Invincible
Author's Note: Captain Kalmbach is a creation/character of Sylderon, and can be first found in Sylderon's story "Friend, Foe, or Something Else?" -- http://yiffstar.com/index.yiff?pid=11739
A toss.
"I have something, and you want me to give it to you."
And a turn. Eyes closed, darting beneath the lids. Dart, dart. The room dark. Outside, no stars. Just swirls of magenta and electric blue.
"Stay! I will take care of everything ... I'm sure no mouse was able to do this ... "
Navy-blue sheets strewn, one fluffy pillow on the carpeted floor. The other still on the bed, half under his restless head, which lolled to one side, then the other. A huff. Huffing in his sleep, reliving the whole incident in a hot, fur-matting dream. It was so clear. The smells, the tastes. The sensations. It was so tangible.
"Why are you doing this? Please ... stop!"
His body tensed, sharp, uncut claws extending from their pads. Still unconscious. But tensing. Heart hammering in his strong, broad chest. Hammer. Hammer. That moment of no return. That moment of 'crossing the line.' He'd been out to teach her a lesson. Maybe he'd gotten carried away. She'd wanted it, though. Advent? She'd wanted it. Her heat had led her to crave him. No emotional connection, no bond. Nothing meaningful. Just instinct. Just biology. She needed a cock. He supplied it. As crude as that was.
But her searing, feral pleasure had quickly turned to an equally hot, equally fierce embarrassment. And then, worst of all, pain. A pleasured pain. He hadn't been gentle with his barbs. And, truth be told, she was so out of practice breeding with her own species that she was unused to dealing with them. She'd forgotten. Whatever the case, it started to hurt for her. And she'd begged him to stop.
He hadn't.
"I, on the other paw, have something which I think you need very, very much."
His tone had been deep, smooth, a soft purr. Advent's sex-addled mind eventually put together the true meaning of his words, and she doubled her struggles. But they still came to nothing. He was the male. She couldn't overpower him.
And, besides, didn't she have a lesson to learn?
Wasn't this her comeuppance?
"Funny thing is, perhaps you felt the same way that I feel now. About how easy it was to put another under your control by the promise of something so simple: companionship, love, protection, even a single batch of seed. And the great power you have when your victim realizes that only through you ... will they get what they need. How they are trapped, bound to you until you say otherwise. You understand, yes?"
Advent had struggled to form words, the snow leopard still teasing her intimate passage, as well as her mind. "Yes ... please, I'm ... I'm sorry! Just, please ... stop!" she'd whined pathetically. Her arrogance being broken down. Her will shattered. When the whole thing had started, she'd been brisk. Feral. Animalistic. She'd wanted it. But he'd succeeded in bringing her down.
I wasn't giving her anything she didn't want, Kalmbach would tell himself later. Deep down, she wanted it. Her body language, her scent. All of it had indicated as much.
Well, of course it did. She was in heat! She would've had sex with anyone. You think you meant something to her? Perhaps you could've. Perhaps you could've approached her differently. But you took her by force. And, in the end, that left her with resentment.
We're predators. In case you haven't forgotten, it's our way. We're open-breeders. You've spent too much time around prey. I gave Advent what she needed. From one predator to another. And she did the same thing to her ex-mate. That poor mouse. She took him by force. You were only opening her eyes.
So, you were doing it for her? Is that what you're saying? You did it for her?
You had sex with a heat-addled jaguar simply for her benefit?
Don't tell me you didn't enjoy it.
Don't tell me it wasn't the fiercest pleasure you've ever felt.
Even at the time, you delighted in how incredible your orgasm was. It was wild, beautiful. So pleasurable. Her vagina was like heaven. Oh, the feel of it! The taste of her nectar on your tongue. Remember? Do you remember?
A heavy sigh.
How could he forget ...
Her panties were less effective. A single padded paw-finger slid over the swollen lips within, bringing a sigh through her teeth. A deep voice whispered in her ear: "Do we have an understanding now, my dear?" Advent simply purred, then mewed with disappointment as the paw left her.
He brought it to his muzzle, cleaning the juices and savoring the flavor, one he had not tasted in years: slightly acidic, but still sweet, with a musky aftertaste. A gentle pressure to the back of Advent's head led her to kneel down, as her dress shirt (having been unbuttoned while she was preoccupied) was lifted from her shoulders. He pressed his bare chest - not well developed, but cats are built for agility, not strength - against her rear as he hooked his thumbs in her waistband and pulled down. The release of scent caused them both to grimace - like a yawn, with the tongue hanging out, to better absorb the hormones that danced in the air.
He lay on his back behind her, pushing against the floor with his legs, sliding between her legs as she remained kneeling. Propping himself up on his elbows, the cat brushed his whiskers against the soft, delectable morsel just above him. "I don't know how you've dealt with this in the past, but I want to make sure it's done properly." The tongue switched from speaking to tasting, cleaning the wetness from the soft fur between her legs before flitting lightly over the full lips. Advent squealed lightly as a broad pink nose pressed against her, so as to better breathe her intoxicating fog.
Oh. Oh, yes.
Oh, the scent. He could still smell it. And the taste. He could taste her. Her heat. Her moisture. The way she made his blood pump faster, faster. Raising his pulse. The way all of it excited his penis (though the organ remained physically untouched).
Her pussy was exquisite.
The sex?
Nothing had ever felt so satisfying, so right. At the time. At the time, he added, it felt right. But, afterwards? That's when the guilt had come. That's when his civility had come back. When the feral animal in him had subsided and the good and proper officer had returned. And the officer had been mortified at what the animal side of him had done.
But, say what you will: you wanted to breed as badly as she did. And given another chance, it would probably happen the same way. Maybe you lost control. But any negative effects were emotional. That's all. Just emotional. And that doesn't matter so much, does it?
Again, I ask: why did you do it?
For her?
Or for yourself?
You know what I think? You don't feel sorry that you bred her. You feel sorry that you had to stop.
A low growl from the throat, head tossing to one side. A heavy sigh, with a moan slipping out. "Ohn ... "
Shut up, he told his unconscious self.
Shut up!
But he couldn't. His mind in several different places, confused, swept away.
Moral, social, psychological issues aside, he relived the physical part of his and Advent's encounter. He relived, finally, their concluding intercourse.
His jaws clamped down tightly on her scruff as he pulled his body forward against hers. Even with the heat radiating from the surface, he was barely prepared as the tip of his shaft divided her outer folds and entered the furnace between her legs. With grunts and moans from the both of them, he pressed further, her inner folds tight, unaccustomed to a thickness like his. Thankfully, her preposterous wetness ensured no friction, even as his thighs met her rump, grinding together. He backed out slowly, his shaft drawing some of Advent's wetness with it, then pushed back in again, slowly accelerating. Her outer lips wiped his shaft clean on each inward thrust, her nectar dripping hotly down her thigh and onto the cot, where it puddled. Dip, dip, dip, dip. Each thrust bringing more wetness, more noise, the intense heat concentrated at their point of joining, slowly diffusing out through their bodies.
The snow leopard, huffing, growling from the throat, was still deep in this vivid, dream-soaked sleep. But his body turned, acting out. Pelt lightly-damp with sweat as he rolled onto his belly, sheets only half-covering his bare white-and-grey form. His luxurious, spotted coat of fur. His long, fluffy tail, also spotted, excitedly wavering about in the air, this way and that. Rump rising, descending, as his impressive, barbed cat-hood (long emerged from its sheath) slid across the smoothness of the silky bed-sheets. A mew of pleasure. In his dream, in his mind, he was humping Advent. In his sleep, he humped the bed.
Advent began moaning continuously, her scruff pulled back by a strong muzzle, the friction against her as he rocked his entire body back and forth with each thrust, rubbing her back, paws still clenched on her breasts, his breath through his nose sounding like a forge bellows, the hot air blasting against her ears. It was too much ... dip, dip, dip, dip, dip, splash! The fur of her crotch (and his) was matted with her nectar and Advent shrieked in orgasm.
Low growls, nipping, biting at his pillow, gnaw, gnawing, growling, belly flat on the bed. Hips bump-bumping, grinding. The bed rocking a bit. The pleasure too good to back away from. He didn't stop. Nor did he stop in his dream. Or, rather: his memory.
Advent cried out, still over-sensitive. Surprised. He lowered his voice back to a deep purr. "You might bruise them a bit, but mice are very resilient. They heal quickly, right? At least their bodies do." He began to pull back out, very slowly. Just as canine members form knots, felines have a collection of nubs about the circumference of the shaft, just below the head, that become erect during mating. They rubbed and tugged, teasing Advent's passage, bringing growls of both pleasure and frustration; even with another cat within her, the heat had yet to be sated.
"Huh ... uh, huh," were the heavy, sleepy pants. Groin expertly sliding, bumping, hitting the sheets, the mattress. Growl! Hiss. His own pre providing a decent amount of wetness. Though no wetness could match the real thing. The wetness of a femme, in heat or not. But the lack of fluid motion didn't stop him. He couldn't exactly control his actions when he slept, now, could he? But the steady motion of his body, and the pleasured purrs, indicated that he'd had some practice at 'getting off' like this.
He'd had this dream before.
These memories had haunted him before.
And the only way to keep the guilt and horror away (at what he'd done and how he'd done it) was to indulge in the pleasure. Dull it all with the pleasure. You did that at the time. You can do it now, even in memory. Even in ...
... Advent.
Advent.
A pity that she had to go and marry that rabbit. That Lipton. She was, maybe, the type of individual who could (dare he say) understand a soul like himself. They were both felines. Predators. He'd talked to her after that incident. A week or so after he'd bred her. He'd been on Solstice, helping them with repairs. He was an engineer by trade, after all. Though a captain, he still liked to tinker. He loved to tinker.
Is that why you got involved with her?
You tinkered with her.
That was a year and a half ago. Or was it two years? He wasn't sure. He didn't know. But time had done little to make the incident disappear. It hadn't gone away. Advent was gorgeous. Her curves, her spotted fur. A pure-bred jaguar. She was fiery. She'd had problems, true, with arrogance. Pride. She'd beat on her mouse lover. To the point of driving him away and (emotionally) scarring him for life. She'd been out of control. But, then, she'd also been young. Twenty-two.
He'd been thirty-two, at the time. Thirty-four, now. He was ten years older than her. But that fact hadn't entered the equation. Hadn't seemed to matter. His body might've been a decade older, but it still worked. Oh, it worked. And he'd been able to sate her just as well as any feline her own age.
However it happened, whoever wanted it, whatever either of them did to the other. It had happened.
And he couldn't forget it. As desperately as he tried.
Maybe, Kalmbach sometimes thought, this is what the prey call 'imprinting.' Stamping, brushing yourself on the soul of everyone you breed. They stay with you for eternity. They become a part of you. Maybe this is what the prey refer to. Indeed, the intimacy of the act (of sex) is inherent. But often underestimated. Often, we try to circumnavigate that intimacy. And skip straight to the instinctual, no-strings-attached pleasure. But the intimacy always creeps in. And leaves its mark. Leaves its throbbing, emotional mark.
Maybe that's what happened to you.
You thought you could outsmart the emotion with cold, hard-edged logic. With basic need. You thought you were cunning enough (being a predator) to take what you wished without having to deal with any mess.
But it didn't work.
It never does.
How can you be so arrogant as to assume that you can outsmart a feeling, an act that is older than civilization itself? Older than life? It is bigger than you are. Much bigger. And it will dictate you more than you will ever dictate it. Remember that.
"Uh ... uh." He was biting his pillow hard, now, sharp off-white teeth digging in, nose flaring. His breath hot and heavy. Hump, hump. Cat-hood stiff, rubbing, leaking pre. Almost there, almost there. And no amount of rational thought was going to keep him from that blissful, pleasured peak.
Advent.
He thought of Advent ...
... bouncing up and down with his mighty thrusts, sobbing and squealing with incoherent ecstacy, leaning forward and resting her paws on his chest. He kept up his motions, eyes and jaws clamped shut from exertion, a steady flow of his pre mixing with Advent's nectar as it dribbled from her lewdly-squelching honeypot. Panting and growls filled the small space. Paws gripped tighter, as claws were unsheathed, little streaks of crimson mingling with the gold and black, the white and grey.
Although it was far from obvious, he had been on the edge for some time. He arched his back upwards, ramming into Advent and holding himself there, somehow even deeper than before. The soft conical tip of his shaft, having persuaded its way beyond her cervix, erupted with a blast of boiling seed, him giving a deafening roar. His crotch was further drenched as Advent yowled and shrieked, each thick pulse of seed (she lost count after ten) sending a wave of heat shooting up her spine.
"Ohn ... ohh, oh, uhn!" A hissing growl, as if steam were being released. Hips erratic, slowing, stopping. The snow leopard's eyes snapping open. Dizzy, dazed, confused. He awoke seconds before his orgasm. It swept his waking mind away. A rumble, a hiss, a roar of pleasure. Spurt. Spurts of semen shooting to the sheets, soaking in, sticking to his belly-fur. Sowing himself and the bed. "Uhn!" he grunted, writhing in ecstasy. "Uh ... huh," were the pants, eyes hooded, half-open. "Oh," he breathed, as the ejaculations tapered off. Hiss. He clawed the bed, hard. Muscles weakening. He purred helplessly.
A swallow, his throat dry. Lips dry, too. And some hot, heavy pants. He licked his lips with his raspy, feline tongue, trying to figure this out. "Wha ... what ... oh," came a residual moan. A hot shiver. "What ... "
His fur was matted with both sweat and seed. He smelled of sexual exertion (not an unpleasant smell, no, but noticeable). Swallowing again, he shook his head, pushing himself up. Off his belly. Up to a sit. He hung his head, regaining his breath. It came back to him. The dream. The memory.
All of it.
Advent.
A deep inhale through the nose. "Oh," he sighed. That had felt good. He couldn't deny that. The dream had heightened the sensations. Memory, he reminded himself. It's not a dream. It's a memory. A sigh. The memory, then. It had made the pleasure more real. More intense. But, despite the receding pleasure, he felt extremely silly. He felt foolish, stupid. You're the Captain of a star-ship. A battle-ship. Thirty-four years old, highly-educated. And here you are, humping your bed in your sleep, fixated on that jaguar like a love-sick kitten. You should be stronger than that.
It's been two years.
She's moved on. Married to that rabbit. She's forgotten all about you, I'm sure. And, even if she hasn't, didn't she adopt the Christian faith? She's monogamous, now. You'd never have a chance with her. They don't believe in divorce. She's forgiven you, Kalmbach. So, why can't you forgive yourself?
Let it go.
Let go.
But he remembered part of a conversation he'd had with Advent. Something that was burned into his mind just as vividly as the one and only time they'd had sex:
Advent suppressed a giggle. "What haven't you been?"
He was about to say 'loved,' but thought better of that. It would interrupt his story.
Loved.
The word stung.
Like a sword through his shoulder-blades, it stung.
The Captain sighed, rubbing his eyes free of sleep-sand. And he stole a glance at the time-piece on his bed-side lamp-stand. 0540. His shift didn't start for another two hours and twenty minutes. He paused, considering. The orgasmic sensations had subsided, leaving him feeling dull, lifeless. Another sigh. He would have to apologize to the officers who had quarters next to his own. The roar he'd given. He'd probably woken them.
Just tell them you were hunting in your sleep. You were stalking primitive prey in a dream. They'll believe you.
You certainly can't tell them you had a 'wet dream,' can you?
No.
No, I can't.
Why not trust them, though? Why do you always barricade yourself from your crew? You're isolated from your government, your home. Your species. Your crew is all you have. Why not let your guard down? If not now, when? Never?
It's not proper, he stated. Simply. It's not proper.
I'm a Captain. Not a group leader. I can't fraternize with them.
Can't?
Or won't?
On other furry ships, captains make friends with their crew. Play games with them, eat dinner with them. Have good rapport. It increases loyalty. It helps morale. There's no good reason not to befriend those beneath you.
As for other things: on other furry ships, the captains marry their subordinates. They find femmes from their crew. You've femme felines on your ship. You have a thousand crew-furs. You could stalk the corridors. In ten minutes, you'd find a femme willing to raise her tail for you. The predator femmes, anyway. They openly breed. As you've been raised to do. As you've done before. The prey, though, wouldn't do that. They commit. Marry.
I can't commit, was all Kalmbach whispered to himself. Sadly. Not giving any reason or explanation. He just couldn't. Not right now. He didn't have the fortitude for it. He could face down wasps and dangers untold. But to trap himself in a raw web of intimacy with another fur? It terrified him. He was a predator, and it terrified him.
No, stay away from the prey. They're too fragile. You might break them.
But I need to breed.
Badly.
At the very least, it would get my mind off that jaguar. Off her. Off Advent.
Your crew would understand. You're not super-furry just because you're the C.O., you know. What about that pretty tabby cat down in engineering? The one who works on the warp manifolds? She'd raise her tail in a second. Or that ocelot who works the impulse relays? Doesn't even have to be a feline, truthfully (though he would prefer it; always one to stick close to his species when it came to physicality). The Maine Coon that works the night shift in the armory.
Any of them would feel better than your paw.
They would be more real than the simulation room.
But they're my crew-furs. Don't you understand? I order them into life and death situations. I have control over them. Would they be breeding with me because they were attracted to me? Or because I'm the Captain, and being sown by me would be a predatory power play?
Advent was different.
She wasn't under my command.
Was that why you sought her out? Because she wasn't your responsibility? Because she wasn't going to be around to look in the eye?
I'm just not that kind of Captain, is all. I'm a proper, old-guard Captain, and I have to maintain a civil distance between myself and my crew. It's part of the job. It's duty. It's protocol.
Nonsense. On every furry ship, one half is fucking the other. No one follows that protocol. Why should you?
Let your guard down.
Your crew?
They've followed you to the ends of the universe!
They've stuck with you.
Trusted you.
Can't you trust them, in return? With your body, as well as your mind? With your emotions, even?
If you bred around, you'd forget about Advent, he repeated. Not the first time he'd tried to convince himself of this. Convince himself that these dreams, the memories, Advent's scent and taste, all of it would go away if he spent his energy on another femme. But would it? Would it go away? Or was he just fooling himself? Trying to avoid confronting his true feelings for the jaguar?
Because this is, after all, about love.
You can't get Advent out of your head.
You love her.
And what if that happens again? With someone else? What will you do? You said it yourself: you long to be loved. But if and when you are loved, will you be able to handle it? Will it be what you think? Or will it be something entirely different? Will you be loved in return? What will happen?
Few things scared a predator.
Love was one of them.
It was extreme vulnerability.
Predators were conditioned to never show weakness. To never ease up. To give off a front, a false sense of who they were. But couldn't conditioning be unlearned? I want to unlearn this, Kalmbach insisted. Whether that was entirely true, he wasn't sure. Maybe he would change his mind later. But he felt, right now, that he wanted to.
You are simply fighting yourself.
Perhaps you see what prey have. And you want it. And, most likely, they're right: sex without emotion is damaging to the soul. Look what happened when you bred with Advent. The prey are happy. They devote. They marry. They save intimacy for meaningful unions. They don't throw love around like cheap candy. They keep it close like it's a sweet, saved-up treasure. Them and their Christian faith.
Why can't you have that? Why can't you do that? Oh, he had plenty of excuses for not being able to have faith. But could any of them stand up as true reasons? He wasn't sure. He didn't know. He couldn't focus.
Couldn't focus.
A sigh, and he fell flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. Too much to think about. And too early in the day. He didn't want to shower yet. The smell of 'yiff' was a good smell. It would be better if female fluids were mixed in, rather than simply his own male ones. But that went without saying. Anyway, he didn't want it out of his nose. Not yet. He would shower later. And wash his sheets, as well.
Just go back to sleep
Sleep.
He kept his eyes open, though, for a little bit. Unable to rest. He thought about his current circumstances. On top of all the problems inherent in his 'love life' (or lack of one), despite all these problems raising from instinctual, biological (and the prey would add: spiritual) needs, he had more pressing concerns.
His ship had gone 'rogue.'
He had gone rogue.
They were inside snow rabbit space, carrying out their secret mission (of his own, fevered design). Last week, an Arctic fox had run into them. A femme. They'd used a tractor beam to keep her from escaping, brought her aboard. Put her in the brig. Before she could be questioned, she escaped, killed a crew-fur, and made it to the shuttle-bay.
Kalmbach had been the first to get there, forgoing any weapons. Save his own claws. Save his teeth. She'd killed one of his own, and he would tear her apart for that. The snow leopard, deep down, had a shocking well of violence. He kept it stowed away. Buried. But, when he was roused, it gleamed in his eyes. That brutality. That lack of control.
He'd burst into the bay, growling, teeth showing.
The femme Arctic fox, with a Federation phase pistol (taken from the security officer she'd killed in the brig), froze.
They locked eyes.
The Arctic fox could've shot him. Mowed him down.
Part of Kalmbach was hoping she would do that. He wanted her to shoot. He crept forward, waiting to be blown back.
But she couldn't stop staring into his eyes. The feral ferocity there. The same blood-lust that had taken him when he'd slaughtered those wasps (though they deserved their deaths, that wasn't the point; a civilized creature shouldn't have stooped to their evil level). And, seeing that, she'd panicked. An Arctic fox. A predator. Panicking.
Kalmbach's rage was that intimidating.
She'd hurried into the pod, sealing the doors.
He'd leapt, pounding with his paws, scraping the metal with his claws. Letting out loud hisses and roars. But she'd begun to decompress the bay. Air was leaking out. He could either stay and beat at the shuttle-pod until his paws broke and bled, suffocating in the process (a bad way to die), or he could retreat. And live.
He chose the latter.
After a day-long stay in sickbay (at doctor's orders), he'd sulked about the ship, going to his special, private place. Where he'd sung and indulged in 'cat nip.' An illegal drug. But it did such interesting things to the body. The mind seemed to float away. He wouldn't call it an addiction. But he couldn't go a week without having at least a nibble or two. It helped relieve the pain. It helped him relax. He never shared it, though. It was a private indulgence.
Days had gone by. They had no idea where the Arctic fox had gone. But it was highly possible that she would compromise their mission, reveal their location. Something. So, they moved.
Unfortunately, an engine leak had forced them to take refuge inside a nebula (which would keep them from all sensors; as would their new hull plating, which was another story entirely). Which is why there were no stars outside the window. Just those pretty swirls of magenta and electric blue. Gaseous formations, swirling like impressionist paintings come to life. Repairs would take a few days. In the meantime, they could only sit here, waiting, hoping that no one came to this nebula and decided to explore inside it.
No one on the outside knew what had happened to the Illustrious. But Kalmbach did. He was there when it happened. And was still here. Still alive. Along with most of his thousand-plus crew.
Maybe this was or wasn't Illustrious. Maybe he had plenty of secrets.
Maybe he was invincible. Or, more than likely: maybe he wasn't.
But, regardless, he had to protect his secrets. And his crew. Always his crew. Was he insane? Did it matter? Wasn't sanity subjective?
He was a predator. Simply put. That's what he was.
He closed his eyes, slipping back into sleep.
Whatever he needed to do, he'd do it.
Whatever it took.