“It is that. Nothing to talk to but a scorpion with the intelligence of a small child. I’m sick of fish, but I have nothing else to eat. Now however, I find myself with a human companion for the first time in 25 years,” his head turns and the tough, white hide on the top jaws briefly brushing against your cheek. His palm is pressed firmly into the lean muscle of your back, the three claws quivering in anticipation. His other hand reaches for the bindings that cover your breast, slipping between fabric and flesh to carefully pulling them up, over your head.