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Galactic Amity

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Stephen meets his first aliens about a week after seeing Star Wars for the third time. Okay, fourth. Maybe fifth.

He's dozing off alone in his bedroom — the older brothers who usually share it are away at summer camp — when the darkness is filled with a soft pinkish-red glow, and two figures beam down next to him. They're about his height, dressed in black, with the bulbous heads and empty black eyes of the cantina aliens, except for a row of short tentacles hanging down over their mouths. The tentacles ripple as they burble incomprehensibly at each other.

"You're in 'Merica," mumbles Stephen sleepily. "Speak English."

The aliens turn to him for a moment of silent consideration. Then one leans over his face, like it's the prince at the end of Snow White, and sticks a tentacle between his lips.

It's slick and wriggly and pretty much exactly how Stephen assumes it's like to kiss a girl. At least until the second tentacle thrusts into his mouth. He sort of sucks on them and tries to stick his tongue between them, wondering if the alien is absorbing his knowledge of language through his mouth, or if this is just a polite outer-space way to say hello.

The second alien cups a three-fingered hand around his balls.

Tired though he is, Stephen jerks his hips back in alarm. It only prompts the alien to grab them and hold them down, the better to investigate Stephen's cock through the front of his pants with its own row of mouth-tentacles.

Stephen is instantly, dizzyingly hard. He moans around the tentacles in his mouth, then again when they slip out, leaving him gasping and empty. The aliens confer with each other in their own weird language, making the tentacles between his legs ripple against the base of his erection in a way that makes his head spin.

He knows this kind of thing is wrong if you're not married. At least, it's wrong for girls. It seems to be okay for boys, except that it's super-duper-extra-wrong for two boys to do it together (which is why Stephen's fantasies all involve no faces and no talking). That means it must be okay if it's a boy and an alien, right? That's just logic.

The aliens work together to roll him over on his stomach, and the one that did the face-sucking climbs up to kneel on the mattress in front of him. It fists a hand in Stephen's chin-length hair to hold him in place, and uses the other hand to unzip a pocket on the front of its uniform.

Another row of tentacles spills out. This row is much, much larger.

Still, that doesn't mean it's a boy. Who can tell, with aliens? That doesn't make this weird. It doesn't mean there's anything wrong with the second alien pulling his pajama pants down his legs, or the first one sticking an exploratory tentacle down his throat, or the way the whole thing makes Stephen's hips start moving on their own to rub his cock against the bare sheets.

The alien behind him picks up his hips, so his knees flail a bit before resting on the mattress and his cock bobs achingly in midair. Its mouth-tentacles play with his butt for a minute, then one of them goes in, making Stephen squawk in muffled surprise. The tentacle in his mouth shoves in deeper, gagging him, and there are two hands holding him in place with fistfuls of hair so he can't pull away.

He gets the message. Making noise must be not polite. He shuts up.

It's not so much of a surprise when the second alien crouches between his spread thighs, when he hears another zip come undone, when he feels one of the larger tentacles probe his entrance. Another snakes between his legs and curls around the base of his cock, which is enough to make him come like a shot, darkness pinwheeling around his vision and heat racing like lightning to the tips of his toes.

But it's not done. He can feel his body stretching around the tentacle as it pushes slowly deeper, until the alien's hips are flush with the curve of his butt and the other tentacles are flicking wetly against the tender skin of his inner thighs.

Neither alien starts thrusting — that's good, Stephen thinks, they can't go any deeper inside him — they'd just end up shoving each other. What the tentacles do instead is writhe around in his holes so they feel like they're thrusting, or sometimes swelling, and the one in his backside keeps rolling against this spot that feels so good it wrings little noises out of him every time. Moans and whimpers he can't swallow down.

It must not be too rude, because the length in his mouth doesn't choke him again, just undulates greedily against his lips and tongue. Thick fingers cradle the weight of his skull, almost gently now. He tries to suck on the tentacle, but his cock is stiffening again and he can't focus, can't make his body move in any way that isn't involuntary twitching and trembling.

The aliens warble, at each other or at him, he doesn't know. Time fades in and out. He's almost senseless with overstimulation when something sprays him from under the tentacles — it feels like hot water and smells like salt, and it coats his jaw from ear to ear, droplets running down his neck.

A matching jet of spray hits his balls and the underside of his erection, so direct and unexpected that it jars Stephen over the edge of another orgasm.

In the hazy aftermath, he's vaguely aware of the tentacles sliding out of him, the hands letting go. He collapses onto the damp-spotted sheets in a boneless pile of limbs. His softened cock is so sensitive it's almost unbearable, but he doesn't have the strength left to roll over.

The aliens don't put his clothes back on. One of them pats the curves of Stephen's bare bottom, as if it did all the work and the rest of Stephen was just an inconvenient attachment. Then both figures fade out of his blurred vision, and the reddish light fades.




He's in his first semester of college the next time it happens. Taking an astronomy class, of all things, so they're on the roof of the physics building with massive telescopes bigger than Stephen himself, and he lingers a few minutes afterward to keep looking at the stars without any science-y machinery. The way God intended.

He's not sure who intended for the filter of pinkish light to drop over the world, but it happens all the same.

Stephen stumbles back from the railing, looking wildly around the roof. No sign of aliens — but the last of his classmates are just at the top of the stairs — he takes a few running steps toward them, then skids to a stop in astonishment. They're frozen in place. One of the teacher's heels is paused in midair; the door has stopped swinging while only half-shut.

It's the same with the trees, he realizes. There was a light breeze a minute ago, but now there are bunches of leaves all around him that have paused mid-flutter. If he squints into the darkness, he can see one hanging in the air, frozen a few feet before it hit the ground.

When the alien transports down, it catches his eye immediately, because it's the only bit of motion in sight.

It's not at all like the last pair. If anything, it's like a massive pile of goo, though something about the rolls of bulk in the middle and the whiskery tapered bit up front makes Stephen think of a walrus. It even extrudes a few sets of flipper-y appendages to scoot itself toward him.

He makes a halfhearted attempt to circle around it and get to the door. It catches up with him. More specifically, it gets in front of him, then rolls right over his legs and envelops them up to the knees. Stephen loses his balance, flails his arms, and ends up toppling nearly sideways.

The alien surges its body up to catch him. Now he's in it up to the neck, except for his shoulder and part of a hand. He feels like a piece of fruit trapped in a mold of periwinkle Jello. Assuming it's really periwinkle, and that's not just an effect of the weird light.

It doesn't take off his pants. It doesn't have to. Part of its body simply oozes under his waistband and wraps around the ol' rod-and-tackle, like he's getting a blowjob everywhere at once from the world's biggest tongue.

Stephen's hips start moving on their own, at least as much as they can against the wobbling mass holding them in place.

Of course another ad-hoc appendage slides down his crack, swelling to force his cheeks apart before prodding at his hole. He wonders if it's some kind of punishment. A divine reminder that taking it up the ass is filthy and unnatural and...and weird. He tries to squirm away, which is pointless because there's no away when the alien is all around him, when the now-finger-sized extrusion working him open could be coming from anywhere.

"Lemme go," he says out loud, voice thick and unconvincing. "I don't...I don't want this."

The alien responds by swelling abruptly inside him and thrusting upward in the same moment. Stephen lets out a strangled cry as it hits his prostate, his free hand automatically clutching at the nearest thing it can reach. The roll of goo stays semisolid in his grip for a moment before gently sucking his fingers under the surface.

He's at its mercy now, subsumed in the alien as it develops a steady rhythm of pounding him in the ass, slurping at his erection all the while. Stephen's eyes glaze over; his glasses are jostled farther down his nose with every thrust; his mouth lolls open. Some distant part of him wonders if the alien is getting off on the waves of heat that must be coming off his body.

He gets startled back to attention when a ripple of goo tries to roll up over his chin and enter his mouth. "Don't," he pants, more in earnest but also more out-of-breath, spitting it out and twisting away. "I need that — for breathing —"

It only buys him a few extra seconds before the alien shoves a roll of itself between his lips. It doesn't go far enough to block his airway after all; just forms a tangy, gritty-tasting ball that forces open his jaw and holds down his tongue.

Stephen's glasses fall off his face entirely, leaving the world too blurry to make out anything past the nearest row of telescopes. He doesn't hear them land. He squeezes his eyes shut, blocking out all sensation except the taste stuffed in his mouth and the sparks of arousal building with every thrust, until he comes hard and helplessly in his pants.

The alien swirls around his cock a minute longer — cleaning it off, he'll realize later. His head gets lowered gently to the decking of the roof, and the goo starts to withdraw from his neck and shoulders, though his mouth is still full. It leaves his glasses next to his head as it pulls back, the lenses sparkling clean. It rolls off of his chest and hips, leaving his shirt disheveled but incongruously dry.

He works his tongue without thinking about it, and realizes the mass of goo in his mouth has turned more solid. Still soft and yielding, like rubber, but it's the size of a ballgag and he'll have to strain his jaw to spit it out.

The alien flipper-walks the last of its bulk off of Stephen's legs. As he falls on his back with a groan, he feels something shift inside him. Another mass of solid ex-goo.

It's like a magic trick. The creature managed to shove a dildo all the way up his ass — Stephen has no direct experience to compare it with, but it feels like a fat one — without so much as taking off his belt first.

He doesn't catch the transporter whisking the alien away. He just sees the weird light fade back to normal, followed by the return of wind rustling in the trees, traffic humming down the nearest street, and footsteps heading down the stairs.

Nobody looks back before the door shuts. If Stephen looks half as debauched as he feels, lying flat on his back with his clothes roughed-up and his face hot and both ends stuffed full, anyone who saw him could have started a campus-wide scandal. But nobody sees.

After a few minutes of catching his breath, he pries the gag out of his mouth and staggers toward the railing, where he can hurl it into the woods. He decides not to pull out the alien dildo until he can get to the nearest bathroom.

After the way it shifts and rubs against his insides as he walks downstairs, he decides it doesn't need to be the nearest bathroom, and takes an extra-long walk on the most shadow-strewn paths back to his dorm.




It's not gay if you're getting paid. It's double not gay if you're following someone else's directions. And if you're doing it under an alias, it's like it doesn't even apply to you in the first place.

So basically, Stephen's in the clear on multiple counts, here.

He's on-set between scenes, still wearing the short-shorts and fitted top of a sexy pizza delivery boy, when the lighting changes. At first he thinks someone put a filter over the spotlights, until he realizes none of the half-dozen crewmembers in view are moving.

It's two aliens again this time, so humanoid that Stephen might have mistaken them for human at first glance, if his first glance hadn't been while they were beaming down into the room. They have pale skin in front that shades to darker on their backs, short hair, dark eyes, and what sure look like dorsal fins on their backs. (It's the fins you notice.)

They chitter to each other for a minute, laugh like dolphins, and beckon Stephen over.

Well, he is at work, and if all this takes place in the middle of his shift then he is on the clock, which means he should follow directions. Besides: it's triple not gay if they're aliens.

They try to spit-roast him on long pink-tipped appendages that turn out to be about the length of Stephen's arm. He can't take most of them, but he is a professional, so he does his best.




The gig leaves Stephen too exhausted to change, or do much else besides stagger into the van and crawl fully-clothed into his bunk. He falls asleep on the way out of the parking lot.

He's not sure how much time has passed when a noise at the door interrupts his dreams. It's the tread of someone heavy, and there's no hum of the van running, so Stephen figures his driver/roadie has parked at some deserted rest stop and come back to collect his "extra payment."

It's a good arrangement for everyone. The guy needs money, and has muscle; Stephen needs muscle, has part of the money, and is fuckable enough to make up the difference. He'd rather not wake up enough to really participate right now, so he spreads his legs and wriggles his ass in the direction of the door, indicating his current availability.

Something cold and blunt pokes itself between his cheeks, and...snuffles?

Stephen's eyes snap open. He's not surprised to find the van lit with a soft all-suffusing pinkish-red glow, or to see a drip from the leaky faucet hanging in midair. If he looked out the windows, he's pretty sure he'd find them still on the highway, led by the glowing taillights of other time-stopped cars.

Instead, he looks at the aliens. That part is surprising. Because they're basically werewolves. They have a few extras, like space-age uniforms and little stalk antennae, but other than that it's all gray fur and muscular torsos and long-muzzled wolf-y faces.

The one who was sniffing Stephen's ass straightens up. There's another, slightly taller, standing behind it. Both of them are shorter than Stephen, but more broad-shouldered, and from the biceps alone Stephen's pretty sure either of them could take him.


"Hi," he says hopefully, trying to comb his hair into some sort of order with his fingers. It was artfully tousled on-stage, but now it's just bedhead.

The taller wolf-alien steps forward, holds Stephen's head in its clawed hands, and uses a rough tongue to lick his hairline into place.

Stephen takes a chance and scratches its ears, then under its chin. The alien grins, tongue lolling out one side. There's something not-quite-canine about its jaw, so when petting turns into kissing it has lips that seal neatly over Stephen's, almost human except for the fur against his face and the long tongue flopping around in his mouth.

The other alien gets back to his skinny jeans, unceremoniously shredding several long holes in the fabric so it can lick and nuzzle his bare skin. It drags Stephen to the edge of the narrow mattress for better access, so one of Stephen's legs falls right over the side while it holds up the other and tongues his hole open.

"I can get on the ground, if that would be easier," mumbles Stephen, during a break between kisses when his ear is getting licked. "Say, if you wanted don't know what any of this means, do you. I'll show you."

He rolls out of the cramped bunk entirely, kneels on the threadbare mat covering the van's floor, and bends forward to stick his ass in the air.

The aliens crouch at either end of him, making some kind of growly mumbles at each other. The one in back adds a trill that sounds suspiciously like a whistle, then returns to enthusiastically licking everything from his balls on back.

The other alien actually lays itself down, and the two briefly work together to hold him up so it can slide underneath him. Practically missionary position, is Stephen's second thought. (His first thought is: as if he's a car that needs to be serviced.) It pulls his shirt and scarf over his head, then uses its claws to slice another hole in the front of his thoroughly-destroyed jeans.

Eventually a snap and some rustling of fabric indicates that clothing other than Stephen's is being taken off. "Hang on a second," he protests, trying to turn around. "I want to see it before you put it in —"

The wolf drags his hips back into place and smacks his ass — just once, just a warning — though it can't avoid leaving a faint set of claw-scratches. Stephen gets the message, and holds obediently still so the alien can aim.

The appendage that slides into him is fleshy and tapered and within the normal size range of human erections. Maybe a little bigger than Stephen's, not that it matters, who's counting? Every thrust pushes his cock against a matching bulge in the other alien's jumpsuit, making it throb with need. He wonders, if he'd been born a lady, if they would be fucking him in tandem right now. He wonders what it's like to be that full, to have a cock in each hole and feel them rubbing together inside you.

He wonders why they're not both fucking him now — he's got a mouth, doesn't he? — until the alien thrusts balls-deep inside him and something starts swelling.

It's knotting. Like a common terrestrial dog. And Stephen likes it. That's the kind of wanton, indecent, filthy slut he is. Got down on hands and knees and offered himself up to be a fucktoy for a couple of wolves, because he wants it, he wants to come while his ass is stuffed full of dog dick, and maybe to get spanked some more along the way because he's a shameless whore who deserves it —

The orgasm hits him like a freight train.

There are waves of aftershocks where he couldn't remember how to speak if his life depended on it. Then there's the wave of hot shame as he lies in the arms of one aroused wolf while the other is still coming, still pumping alien semen into him, and he loves it, and he'd do it again in a heartbeat.

He's not sure how long it takes for the knot to go down. He knows it feels like forever by the time the cock pulls out, bringing a trail of thick fluid in its wake that runs down Stephen's thighs and soaks into the torn denim.

The alien holding Stephen fumbles between their bodies and unsnaps, freeing its own erection. Both wolves work together to lift him up and center his leaking hole over the stiff cock that hasn't been inside him yet, like they think he has the energy to ride it. He manages to break out of their grip, mostly by catching them by surprise, and leads them on an embarrassingly short chase.

It gets him more-or-less what he wants, which is that the taller wolf puts Stephen over its knee and spanks him until he has several sets of bleeding scratches and his skin feels like it's on fire. Then, after licking his face in what could be admonishment or apology, it bends him over the mattress — his face is a hairsbreadth from knocking into the side of the van — and has its way with him anyhow.

He doesn't have the energy to come twice that night. He falls half-asleep while the second knot is still in him, waking up again just enough to notice when the aliens bundle him into bed and tuck him in.




It's very unfair. Here Stephen is, trying to be respectable and do the right thing and make this marriage work, and Lorraine just gets wildly drunk during the reception and has to be more-or-less carried from the lobby to the honeymoon suite. The threshold is all well and good, but this is ridiculous.

He at least manages to get her out of the gorgeous dress before she scrunches up under the covers and is out like a light. Then he takes off his tuxedo piece by delicate piece, wanders over to the jacuzzi, and sinks into it naked.

So they don't like each other. So what? It doesn't mean you can't get married. Lorraine's parents despised each other. Stephen's haven't been able to manage more than bitter politeness for the past twenty years. And look how well they're doing!

He's stewing over this in the tub when the room goes reddish-pink — even more so than it already was — and the water stops bubbling.

Two figures with spade-shaped heads, mottled skin, and far too many squid-like tentacles materialize on the lip of the jacuzzi.

"Oh, come on," groans Stephen. "I just got married! If anything, someone's supposed to be getting impregnated tonight! Not fucked silly in the pool by a couple of Sagittarius Betans with an anthro kink while their spouse sleeps it off in the next room."

The aliens look at each other. They say something, in an incongruously chirrupy language. Then the one with bigger spots slides carefully into the water...and it starts bubbling again.

Everything is still under the rosy time-stop filter, so Stephen knows that isn't the jets. He makes an executive decision not to think about it too hard, and waves for the other alien to come in.

It's relaxing, the hot water and the flow of the currents, so he isn't bothered by tentacles bumping up against his legs. Besides, the tub is only designed for two humans in intimate circumstances. A human and two oversized aliens can hardly avoid each other. He's sure they mean well.

At least, until a series of tendrils winds around his ankles, and something thick with a frilly fan-tip inserts itself between his thighs and flares its end against his skin.

"Uh-uh," says Stephen, though he doesn't mean it as hard as he did before. "None of that. I told you."

One of the aliens scoots closer to him, lifts another heavy semi-translucent limb out of the water, and covers his mouth with the fan on the end. Scalloped edges reach from ear to ear.

"Okay, maybe a little," admits Stephen, muffled by the pearly flesh.

The big translucent limbs are also hollow, as he realizes when the aliens spray him with something from inside. A snarky comment about how they don't last long swims around the back of his mind, unspoken. He tries to say something else instead...and finds his mouth heavy and sluggish, his throat slow to respond.

"'tcha do?" he mumbles, right before he spots something moving through the limb attached to his mouth.

In the same moment, he feels something pushing into his partly-numbed ass. Not a tentacle, or any other limb. A small object.

He realizes what they are when the first one pops into his mouth. It's smaller and squishier than a chicken egg, but still bigger than he should be able to get down his throat, except that the muscles are so relaxed that he barely has to swallow. There's another egg behind it, and another, and he can see more traveling up the translucent length of the...ovipositor.

The other one is obscured under the frothing water. Stephen has no idea how many are queued up to be deposited in his ass, and he's not sure he's sensitive enough to count by feel right now.

Someone's supposed to be getting impregnated. They're giving him exactly what he asked for.

All his limbs are held in tight grips now; he can't get any traction, and the ovipositors are more than long enough to follow him as far as he can twist. He tries to press his lips shut after the fourth egg, just to see if it works. It takes so much muscle strength that he falters a minute later, and the next three slide easily in. After about a dozen he loses count.

Are they going to disappear as usual when this is over, leaving the eggs behind? Or are they going to take him along? Stephen gets a sudden vivid image of a stable full of breeding incubators from all kinds of species. His stall has a nice soft bed and he's well-fed, but any stranger can walk in and finger him any time they like, to check on the health of the squidlings. Doctors and nurses. The parents. Random visitors curious about the new brood species.

He's sort of turned-on, but in a distant way, the actual sensation in that area too dulled to respond.

At last the alien holding his legs gives him a light bounce in the water. He's almost more buoyant than usual, though his abdomen feels heavy and stretched, and he can feel how tightly-packed the eggs are by the way they shift inside him. Whatever the squid gets out of all this, it must be satisfactory, because it chirrups to its partner and starts to withdraw.

The partner pours its last few eggs down Stephen's throat, then unseals its ovipositor from his mouth and runs a tentacle around the inside. Other tentacles caress his stomach in a soothing sort of way. The water stops bubbling.

Stephen gazes dazedly down at his stomach — is it rounder, or is he imagining things because of how full he feels? His breathing starts to get faster and shallower as his throat un-numbs. Something similar is happening between his legs, which is how he notices that, sure enough, one of the aliens has started fingering him. Tentacling him. Whatever.

But that, too, withdraws. The aliens get beamed right out of the jacuzzi, leaving the water to slosh notably lower. The reddish glow in the room fades, and Stephen fumbles for the switch to turn off the jets as they restart.

He's alone. (Except for Lorraine.) The squids left. These must not be real eggs, then. Not fertilized ones, anyway.

Stephen drags himself out of the tub. He's heard some worrying things about sperm and hot tubs and pregnancy. Even if the odds are low when it's interspecies, and lower when it's interplanetary, it's not worth the risk.

He wraps himself in an extra sheet from somewhere (in theory there's also sexy underwear around here, but he can't be bothered to look for it) and curls up on the ensuite couch, in a position where he can finger the eggs and stroke himself to full hardness at the same time. Because apparently nobody else is going to.




The lizard aliens are eight feet tall if they're an inch, with skinny torsos but thick, muscular limbs. Stephen feels like an oversize doll as he straddles the leader's thighs, hanging on to its shoulders for support, while it stretches him out with a device that's long and fat and ambiguously chrome-plated.

Their cocks, or what Stephen is choosing for the sake of simplicity to think of as cocks, are huge and always-hard and biologically spring-loaded. The first time a couple of them beamed down into the Daily Show office — he's staying overnight, everyone is, this election is taking hours — one of them knelt between his legs, popped it out, and punched Stephen in the taint so hard he got rug-burn skidding across the carpet.

The lizards clicked at each other for a bit. One of them beamed away, returning a minute later with soothing cream and a flared metallic plug, both of which it applied to Stephen's tender parts with impressive gentleness for a creature that had claws as big as a human's fingers. Then they both disappeared, leaving just enough frozen-time for Stephen to get his pants on before Jon came in wanting...some dumb thing. Statistics, probably.

But now they're back! With a whole series of increasingly-larger toys, their silvery finishes reflecting the ambient reddish glow. Stephen has worked up through three levels already, and he's come twice. It's all grinding and prostate-milking from here on out.

He bounces slightly on the latest toy, and the alien working it into him grins in approval. Well, it's always grinning — that's how its scaly face is built — but Stephen decides to take it as a personal achievement. Beady yellow eyes beam at him from under heavy eyebrow ridges; he beams right back from under his perfect eyebrows.

The other lizard hands over the largest toy — slathered in a fresh layer of the lotion that relaxes his muscles without desensitizing them — and the first alien's clawed hands swap it in. Stephen moans and shivers at the extra stretch, clinging to the fabric of the uniform's shoulders. He's good for it.

A few more thrusts, each one faster and deeper than the last. He's not going to be able to sit properly for a week, after this. It's perfect.

The lizard shoves the toy as far into Stephen as it can go, and holds it there while undoing the jumpsuit fastenings one-handed. Under the fabric is the pale-green skin of its belly, a long barely-visible slit the only sign that it has anything pocketed under the surface.

It tugs Stephen forward a little, draws the toy out of him, and directs his hands to clutch his cheeks and pull them apart. Stephen does, holding himself open while the lizard's claws wrap around his waist, making sure he's posed just right and waiting to catch him if he falls.

There's no warning. The cock springs out and slams into Stephen in one brutal thrust, lifting him up off his knees and making him cry out in shock, but it's in.

Sheer force of gravity starts to pull him back down, forcing the massive pale phallus deeper into his body, inch by improbable inch. A strange wavering moan fills the room, and he realizes it's coming from him, atonal noises of helpless stimulation that only pause when he breathes in.

The lizard lifts him a few inches up, which is so overwhelming it makes Stephen's vision white out.

It only bobs him up and down once, maybe twice, before pulling him off, but it's enough to make Stephen feel like he's been fucked inside-out. Like the rest of his internal organs have been permanently crushed to make more room.

The number of aliens in the room somehow multiplied from two to half-a-dozen when he wasn't paying attention. He gets handed off to one with a tall crest on its head, who leans him against the couch (Jon's office couch, where he's supposed to be catching a quick nap, they're taking it in shifts while waiting for the Florida numbers to come in) and spring-launches its cock into him. It's notably smaller than the last one he was struggling with — still satisfyingly big, just not that big — and he takes it with wanton ease.

As the other aliens cycle through him, each one needing only a few thrusts before it's done and putting its perpetually-hard cock away, Stephen realizes they've been arranged in order of decreasing size. He wonders why they didn't just do this in reverse from the start. Maybe their species has a rule where the captain gets everything first.

"Y'know how I know you don't run the world?" he murmurs, as the fourth lizard milks another dry orgasm from his own small and thoroughly wrung-out cock. "You're so efficient. So organized. You woulda had this election all sorted out yesterday."




When the next election rolls around, the show goes road-tripping. During the DNC they get put up in a set of college dorms, and Jon ends up sleeping in a bed across from Stephen's.

Or at least, he's supposed to be sleeping. He offered to put out the light already, and Stephen said no, figuring he'd get bored in five minutes...but somehow Jon is still reading. How can one book be that interesting? Maybe some aliens have pulled Stephen into pocket-time for the past hour, and he's just gone colorblind and hasn't noticed.

This theory gets squished when a rosy glow fills the dorm room. Okay, now he's in pocket-time.

Stephen pulls the sheet a little tighter around himself, looking nervously at Jon. Sure enough, the man is on pause, eyes fixed on a page, mouth frozen in the act of nibbling on a pen.

The aliens that beam into the room are the smallest Stephen has seen yet — less than two feet tall, covered in plates of red-brown armor like two-legged crabs. One of them has a blinking device strapped to what Stephen is going to call its wrist, which it uses to scan the bed, then they both scale the frame like rock-climbers: one at the headboard, the other by his feet.

Stephen rolls over on his stomach to watch the one rising up in front of him. At least it doesn't have giant pincers, just small slightly-webbed hands, emerging from a protective curve of shell. He wouldn't mind being grabbed by those.

The alien behind him trots up between his legs and starts pawing at the sheet, and the seat of his pajama pants underneath, like it's trying to tear them both open. (He's not wearing anything else. He's freeballing it.) "Don't rip it, those aren't mine!" hisses Stephen, pushing the sheet aside and craning his head to watch. Now it can pull down his trousers and have easy access....

Or it can rip out the seam and play with his balls through the hole in the fabric. That works too.

A gentle but insistent tap on his cheek makes him turn back to face the little figure in front of him. It spreads two of the armored plates on the front of its abdomen, and extends a stiff, ridged appendage as thick as another of its arms. The end butts against Stephen's lips.

He opens, and the alien grabs his ears like mismatched handles to hold him steady while it fucks his mouth.

The hands are a bit slimy, but its grip is comfortingly firm. Behind him, another set of slick little webbed palms caresses his hole. The alien adjusts its feet for the best leverage — Stephen jolts in flushed surprise when it steps on his dick in the process — then shoves a matching appendage inside him.

Both aliens are heavier and stronger than their size suggests. They bounce Stephen effortlessly back and forth between them. His butt isn't as firm as it used to be, so every time he gets pushed backward, he can feel tiny hands sinking into the plump mounds of flesh. They always lean forward after him, keeping his holes filled.

His eyes dart to the frozen figure on the next bed. If Jon was part of this — or if the aliens could pull him in halfway through — what would he think? He'd have to assume Stephen could push all this away if he wanted, which means he doesn't want to, means he likes being disheveled and debauched at a moment's notice. Would Jon assume the visitors are long-time friends, or would he guess that Stephen's never met them before, that he's constantly getting surprise-fucked by extraterrestrial strangers?

Would it be horrifying? Or a turn-on? Or maybe Jon would feel both at once. It's been a long time since Stephen considered how humiliating it would be to be seen like this, and he's almost painfully hard just imagining it.

A hungry keening sound fills his ears. He's surprised to realize it isn't coming from him. Both aliens have started letting out a high-pitched whine, drowning out the muffled moans of Stephen's own confused arousal.

The one in front of him gets suddenly louder and higher, then dissolves into a series of squeaks as it pumps something thick and syrupy into his mouth. It even smells like caramel. Doesn't taste like much, but Stephen gulps it all down, wondering if Jon would be disgusted or impressed.

He ruts against the bed, coming in his pants when the keening at his back starts to pick up, and he's wallowing in post-orgasmic satisfaction as the second alien pumps his ass full too.

They leave him like that, well-fucked and dazed, though they're nice enough to pull the sheet back over him before disappearing. He thinks about telling Jon. He thinks about Jon saying how dare they, who do they think they are, waltzing in and sticking their cocks in you when I didn't give them permission?

He thinks about Jon insisting on staking a counter-claim, about being too hazy to do anything but obey as Jon rolls him over, unzips, and fucks him until he can't remember what the aliens looked like, can't remember the shape of any cock but Jon's.

He's so lost in the fantasy that he's not prepared when the actual Jon sniffs and murmurs, "Do you smell cookies?"

The shock is electric. Stephen nearly falls off the bed.

"Sorry!" whispers Jon. "Did I wake you up?"

"Yes," hisses Stephen, breathlessly scraping together what little composure he can. "And I was having a really good dream, too."




Stephen knows his new financial adviser is an alien. The guy has bald green skin and black eyes the size of saucers — it's hard to miss. But if Gorlock can turn the Report advance into some winning investments, who cares what planet he was from?

They shake hands over the desk after their first meeting. Then Gorlock smiles with his lipless mouth and adds, "In my culture, it's customary to seal a new partnership with a kiss."

Oh, why not. Stephen leans across the polished oak and gives the alien a peck on the corner of the mouth.

Gorlock blinks. His eyes match the jet-black of his suit and tie. "My translator must be acting up. That's not the behavior that the word in my original language refers to."

"Maybe you should just show me," offers Stephen.

He isn't surprised when Gorlock waves for him to kneel in front of the designer office chair, and unzips something short and ridged with a slit at the end. Stephen takes it in his mouth happily, almost amused. He could suck off something five times this size in his sleep. (And possibly had.)

He pushes his tongue against a promising ridge —

It's like pushing the catch on a bottle of shaving foam, or whipped cream. Something thick and frothy shoots out, filling Stephen's mouth almost instantly — he gulps a couple of mouthfuls before coughing too hard to keep up — he backs off, but even with the pressure gone Gorlock shoots out enough fat ribbons of fluff to crisscross Stephen's face and collar before the flow stops.

"That," says the alien, "was a kiss. And it's polite to swallow."

Stephen blushes, pulling off his glasses and wiping gobs of foam off his face with the corner of his sleeve. "If you'd said you wanted me to take it all, I would've told you to kiss my ass."

So Gorlock bends him over the desk and tries again.

It occurs to Stephen — much too late, the door's already opening — that there isn't any reddish light in here. Anyone can walk in. At least, since it's Gorlock's office and not some random workplace, the new arrival is a shorter green alien in a pencil skirt. She takes in Stephen's compromised position — face still dripping, pants down, alien fluids being vigorously pumped into his ass — in half a second, then asks, "Should I come back later?"

"Please do," says Gorlock warmly. "We'll only be a minute."




The Christmas special is all filmed, the guests sent home and the special trained animals ushered back to their kennels (or wherever you keep mice that are actually goats wearing mouse ears), and Stephen keeps dropping his chestnuts in the fire when a pink tint falls over the flames.

A bear transports into the cabin beside him. Not just any bear, though — this one has prominent cybernetic implants showing through its fur. Or maybe the fur is just a covering, and it's pure cyborg on the inside. Like a bear Terminator. A Bearminator, if you will.

It takes him in the good old-fashioned missionary position, flat on his back on the rug with his legs struggling to hook around the cyber-bear's massive torso. The part that actually pounds into him is definitely all robot. It has a convincingly fleshy texture, but he catches on when it starts vibrating every time it massages his prostate.

The wet tongue invading his mouth is harder to get a positive ID on. At least it won't be the first bear he kissed tonight.




Stephen isn't used to people, even human people, staying around after sex and touching him. He's used to having them fall asleep, or huffily order him to the guest bedroom, or maybe pat him on the head before leaving the stall. Or, in the most extreme case, announce that this whole thing is a farce and they want a divorce.

It turns out that Jon is a cuddler, and Stephen has no idea how to deal with that.

"I don't know if you're ready for another serious thing this soon," murmurs Jon. Around Stephen's fingers, because he's been holding Stephen's hand and kissing his knuckles, of all things. "But, uh...I like serious. And I like you. In case you want to do anything about that."

"Sometimes I have sex with aliens," blurts Stephen.

"...come again?"

"Yes, usually."

Jon looks blank.

"It's not like I mean to do it," stammers Stephen, aware that he's not explaining this well. "They just show up, and pull me out of normal time for a while, and apparently I'm the hottest piece of ass in the galaxy, so, you know...things happen."

"Wait, how long has this been going on?"

Stephen tells him. The abbreviated version, starting with tentacles in his teenage bedroom, then skipping a bunch until he reaches the hulking horned beings that found him in this apartment the month after he moved in. "You were there for a couple of them. The little armored ones when we roomed together for the DNC back in the day, and the greys after the Emmys last year. Although technically I guess they didn't fuck me, they just strapped me into a machine and took notes."

"Uh," says Jon. "Wow."

"Yeah," says Stephen dreamily. "Wow is right."

Jon idly smooths a lock of hair back from Stephen's forehead, because apparently he's still in cuddle-mode. "You think you could tell me the next time this happens? Right afterward, if that's possible."

Stephen wriggles his leg in between Jon's and uses his foot to trace circles on Jon's calf. He could get to like this cuddling business. "I'll try."




The shows have gone dark for Christmas break, and Stephen's apartment is decorated to the max. Jon says it looks like someone set their phaser on "holly-jolly" and completely trashed the place.

Somehow Stephen ends up spending most of the vacation at Jon's. Which has nothing to spruce it up except for some literal spruce: plain wreaths that make the rooms smell nice. Well, there's also a menorah in the window, but Stephen doesn't count that because Hanukkah already ended. (Wikipedia said so.)

He gets pulled out of normal time in the middle of his nightly skincare routine, and when they let him go he stumbles out into the den. Jon glances up from his football recording in mild interest, then does a double-take when he notices Stephen's pants. Or what's left of them. "Stephen! What — how —?"

"Had some kind of...designer-fabric-melting saliva," says Stephen vaguely. "Very rude. Usually they just take 'em off."

Jon mutes the game and gets up. "So...just now, someone came in and...?"

"Kind of a multi-legged snail." When Jon waves for him to lie down, Stephen is all too happy to sprawl across the cushions. On his stomach, because his backside still feels sticky. "Sparkly shell. Flat little feet. Maybe it couldn't really get a grip on my clothes. Easier to just climb on, dissolve the bits in the way, and go to town."

He hums in appreciation as Jon touches his skin — a little red, a little tingly, but nothing painful — and ends up palming him apart for a better look. "You're, uh...leaking. It's purple."

"Mmhmm? Last time it was green."

"Do you maybe want that out of you?"

"It feels kinda nice," admits Stephen. "Some science thing, probably. Like whatever chemicals they put in Prescott I-Can't-Believe-It's-Not-Botanical Stimu-Gel. Unless you want it out?"


"Because you should know that it's way more effective than Stimu-Gel. Although if any of my sponsors ask, I never said that."

Jon takes a couple of deep breaths. "I'm not comfortable applying untested extraterrestrial slime-lube directly to my dick. Or most other parts of me."

That's a shame. Stephen doesn't exactly need another round, but there was only the one snailipede alien. He could be up for more....

"Do we know if it dissolves latex?"

Stephen perks up. "No? We don't. I did not check."

"Well then," says Jon, squeezing Stephen's ass with a possessive kind of resolve. "You stay right here. I'm gonna go get a condom, and some towels, and then we can find out."