Close Encounters 01: of the Fourth Kind

In space, though, things are different. Vastly different.

Aliens are a very diverse bunch. There's just very, very many of them. Consequently, there are also very, very many different forms, shapes and sizes of alien penis. Given my main trade, plied right next to a busy space port on what is basically Planet Intersection, I've seen a lot of alien penis in my young life already.

Seen. Touched. Jerked. Licked. Occasionally ridden.

Luckily, most of the appendages I have encountered have made me quite the happy camper. For starters, most of them were very changeable in length, girth and firmness. Lots of prehensility and generous self-lubrication going on there, too, which helps a heck of a lot in the pleasure department, as well as additional appendages that happily took care of my clitoris for me.

Plus, thanks to my powerhouse of a human immune system, I'm disease-proof -- that includes STDs -- and, since Earth is a shitty, isolated backwater planet no alien in their right mind would ever go to, I'm not genetically compatible with any life form out here, so none of the alien penises can possibly get me pregnant.

In all, no Earth girl has ever had a sex life that was as stress-free and pleasurable as mine. Congratulations, Grandma Georgia, you were right. "Our Valerie" did turn out to be a massive slut who enjoys sex, after all, and will absolutely go to hell for it. With a smile on her face.

To top it all off -- because she that has plenty shall have some more -- most of my customers are really okay. They are friendly and curious and chill. Overall, customers haven't really made me anxious. In general, there seems to be very little going on in terms of mixing sex and violence in this corner of the universe.

(Aliens tend to mix food and violence quite often to make up for it, which is probably part of the reason for the kerfuffle at the Dryth table earlier. Needless to say, I don't offer any snacks to my back room customers anymore. Lesson learned.)

Since they really don't know the first thing about me -- space unicorn, remember? -- most of my alien customers are entirely unsure where to stick what and whether to stick anything anywhere in the first place, and what my reaction might be if they did. I might bite, or explode, or projectile vomit, or grow a penis of my own and start fencing with them -- they just don't know. Literally anything could happen, so they tread carefully.

In these back rooms, the things that happen the most are bumbling and fumbling, accompanied by lots of communication (in broken Galactic, but I make it work. Plus, Auntie Ursula was right: Don't underestimate the power of body language), and then my magical mouth and my equally wonderful hands come in and I show them a good time for their efforts. Eventually they leave a good tip and go home with a story to tell. Everyone's happy. (Except Grandma Georgia and possibly Baby Jesus.) The end. 9/10 would recommend.

Of course I also have my horror stories. Pincers, barbs, chicken eyes, sentient hairs, tentacles with teeth... I've seen it all. Indeed, I can deal with most all of that by now (even if it gives me the heebie-jeebies), but it's always easier with a heads-up.

Which (finally!) brings us back to my most recent customer, whose crotch I am currently ogling with avid interest.

What's behind door number 1 today, big boy? I can only guess. His armor and pants hide and cover everything. Not even an outline in sight.

I sigh. Looks like I'll have to cover all of my bases, go very slow, cross my fingers and hope for the best with this one.

Expectations are admittedly on the low end of the spectrum at this instance, though. I'm reasonably certain that if there's an exception to the unwritten sex-and-violence-don't-mix- rule, the Dryth might be it. They're certainly built for war, have short fuses and obviously don't hold life and physical integrity in terribly high regard if the swathes of destruction they leave in their wake are anything to go by.

As my gaze makes its way back to his face, I realize that he has been taking inventory of me in turn. That... is not necessarily a bad thing. I tiny spark of hope sputters to life inside of me.

He finally opens his mouth, giving me a peek of his fang-like teeth.

"You are human."

I startle. "You speak English!"

It's been a long time since I last heard that language from anyone but myself.

He narrows his eyes. "Answer my question."

"Oh! Sounded like a statement. Uhm. Yeah, I am human. My name is Valerie, but you can call me Val, or Ree, or whatever you want, really," I babble excitedly. "Since you speak English, I'm guessing I'm not the first human you've laid eyes on? Or did you also catch the radio waves coming off Earth and teach yourself English with Seinfeld and Cheers reruns coming through our satellite stations?" A thought occurs to me and I go cold. "Wait. You... Your people haven't... conquered my planet, have you?"

A long moment of silence follows. I am getting ready to start throwing things at him in outrage. A bunch of redneck aliens kidnapping me (or rather, my Volvo) in a fly-by is one thing, but a ruthless army of barbarians invading Earth? My Earth? The only planet with chocolate and Netflix and tiny puppies in adorable onesies? FUCK that. How DARE they.

"And what if we did?" he eventually answers my question with a question and seems to smirk a little. That smirk tells me that he's just goading me.

Who the hell would ever want to invade Earth, anyway? It's a dirty rock floating around in an unimportant galaxy at the ass end of nowhere.

"Well, I'd be pissed and absolutely not offer you drinks," I reply snippily and cross my arms, then hiss when the little oozing cut sends a bright pinch of pain up my arm.

"You are hurt," he observes neutrally.

"'tis but a scratch," I mumble, oddly touched by the fact that he cares enough to mention it.

"You fought," he says.

I wish he spoke more than a handful of words at a time. His voice is nice to listen to. Not as deep as one would expect from a male as tall and... well, dark gray as he is. Good enunciation, too, in spite of his rather long teeth, which tells a woman something about the flexibility of a man's lips and tongue.

"So did you," I acknowledge, redirecting the attention toward him. The customer is king, after all, even if this one will likely not pay for services rendered. Oh well. Some pro bono work is to be expected.

"But you will not have to fight here. You can lose your weapons and armor, if you want."

He scowls. I give him a small, coy smile.

"I promise I won't attack you, big boy. That kind of wrestling's not what we're here for, is it now?"

A tense little moment passes and I turn away from him to show him that I'm harmless and relaxed, that my banter is all casual and that there are definitely no violent altercations going to go down in this room if I have a say in it. I walk along the wall, pull the gauzy curtains in front of the windows and turn on the little lights to set the mood. As I walk, I slip a finger down the center of my chest to part the fibers of the biogarment that's clinging to me.

Nothing says 'we're here to have a good time so lean back and relax' like a good pair of naked breasts. Luckily, I have one of those. The best in this whole galaxy, to be precise. The garment falls off my torso and dangles around my thighs like a banana peel, leaving me bare-chested.

From the corner of my eye, I see him still standing there right by the door. He's watching me -- good -- but he hasn't moved an inch and also hasn't made a move to take off his weapons -- not so good.

Alright, then. I have worked with less.

"Would you care to join me in the bath?" I ask and motion towards a door leading to the adjacent room. Thin swaths of cloth keep the thick water vapor from spilling into this room, but the tinkling, splishing sound of water dripping into a puddle and the gurgle and bubble of open taps can still be heard. "I'm afraid my, ah, fight has left me quite unsanitary."

I remember sliding across the surface of the table with my face. Ugh. That alone justifies an hour long dunk in a vat of Lysol, and I don't even want to think about that hand that was clamped around my arm until it disintegrated.

He ponders my proposal for a moment before he inclines his head. I smile. Victory.

"I suggest you take off your clothes and accessories. Otherwise, you won't be able to enjoy the bath much and your equipment might get rusty."

I am not even joking. Water on Vurn X'lora 15 isn't like water on Earth, and due to the atmospheric pressure and general chemical makeup of things, said water will eat through said things much faster. During the rainy season, whole houses can be dissolved if they aren't secured properly.

Not waiting for his reply, I divest myself the rest of the way and give him a glimpse of my ample, naked backside before vanishing through the doorway.

That bit of body language should be universal.

pt 2

The bathroom is spacious and well-equipped, but stiflingly humid. The smell of what counts as soap and bath foam on this planet itches in my nose. Several translucent, spider-like creatures scuttle around on the slick floor tiles, drawn to the eternal dampness of the room, and I have to fish several jelly-like strings of insectoid eggs out of the bathtub and chuck them out the window.

Reminder: The manager of this establishment is a slug.

A footfall rings out behind me and I take a glimpse over my shoulder.

Oh.

Oh. My.

He's not really gray. The parts that are uncovered and exposed to the air and the battle were just dirty, or maybe smeared and darkened as a tactical precaution, or maybe the darker coloring is just the Dryth version of a tan.

Now that he has taken off his boots, pants, his cuirass, and unwound his tail from his waist, it turns out that he is actually silver. Not bright like the Silver Surfer or anything, more like raw graphite. Dark but shiny.

Just like I had assumed, his torso does have a peculiar shape. He has a partial sort of exoskeleton, and bits of his ribcage seem to stick out of his skin as hornlike protrusions, the whole thing looking like a set of curly braces standing back to back. He doesn't have nipples or a belly button. I'm fairly certain he doesn't have the same types of organs as humans do, or at least not in the same numbers.

His tail does indeed look like a living snake. It's moving in soft, wavy patterns, its tip curled up and hovering just above the floor behind him, its scales shiny and black as it moves.

Oh, and also I can't help but notice that he is packing.

Just like the rest of him is rather humanoid, his penile appendage is located at the center of his groin and generally shaped like a human male's penis. It's slightly sleeker, for want of a better word, than an average human dick would be, and symmetrically ribbed down its length. It's difficult to say exactly how long it is, because it seems to be curled inward between his massive, muscular thighs, sort of like a ram's horn.

Well. That's certainly a welcome change from my last few customers (whom I personally dubbed Spirelli, Rigatoni, and Tortellini, respectively). My inner muscles give a brief anticipatory clench.

"Do you prefer a bath or a shower?" I ask and smile sweetly. Things are looking up.

"You will bathe. I will shower," he declares, and my smile falters a little. I had rather been looking forward to some... foreplay? Just a bit of touching? Maybe things are not looking as up as I had hoped.

"Very well," is all I can say, and walk over to the baskets full of bathing accessories.

Seconds later, I am immersed in pleasantly warm water that prickles on my skin like soda. Intentionally keeping my back to him, I treat my body and my hair to liberal bath milk and sponge and make sure to catch every spot several times over.

When I finally turn to face my customer, I chide myself an idiot. Here I was, giving him the silent treatment and my back, when I could have been talking to and looking at him for several long minutes already.

He is standing underneath the waterfall stream like a monolith, letting the water beat down on his head, neck and shoulders. Silvery pearls trace rivulets down his face, his arms and chest and stomach.

Naked wet men had always been my weakness. I blame the Davidoff Cool Water TV commercials of my youth. You know the ones. Hnngh.

Good grief, this is a particularly fine specimen.

"So... what would you like me to call you?" Which name do you want me to scream?

Again, his eyes narrow and he pauses. Sheesh, so skeptical. I dip down into the tub and shimmy my shoulders to draw attention to the girls. Men are not the only ones who look good with water pearling off their skin.

"Or do you want me to give you a name?" I ask when he doesn't answer. "I'm afraid I am not familiar with Dryth customs. Do your people have individual names?"

"We choose," he eventually answers. Progress. "After a foretold number of enemies has been vanquished, we are honored with a name of our choosing."

"Oh," I say. I don't dare ask exactly what number that is, and what 'vanquishing' entails. In fact, I have decided that thinking about the whole mass murdering violent conquistador thing won't help me one bit. Right here, right now, he's just a male customer. And I'm just a girl, standing before a Dryth, asking him his name so that I can personally address him by it when I ask him politely to fuck me (and ideally not hurt or kill me in the process).

"And which name have you chosen?" I pout a little. "Unless you would rather not share it with me?"

Again, he is silent. His hands are now moving around his torso and upper arms, carefully and meticulously wiping the last traces of soot and grime away and uncovering his beautiful natural coloring underneath.

Just before I can move on to some other topic, he opens his mouth.

"Hylve'kairsifo'rbane."

My eyebrows go up. I don't even know if that's one word or many, or how many, or if it's his first, middle and last name all together. Also, my mouth certainly doesn't move like that. No wonder his English enunciation is flawless.

"Alright," I answer cheerily. "'Bane' it is, if you don't mind."

He doesn't mind. Or if he does, he doesn't want to tell me.

We bathe and shower in silence for a bit.

"Va-l'ree," he suddenly says. It takes me a second to understand what he's doing, and it makes me a little warm inside.

"Val-luh-ree," I instruct slowly. "Valerie. But 'Ree' is fine, especially since you're 'Bane'. We make a matching pair, then."

He nods and falls silent. I sigh. Figures that space Mongols don't have an easy time catching on to lighthearted pre-coital banter. Makes me wonder what kinds of pre-coital rituals they do have. I should ask him about it at some point.

Speaking of pre-coital... Bane hasn't turned around once, so I'm guessing he doesn't mind me seeing (avidly watching, more like) what's happening in his midsection.

There's, uhm. Quite a lot of unexpected movement.

If I didn't know better (and I don't), I'd say that the part I thought was his penis is actually a separate entity. It moves around in wavy motions, like his tail (the one on the back), and curls up again only to extend and stretch once more, but it also seems to pulse as well as expand and deflate, almost like it's breathing. With every little motion, the silvery sheen of his skin there, slightly duller than on the rest of his now-clean body, reflects the light back at me. As I watch, I realize that he doesn't have testicles as such. There is a longish lump fused to the base of his cock that might have the same function, though. He also doesn't have pubic hair. It's fascinating, really.

"You are curious," he remarks, snapping me out of deep observation of his privates. He doesn't specify if he means 'curious' in the 'nosy and inquisitive' way, or the 'strange and very odd' way. I guess both apply to me right about now.

"Well, you are remarkable," I say lightly and emerge from the tub before the water does damage to my skin.

I make a point to stand just a little more than an arm's length in front of him and proceed with my skin-and-hair-aftercare. Lotions and tinctures and conditioners that need to me massaged in. Slowly and sensually, like in the commercials. Also, my still-bleeding cut needs a bit of pampering.

I know he is watching my every move. That's the reason why I put myself right underneath his nose, really. Think of it as self-serving customer service. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his cock twitch and undulate against his thighs. My mouth begins to water.

"Would you care to help me with this?" I hold the jar of cream out to him. "My skin is very sensitive and can be damaged by the bath. I can't reach my back by myself."

After eyeing the jar with quiet suspicion for a long moment, he takes it from my hand. The way it looks so much smaller in his palm sends a little shiver up my spine. I turn away from him and gather my long wet hair up and out of the way on top of my head.

Nothing happens for a long, long while, except that the spray from his shower tickles against my backside and the back of my legs. Patience, I remind myself. Good things cum on her who waits... or something like that.

His first touch his so tentative that I hardly feel it. There's a little dab against my shoulder, like a butterfly kiss from cool lips. Still, I sigh appreciatively to encourage him. Soon, I feel his fingertips and roughened palms against the center of my back. His skin is heavily calloused but feels nice because it's all slick with lotion. I moan just a little louder than necessary, putting it on thick.

"You are very good at this," I commend him. "You must have practiced a lot with females of your own species."

It is not always wise to talk with my customers about their own peoples. Some aliens treasure their women so much that it is forbidden to even speak of them. Some just don't like to be reminded. I'm asking Bane because I'm truly curious and he's not exactly forthcoming with the signals. And yes, also because I'm morbidly curious about how the Dryth do it with their females -- before, during and after -- and because I have the feeling that if I can make this good for him, there's going to be magic happening for me.

Man, I could do with some magic right now. It's been too long since I had some.

Bane makes a noise that is not quite a chuckle, and it surprises me.

"The females of my own species would bite my fingers off before they would freely allow me to touch their skin."

"Oh?" I turn my head to look at him sideways over my shoulder. "Tell me more?"

Again, he pauses. I'm starting to suspect that he is really, deeply suspicious of everyone and everything. Guess that's the downside of being part of the most feared species this side of Betelgeuse. Everyone is a potential enemy, potentially collecting intel on you.

"Female Dryth are called Drahta. One of them is called an A'Draht," he begins slowly, never stopping the circular motion of his hand across my back.

I smile. Every bit of information is like a little gift. Plus, he really is good with his hands.

"They have a different name because they are very different from Dryth. They are smaller, thinner. They have claws for fingers and toes. They cannot speak but hiss and bark like gordrun, and they have the same needle teeth. They walk mostly on all fours."

I do not know what a gordrun is, but I figure it's some sort of wild needle-toothed animal that hisses and barks. Either way, female Dryth sound... uh, charming. No wonder their men go out conquering the universe instead of staying home.