Erotic Hitchhiker's Guide Ch. 05bydiggypop©
Hitchhikers Manual Entry # 2639467287.6
In virtually every civilization, there are people who perform particular tasks so well that the performances, or the artifacts of them, are of immense interest to others. There is no real rhyme or reason to what activities a given culture will find amusing; while the spectacle of toilet construction is eagerly attended to on Rigel 6, whose inhabitants excretory systems appear to be modeled after a Klein bottle, equally puzzling is the observation of excretory functions, which is the primary recreational activity of the meiotic macrophages of Cygnus 3, also known as the first species to devise a calculus of flatulence frequencies, quite useful for settling disagreements over the primary contributor of methane to the local atmosphere in enclosed spaces, which has prevented untold wars.
The realization that any activity may conceivably be someone else's entertainment has resulted in market forces rendering the antiquated concept of privacy utterly obsolete, with most cultures who gave even lip service to the notion having coincidentally met their demise in a series of unrelated incidents over the last century.
These days, one's best source of financial security and physical protection is a camera crew following one around the clock (which clock depends on local ordinances primarily), a loyal sponsor, and a large, affectionate audience. These things are also required for one to hold public office in any sector of the galaxy that hasn't been condemned unfit for biological habitation and reconfigured as an orgone dump.
"I hope you don't expect me to act like I'm happy to see you."
The sullen, pouty expression on the face of the woman addressing them somehow only seemed to exacerbate her alabaster skin, her lustrously dark hair which spilled out of her scalp to rest at her shoulders, her slightly long, almost Mediterranean nose (all descriptions stem from Arthur's still Earthbound frame of reference), and her slightly pointed, insolent chin. She had impressive cheekbones, and lips that were almost too big for the mouth they encompassed. The black dress draped over her slender frame exposed her sharp shoulders, and disdained to cover any part of her legs below mid-thigh.
From what Arthur could tell, the entire raison d'etre of that face was to appear unhappy to be anywhere, doing anything, and look devastatingly attractive in the process. Had he not heard her speak and seen the play of her features match the words issuing from her mouth, he'd have been convinced she was a mannequin, As it was, he suspected–
"Oh, hello robot." Ford apparently had not trouble detecting her artificiality. As an aside to his compatriots, he noted, "Standard Sexbot, Olympia Corporation, Mark 7.3. Never seen one look this sullen, though."
"I was supposed to be modeled after an Orionian princess, from the post feudal era," said the quite fetchingly disingenuous facsimile. "They made me post-industrial."
Agnes thought she had it. "So your like our Generation Y?"
"Even worse," said Ford. "Orion 5 decided they could continue their colossal rates of per capita consumption with no drawbacks once someone invented an engine for a matter replicator that ran on hope."
"Not such a bad idea if it worked," said Agnes, who possessed a large supply of optimism herself.
"Only turns out there's a limited supply of the stuff," said Ford. "It's a renewable resource only if it isn't completely drained from the central nervous system of the organism generating it."
"So a cycle of ever-increasing wasteful consumption, limited only by whim and temperament, resulted in a generation of teenagers who were jaded, cynical and morose?" said Arthur. "Who could have guessed?"
"Congenitally morose," corrected Ford. "The only cure was hope transplants from those members of the population that were almost psychotically hopeful."
"Mostly registered voters," said the sexbot. Arthur, who'd voted straight Labour ticket until Blair's ascendancy, felt indignant, but held his peace.
All through this conversation, they'd been following the saucy sexbot and her abnormally long legs through various corridors, some brightly lit, others the light level of an average nightclub, minus the strobe effect.
Finally they reached what Arthur had come to recognize as a Significant Door. These doors serve the function of allowing people to carry on a conversation at full volume without being interrupted by the ambient noise of, say, another set of people arguing about whether they've gotten lost or not. They also provide a ready supply of cheap suspense before new characters are introduced.
As this one is opened, both Arthur and Ford are startled by the realization that they have encountered at least one of the inhabitants previously, although, for Ford, this just reinforces his conviction that they are caught up in a web of Extremely Unlikely Events.
Here they are," said the sexbot, clearly feeling no satisfaction at the completion of her assigned task. "Does anyone want me to have sex with them or something?"
"No, Marvella," said a clearly female voice. "I don't think any of us want sex just now." This voice was attached to a slender woman with brown hair frizzed up into what on a black woman would have termed an Afro. She had large brown eyes and a small button of a nose, her lips pale and quite thin.
While the sexbot was long and lithe, and Agnes medium-sized and curvy, this woman was petite, with small, but emphatically feminine proportions that refused to concentrate in any one physical feature, clothed anyway.
"Speak for yourself." The dual reply was almost synchronized, as if Ford and the man standing at what were obviously the ships controls had rehearsed this collaboration. Both of them also grinned, and moved towards each other to culminate in a bear hug, which was released after a good minute.
"Fame hasn't changed you that much," said Ford, giving the object of his declaration a final once-over before pronouncing judgement.
Said object had jet-black hair, on both his head and his face, as unkempt as a logger's and almost frighteningly large teeth, now proudly on display thanks to their owner's manic grin. Slender as a footballer, his outfit was a shiny, silky purple, except for the vest, which was black crushed velvet.
"And how about you," this living monument to tacky excess exclaimed. "Done chasing obscurity and bad investments, are we?"
Ford stopped grinning. "That planet was a prime vacation spot! If it hadn't been destroyed..."
"The population would have been up to 12 billion in 15 years and there'd be no more ice," said the man with certainty. "Trillian told me all about it."
"Trillian being me," said the lady in question, walking up to Ford with her hand outstretched. "Zaphod's never been much for politeness or introductions or...well, I'm sure he's good for something." She then turned towards Arthur and Agnes. "And Arthur I've met, but not your...friend?" If their disheveled appearance fazed her, she gave no sign. Agnes seemed startled, however, possibly by their familiarity.
"So when you took off with this bloke from the party, you completely ditched the planet, didn't you?" said Arthur, as if it had all been a laugh, not a past humiliation he really would have preferred not to recall.
"Well," said Trillian, "when Zaphod here came up out of the blue and said he had his own spaceship..."
"You believed him completely," said Agnes.
Trillian shrugged, embarrassed. "He just seemed to have this way about him," she said, then looked puzzled.
"As it happens," said Arthur coolly, "I think I know exactly what you're talking about. Which is a relief, because I had gone home thinking you were a total bitch and I was a complete prat."
Zaphod looked unhappy at this turn of the conversation. Ford was merely surprised. "So you were all at a party together?" he asked, still puzzling it all out.
"I had really only stopped in to use the loo," said Zaphod casually. "But any party that doesn't get you drunk or laid is a failure, right?"
"Was this the party at Islington?" Ford asked Arthur. "The one I passed on cause I had tickets to For Better or Worse: the Musical?"
"Wasn't that the show cancelled halfway through the first performance?" asked Agnes.
"Yeah, it was all a prank by Sacha Baron Cohen," said Ford. "Wish I'd known you were on the planet; I'd have bummed a ride."
"Oh, yeah," said Zaphod. "Well, not that evening, third wheel and all that, but I definitely would have swung by later."
"Yes," said Trillian. "For the President of the Galaxy, he has an awful lot of free time on his hands."
"Oh..." chortled Ford. "Is that what you're telling the birds these days?"
"No, it's true," said Trillian. "He has a certificate and everything."
Under Ford's smug, knowing gaze, Zaphod became suddenly defensive. "I really did win the title," he insisted. "Yeah, OK, it's ceremonial, but over 40 quadrillion viewers chose me, mate, and I get a recording contract."
Arthur was feeling triumphant. "So, this President of the Galaxy gig, it doesn't involve any real authority or power, does it?"
"I know I've seen him with staff," said Trillian, "although they may have just been makeup consultants..." She trailed off as realization dawned. "I've been the world's, no, the galaxy's most gullible idiot."
"Don't blame yourself," said Arthur. "You're almost certainly suffering from alien mind manipulation. It's pretty potent." He chuckled, pointing at Agnes. "It made her infatuated with me."
She nodded ruefully. "I do think the worst of it is wearing off, though." She patted Arthur's shoulder. "You're still head and shoulders above any other current prospects. For one, you don't use mind tricks to get laid." Both Ford and Zaphod looked quite nervous at this implied criticism. "Not deliberately, at any rate." At this, Arthur looked a bit chagrined, though he recovered nicely.
"Well, my gramps always said, There's worse paths to success than being the best of a bad lot."
"Right," said Zaphod, who'd had enough of the current conversation. "Let's get all of our new friends situated in their respective cabins, we'll all take a few hours to rest and freshen up, and then I can brief the new members of our crew on our current mission."
"What exactly is this ship called, anyway," said Arthur.
"The Heart of Coincidence." To everyone's confused looks he reiterated, "Rest. Freshen up. Then explanations."
The command to rest turned out to be an irresistible one for Ford, Arthur and Agnes. Nearly twelve hours went by in their frames of reference while they embraced blissful unconsciousness. Of course, thanks to atmospheric controls which precisely reversed normal relativistic effects, only one-and-a-half hours passed on the rest of the ship, which allowed them to spend additional time engaging in various activities without unnecessarily straining the patience of their inadvertent rescuers.
Trillian was fully willing to press her moral advantage, now that she'd discovered how completely she'd been snookered by her thoroughly conniving boyfriend.
"So from the time we met, it's been like you slipped me a psychic roofie, and I guess once you got bored I'd just wake up one day at the oasis on some desert planet, maybe with bus fare, and hopes that the local populace gave amnesty to stranded aliens!"
"Oh, hey," soothed Zaphod, obviously offended. "If you think I'd just ditch you, you've got me all–"
"Like I'm supposed to believe you have some innate sense of honor, some moral compass that prohibits such behavior?" she said with disbelief woven through her voice.
"Hey," he said, his dander up, "maybe what I did to get into your pants was a bit dodgy ethically–"
"Glad to see you can finally admit it," she said, sarcasm dripping from her words. "This may be the dawn of a Great Moral Awakening."
"–but as I was saying," continued Zaphod, irked now, "I'm still not such a bastard that I'd just ditch someone with no means of support or –"
"Zaphod, anywhere you left me would count as abandonment. Didn't you hear what Arthur said? There's no place for me to go back to. And an Earth PhD. in Astrophysics isn't going to garner me a job in a galaxy where the so-called super-luminal speed limit gets sidestepped on a routine basis! Everything I studied for years to learn isn't just wrong; it's irrelevant!"
"Still beats being dead," said Zaphod, a bit callously.
"No, instead I'm dependent on the whims of an irresponsible rogue who right now is in danger of spending the rest of his feckless existence in a maximum-security prison, all because he couldn't resist taking the newest, shiniest space toy he could find out for a test drive!"
"Are you normally in this bad of a temper?" asked Zaphod incredulously. "Because any emotional dissonance you're experiencing right now isn't coming from me, I swear."
"No, it isn't, and no, I'm not!" screamed Trillian in a fury. "I'm just finally able to feel things normally after whatever fog you kept me in for months. Don't expect me to have any warm, fuzzy feelings about you any time soon, either."
There was a pause. "Well, like I said, for a total bastard I have my limits. Even if I get locked away, I'll make sure you're taken care of. I mean it."
"Yeah, well," she said, only the slightest bit mollified. "You know what's really embarrassing?"
"I am so fucking turned on right now." There was no affection in her voice. "I'm going to want those cocks of yours in me very soon."
He grinned. "I knew there had to be something about me you still liked."
Her smile was ruthless. "If I ever figure out a way to get them to work without that idiot brain of yours, we may have to revise our relationship."
Zaphod never had been much for foreplay. Which was unfortunate, because Trillian's arse still hadn't gotten used to Zaphod's prick (usually the lower one, unless they were doggy styling) , which, on the upside, meant he hadn't yet done her sphincter any lasting damage. But it also meant she needed a good warm-up before he jammed it in there.
Even with all the mind bumps he'd given her, suggesting how immediately her assimilation of a DILDO would render such preparations pointless, she'd still refused the offer. Her own unmodified genitalia had given her all the pleasure she could handle throughout her adult life, and she liked that, with her method, he had to wait.
Perhaps eventually he'd decide it was more fun to warm her up with a good tonguing than to wait passively while she revved up her engine herself, but she'd never ask. It would feel too much like begging. No, one didn't keep a well-hung, two-dicked asshole around because he was attentive and thoughtful; one held onto him precisely because he was sure he didn't need such affectations.
Perverse, yes. But at least now none of her friends or family would ever have to meet him, and pretend they were happy for her. (When she had thoughts like this, to her credit, Trillian didn't like herself very much.)
Trillian had gotten so used to having to muster her own enthusiasm for a good plowing that she had developed a fairly intricate ritual. Her tools were: one tube of odorless, water-based lubricant; one six-inch dildo (earth-standard) of average circumference; one battery operated Pocket Rocket vibrator; and one well-thumbed copy of The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty, which by now she wished thoroughly she'd supplemented with some Anais Nin or even one of Charlaine Harris's trashy vampire stories.
The ritual started with her lying completely naked on the bed she and Zaphod usually shared. She then performed an intricate mental calculation designed to provide her with a random page number to turn to. (She really enjoyed making Zaphod wait.) Then, as she browsed through a few pages of paddles and saddles, she idly, with her right index finger, touched first the left nipple, then the right, then circled oh-so-delicately around, but never directly on, the clitoris.
By the time she'd gotten through five pages, her clitoris was nicely swollen. By the time she'd reached ten, her vagina had nicely lubricated itself. Still, if she was anything less than dripping, she preferred to slather the dildo with a good coating of lube, before placing it securely in her now moist cunt.
Then it was time for the Pocket Rocket to strut its stuff. By now, she was pretty well able to conjure in her head delightful images of well-bred nobility cheerfully submitting to the strictest discipline, or just dressing up like horses. So the book would be set down and the vibrator would be set to the same task her finger had been assigned, describing a triangle which intersected her torso deliciously. The object here was to see if one could get one's pussy to the point where it could fairly be described as sopping. The arousal, however, was only a secondary goal. The true object was to raise the temperature of the dildo and get it sufficiently dampened by the vaginal wetness.
By now, hopefully, her anus would be exuding its own sweat, so as to make the next step easier. Forsaking her nipples, Trillian would fully concentrate the vibrator on the clitoral area, still avoiding direct stimulation in favor of ever constricting circular motions around the bull's-eye. This was matched by the firm, steady probing she provided to her anus with the dildo. Occasionally she would twist the dildo, so as to wedge it in a little deeper.
But, gradual as her approach was, inwardly she relished the feeling of giving way, the almost audible 'pop' that resulted as she gave her toy a firm, determined shove. Even the little whimper this produced was more one of surprise and effort than of pain. Do I really have a penis-sized (and shaped) object lodged in my rectum? Yes, Trillian, you do.
Now came the tricky part. Left to its own devices, the sphincter would slam shut pretty quickly as soon as the dildo was removed. This required a mental readjustment as much as a physical one; one had to teach one's rectum that, for the time being, it should let objects be shoved into it, and it needed to be taught this in as gentle a manner as possible, a sore anus being no one's friend. She had developed a technique that combined pulling the dildo back and forth, in slow strokes, with aiming relaxing thoughts at her sphincter, commanding it to open up and receive pleasure.
If she were to describe this ritual to others, she could not began to explain how she knew when her pussy and arse were prepped to receive Zaphod's cocks. She just knew.
Luckily, a throat clearing from her was all it took to get him up and at attention, so to speak. Knowing he'd take her any way she presented herself, she got on her hands and knees, lifted her ass in the air and hoped she'd made Zaphod impatient enough that he wouldn't waste any further time. The feeling of two penises slithering into her orifices relieved her of any further worries on that score.
If only he'd keep his mouth shut. "All this rigmarole isn't necessary, you know," he said as his pelvic thrusts began working themselves into a rhythm. "The Dildo Mark 5 is configured to work its way into any orifice in such a way as to maximize pleasure for both individuals. Just because you won't let me fit you with one is no reason we can't maximize the use of mine."
"Speaking of maximization," Trillian grunted, "angle your thrusts so your top dick moves a little ahead of the bottom one, if you please. When thrusts are...too...simultaneous – UH – that's it, that hits...the fucking...spot!!"
A sneer curled Zaphod's upper lip. He knew no one else in the galaxy could shag like he could.
"Stop...smirking!" Trillian growled, his arrogance somehow palpable to her. "Without that Frankendick of yours, you're just another lame fuck!"