Peric awoke under a canopy of warm skin. Sunlight peeked through slits in Onia’s fingers. Gripping the area between her thumb and forefinger, he shoved but her hand was as immovable as the Tarlo’s head, if not moreso.

He dug the pocketknife from his jeans, opened it, and jammed the blade into her lower palm with as much force as he could muster given the awkward angle. It probably wasn’t enough to fully penetrate her epidermis, but —

The surface underneath his knapsack shifted and the hands lifted away. Freezing mist assaulted his body, seeping into his heavy clothing like ice water. The morning had become increasingly frigid, and the afternoon less and less hot. If they didn’t repair the ship soon, he’d freeze to death. Not a bad way to go, considering the alternative — a lifetime stuck on an empty planet with no one to keep him company.

He stretched, popping his back in several places. After rolling up his knapsack, he unhooked his whip and cracked it several times against the skin on which he stood, not far from where he’d whipped her yesterday morning. Her abdomen tensed reflexively, but he didn’t lose his footing. The disciplinary exercise helped warm his bones.

With his whip now depowered, this hardly counted as punishment. He clambered atop her left breast, not easy considering its immense size, and looked down upon her restful face. Annoyingly, it had already healed from the empowered lashings he’d delivered last night, the only visible scar being a particularly deep one he’d scored on her cheekbone. Even that would disappear by tomorrow. She healed fast, but normally not this fast. He glanced to the clearing edge and discovered why.

She’d devoured the entire Oubleaf tree in a single sitting. It would be the equivalent of him eating another human in a single meal. Her gluttony, like most of her attributes, disgusted him.

“At night, leave me where I lie. Understood?”

She hesitated, then nodded slowly.

“Say it. Repeat my instruction.”

“Leave Peric...alone...sleeping.”

“If you touch me again when I’m asleep, you’ll be punished. Understood?”

She nodded. “Punish Onia.”

Dumb animals like her couldn’t be trusted to obey simple commands that spanned days. She’d likely forget within an hour. Still, he had to try something. The thought of her touching him while he slept was revolting.

“Do you have any more leeches?”

She scrunched her eyebrows quizzically. “L — leech.”

“Do you have…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Forget it. Just get undressed.”

He hopped off and waited for her to remove the tattered shift covering her body. It plummeted to the ground in a heap, expelling mist from where it landed like dry ice in a pool. She stood there in the frosty air, arms at here sides, awaiting his next command. It might as well be a warm California day to her. Not that he needed a reminder of his birthplace.

“On your stomach.”

She lay prostrate on the ground, the big toe of her left foot landing smack in the center of the extinguished fire pit. She moved it, but not without dragging a trail of ash beyond the pit’s rocky border. She was nothing if not clumsy. A wonder she’d never stepped on him or worse.

He started at her feet, kicking half frozen leeches from her skin as he encountered them, ensuring they ruptured before hitting the ground. He hopped from calf to calf, thigh to thigh, making a game of it. Frost melted in a radius surrounding his location, her skin anticipating his movements before he did. Though normally cold-blooded, Fyths warmed in response to certain stimuli, the most potent being human proximity. It was one of many characteristics making them the ‘perfect human complement’, or as he preferred to say, the anti-human.

He reached her butt and paused. Before he could decide whether or not to skip the area, her hands appeared, parting the her generous cheeks and giving him a clear view inside.

Leeches. Not a lot, but enough that he’d have to get his hands dirty.

With one foot on each thigh, he leaned into the valley and plucked the bloodsuckers from her skin, crushing them in his hands before tossing away. He had no idea how she’d acquired so many in this area. There must’ve been at least eight.

After removing his coat, he took a deep breath and drove his arm into her anal opening. Her sphincter collapsed around his upper bicep like a bungee cord. He’d been raised on a farm. Being shoulder deep in cow ass happened more often than he could count. But this was only his second such experience with a Fyth, one he’d rather not repeat anytime soon.

He felt no lumps along the rectal wall, and withdrew his arm — slowly — but not for lack of trying. Her inner muscles contracted each time he moved, stilling him before he could withdraw further. Eventually, he freed his appendage along with a healthy dose of excrement. Though frequently odorless, today it smelled of pumpkin innards. He gagged and added the vegetable to a mental list of foods he’d never eat again.

Had his father still been alive, he’d berate Peric for his childishness. Entire civilizations subsisted on diets comprised primarily of kale, the unfortunate name given to Fyth manure. Supposedly, it contained all the ingredients necessary to support healthy human life. Some even lauded the taste, comparing it to tofu in both flavor and consistency. Countless recipes existed, everything from kale soup to kale ice cream. Nevertheless, he couldn’t get his head around the thought of eating an animal’s shit. Literally. No matter how many vitamins and minerals it contained. He’d starve before the substance ever touched his lips.

He inspected her vagina as quickly as possible, inserting his arm and removing it before lubrication could accumulate. It wasn’t wise to loiter in the area. Like humans, Fyths couldn’t always control their instincts. Many simply didn’t understand the concept of arousal, meaning things could escalate fast. Even his cursory probe, as brief as it was, caused her body to quake, her pelvis to grind against the ground.

He made his way back to her ankles, waited for her reflexive shuddering to subside, then boarded her calves once more. By the time he’d mounted her butt (no longer being held apart), the entire upper half of her body steamed with melted frost.

It wasn’t the first time he’d questioned the genetic engineers who designed Fyth physiology. Why include a libido in a creature with no male counterpart? It seemed like torture. Then again, if he didn’t get off this planet, he’d suffer the same fate. A sexless existence or, even worse, an existence without companionship whatsoever.

He trekked down the small of her back all the way to her shoulder blades, where straight hair carpeted the surface like layers of green silk. He encountered no leeches along the way. Perhaps whatever bog she’d waded in hadn’t risen past her hips. Still, he sifted through the back of her scalp just in case, stopping only after she loosed a giggle. She knew how much he hated her laughter.

He jumped off, commanded her to roll over, and repeated the preening on her front side. Again, no leeches above her waist, except for one on the inside of her left ear. After plucking it out, he returned to her face and checked her nostrils. Her lips curved upwards at the corners as he stuck his hand in each opening. Nothing except soft wisps of hair. Not even boogers, though he’d heard Fyths didn’t produce mucus in quite the same way humans did.

Standing on her neck, he tapped on her lips. Her mouth opened wide and he leaned into the tree scented canyon. He traced around her gum line, under her tongue, and the roof of her mouth, checking for anything out of the ordinary. At her lower right molar, he paused. An irregular shape jutted from the area where gum met tooth. He tugged and it shifted, but remained in place.

“Owwwmmmm.” Her mouth closed briefly around his stomach as she verbalized pain.

With effort, he pushed himself out of the orifice and unhooked the elemental harvester from his belt. He switched the pistol-like device to illumination mode.

“You’ve got something stuck in your mouth. I’m going to get rid of it.”

She nodded and reopened her mouth. He leaned over and shone the light on the object.

What the fuck?

It looked like the top of a railroad spike. And that meant iron! The primary element he needed to repair the ships circuitry. He’d spent months searching for traces of the metal, and here it was, sitting in the maw of his Fyth.

He gripped the head of the spike and shifted it back and forth. Rust flaked off as it brushed against enamel. Onia’s mewling echoed, mingling with the abrasive sound of metal on bone. At one point her teeth clamped around his midsection. Though she’d never intentionally slice him in half, it wouldn’t take much, just a reflexive chomp gone a bit too far. Still, he couldn’t give up now. Just a few more —

The spike gushed free from its fleshy prison, and his head hit the roof of her mouth. She squealed and jerked, sending him sliding toward her throat. He caught the edges of her tongue, losing both the harvester and the spike in the process. The objects tumbled down her esophagus, causing her to swallow, over and over again. Her tongue slammed him into her palate, and copious amounts of saliva washed past his head.

Before he could get his bearings, he found himself falling, then laying on his back in the grass with Onia retching directly on top of him. Orange bile poured down, cooking the grass, leaves, and sticks. Portions of his clothing (shoelaces, hemp straps, etc.) sizzled and evaporated. When she finally stopped, he smelled like battery acid and probably looked like a slimed member of the ghostbusters.

“S — sorry.” Green blood drooled from the corner of her mouth and pooled beside his head.

He sat up, wiped puke from his face, and asked, “You’re sorry?”

She nodded, licking the blood on her lips. She seemed uncertain of whether she should sit or lay down, so she rested on her side, elbow to the ground.

He stood and cracked his neck. There was no sign of the spike or the harvester. Either would’ve been easy to spot in the now barren circle of earth.

“Why are you sorry?” His hand went to his whip.

She chewed on her lip. “P — punish Onia.”

“Yes. Punish Onia. But why? Tell me why.”

“P ” — a muscle in her cheek twitched — “Punish.”

“Start a fire.”

He undressed while she worked on the fire. Though viscous, Fyth bile dried like water leaving virtually no trace of its presence, save for an amber tinge. He toweled off and slipped into a different set of clothing, dirty but dry. By the time he finished, she had the fire roaring and had even arranged his soaked clothing on the nearby clothesline.

He approached where she sat cross legged, naked and shivering. She shook not from the cold, but from anticipation.

“Which punishment?”

“Whip,” she said.

“Axe or fire. Pick one.”

“W — Whip.”

“Ok. You’ll get both.”

She made a sound like ‘mowhh’ but her lips didn’t part.

“Ten seconds.” He pointed to the fire.

After a long pause, she stuck her left hand into the fire. Not over the fire, not near it, but into it. Lips shut, she released a muffled wail as the aroma of scorched flesh filled the air. The skin on her fingers blackened then bubbled, her fluids boiling from the inside.

He rarely used the fire punishment, not because it took longer to heal, but because of the sound she made. She tried to stifle it, as she knew it would result in extra discipline, but it escaped from her gut — a pitiful whimper that stung somewhere deep in his chest.

“Ten.”

She withdrew her hand to her lap and cradled it. Ashen stumps hardly recognizable as fingers curled upward. They smoked as tears descended like a funeral pyre smouldering in the rain. With her eyes shut and body rigid, she looked like a monk in deep meditation, clutching a pile of burnt incense.

He hefted the double bladed axe from its resting place and marched over. “Hand.”

She lowered her uninjured hand to the ground.

“The other one.”

Her mouth opened and a shrill sob poured forth like one he’d never heard. She obeyed of course, exposing her charred appendage palm up, but her wailing only escalated. He raised the axe above his head, hesitated, then dropped it to the ground.

“SHUT UP!” He crouched and clasped his hands over his ears.

The torturous whimper reminded him of all the shit that had caused him to leave Earth in the first place. It reminded him of the things he’d done, of the reason why his family was dead, of every murderous notion inside his heart, a heart many times blacker than the hand before him. It reminded him of who he was, and who he’d never become.

“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up...” He chanted.

And finally, she did.