When Allison first had sex with Tom, she licked him carefully, covertly, as part of foreplay, as part of the sex. Salivation disguised as affection, wearing the cloak of lust.

But it was really simply a taste test. Allison's personal yardstick. Let others measure men by fat wallets or thick penises, by how much time they spent with their mothers or on their hair.

Allison just tasted.

Tom tasted of salt and oranges then. More like orange juice in early arousal, sweeter, crisper. He nuzzled the foamy skin at the base of her belly, and she licked the rounded bones of his neck and tasted oranges.

During, the oranges intensified. Sweat and musk emulsified into a richer brew like heated wassail, pungent and furry. Citrus caught at the back of her throat.

It was the wassail taste that did it for Allison. The rest was smoke and mirrors. Tom's job as Co-Director of Finance—or was he the Vice-VP, or perhaps the Financial-Assisted Vice-Director? They all sounded rather similar to Allison, and equally ephemeral. Jobs came and jobs went. Sometimes you kissed ass, sometimes asses kissed you. Smoke and mirrors.

But the burning taste of oranges...that you couldn't fake. That must be irrevocable. That, for Allison, was love.

...

Tom and Allison had been married eight years when the K-I landed. Kéaille in French, Ke Ki in Japanese, Kay-Eye in Britain, but bald, stark K-I in the USA.

The K-I topped out at four feet tall. They were pink, knobbly, and rounded. They were translucent at the tips of their five chubby appendages and over the centers of their lower torsos. The torso's translucence revealed a certain organ that most of the K-I had.

...

Purchase the issue to read more of this piece and others