Scenes from Yetanotherverse

Special thanks to kenjisato, a generous volunteer in Literotica.com's Volunteer Editors program, for editing this piece. All remaining errors and questionable stylistic choices are the sole responsibility of the author.

Also, I forgot to credit him as an editor on my previous story, 'Just Like Any Other', because I'm a forgetful piece of shit. Sorry!

******

I'm a firm believer in the idea that hot girls having sex with other hot girls signifies that everything is right with the world. It's science. It's also quite magical. That's a little joke. I hope you don't mind.

Seriously, though: I'm sure there have been papers published about it by now. After all, it's been centuries since the first portal opened -- well, the first that we know of, anyway.

Here's the new reality for most people: life is amazing. Scarcity is a thing of the past. Aging is optional -- just another kink to get weird with if you feel like it. Death is meaningless, and might not even exist. There's basically no line anymore between taking drugs, changing your mind, and outright transforming your body. People treat religion properly, finally: like porn does. Same with prison. Who the hell could possibly be bothered to commit a real crime? We have entire arenas dedicated to quasi-virtual gaming if you feel like committing a mass murder or two just for the hell of it, and that's just a backup in case pure VR doesn't turn your crank.

Tell me it's a coincidence, then, that pretty much everywhere you go these days, hot girls are having sex with other hot girls. Humans, elves, foxgirls, catgirls, puppygirls, mousegirls, wee folk, Pr'intha, Nuvari... it doesn't matter. Girls, together, create an interspecies constant -- at least in our little corner of the multiverse. It's an energy they send out into the community. It's the sirens' promise, kept instead of broken.

I know you've got questions. Let me focus on one I can't really answer; that's clever and subversive, right?

Okay, smarty-pants, so what qualifies as 'hot?'

Beats me. I know it when I see it. The reptilian congress down the proverbial hall has their own stuff going on. Take a gander. I'm not the boss of anything. I'm just a guy who's living the dream.

I took an awesome cocktail of drugs last night because I felt like sleeping for eight hours straight. It's just something I like to do occasionally. It feels nostalgic, even though I never experienced the pre-portal world myself. The best part of sleep is waking up, though, and that's something you basically never read or hear about in any of the old worlds' archives. The drugs don't quit until their job is truly done, and part of that job is easing you back into the waking world. I slip out of a wonderful dream at the behest of a psychedelic angel, and she guides me back across the placid river in a cocoon of perfect, languid, motherly sex. Orgasm isn't the goal; it's just love. She reminds me of who I am in the waking world, where I drifted away, and where I'll be -- usually the same place, but not necessarily.

She can't tell me who will be there waiting for me, because there are just too many options. The situation is too fluid. That's okay, though, because in my world, most surprises are good, not bad. That should tell you everything, right there. Maybe I should have led with it. It's elegant.

I take a deep breath of oxygen-rich air, and delight in the bouquet of smells it carries. People smell great. Sex smells great. I know I'm surrounded by both, and that makes me feel safe, loved, and happy.

I feel Lara snuggled up next to me; I'm sure the smells are why I know it's her, but in the midst of my gentle reemergence, it feels like pure instinct instead. Glancing over and seeing her serene face gives me that little thrill: prediction: correct. Expectation: met. She's beautiful, too. That's a separate thrill.

I caress her; she's already been stroking my bare chest, and now I feel it. Our eyes meet, and I see her love for me. That's thrill number three, and I've barely been awake a minute.

We throw that word around a lot these days, and recklessly at that. Lara and I don't have a defined relationship, and don't need one. We love each other. She's been here for a few days. She can stay as long as she likes. She can leave, too, and none of us will be all that sad. We can reach out through any number of 'net layers at any time. Even if she's off-world and I get one of those crazy impulses to chase her down and ravish her, that's, what? A few portal hops over the span of day or two? The big one at the nearest hub? Some walking in between? Hell, you can practically always find a FetRide if you can't be bothered to move your own legs. Someone's pleasure, leisure, or even laziness is almost always someone else's pleasure, too.

"Water?" Lara asks me. I answer 'not yet' with a cuddle and a kiss. She responds immediately, and when I begin fondling her breasts, I can already sense her slipping into sexspace. I know that's yet another term I'm tossing out there like a hand grenade of pretension, but 'getting horny' doesn't really capture the same idea. When life is great, you're completely unburdened, and you start to get horny, you just... let go. You don't worry about a million things. You don't fret about being rejected. You let parts of your brain shut down. It's a pre-orgasm drug trip, and it is fantastic.

Meanwhile, the warmth and soft fur near my bare feet tells me that Kit's curled up in her usual spot. I'm sure she's sorely tempted to start nuzzling and licking my soles, but can't quite decide if I'll accidentally jerk my legs from surprise. Last night's fun might've made her a bit more cautious.

My awareness gradually expands until I recognize the sounds of two other girls having their own passionate morning session right next to us. A vague memory from last night suggests that it's Ophelia, my pale, freckled, redheaded half-elf, and a feisty brunette tomboy she brought home from a music festival in the park. I think she was human, but you never know -- and rarely care.

I smile into the kiss I'm still sharing with Lara. My cock was in something like ten different holes last night, and it's hard not to reminisce and feel like the king of the multiverse. But for the convenient convergence of science and magic on cleanup duty, I'd be sharing a bed with four different women utterly drenched in my seed, both inside and out. I know Kit's plugged and likely still carrying some of my cum; that's how she likes it. The rest, I think, freshened up more thoroughly. I know I did.

It's a bit gauche to claim credit for orgasms out loud -- though strongly encouraged to give it -- but everybody knows we still do it silently, to ourselves. I know Kit, Ophelia, and Lara came from their asses while I fucked them. All four had multiple team-effort orgasms while I was plowing their pussies, and I'm inclined to claim at least a few assists while I was sucking on their breasts. Scritches for Kit count the same; ear and tail play, well, I won't get greedy. The tomboy's feet were at once insanely ticklish and incredibly sexually receptive. She needed to be held down and forced to endure the torture before it shot the moon and became a violent delight. She peed herself, soaking her own thick bush and the sheets below. Ophelia got wicked and assaulted her armpits. Kit got dirty and did some sexy cleanup before the elementals triggered. I was on left-foot duty, and I call that full credit, not partial. What I remember most vividly, ironically, is the deep foot rub I gave our newest guest after she calmed down. Her groans and moans were decidedly post-sex and post-orgasmic, but I'd rank them with some of the best general feedback I've ever received.

I was a firehose, of course, and even though nobody can work my ass like Zam, these four put in the effort. I'll happily dole out credit for my own orgasms until there's an inflationary crisis. That's an old-world joke; you'll notice a lot of those. The pre-portal folks who posited a link between humor and tragedy were onto something, in my opinion. There's not a lot of new comedy floating around. What laughter of ours isn't joyous or ecstatic feels like an echo.

Lara notices my dumb smile and opens her eyes. She matches it with one of her own. She ascends slightly from sexspace; I can see her mind clear up.

"Watcha thinkin' about?" she asks coyly. We're still halfway-kissing.

"Foot rub," I answer honestly.

"Mmmm," she says; she knows exactly what I'm talking about. "If you're not careful, that's going to be your new job. We're gonna collar you and make you our massage-slave. Caged, plugged, on the milking schedule with Cady. Can't have you wasting your time worrying about your little penis. Too many feet to service."

"Oh, I think I'll make it transactional," I reply, sassing her right back. I massage her delicious breasts for emphasis. She gives me the win, letting her face go a little dumb.

"Not a sissy, just a whore?" she asks huskily.

"Self-employed," I say. "Quite respectable."

Sex jokes are another echo; they're not funny in the modern context -- only when hearkening back to one of the pre-portal worlds. A lot of kinks and fetishes are the same. Most of us know enough history to be able to play. It's as good a reason as any to learn something.

"Mmmm," Lara says, "but what would we pay you?"

It's a good question, and I could try to give her a serious answer. Our relationship isn't there yet, and may never be. The other thing is, I consider myself a funny guy, so the next line is obvious. It's like I'm compelled by ancient forces to deliver it -- an actor on a stage, or maybe even a character in a play.

"Honestly?" I say. "Foot rubs."

Lara laughs, and it's delightful. I start laughing too. Quite apropos of the tension-breaking joke, I feel hot, wet breath on my feet.

"Ah -- there it is," I say to no one.

Next comes the nuzzling of the wet nose, and then the submissive little licks. Kit's tongue is a marvel. Like all foxgirls, she boasts micromuscles that can transition it smoothly -- pun halfway intended? -- from the delicious agony of feline sandpaper all the way to the more traditional experience. She starts very close to sandpaper in the morning; she knows that's what I like.

Lara's eyes flash. "I'll be right back," she says. Then she's spelunking under the covers. I feel her, vaguely, as she locates Kit. Even though I can't see anything, and their brief exchange is quiet and muffled, I put the pieces together. She's giving Kit morning scritches and telling her what a good little fox she is. She's encouraging her to perform her submissive duty for her master, and probably rubbing some of her many weak spots too.

Lara's been in love with Kit since the first time they met, and, while there's plenty of sexual attraction infused in that love, it's primarily driven by a different instinct. Humans have it for all kinds of creatures, and they've got it bad for soft, cute, furry and/or fuzzy ones. Only the Nuvari have a similar instinct nearly as strong. What's funny is that theirs is almost exclusively for humans and elves.

Things do get complicated. Some foxgirls strongly prefer the company of elves and aliens because they don't want to be viewed or treated as pets. Kit? Kit strongly, strongly prefers the company of humans. Kit's the one who'll never leave, and that's just how both of us like it.

With nothing better to do up top, I finally wave and flex; it's like another language, and one we all know. A nanorift opens, and pure, crisp, cool water flows down into my waiting mouth. I savor and swallow; I take in a lot. My personal water elemental needs to be fed and rejuvenated. I can feel it inside of me -- feel its primal pleasure. It doesn't think or feel like we do; it's too small, and precautions are taken atop that. It still responds, and nothing makes it respond more positively than making not-self water into self-water. It, in turn, magnifies my own sense of refreshment tenfold as it performs its routine tasks inside of me.

After I'm sated, I take the moment to just enjoy the world into which I've awoken. Kit's lapping happily, offering up strange pleasure with the merest hint of torture-spice. Lara's indulging one of her primal human instincts with petting and baby talk, and another with welcome molestation. Ophelia and the yet-nameless tomboy are slowly ramping up from a makeout session to something more involved. I feel that energy all around me: beautiful girls having sex with each other. It washes over me like a wave; it reminds me of that angel who just guided me home. It makes me feel both horny and serene, setting up a resonance inside my cock, keeping it fully erect past the usual grace period for morning wood. There's nothing urgent or violent about my tumescence; I feel no desire to conquer or dominate. I'm simply ready to give and receive pleasure, because everything is right with the world.

I splay out upon my cloud-nine bed and stare up at the ceiling. I bask in the glory of this tiny, insignificant corner of the post-portal multiverse.

Kit and Lara both creep up from the foot of the bed, each with a different destination in mind. Kit begins worshiping everything from my asshole to the tip of my cock with her supremely talented tongue. Her fangs retract, though now and then one lightly scrapes the perfect place at the perfect time. Her rust-and-snow fur is a light, luxurious blanket against my legs; that, plus her inner warmth, could probably put me back to sleep, but for her mouth and tongue's happy work.

I catch Lara's gaze. She's at once hungry and eager to feed me. We silently speak a third language; she shyly asks me if I'll have pussy first, and then tits, rather than the other way around. I agree eagerly, and she offers fleeting kisses and touches on her way to mount my face.

She's fresh and clean, like we all are thanks to our elementals. Her hot, wet peach smells of syrup and cinnamon; her flush lips are only slightly darker than her hint-of-mocha skin. She calls it a "fog tan," which is surely another old-world reference, but one I never learned. Her freckles -- so common now among the feminine -- are dark enough to stand out; they remind me of finely-ground coffee, which seems fitting. As with most human girls', they dissipate nearer the pussy until only a few tiny beauty marks remain.

I inhale deeply for both our benefits. Her smell is intoxicating, and the exaggerated act is a universal signal of attraction and acceptance. I feel her body respond to it. Mine would respond to her, too, except Kit's already pushed me far beyond that anticipatory threshold. Just above me, Lara's love button is already protruding, so large and prominent that it counts as a tiny erection. That, too, is a new normal. Things have changed over the centuries. Difficulty levels have lowered across the board. It's not unfair to say that the main requirement for being a sex champion these days is just showing up.

Past her clit, her flat tummy, and her heaving breasts, I see her eyes staring down at me. They're a desaturated olive green that calls to mind a dense, deciduous forest just before an autumn -- a season that this particular planet doesn't even have. My genetic line's core pre-portal world did, I think, and might again, now that all the damage has been repaired. I always meant to visit. I will, someday. Somehow I just keep getting distracted.

Lara's joke about making me a sissy was just that, but telling nonetheless. She does have a dominant streak in her. It's fluid and fleeting, but it emerges when she's found a face to make her seat. I've learned what she likes when it does. I offer myself up as a suck-slut for her tiny clit-cock. As tempting as it is, I won't let my hands wander to her horny holes until her eyes look away and she becomes lost to her own mounting pleasure.

Kit, my perfect pet, knows my focus is divided. She senses the intermission during which I won't cum, and so puts most of her efforts towards my asshole. The blood in my cock ebbs and flows while I service my dominant lover, and Kit offers up furry, fuzzy teases just to keep it from falling asleep completely.

I get lost in that servitude for a while. I feel Lara's pleasure, and it becomes my own deep satisfaction. She can't decide between playing with her breasts or grasping at my hair. She's trying to hold onto her dominance for as long as she can. She wants to lose, but honorably. I've already communicated in that second language and coated my fingers with lube. My elemental makes sure it stays on them with no dripping; it tickles, like it's dancing on my digits. For the moment, I keep playing my part with Lara, but I'm ready to strike the moment she falters.

I'm barely aware of Ophelia and her friend. I still feel their energy, but I can't make out the details. Peripheral flashes of skin tone, hair color, and rough positions in space suggest that the redheaded half-elf has taken up a similar role to mine. Sound and motion tell me that her rider is far more active than Lara. A brief pornographic vignette flashes through my mind: they've been ramping up a slow burn for an hour or more, and are getting very near the crescendo. I don't know where every body part is, or is headed, but I think the tomboy is humping the near-ethereal beauty's face like an animal in heat. Imagining the half-elf drowning in thick pubes and intoxicating juices does something for me. My cock twitches back to life, and Kit immediately adapts.

The tomboy is a grunter, at least at this final stage. Lara's a heavy breather, though her mouth seems forever on the cusp of saying something truly domineering or filthy. Her upper lip curls and twitches; her lower one quivers, weakening her chin. Her eyes narrow, blurring the line between asserting and losing control. Her nostrils flare. She wants to move her hips, but she can't deny that I'm already in the perfect place, and doing exactly what she wants. I give an excellent clit-cock quasi-blowjob, if I do say so myself.

I catch Lara glancing over to the other pair. That's the first warning sign. My fingers are ready. She looks back to me, then another glance, then back, then an even-longer glance, and then it happens: her eyes roll around and up, failing to lock me in again.

My finger slips into her ass, and she hoots with feigned surprise and offense. The orgasm hits a mere moment later, muddying the message: how dare you make me cum (so good) like that? The tables have already turned, though. Her clit is jerking in my mouth, desperately wishing it could ejaculate. Her strong abdominals roll and spasm above it. I grip her inner thigh with my other hand, massaging dangerously close to a weak spot: one of the internal, wishbone extensions of that glorious pelvic organ that frames the pussy. The clit was always the exposed pearl of a much larger sexual network, but that truth has grown and expanded as surely as the nub itself. When the moment arrives, skilled lovers have their pick of targets, and I know Lara doesn't want to maintain her supremacy. I suck until she's desperately pulling away from me, then apply my tongue to her engorged lips, alternating between lapping and dipping inside. My finger works her molten-lava rectum, pressing hard towards her other tunnel. She's mauling a breast with one hand and keeping the other free for fear of falling. I've stimulated her so much that she can't even think of grabbing my head to push it in closer. Given our position, she can't move it away either. She'll need to ask me to release her, and then dismount.

Orgasms are longer and harder as a rule post-portal. Lara's lasts for about a minute, all told. With tapping hands and whispered words, she begs me to take a break and withdraw my finger. I do, and she surprises me: she scootches up, demanding I service her asshole. I dig in happily. The lube tastes just as good as she does, and I'll never turn down an opportunity to knead ass cheeks.