1 The Business Trip
It’s not a dream…
A scaled cock breaches the barrier of my sex, splitting me open. Powerful alien hands curl around my wrists, holding me down. My hips arch willingly toward the space-abyssal abomination penetrating my most sensitive flesh. From the depths of the most treacherous waters of the universe, this creature has emerged to claim me as his own.
He has no hair, just a sharp fin which rises from between his brows and shoots back over his head in a dangerous display and it flares as he surges inside me, the thick penetrating rod of his monstrous flesh making my inner walls spread their slick desire all over the thrusting force of his domination.
I am arched and spread in the most lewd of ways, offered as a sacrifice to the alien king, gasping, moaning, and contorting as he claims me on absolutely every level.
I feel fever in my veins, a heat which flushes me from head to toe. It is more than pleasure. It is a transcendent need for this epitome of maleness, a physical desire which is overloading every part of my fragile human form.
He surges inside me and I feel the power of alien tides ripping through me. I feel the tender parts of my body being overwhelmed and overcome, vassals to the king’s desire.
My nipples are two rock-hard nubs brushing against his chest with every jolting thrust, one of his arms under my lower back, cupping the curve of my ass, keeping me in place so his cock can find my dripping sex with unerring accuracy every time he pulls free of my gripping lips and drives back in again with fresh conquest.
Love is not a word for what is happening between us. Love is a weak, human word which has become superficial in every way. There is no word for the power of this joining, for the absolute surrender I am giving, and the complete claim he is taking.
My body is no longer mine. It belongs to him, as all things he desires do.
I had no comprehension of what I was getting into when this began. I didn’t know who I was, or what lay beyond the world I knew. He has ripped away all my innocence, and he has replaced it with rough pleasure.
I am thrown about the bed, one position and then another, my legs spread by his massive hands, my tight little holes made to stretch for him over and over, my sweat-slaked body covered in the king’s seed. This is what I need. This is what I deserve. This is what I was born for. And to think it all started with a work trip…
Three months earlier…
“We have a special assignment for you, Tania.” My boss, Mr. Rogers, smiles at me over the reduced window on my computer monitor. I have him on one side, and an episode of some show I’m not really watching on the other. It’s about cheerleaders trying to make a team, and though I’m not into cheerleading, or sport, I find it intensely compelling viewing, or at the very least, good background noise for these interminable meetings which somehow take even longer over the internet than they did in person.
Candace is the better dancer, but Melanie just has that extra pop that really elevates her performances…
“Tania?”
“Hm. Sorry?”
“I was saying, we have a special assignment for you. Everybody else is off the call. We’ll discuss this in the relative privacy of this video chat.”
Mr. Rogers has a way of speaking that’s always just ever so slightly not quite right. I put it down to his age. He’s in his seventies, or maybe sixties, hard to tell, but definitely at the stage where people usually retire and go fishing or something.
“I’m listening,” I tell him. I can’t imagine what kind of special assignment he might have in mind, but he seems happy to give me good news. That’s a surprise. We haven’t had much in the way of good news since the plague shut everything down and left us in our own little cubicles in our own little homes.
I never get special assignments. I am the perpetual office junior. Rogers Accounting has been in business since 1840. Mr. Rogers’ great grandfather started it, and then passed it onto his son, who passed it onto his son, who eventually hired me. It’s a very small firm, but it is prestigious. There’s a certain air about it, the kind that excites people when they hear it. The sort that makes you accept less than industry average to work there, which is why my apartment is small, and not in a good area of town.
At least, that’s what I tell guys I meet at bars when they ask me what I do. God. It’s been so long since I met a guy at a bar. Would I even know how to make awkward sexually charged conversation anymore? Would I be able to sort of feign interest because I know I’m supposed to want a faintly functional guy to share a house with? I don’t know. I think if there was anybody else in here, I’d probably stab them. It’s just too small, and people are irritants at the best of times. It’s been weird, being lonely and also being pretty glad to be alone.