One must always determine what type of alien one is trying to date. It would not bode well for you as a human if you chose a flesh-eating Scrimtat from Veta Belga. That would give a whole new meaning to the term “dinner date.” As these creatures are very dangerous, it is best to avoid them at all costs.
“You have antennas.”
Kilana peered closely at the man who was resting rather comfortably beside her on her bed. Somehow, he made the huge California King feel like a college dorm twin.
“And you do not,” he helpfully pointed out, with a black-lipped grin that made his spiky white teeth look all the more deadly.
And, of all things, his long black hair was tied back into a braid that seemed to snake around his firm, pale body. His eyes were a solid black, too, and she was sure if she weren’t so hung over, she would probably be screaming bloody murder right about now.
And the man was naked.
There was only one explanation for this phenomenon. She was still drunk.
“I’m going to close my eyes and count to ten,” she whispered, her head not willing to take even the shock of her own voice raised to a normal conversational tone. “And when I open them, you are not going to be here. Do you understand?”
He nodded his head sadly, pouting a bit. But she hardened her heart. She didn’t have time for imaginary beings in her bed. She was a newly divorced woman, and she had things to do.
Like maybe wake up sober and get her divorce papers framed and gilded.
She peered at him again and had to blink fast and swallow hard. He had the biggest eyes she had ever seen. Those large, liquid eyes were solid black; there was no white at all.
It appeared that all the white seemed to have leaked out into his pale skin. It was kind of a molten silver, rather uncommon but certainly not too abnormal for a figment.
But his head nodding was making her dizzy.
“Don’t nod.” She swallowed again, holding onto a moan with the persistence of a clinging vine of ivy. “You’re making me seasick. God, you’d think that my own figment wouldn’t be so monochromatic as to cause seasickness. I thought I had more imagination.”
So she closed her eyes, inhaled softly, exhaled long, and started counting.
“One figment two many. Three reasons to never drink again four any reason. Five senses going crazy, and six is the devil’s number to remind me to stick to seven, heaven’s number, unless it is the number of tequila shots. I should not have eight the worm thing last night and nine martinis are more than enough, especially at ten dollars a glass.”
She opened her eyes, but the very pale and very monochromatic creature was still lying next to her in bed.
“You’re still here,” she moaned, dropping her head back onto the pillows.
“Yes, I am,” he replied, before reaching out with one finger — one finger with the longest black fingernail she had ever seen. “And I will be here for a while.”
He tapped her on the nose, and she knew her eyes were crossing as she stared at his finger, but that was one awesomely sharp-looking talon.
“Doing what?” she asked, wondering if it was insanity to talk to an obviously drug-induced creature from her boring imagination.
Maybe someone had slipped her Special K. Ketamine was said to produce very believable hallucinations in users. Maybe someone had slipped her some and had their wicked way with her prone, helpless body.
Then again, maybe not.
She thought about it for a second, and none of her girl parts seemed particularly sore. Her va-jay-jay felt normal and unused as usual. No odd taste in her mouth, other than stale beer and regret —
“I am hunting.”
“Yeah.” She scrunched her nose and thought for a moment. “That makes sense. Hunting, in my bed, while totally naked. Yes, that makes perfect sense.”
He remained silent and smiling, showing off that mouth filled with fangs.
“Okay, no, it doesn’t.” She winced at the lancing pain in her head. “What exactly are you supposed to be hunting in my bed at –” She glanced out the window, noting it was still night. “–o-dark-thirty? Tell me that, Mr. Monochromatic Figment of My Imagination.”
“I am not a figment.” He stopped smiling. “And my coloring is very nice for my people. It is considered very attractive.”
“I’ve hurt my figment’s feelings.” She groaned, rolled over and closed her eyes again in an attempt to make him go away. But when she opened her eyes, he was still there and waiting to speak.
“I don’t have feelings in the way that you mean.” He pouted prettily.
“Of course not,” she allowed, wondering when she had actually slipped around the bend into insanity.
“And I am not a figment. I am a Scrimtat from Veta Belga.”
“Scrimtat, sure,” she spoke around a yawn. “I can tell by your very black lips and your very black hair.”
“My tongue is black, too. See?” And he stuck out the longest black, forked tongue this side of a freak show.
“I can see why I dreamed you up.” Her voice went thready. “Each fork in your tongue operates individually?”
She had to know. There were so many things she could imagine him doing with that, the clitoral pinch being just one of them.
In response, he wiggled each side, then closed them in a pinching manner.
Oh, yeah! Now, that’s what she was talking about!
“Sweet,” she decided. “Good for your all-over clitoral stimulation needs. Now if your dick matches your tongue –”
She could only hope! Really! If she was going to dream up naked men, then his carpet had better match his drapes, so to speak.
He slid back, showing off a thick, ringed cock about the thickness of those novelty dildos one gives away at bachelorette parties. And it was solid black like his tongue and his lips. The four ribbed rings that surrounded the sloping head were a nice touch she congratulated herself on imagining.
“I make good figments.” She grinned, then winced as her head began to pound. “I wonder if it’ll all fit?”
“I am not a figment,” he repeated, one antenna drooping a bit as he sniffed at her.
“Okay, imaginary adult-friend.”
“I am alien to your planet, and I have come hunting.”
“Okay,” she snorted. “I’ll bite, you crazy hallucination… figment… whatever. If you are an alien, what happened to the anal probe? My anus feels just fine.”
“You are thinking of the Greens,” he sighed. “Odd creatures. Like you can find anything in a human’s digestive tract other than the wastes of what they just consumed.”
“So what are you hunting?” she demanded, wondering if the drugs had driven her to insanity.
“Humans,” he leered, licking his lips and fixing his gaze on her. “I am hunting humans.”
“Right.” She tried not to laugh despite her hangover. “You’re such an entertaining figment. Sorry.” She raised one hand in a placating manner. “You’re an alien, right?” Shaking her head, she rolled her eyes as she settled back into her bed, ready for some sleep. “And the only human you see fit to hunt is a freshly divorced forty-year-old woman who just dumped two-hundred-thirty pounds of dead weight and needs to shed about ten more. Try again, imaginary alien. I know you’re a figment of my imagination, because there are much more probable females out there. So I’m going to close my eyes, and when I open them again, you will not be here.”
And then the pale bastard went and did something that almost made her wet her panties.
He rose up — well, floated upright — and hovered over the bed.
The urge to vomit dissolved as she came to the realization that hallucinations rarely floated.
And if they started floating, she would most certainly not feel the long black braid that smacked her in the face, smelling of vanilla musk and lemon.
She blinked and attempted to sit up, her mouth dropping open as he rolled over so that he was floating directly above her, facing her. Those black lips had parted, showing her his dangerous-looking teeth.
“Humans?” she squeaked, her flight or flight response dissolving as he reached out and ran a finger over her cheek, closing her mouth before his tongue slid out and ran along the side of her face.
“Tasty,” he purred, his forked tongue snaking back into his mouth.
And then something poked her in the belly.
Oh, look, she thought, looking down at the dark erection that swelled and thickened until it was kissing her navel with its slanted head. The taste of me makes him hard. Or is it that it’s suppertime —
She looked up once more look into those glassy black eyes and then the world, like her consciousness, fled.