Adrift in Space

Copyright PennameWombat May 2020

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This is a sequel to the "Carole" series, 'Carole at the Art Lecture,' 'Carole at Dinner' and 'Carole at Work & Play,' in (respectively) 'Erotic Couplings,' 'NonHuman' and 'Science Fiction.' This is also a sequel to the Halloween Contest 2019 story, 'A Tale of Two Parties' in Erotic Horror. While those tales will provide a deeper grounding to the characters and action, this tale can be read on its own as well.

Tags: Alien, Anal Sex, Blow job, Cum Swallowing, Cunnilingus, Exhibitionism, FFM, First time, Light bondage, Mature

*****

The Planet

"Come back to bed, lover," the woman said as she sat up in the low light and let the blanket fall to her waist, her large, perfectly round and firm breasts exposed, their areolas only light pink but still in sharp contrast to her alabaster skin. Her long, straight dark brown hair was sleep-mussed and tangled about her round face, her bright green, almond-shaped eyes half-lidded, her face a crooked smile.

"Your mouth, your tits, that slight tilt of your head," the man said as he looked at her from his seated position next to the window and its raised blinds, his face almost a smile, a light robe pulled over his shoulders, "you are so very hot."

He looked back through the window into the black, then down at the blue, green, brown and white globe moving slowly below them.

"But the voice, Anna. Always the voice."

She tilted her head as he went silent and watched the globe for almost a minute.

"You want your lover to come back to bed," he said softly, then pitched his voice into a slow, breathy pace, "my love, come, we still have time. I need you, one more time."

She again tilted her head first to one side, then the other, as if her ears could replay his speech.

"I need you," she said as she tried to breathe simultaneously, "in me. Please, lover, the days will soon be long before we'll be together again."

He smiled sadly, the incongruously flat tone in such opposition to the actual words, and even more that there was actual feeling behind them. She had learned. Learned well. Almost frighteningly well.

That he glided above the globe hidden in plain sight with an exotically beautiful and sensual female about to welcome him back to bed should've been a highlight but his doubts held him back.

He stood and walked across the soft, yielding surface, dropped the robe to reveal his nakedness, his prick already anticipated its treatment. The blanket revealed more of her excellent figure as she slid to the edge of the bed and looked up at him as her tongue swirled the quivering glans before it and her lips traced the length of his shaft.

He pulled his hips back slightly and she twisted her head just enough to allow him to push his erect flesh into her mouth, her eyes were open, that green that was so much on his mind these days, they met his brown eyes. He felt her cheeks and throat constrict to hold him at full depth. She held her breath and he felt no exhale. She pulled and pushed and brought saliva to enhance the slickness. Despite his mood his breath became choppy.

Her voice the outlier, he knew her affection wasn't purely acting or a sense of duty as the warmth of her touches, her kisses and her fucks were very real. He surrendered to her affection as he pulled his hips back and bent at the waist, her lips joined his, the soft, tender meeting a universe away from her first, fumbling efforts.

She rolled onto her back, pulled him on top as she splayed her legs at the hips and bent her knees. Before his arrival and for the first near to two years he'd never been with a woman within an inch or even three or four of his six feet. Since then he'd not been with any but. He felt the growing moisture as he slid his erection between his lover's labia as she rocked her pelvis. Her tongue softly probed at his lips and his tongue, then it slid along his lower lip and circled his tongue to his upper lip. He was impressed, he'd done something like that to her once, some while ago. She forgot nothing.

On his backstroke she shifted her hips up to place the swollen head of his shaft at her now wet opening, his next push drawn as if by gravity into the heat of her flesh. He felt the solidity of her breasts and their firm but small nipples against his upper chest, a need to reach slightly to continue kissing as they fucked. Every so often he wondered if teaching her to lick, suck, fuck, was treason. But then he reminded himself, invisible satellites, stealth shuttles, artificial and anti-gravity. The nanomachines he'd discovered which was the primary reason for him being here. Since the main part of their plan was to, more or less, fuck the planet into submission, why not. Much worse was possible.

He returned his attention to his slightly flagging cock just before his lover noticed and he quickly doubled his pace, their breathing fast through their noses and joined mouths, her arms tight around his shoulder blades, the blankets thrown off of the bed by her legs.

The Shuttle

[May, 1981]

In a kidnapping the last thing you should do is allow your abductors to take you away, Peter Miller recalled from some combination of books, movies or possibly advice from any one of the ne'er do wells, thugs and gangbangers among his immediate and extended families. Once you're in their car you're off the grid. If you're not of value to someone ELSE then any reasons for being taken don't cycle back to the captors being interested in returning you to a someone else.

But in war, fighting to the last man is not usually the rational strategy. Books? Movies? Whatever. 'They died with their boots on' is heroic bosh.

This situation seemed to fall into the latter category.

The 'female' of the pair held the 'phaser,' the shock weapon, at a relaxed angle, not pointed AT him but poised in case he moved. Likewise, the man, or whatever, had his face pointed toward him. Their eyes were still shielded with the dark glasses but it wasn't difficult to know that Carole was of little immediate attention. That all made sense, Peter mused, since at least the 'male' appeared a clear physical match for a young, fit, six-foot adult male human with some experience fighting, the petite five-foot-and-a-smidge Carole couldn't be of even passing interest in a physical confrontation.

Whether it was simply that, or whether she was still their agent, he didn't know. His lover's distress was beyond physical reaction. Clearly these 'people' were the parties she'd talked around since that night at La Caille. Her reaction when they appeared and her clear distress now, her tight face, her vise grip on his hand, were not improved by the G-forces but this was nothing like the films and stories of astronauts being bounced and shaken. Their rise was gentle and smooth.

He saw that her nipples were exposed, the force of acceleration the first time much anything shifted her large, peerless breasts covered only by her skimpy pink crop top. Her beautiful legs were well exposed by her tiny blue skirt. He couldn't hear any fans, but the smell of their recent, active sex seemed muted and drained so there was some sort of circulation.

And what was happening was clearly with technology unknown.

But that had been obvious as soon as this shuttle had appeared, floating and invisible atop a rock wall in the middle of the little park in a densely packed suburb surrounded by a major city. That had been the moment his thoughts of kidnapping had changed to thoughts of war. At his first sight of this pair he'd known they were muscle. That they were both in near-black clothes that covered everything but their faces and hands, pale, pale skin with their dark brown hair, the woman's in a bun, the man's a buzz cut, both in opaque dark sunglasses, had solidified that opinion.

Even with their strange looks that didn't mean they weren't just a couple of hoods thinking he could lead them to his brother's stashes. But the shuttle. THEIR shuttle. It was small, from what he'd gleaned before they were 'invited' in, something like the size of a pickup truck. It had been unnoticed until the rear gate opened for them, in those few moments he discerned that looking AT it was like looking through the heat haze that was common in the summer. Transparent but not quite invisible.

But that it was a shuttle that only existed in science fiction seemed to indicate so should its apparent owners. And that had finally unlocked his memory. He'd seen near twins to these two, on Halloween. Laurel and Hardy. That Cat had been of little interest then or now but their real charge had been Anna. He smiled tightly for an instant as he ran the memory of that night he'd met Anna. That night the two 'guards' who were relatives of these hadn't spoken, had seemed little more than automatons. These two were more animated but like the first two were clearly capable of violence.

He wasn't sure, but that seemed to indicate Anna would be at the end of this journey. Was Halloween then, not random? He wasn't sure. He'd not been there when Cat had scouted the first party, unless they knew of his connection to Dave, Roger and Jeanie. But. Those were thoughts for later. Assuming there was a later.

The space they were in held their four chairs. Each was high-backed, clearly sized to support the tall, rangy beings who were their captors. Peter was comfortably seated, his six foot height well supported in the cushioned surface in the couple of G's from their acceleration, although when standing he and their captors couldn't stand straight. The chair seemed to have adapted itself as well to the petite Carole. The chairs were angled, all faced an imaginary point at the center of the chamber, its walls featureless grey. A subtle line to his left indicated what he assumed was a door to the cockpit or what passed for it. No point light source, the entire 'ceiling' seemed to glow to imbue the room with a soft natural-light glow.

Strangest was the movement. They were going 'up,' but there'd been no blast, no obvious rocket or other engine noise. Once buckled in and the gate closed the shuttle simply rose.

So he was a prisoner of war. There had been no dishonor in surrendering. There was no dishonor in allowing himself to be taken to wherever they were going and finding out as much information as he could about his captors.

They could just kill him. But he highly doubted that. That weapon could've been set to kill, not the stun setting she'd used on him and Carole, the wielder of the weapon had said. Another Halloween night vision, of a woman in a black cloak in spasms as blood flowed from her mouth, nose and ears. And in any case, that monster could've simply broken his neck. Done. Go home. Crack open cold ones. Job well done.

They wanted him alive. They certainly would want Carole alive. Whatever hold they'd had on her had been frayed. They'd want to know why. How. Whether they wanted them alive and together was of academic interest but as it was likely out of his control, he had to let whatever would happen, happen, and hope to react.

His stomach lurched as the acceleration ended the illusion of weight, quickly replaced by a feeling of rising, blocked by the straps, as much lighter acceleration in the opposite direction started. A panel opened on the side of his and Carole's chairs, a face mask in easy reach.

"Braking maneuver?" he directed his question at the woman.

"Sure you've never been in space? Yes," she said in that affectless tone but seemingly impressed, "we'll be weightless very soon. Please use the mask if the need arises. Has a vacuum hose attached. It'll save you the effort of cleaning up the mess later."

Her smile made him think she'd enjoy making him clean up the mess. But he still took it as sufficiently good news that he'd be alive for at least a little while yet. His lover's grip had gone limp, he slowly squeezed Carole's hand until she returned the gesture and they found a comfortable pressure.

"And here I thought my roommate springing on me the need to cook breakfast for fifteen people and serve it up with the hottest waitress in town made for a strange day," Peter said as he caught Carole's eye and they turned to look at each other, her face morphed to a soft, sad smile at the memory, her cheeks streaked.

He turned and looked at their captors.

"I'm guessing I don't even know what strange really is."

Queen Anna

[May, 1981]

"I'm orbiting the Earth on a ship out of science fiction," Peter said aloud without caring if his audience listened as the latest Laurel and Hardy pair led him into a small room, these two in dark blue crisply pressed suits and their darkly opaque glasses in place, "but you guys must watch the same cop shows us primitives do..."

The room was a square about 12 feet on each side with a small table in the center and a single chair on the far and near sides. The walls were plain and the same grey color of much of the structure. The door was in the left hand corner of the room as he faced in.

"Please have a seat," the female muscle, again Laurel for any of the guard females, said as she pointed to the far chair. He shrugged at her mechanicalvoice, stepped around the table and sat down. It had a slightly padded seat and the back sloped to offer an odd but not uncomfortable angle. He had on one of the two-piece garments. The sleeves were short but the pants long and the ship's controlled environment made them comfortable. That they'd had them in the closet and in the perfect sizes upon their arrival a couple of days ago annoyed but hadn't surprised Peter. Carole mostly remained in what he took as shock and he'd managed little more than to get her to eat minimal meals and drink water.

The male muscle, always Hardy, they never corrected him, stepped outside as Laurel stood alongside the door. He thought he heard soft discussion in the hallway, as he squinted a young woman stepped into the room. His eyebrows went up.

She had to be about five and a half feet, clearly shorter than the guards but taller than Carole and dressed in a garment similar to his, only it was blush pink in color. Her hair was dark brown and pulled back into a loose ponytail and what skin was visible was paler than Carole's and without variation or marks. Her face was just slightly pudgy and her figure seemed slender but with breasts and hips that with tighter clothes would likely be impressive. Her eyes were very, very green, but without Carole's variations.

She was attractive, no, yes, she was, but, there was something, off kilter. The shape of her eyes? The way she moved? She seemed to be late-teens but not more than twenty but beyond that he ran out of guesses. She stood at the corner of the table.

"Paetor," she said in a soft but firm alto but without intonation, "would you like some coffee? Freshly brewed."

Peter finally noticed the tray she carried, a carafe and two mugs, with what he took to be a container of milk and sugar cubes. He blinked, looked at Laurel who shrugged almost imperceptibly then back at the, um, waitress?

"Better than the machine in our room?" Peter wondered about sarcasm, would they detect it?

"Oh, yes," the young woman said, the slightest hiss on her 's,' "this is the Queen's."

Peter heard the word but hadn't noticed a change in her voice at the word. A title?

"In that case, definitely," he tapped the table, she smiled broadly and set the tray down,

"Milk or sugar?" 'Meilk?' Sugar sounded more like 'shugar' but it wasn't really a lisp.

"No, just black," he said lightly, "like my heart."

Her face scrunched at that as she apparently tried to process the words but she was good, expertly filled a mug then placed it in front of him. Her posture didn't seem to indicate she was worried he'd attack her, the table between him and Laurel, Hardy still outside, he'd get to her if he'd wanted. But beyond being taken into orbit they'd been treated well, no reason to antagonise anyone. Yet at least.

Besides, the coffee smelled good. Beyond good.

"Thank you, um," Peter halted, "don't know your name."

"Kim," her smile was back, her lips slightly apart, white teeth that looked normal, "I'll return soon, but pleashe help yourself if you'd like more."

"Thanks, Kim," he lifted the mug, inhaled the aroma as she backed out and disappeared around the corner. He sniffed a second time. He sipped. He was a college student on a tight budget. He took advantage of free caffeine and free alcohol at every opportunity and even the swill from their room's machine wasn't, quite, beyond his point of undrinkability. But it was close.

The coffee at La Caille had been the best he'd ever had. Until now. His companions and the room momentarily faded as his brain pictured one of those invisible shuttles stopping by wherever it was that these incomparable coffee beans grew and that Kim stepping out to ask for a couple of pounds. For the Queen.

His attention was brought back to the present by a commotion outside, Laurel turned to look at the door. It wasn't English, but the discussion was low, lots of the sibilant sounds he'd heard on occasion but he could discern little else. There was a firm voice that was clear before everything went silent. That voice was familiar and a timbre that was female. A specific female. Peter sipped at his coffee as he looked at the door.

"I know you," Peter felt like wheels spun in his brain like a slot machine before they slowly settled into place and his eyes quit blinking, he quickly lowered the mug to the table as his hands shook, "I fucking told Dave that you were real. That you weren't wearing a costume."

The woman in the doorway smiled. Eyes without whites, a grey eye amidst the pale skin of the right side of her face and an almost iridescent green eye surrounded by deep red skin both locked on Peter's brown eyes. Her reddish-blonde hair was parted to her right and fell loosely around her shoulders, her left ear was uncovered, pointed at the top, pale and surrounded by red skin. Her nose still reminded him of a cat's. He looked at Laurel.

"Your muscle," he said before he moved his eyes back to the new arrival, "did you already have their costumes? Or did you decide after Halloween 'this is IT'?"

"Thaey cannot shing," the new arrival said, did what Peter had to take as a smile, "but thaey laike the clothes."

"You're the Queen," Peter said, slowly and carefully as he thought through chains of implication, "and we went to the same Halloween party. This sari-thing isn't as vivid as that deep purple one you had on at Halloween."

"I've promished my paeple you will behave, Paetor," the Queen said, "will you make of me a liair?"

It took him a moment to work out the specific request. His left eyebrow rose as the thought bloomed.

"You're offering to talk to me, here, alone," he said deliberately, "and your paeple don't like that."

The sub-vocal sound by Laurel told him he'd hit the nail squarely. The Queen simply smiled. Her stance was relaxed as she stood in the doorway.

"Fuck me. I promise on my mother, no wait, I'm guessing you know I hate her. Look, I'm pissed off as hell you've taken us but so long as we're here and you'll talk to me, shit. I'm, like, honoured. I expected to be getting tortured or anal probed. But if it means I get to help empty this pot of coffee? But, one question. Will Carole be there when I get back?"