Fucking Aliens

Michael awoke to a faint humming coming from somewhere off in the distance, muffled and tinny, as though he were hearing it through old headphones, or new Beats. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light he could see that she was in a large, barren room, clean to the point of sterility. Had he gotten into an accident? Was he in a hospital? He tried to sit up but found that he was bound to a metal slab – an operating table? He couldn't remember anything after Sydney's party – he'd gone outside for some fresh air – she'd bought him a new latex corset and undergarments, and a collar inscribed with "For Michelle," and while he loved the gifts he found them incredibly warm to wear in the summer heat. But what had happened when he was outside? There were lights up above, and then...

His thoughts were cut off by the sound of a door sliding open in front of him. In walked two short figures and one incredibly large presence, but in the dim light he could make out no particular features. He heard them talking, or at least communicating – their language was a series of buzzes and clicks, and obviously inhuman. Which was not the most comforting thought, really.

They stopped just outside the ring of light cast by an overhead source, and he could see that his captors were vaguely humanoid, with large, grey heads and enormous eyes, short limbs and torso, with three-fingered hands and three-toed feet. The larger figure was wider, with a head seemingly inset into its torso, and... three arms? It was too dim to make it out.

The two shorter figures walked into the light, and he could see that yes, they were indeed aliens. And he hadn't had anything harder than whisky this evening, either. The one on the left approached and stopped at the end of the metal slab, and Michael raised his head to get a better view. It started speaking to him, making the same series of buzzes and clicks multiple times – which meant fuck all to him.

"Uh, hi? I really don't know what you're saying."

Again, buzzes and clicks, and this time the alien gestured with its hands, drawing a stick, then a circle, and then many smaller circles. It repeated this several times, pausing after each.

"OK, I don't know what the fuck you're trying to say to me, but this isn't working. Translator? Don't you have, like, a fish? Or something?"

The figure, clearly frustrated, drew the figures in the air once more, with far more intensity, its buzzes and clicks growing more and more irritable, when finally it threw its hands up and walked back to the other two and commiserated in hushed tones, as if it made any difference. They walked out of earshot and into the darkness to Michael's protest.

"Hey, hey! Don't leave me here! Come back! You have to let me go! My fuckin' girlfriend will kill me if I ruin this suit."

He tried his bonds again, but it was no use – they were too sturdy. He was stuck until they freed him. Or... he didn't even want to consider what other ends he might come to.

I have the worst fucking luck.

Several minutes passed, and Michael had almost fallen asleep, when he felt the operating table on which he was splayed start tipping to the right. "Uh, guys? Little dudes? The fuck are you doing?" But his protests were met with silence, and after a few seconds he was hanging from the slab, it having been inverted 180 degrees. He sagged off the slab, only being restrained at the wrists and ankles, and quickly felt the strain of supporting his body weight in such an awkward manner.

Great. Fucking GREAT.

He heard the buzzing and clicking again as the aliens approached again, this time from behind. He heard the two stop about 10 feet back, but then heard much heavier clangs against the metal floor – clearly the larger figure was approaching. Michael craned his neck as far as he could to see what was happening, but couldn't see anything notable. Finally, however, the three-armed alien finished its journey to his head, and he could see two things – that the third arm was in fact the largest dick that he had ever seen, and that it was, apparently, mating season. He strained to look up at the creature's face, and was shocked to see that it looked almost... bashful?

Michael had never been the smartest guy around, but certainly not the dumbest, either, so he was fairly quick to make the connection – that dick was going inside of him. It wouldn't be the first dick, but may well be the last – something that big would tear a hole in space-time when it shot its load. He tried to protest, to squirm away, but the creature grabbed his pigtails – why the fuck had he let Sydney give him pigtails? – and forced its dick into his mouth.

"GLKCKG KGGGGG LLCKGG" he said, which he hoped was universal for "I need this orifice to breathe through," but the creature's enthusiasm was diminished not a bit.

The creature's dick rammed straight past his uvula and seemed to keep going halfway down to his stomach, but finally it stopped plumming the depths and started to build a rhythm, pulling Michael's pigtails and thrusting in time to grunts which, he hoped, at least meant one of them was enjoying themselves. Michael felt like he was trying to deepthroat a soda can, tears welling in his eyes from the sheer abuse and indignity he was suffering. Over and over the creature thrust, its grunts growing in intensity, when Michael realized what was about to come.

Oh fuck me, this is how I die. At least no one will ever see my corpse and wonder how the back of my head got blown the fuck off.

Michael remembered watching a nature documentary once on blue whales – he and Sydney had been baked off their asses and spent a good hour laughing at the cloud of ejaculate that one of those fuckers shot. He remembered feeling a pang of sympathy for the poor lady whale that had to take that one for the team – and now he knew exactly how she felt. As the creature climaxed, its grunts turned into an extended HHHHHHRRRRRNNNGGGGGGGHHHH and he felt the first shot hit his stomach like he'd shotgunned a six-pack. And it didn't let up! Pulse after pulse after pulse filled his stomach with alien seed; on the bright side, at least, the sheer length of the dick meant it bypassed his tastebuds entirely, so at least he didn't need to rewrite his bucket list just to cross that one off.

At last, the creature pulled its cock from his mouth, dragging long ropes of saliva and cum from Michael's mouth, which he could barely close for the jaw-breaking girth of it. He spat, and spat again, and cursed both his iron stomach and his complete lack of gag reflex – there was no way that shit was coming up. He looked at the creature as it backed away into the shadows, trailing its monster-dong in an oozing path – they made eye contact, briefly, and the creature averted its gaze, as if it was the ashamed party and hadn't been the one to mouth-fuck him into glassy-eyed shock.

From behind, he heard the buzzing and clicking again, but he didn't care – OK, great, they'd had their fun, now could they please let him go?

"Hey, fucko! Let me go and I promise you I won't come back with a fucking bat with nails in it!"

But in response, the lights went out and he found himself hanging there, in the dark, with a gallon of alien spunk distending his stomach, straining the beautiful corset Sydney had given him not 6 hours earlier.

––

He ached all over. He had passed out from exhaustion at one point, he knew that much, but how long he'd been hanging there was a question for the philosophers. Days? Weeks? Minutes? No stranger was he to suspension and isolation, but, as he had noted so often before, there were right and wrong ways to do this thing – never force a single point to hold too much weight; never leave your sub unattended. Simple shit, right? But fucking aliens, man. No consent, no safewords, no dignity.

He'd given up struggling against his bonds, had given up doing much of anything other than focusing on breathing, which, given the circumstances, was a feat in and of itself. He was almost relieved when the lights came back on, once again heralding the return of his otherworldly captors. His jaw clenched reflexively.

As he saw the familiar two short Greys shuffle into place, he scanned the area behind them, looking for the giant-donged monster that had impregnated his windpipe – fortunately, it was nowhere to be seen. Unless... no. They're not that stupid.

"So, hey, I know Sydney did a great job on the make-up and I look sexy as fuck in this get-up, but I assure you I'm a dude. I can't get pregnant. It's not gonna happen."

Their faces remained blank. Or not. He couldn't tell with these idiots. One turned to the other, and after a series of buzzes and clicks which meant fuck-all to him, they turned and walked away. Michael breathed a sigh of relief – had they grokked his meaning? He could only hope and pray. Thank you, Space Jesus.

Mid-prayer, he heard the familiar clomping behind him, signaling the return of Long-Dong Silver. But this time he heard two sets of footsteps. No, three.

Fuck you, Space Jesus.

He felt the metal slab start to shrink and separate, halving itself over and over, until all that remained were the restraints around his wrists and ankles. He felt them spread to his sides, going from a latex-corseted imitation of Superman into a spread-eagled, let's face it, whore. He felt his stomach clench. And his asshole. He had a feeling both were about to have just the worst of times.

He was right.

He peered, upside-down, through his legs, and saw the inverted form of Dicknan, Dicklord of the Dicknarians shuffle up to his not-virginal-but-at-least-still-functional o-ring, that same look of bashful stupor in its idiot face; he started to shout and protest, but to no avail, as the alien thrust itself into his puckered ass, sans-lube, and stabbed him in the roof of his mouth. Or so he thought. Holy shit.

"HEY, GENTLE, FUCKO! GENTLE! I NEED THAT FOR LIVING."

But the great silver-backed chucklefuck thrust on, lost in its own enjoyment, seemingly unaware of or unconcerned with his "mate's" suffering. Michael felt his stomach roil and cramp; his intestines desperate to evacuate the foreign invader, bringing him the only satisfaction he could possibly get out of this endeavour, the knowledge that whoever was behind him would be showered with shit upon release. Serves them right, he thought.

But the aliens had other plans, it seemed. Between thrusts and grunts and what felt like his asshole shredding against barbed wire, he heard another of the monstrosities walking to his head-end. Realization panicked him – he was about to be the victim of the first intergalactic spit-roast in history. He forced his mouth closed, but to no avail – the alien was far too strong, and stuffed its entire dick into his mouth, choking him and cracking his jaw. How the fuck was this one bigger than the last guy's? How much worse could one man's luck get? This one, too, showed a preference for his darling pigtails, and at the end of the rear's thrusts pulled Michael's head forward, shoving its dick so far inside of him that he was sure they docking somewhere in his colon. He could only imagine what he looked like to an outside observer: something between a dust rag polishing a long rifle barrel and a window cleaner rappelling down the CN Tower.

As the absurdity of the imagery made him chuckle, he felt the familiar throbbing and was brought back to the present: they were about to blow, simultaneously. For the briefest of moments he thought that here he would die, exploding like a cum-filled balloon... and he wasn't far off. He felt the first rope of spunk hit the inside of his intestines with enough force that, he was convinced, he would have shot off its dick like a straw's wrapper had he not also been shot back with the force of the other's load blowing into his stomach. His poor, distended stomach, which he could feel growing even more, bursting out of his corset. And that was the first rope. Of at least twenty that he felt before blacking out.

––

He woke once again to the sound of shuffling footsteps and clicking and buzzing. But something was different this time. For one, he was no longer restrained – indeed, he was lying on his side in a pool of jizz, like he'd been gang-banged by a herd of elephants. His eyes were gummed closed, and he blew bubbles of it out of his nose as he struggled to sit up. Struggled, because, as he could see through the slits that were his eyes, his stomach was so fully packed with cum that it was red and veined and blocked his view of everything below it. He looked nothing less than pregnant with octuplets. 19-months pregnant at that.

He started to cry, hot, bitter tears eventually dissolving the spunk such that he could at least fully open his eyes – peering up he could see a circle of the Greys staring at him with their blank, glassy eyes, clicking and buzzing all the while. He noticed, then, that they kept looking from his face to his stomach, then back again. One of them knelt down and held a device up to his face – was this thing really taking a fucking picture of him? Just great, Michael thought, he'd never live this one down.

But he saw no flash, just the alien stand and gesture his compatriots to view the, he presumed, screen. Each did so, and in turn made the same click with the same pitch. The one who'd tested (?) him turned and beckoned to the one-eyed monsters – they clomped over and each, in turn, looked at the device. Then, the strangest thing happened – stranger, even, than being the support strut of an Eiffel Tower on a spaceship – the creatures started crying. Michael almost felt a shred of pity for them before reminding himself that he had just guzzled more cum than any fifty prom queens – or kings. Still, though, there was something odd about seeing such gigantic creatures in apparent discomfort. The circle of Greys parted, and one by one the creatures knelt beside him and touched his face, then hung their heads and walked away. When the last had done so, the Grey with the device approached him once again, and this time when he held the device to Michael's face he felt himself drift off into a blissful sleep.

––

"Michelle! Where are you? MIIIICCCCHHHHHEEEEEELLLLLLEEEEE"

Sydney. Earth. Backyard. Slowly, Michael opened his eyes, noting that he was no longer on a cold metal floor but on freshly-mowed grass. He tried to sit up once again, but quickly remembered the folly of that action.

"I'm here!" he cried weakly. "Just... don't look at me."

"Hey, he's over there I think," said Sydney from some distance away. Michael heard various voices, but in his delirium he couldn't put a name to any of them. As they drew closer he thought how he might explain himself, but knew that nothing he could say would make any sort of sense.

Sydney reached him first, and he heard her gasp, then scream. The others came upon him shortly afterward; they, too, gasped and expressed shock.

"Michelle! What the FUCK did you do to your corset?!"

Good ol' Sydney, always there for him.

"I... aliens?" he said, weakly. "Please take me to the hospital so I can get my stomach pumped. And my ass stitched. And I think I'm bleeding internally."

"What on earth are you covered in?" said Sydney. Michael thought he saw flashes from cell phones, but was in such discomfort that he hardly cared.

"Would you believe me if I said alien spunk?"

"Alien spunk? What on earth did you take?"

"Musk, apparently. Now are you going to help me or not?"

Later that night, as he lay in the hospital bed, Sydney by his side, he couldn't help but think back to his time aboard the ship – degrading, yes. Humiliating, yes. Painful, yes. But mostly he couldn't forget the look on the creatures' faces as they knelt over him – were they sad that he'd never bear them the children they had wanted? Or perhaps that their time with him had been so brief? Had he truly made such an impression on them that they couldn't bear to part?

"Sydney," he said, softly. "Where did you say your dad kept his guns?"