Torrvok, Galaxy Gladiators Book #20 Launches 8-28-2022
This is also Book #1 in the Galaxy Warriors series. It’s a nice place to jump in if a 20-book set seems too daunting. It’s like a reset, a fresh start. I tell you all you need to know to enjoy this as a standalone.
Here is a very long and sensual scene between Sierra, the human who just escaped her slavery at a Synth Dreamhouse, and Torrvok, who is now responsible for her safety.
If yesterday, before his growth spurt, this male’s equipment was praiseworthy, I don’t know what how to describe the monster in Torrvok’s grip right now.
Thank goodness I talked him out of his plan to have sex with me. It would never fit.
There’s no harm in watching, though.
I’ve never been privy to something this private. In some ways, this is more sensual, more arousing, than sex. He’s so fully in his bestial side, he doesn’t seem to know or care that I’m in the room with him, or that I’m scrutinizing his every movement.
As animalistic as he is, you’d think he would be attacking his cock, working himself fast and furious and ready to spurt. Just the opposite.
He’s handling himself as if he never touched his cock before. One hand is gripping the table, hanging on for dear life. The other is skating over the almost cobalt skin of his cock. He’s simply stroking up and down as if he’s getting the lay of the land.
Since his body seems new to him, I wonder if he really is getting to know himself again for the first time.
He’s discovering himself with his fingertips, his head lolled back in blissful concentration, his Adam’s apple in stark profile, his brill falling almost to his waist.
He must touch a particularly sensitive spot, because he sucks in a hiss through his parted lips as his perfect ass lifts off the chair. I’m so absorbed in what he’s doing, I crane my head to make note of what spot he just touched that made him respond with such raw lust. It was when he rimmed one of the light-green ridges.
His grip stays light for a while, his other hand’s fingers tightening on the table. Finally, he gets down to business, touching himself more firmly and rewarding himself—and me—with a soft moan.
His tighter grip tugs his skin up and down over the firmer meat below. He’s stroking all the way from base to tip and breathing in and out through his clenched teeth. As he works himself, he pulls his skin hard enough for his balls to lift and fall with every stroke.
Maybe to slow himself down, he sets his cock on his stomach, cups his balls, then pets up and down the underside of his cock.
I have the perfect angle to watch him. He’s still facing the steps, giving me a bird’s-eye view of every soft pat and firm yank.
The load of Synth in my system must be dissipating, because for the first time in years, I’m aroused. Aroused is such a clinical word, as if I’m a scientist making notes in a laboratory. No. I’m horny.
My nipples are hard as precious stones, aching to be touched. My clit feels engorged and needy, and my pussy is salivating for him. I mentally scold myself even as I know with certainty I’m not going to stop watching. How could I?
He’s stood his cock upright again and is tugging hard enough to pull the loose skin over part of his beautiful ocean-blue head. This must give him intense pleasure because, for the first time, he releases a deep growling moan from the back of his throat.
He varies his speed, sometimes fast, then he slows. Even in his bestial headspace, it seems clear he’s prolonging this for his pleasure.
Every breath is a deep rasp now, as his hand finds new pathways, new rhythms to bring higher levels of pleasure.
There are moments when his strokes quicken, moving so fast his hand is a blur of turquoise on deeper blue. Then he slows, so in a moment he can ramp himself even higher.
My pelvis is so tight with need I clench my thighs to stem my desire.
Although the main attraction is Torrvok’s fist on that magnificent cock, my attention is caught by his rippling abs as they tighten and furrow with each surge of his breath.
His thighs harden, ass lifts from the chair, breath quickens, then his hand slows to bring him back from the precipice.
Is he doing this for me? A few minutes ago, he could hardly speak, almost incapable of complete sentences. Does he have enough brainpower to have thought this through to entice me?
Dear Lord, I think it’s working. My teeth are clenched, my nostrils flared, and I might have to slip my hands under my thighs to keep from touching myself.
He’s moaning constantly now, obviously getting ready for the big finish as his strokes roughen and tighten.
Suddenly, his hand stops. It takes me a moment to tear my eyes from the action and look at his face. I can no longer see that beautiful profile. He’s looking straight at me, nostrils flared.
He’d tried to scent me in the back corner a few minutes ago, but had smelled nothing because I wasn’t aroused. I am now.
The white sheet still covers me. He can’t see the cream gathering between my thighs. He doesn’t have to. My scent in the air is all he needs.
Fear slices up my spine. Surely the aroma of my desire is more powerful than my words telling him to sit in the chair. Watching is one thing, but I still don’t want him to touch me.
Look at the desire etched on his face. Pupils blown, pillowy lips flattened into a thin line in his attempt at self-control. Every muscle in my body tightens in fight-or-flight mode even though I know I can’t run and I am certainly no physical match. I’m unable to resist him.
His hand slides off his cock, but instead of standing and coming to take me, he lifts the chair and turns it toward me. When he sits down again, those feral, almost-black eyes hold mine as he gets back to work.
His stance is even wider now as he works himself. Everything between us is different, though. The air is charged with lust. We have a connection now. It’s almost as if it’s my hand on his cock as he works himself to the finish line.
His head, with his thick, exotic brill, is no longer tipped back in bliss. He’s looking straight at me as he tugs and pulls and pleasures himself. Every moan, every snarl, is directed at me.
And I feel it. Every noise he makes rumbles through my skin. Every deep grunt of pleasure feels like those facile fingers are plucking my hardened buds. His final groan of completion is so compelling it’s almost as if that beautiful male member is stabbing into me.
He comes in thick, ropey jets that spurt across the room and almost reach me. He can’t hold our visual connection, his bliss is too intense. As he comes, his eyes shutter, squeezing tighter with every spasm.
I watch, fascinated, as he works himself through several aftershocks. No more fluid jets across the room, but the muscles in his abs and powerful thighs tell the tale as he rides through a few more shudders of pleasure.
When his lids open, his gaze unerringly finds me. The thin rings of blue have expanded, but the look in them is no less feral.
I’m glad he’s incapable of speech. What could he possibly say if he could talk? He’d have to accuse me of being the galaxy’s biggest hypocrite. I refused his touch, but didn’t shy away from watching his live porn act from the other side of the room.
He breathes in loudly through his nose. I know the words he’s not speaking—you’re busted Sierra. You loved every minute of that. Maybe he can talk, but he’s too nice to say it.
My pussy’s drenched. He may have just brought himself to completion, but I’ve gotten no such reprieve.
He palms his thighs from knees to hips, gaze never leaving my face. I try to hold his gaze, but I can’t. My eyes follow his every movement.
Perhaps this is why Numans have a galaxy-wide reputation for their sexual prowess, because before my eyes, his gargantuan cock is hardening again. Do I catch a smirk out of the corner of my eye?
He scoots his chair closer, so he’s almost close enough to touch, and begins working himself again.
I know almost every species of alien male can smell women’s arousal, but I think maybe that works in reverse. My nostrils are flaring as I take him in. He smells like aged wood and rubbed leather. It’s the most masculine aroma I’ve ever smelled. Maybe it’s magic, because it makes me want him more.
He widens his stance, showing me every inch of him, from the pillared cock in his hand to his heavy sac below.
Finally, I do what I’ve been avoiding. I slip my fingers under my thighs to keep from touching myself as I watch him reprise his previous show. I’m closer now, so I’m treated to the almost-silent snorts of gratification and the slick slide of flesh on flesh.
A pearl of chartreuse pre-cum beads his tip and I cannot tear my eyes from it despite a long internal conversation to the contrary.
He’s watching me so closely he knows what I want. His hand stops its mission as he swipes the perfect luminescent drop onto one fingertip, reaches across the distance between us, and offers it to me.
His hand is about a foot away. I don’t know how he manages, his mind half animal or more, to observe my personal boundary. But he does. His cock is standing, pointing to the ceiling, pulsing slightly with every beat of his heart, as his finger waits. It’s tiny liquid present now only inches from my mouth.
I shouldn’t. It will give him the wrong impression. We’re locked in this tiny shithole together, maybe forever. It’s a terrible precedent.
All the while I’m telling myself no, my hand is reaching toward his, our gazes locked. I swipe his offering onto my finger and bring it to my face.
I desperately want to take it, to sweep it into my mouth, but I savor it. Holding it under my nose, I sniff like it’s wine with the finest bouquet.
This. This is where that heady smell is coming from. The scent that reminds me of an empty church with wooden pews and leather-bound books.
I can’t hold off another second. My tongue flicks out, the tip dipping into the pale viscous drop. Don’t moan. Don’t moan, I chant to myself. It will only encourage him.
I moan, my eyes fluttering closed in mini-ecstasy as his taste bursts onto my tongue. It’s a complex mixture of musk and fresh greens. There’s a horrifying thought on perma-repeat in the back of my head: I could get addicted to this.
I shake my head “no” even as my gaze flicks back to his cock, not wanting to miss a minute of the show.
He’s not manhandling himself like he was before. Now his hand is softer, respectful, as it skates along his skin. His gaze doesn’t leave mine, as if he’s promising me something. Finally, his patient fondling pays off as another bead of pearly pre-cum oozes through his slit.
My tongue slips between my lips of its own volition, signaling my desires.
He slicks the bead onto his finger and breaches the distance between us in offering. When I reach my hand for it, though, he pulls it back. Tipping my head in question, his own tongue slicks between his lips. When he reaches with his offering again, he points it toward my lips.
He wants me to lick it off his finger. Every brain cell in my head is screaming at me, warning me, shouting that this is not a good idea. A bad message.
My body, though, has other ideas. Leaning forward, the tip of my tongue eagerly telegraphing my intentions, I close my eyes and wait for my gift. When he bestows it on me, I moan in appreciation.
The sound doesn’t seem like an adequate thank you, so I grab his wrist, pull his hand closer and suck his finger into my mouth. I’m so naughty, or maybe it’s his pheromones, or maybe it’s that the Synth is seeping out of my system for the first time in years and my libido is roaring back online.
Or maybe it’s Torrvok himself. Handsome, deliciously sexy, cologne-smelling, aphrodisiac-tasting Torrvok.
I give his pointer finger a blow job. Not a cursory one, either. No, I put my heart and soul into it. With full eye contact and sucks and tongue swirls and moans of pleasure. He rewards me with another finger loaded with his essence, and I reward him back with another Oscar-winning performance with my mouth.
When I lean back in my seat on this awful orange couch, I’m a different person. The old Sierra is banished and relegated to somewhere else. The new Sierra sees the error of her ways.
This magnificent male and I are locked in an underground dungeon with a limited food supply and, if I remember correctly, a finite amount of water. I’m a sexual being for the first time in years, and so, it seems, is my big blue friend.
My pussy is dripping wet for him, and it’s obvious he’s dripping wet for me, too.
Why not act on my desires? I can’t think of a single reason.
The look on his face could be smug right now. He has to know he just won our battle of wills, but he’s not gloating.
Instead, he sits back in his chair, plants his feet firmly on the floor, and gets back to skimming the length of his cock with a feathery touch, base to tip and back again.
“Clothes off,” he rasps. His inability to speak in full sentences tells me all I need to know about his ratio of humanoid to beast. Instead of turning me off, my crazy brain lights up with even more desire.
I hesitate a moment, but my ability to argue with myself is decimated. I take my time, though, teasing us both. The only clothes I have are a belt and the sheet. No matter how much I play with the belt, it doesn’t take long to remove. Sadly, it isn’t much of a striptease. After I pull the sheet over my head, I watch him.
Although I didn’t think it was possible for his eyes to dilate more than they were, they do. His blue irises have all but disappeared. He’s huffing my scent in gusts, making no pretense that he’s reveling in the smell of my arousal.
I thought he’d fly off his chair, accost me, put his mouth and hands all over me, lift me over his shoulder like a caveman and toss me on the mattress. Instead, he’s glued to his chair, simply eating me up with his gaze.
“Open,” he says. It’s not a request. It’s a command.
Was it just yesterday I’d thought he was shy and gentle?
I don’t comply. Maybe some primitive part of my mind wants to see more of the caveman part of him. I’m beginning to remember who I was back on Earth what seems like decades ago. I used to be spunky, fiery, feisty. Is that part of me making a reappearance?
“Open!” His jaw tightens, his chin dips. The meaning is clear—Open or I’ll do it for you.
I experience a moment of clarity and decide I don’t want to poke the beast. Not yet. Not today.
Holding his gaze, I slowly move my feet apart one inch at a time. The better to watch him. I notice every flare of his nostrils, every muscle that tightens in his thighs as he uses his self-control not to leap the distance separating us.
When I stop, my knees maybe a foot apart, he orders, “More.”
A frisson of excitement thrills through me with the dominant tone of his voice. I’d been waiting for it.
One more inch.
“More,” his voice is firmer this time.
I grant him maybe half an inch when he thunders, “More!”
With this, cream moistens my thighs. By his widened eyes and obvious sniff, the state of my arousal isn’t lost on him.
He must be at the end of his tether, because he breaches the distance between us and instead of touching my pussy, which is aching for him, he arranges me so I’m sitting tailor fashion.
“Touch,” he says as he settles onto his chair and strokes himself.
I’m swimming in a haze of lust so deep and powerful it takes me a long moment to realize what he wants. He wants me to touch myself. Perhaps I was too clear when I told him I didn’t want his touch. Or maybe he’s just punishing me.
Whatever the reason, it looks like mutual masturbation is on the menu. Sounds delicious.
He provides the eye candy as he works himself for his enjoyment and my own. I need no foreplay. The last few minutes have been all that’s necessary.
Instead of pleasuring myself the way I normally do, though, I perform every operation in exaggerated detail for his entertainment.
After swiping my juices, I circle my clit. Normally, I do this with my eyes closed, so keeping them open adds an additional level of difficulty. But watching Torrvok, forearm tendons bulging, abdominals straining, cock bucking under his grip, is worth the price of admission.
For a moment, this seems surreal. I’m in an underground prison with a gorgeous male with thick, luxurious brill and skin the color of the ocean after a storm. I’m slated to die and we’re mutually masturbating when he’s no more than four feet away.
Instead of chafing against my circumstances, I find a way to embrace them.
My pulse is pounding through my veins, prominent in my pussy and nipples. My channel is clenching, quivering in need. I’d given up hoping I’d ever feel this way again.
“Torrvok,” I start, but there’s nothing more to say. My fingers work faster. I press harder. Then I back off, wanting to come at the same moment he does.
This luscious feeling of desperation, of need so immense I wonder if I can live through it, is so powerful and pervasive. Even in this underground tomb, I feel blessedly alive—and connected to another person.
I watched him a few minutes ago and know his tells. When the muscles in his haunches hollow and his abs flex, I know he’s close. That’s when I get back in the groove, place my soles on the edge of the couch, knowing I’m showing him every inch of my most private spaces. At just the perfect moment, I let myself fly over the edge.
He releases in hard jets, pointing his cock at me. When his hot sperm hits my chest, it sets off an orgasm of seismic proportions. My body is out of my control as I moan in pleasure, then grunt, then moan louder as every muscle in my body seizes, then spasms in bliss.
Somehow, Torrvok’s name spills from my lips as my release blazes through my body like wildfire. Just when I think my orgasm is over, I manage to coax another round of ecstasy that pulses through me, rolling with a slow, exquisite burn.
When I look at him, his eyes are shining. His blue irises are almost back to normal, and a small smile lifts the edges of his lips.
He now bridges the space between us, lifts me into powerful arms, carries me to the sink in the rear and sets me on the cool porcelain. I guess he’s going to wash me, but before he turns on the water, he opens my legs as if I’m a ragdoll and he has ownership of my body.
He swipes his finger through my folds—this is his first intimate touch—then puts it in his mouth and moans in enjoyment, all the while his gaze never leaves mine.
“Sierra,” he says in a tone so reverent it belongs in a temple.
He manages to reach between my legs to get access to the water, then washes his cum off my chest and splashes the cool water between my legs.
After cleaning himself, he towels us both dry, then carries me to the mattress. He lays down behind me, slides his arm around my middle, and nuzzles my neck.
I hope you enjoyed this. Buy Your Copy Here!