Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
But even when a girl was calm, I could see the look of coldness in her eyes—the barely concealed revulsion when she bared her wrist or throat for my fangs. None of them really wanted to be there—even if I was the richest son-of-a-bitch on the whole fucking planet. So I always promised I would only take blood—no fuck and suck for me—I was strictly a suck only customer.
But I’m a purple-blooded male with needs, after all. I usually got them met when I traveled to my father’s home world. Braxian whores are different from Naggian ones—a lot different. They’re almost as brawny as Braxian males are for one thing and they like to get rough for another. Making love to a Braxian female is more akin to a wrestling match than the cold, sepulchral sex they practice on O’nagga Nine.
What I wanted—what I fucking longed for—was something in between. I wished I could find a willing female who didn’t recoil from the sight of me, but who also didn’t immediately want to tussle. I wanted a female I could take my time with—one who wanted me as badly as I wanted her.
But it didn’t look like I was ever going to find someone who fit that description—at least not while I was strictly dividing my time between O’nagga Nine and my father’s home world.
“Well, I suppose I could have a bite before I go home,” Azz’lx said, interrupting my thoughts.
“She’s in the other room,” I repeated. “Just don’t keep her too long. Once the Sweepers are finished, she’s supposed to go right back to her Madam.”
If I kept the girl overnight, it would be automatically assumed that I’d had her sexually and she would be ruined.
“Very well—I’ll make it quick,” Azz’lx said. “Thank you.” He turned to go and then turned back again. “Don’t worry about that little Blood Whore, all right?” he said. “I’ll take care of her first thing in the morning.”
“All right.” I nodded neutrally. But as he finally left, I had to admit I was more intrigued than ever.
I wanted to go see the little hsh’frux female who had somehow gotten hold of my sigil and was bold enough to use it without my permission.
THREE
NATALIE
My pimp, R’xs was waiting for me to come out of my hole the next morning, but I didn’t know that as I puttered around the tiny space I rented by the month.
The hole was kind of like a really shitty studio apartment—if the apartment was a cave with walls and a floor and ceiling made of rock-hard, ice-cold dirt. I had done my best to dress it up a bit, but my money was severely limited. I couldn’t afford to spend a lot on home décor when I was worried about making the rent and getting enough to eat. Still, I had scavenged a few things here and there and sometimes another Blood Whore would give me something she didn’t want anymore.
The door to the hole was a round metal one set into the side of one of the lesser tunnels. After coming though the door, (you had to duck your head to get in) you went down three steps and found yourself in my tiny living space which was a single room. The space was mostly filled with a bed, which had no frame. It didn’t have a box springs, either—it was basically just a lumpy, smelly, used mattress stuffed with prickly, dirty hay.
As ugly as the mattress was, I considered myself lucky to have it. The entire first month I’d been on O’nagga Nine, I had slept on the bare floor, which was like sleeping on rock-hard ice. Then one of the other Blood Whores had gotten lucky with a client who really liked her and wanted to spend more time with her. Since he had a wife, that wasn’t possible unless they spent time in her hole. So he bought her a nice new mattress and I got her old one.
I had covered the mattress with some faded quilts and lumpy pillows I had scavenged from the Naggian equivalent of the dump. It’s a large ice cavern where everything nobody wants is sent to be sorted and stored until the two short warmer months when some of the snow melts and they can drive it off to a landfill somewhere or else burn it. You can find a lot of good things there—I had gotten the wobbly nightstand, a crooked lamp with a tattered shade, and a two-burner hotplate where one of the burners was still functional, at the same place.
The problem with going to the dump is the amount of time it takes to get there—walking through what feels like miles of underground tunnels—and the fact that you have to lug whatever you find all the way back home again. It was difficult to justify spending a whole day I could have been working going on a dumpster diving expedition just to make my horrible little hole a bit nicer.