the cracks, he inhales.
Lord help him, nothing smells like her. It's literally out of this world. It's like smelling a feast with his every favorite food right in front of him laced with the most addictive drug.
He inhales one more time. One last, long drag through his nose that fills his lungs and stirs his body.
Then, even though it's the last thing he wants to do, he sighs and does what he promised. He leaves the room. Closes the door. With determined steps, he goes down the stairs and heads to the kitchen.
With shaky hands that would rather be touching something else, he measures out coffee grounds. He hates that his cock twitches, lengthening uncomfortably beneath his sweats while he listens to the shower going upstairs. He licks his lips, his mouth growing sloppy, as he imagines Juli soapy and wet with steam swirling around her slick curves.
When some of the coffee grounds spill onto the counter, Kyle grunts, the huff coming out as an aggravated growl. The mess is such a small, insignificant thing—nothing, really, on any other day—but it's just one more grating thing that's making for a not-great start this morning. He shakes his head, chastising himself for being so distracted by his fantasy-fueled dick. For still thinking about the smell, feel, and taste of Juli. And how he'd rather be up there with her. And how hard it is to remember why he couldn't be.
For God's sake, she's his girlfriend. Of course he wants her. It's not like that's a crime or some awful act. He ought to just go back upstairs. He ought to join her in the shower. She's not in the mood right now, but he could get her there. Hell, he's hot enough for them both. All he needs to do is go.
No.
With another hard shake of his head, he remembers what they've talked about. He knows what they agreed on. If she's in the mood, she will let him know. If she doesn't say yes, it's a no. Actively blocking the inevitable but in the back of his mind—the incessant but he could change her mind or but he could make it good for them both or but what about him—he swiftly sweeps the grounds off the counter and into his hand. He flicks his hand over the sink, dumping the dark grounds down the drain. Upset with himself, he grits his teeth and turns to get the water pitcher out of the fridge.
Only to turn back around, when he finds himself instinctively, unintentionally, heading toward the stairs.
No, he tells himself. Stop. Go. To. The. Fridge. Get the water. Pour. With a rougher than necessary jab, he pushes the coffee machine's power button. There. Done. Good. He knew he could do it.
Feeling a little helpless, when he realizes, with that done, he has nothing else to do but wait. Gripping the counter, he tries not to think about the fact that he fulfilled his promise. He started coffee. Obligation complete. He could go back upstairs now. Worrying only about the exact wording, while ignoring the actual intent of his promise, he could slip into the shower, grab Juli, and slide in deep.
Instead, remembering what his word, what her trust in it and in him, means to her, he plants his feet and grips the counter harder.
He wants her. So much it's hard to think beyond that. But she's not in the mood right now. And that's all that matters.
Even if he has to remind himself of that.
He remembers all the tools he and Juli have discussed to deal with moments like this. Stop. Stop thinking about her and breathe. Leaning in, he forces himself to smell the coffee brewing. He breathes it in, letting it fill his senses and clear his head. Exhaling, he tells himself to stop thinking about her. To think about the coffee. Think about how many hands those grounds have gone through. Think about the grocery store he bought it in. Imagine the factory where it was packaged. Picture the fields where it was grown. He willfully fills his head with the story behind it and lets his hands, his senses, his whole being, be another part of that story. Forcefully, he reminds himself that he's more than his damned dick.
You know you can, he thinks, so do it. Control yourself. Breathe deep and be more.
He remembers, before the Pixisos came to Earth in the Great Migration, reading and seeing fantasy stories about alien invasions. Nerd fantasies of sexy aliens coming to Earth to seduce and mate with humans. Even then, even as he read and guiltily enjoyed them, he wondered what the aliens got out of the deal. Leave their home, travel millions of lightyears, land on some weird, insignificant rock, and all they want is to selflessly pleasure the planet's population? What sense does that make?
After the Great Migration, the frequency of those stories skyrocketed. Twisting themselves with old sci-fi tropes and new scientific discoveries. Kyle remembers seeing snippets of what the world was learning in the news about the Pixisos sneak into these stories. In a strange zeitgeist shift, every sexy alien was petite and silver-haired, with skin like the sun's sheen over the surface of a bubble.
When news of the mating cycle female Pixisos experience hit the planet's consciousness, this pocket of the internet went wild. Suddenly, every story obsessed over this week-long period every sixty days where their fantasy alien women went into heat, needing sex and male seed like breath.
Stories of cum-hungry extraterrestrials who begged men with wet sexes and open, eager mouths cropped up like literary weeds. Every one of these arousal-altered aliens were amazed by and impressively afraid of the size and shape of the nude human form. The men in these stories, like the benevolent, superior creatures they were, graciously gave them what they needed, making the women moan with the taste and thrust of their cocks, giving these women unimaginable pleasure by taking their own on them.
Kyle wishes he could say he hadn't been a fan of those stories. But he'd read his fair share. Had even, with eyes closed and cock in hand, created a few fantasies of his own in his head.
But it was when the stories began to turn that he stopped being turned on by the tales. Once the Pixisos were let out of governmental quarantine and given refugee status and homes among humans, public opinion changed. Now, the sex in the stories felt owed. A payment for humanity's generosity. Or, sometimes, a punishment for it. The stories became less about the human's pleasure and more about the Pixiso's humiliation. Their subjugation.
He quit reading those stories then. Stopped visiting those sites, finding the fantasy different now. Tainted and wrong.
After dating Juli and getting to know their partner, Dona Miles, he's ashamed he ever enjoyed those stories. After seeing them struggle with the reality of what others fetishize—which looks absolutely nothing like either the fiction people wrote or the so-called news reports—it kinda killed the fantasy entirely.
He asked Juli once what her cycle's like for her. And what she told him, all the things she has to deal with every day, staggered him. She said it's like her body's betraying her, making people think something about her that she doesn't feel. It's as if her genes are sending out secret signals to strangers that she doesn't understand or want. She told him she can feel it work through her, worm and waft through her pores like some huge, uncontrollable ancient power inside. It makes her feel raw, ripped open and bleeding, while the world licks its lips.
Kyle hungers for her. He wonders if part of him always will. But he won't—refuses to—be that guy, one more person tearing away at her, thrusting his desires and expectations onto her at the expense of her own, whether she wants it or not.
He clutches the counter, letting its edge cut into his fingers. Leaning in so close to the machine he feels its heat on his face, he lets the strong scent of coffee fill his nose, his lungs, his soul, and breathes...
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