Ripley slowly drifted awake. The fact that she was slowly wakening gave her pause. Normally she was asleep or awake. On or off. Being somewhere in between could get you killed.
As Ripley climbed toward consciousness one thing became clear: she felt like crap. Weak, cold, no appetite, the whole nine yards. Even her hearing and sense of smell were muted. The latter was particularly strange since her nose wasn't stuffy.
(Can't be sick. Have to watch River, poor thing, especially after the amnes--)
Ripley bolted upright. She remembered. All of it, good and bad. Remembering one of the good parts -- her literal tumble with Adam in the jungle -- made her grin. It also made something grow hot and firm between her legs.
Alarmed, she threw back the covers with pale hands. She found equally pale -- pasty, even -- legs. Hairy legs. Big, clawless feet. And a stiffy forming a tentpole in her boxers.
"What the FUCK?!" Even her voice was male. Who was fucking with her now?
Ripley climbed out of bed, hissing when fabric slid against her dick, and looked around snarling. She was alone in one of the damned windowless rooms in the bunker. The other bed's sheets were rumpled.
Then she spotted a small mirror mounted over a dresser. Ripley strode over to it, half excited and half annoyed by her hard-on. She reluctantly peered at her reflection.
"Sam Tyler," Ripley sniffed. "Fuck me." She glanced down at her (Sam's) crotch. It wasn't a bad idea. Presuming that Sam had her body, a few minutes wouldn't make much difference. Plus, the chance to explore maleness from this point of view was too tempting. Ripley kicked off the boxers and let her fingers do the walking.
A short time later Ripley strode into the hall, wearing the first of Sam's shirts and pants she'd found, no shoes, and a big grin. "Hey! Sam Tyler! Get your skinny white ass out here!" She now knew that a thin, pale posterior was one thing their bodies had in common.
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timeasmymeasure
[Ripley] Self examination
Date: 2007-05-25 03:45 pm (UTC)Ripley slowly drifted awake. The fact that she was slowly wakening gave her pause. Normally she was asleep or awake. On or off. Being somewhere in
between could get you killed.
As Ripley climbed toward consciousness one thing became clear: she felt like crap. Weak, cold, no appetite, the whole nine yards. Even her hearing and sense of smell were muted. The latter was particularly strange since her nose wasn't stuffy.
(Can't be sick. Have to watch River, poor thing, especially after the amnes--)
Ripley bolted upright. She remembered. All of it, good and bad. Remembering one of the good parts -- her literal tumble with Adam in the jungle -- made her grin. It also made something grow hot and firm
between her legs.
Alarmed, she threw back the covers with pale hands. She found equally pale -- pasty, even -- legs. Hairy legs. Big, clawless feet. And a stiffy forming a tentpole in her boxers.
"What the FUCK?!" Even her voice was male. Who was fucking with her now?
Ripley climbed out of bed, hissing when fabric slid against her dick, and looked around snarling. She was alone in one of the damned windowless rooms in the bunker. The other bed's sheets were rumpled.
Then she spotted a small mirror mounted over a dresser. Ripley strode over to it, half excited and half annoyed by her hard-on. She reluctantly peered
at her reflection.
"Sam Tyler," Ripley sniffed. "Fuck me." She glanced down at her (Sam's) crotch. It wasn't a bad idea. Presuming that Sam had her body, a few minutes wouldn't make much difference. Plus, the chance to explore maleness from this point of view was too tempting. Ripley kicked off the boxers and let her fingers do the walking.
A short time later Ripley strode into the hall, wearing the first of Sam's shirts and pants she'd found, no shoes, and a big grin. "Hey! Sam Tyler!
Get your skinny white ass out here!" She now knew that a thin, pale posterior was one thing their bodies had in common.