Erotic Hitchhiker's Guide Ch. 02

"And that's how I came to be stuck on your primitive little planet," said Ford, concluding his long-winded, almost certainly fanciful (at least in parts), and probably never-to-be-repeated-OR-paraphrased exposition. Both Arthur and Agnes had manfully (or womanfully) maintained a polite silence throughout the entire narrative, and were loath to ask any questions for fear it would result in further monologues. This fear effected a prolonged silence once Ford had finished, which (astonishingly) felt even more excruciating.

When Ford next spoke, thankfully it was to deliver practical, helpful information.

"If you're gonna fly around the galaxy with me, there's a few items you'll need, items I just happen to have a surfeit of." He began to rummage around in his dilapidated duffel bag, stopping when it seemed he'd found something useful. He pulled out two objects that, to Arthur, looked a lot like artificial phalluses.

Handing one to each of them, he explained, "This is a Diverse Intelligent Life-form Decoding Object. It insures that you will be sexually compatible with any sentient being you encounter. It's called DILDO for short."

(It should be noted that the DILDO does nothing to facilitate linguistic translation, as it is unnecessary. As every English speaker naturally intuits, every intelligent life-form in the universe is automatically fluent in it, barring some hideous genetic defect.)

Arthur looked at it doubtfully. "Um, what do I do, exactly?"

"Just place the base of it next to the head of your penis." Ford then gave Agnes a teasing look. "I assume you don't need me to tell you where to put that..."

Smilingly shaking her head, "No," she reached her hand down her skirt and (for all Arthur and Ford could tell) installed the device perfectly.

In the meantime, Arthur was intrigued to discover that following Ford's instructions caused the device to open up at the base, fitting over his penis like a sheath, then conforming to its original appearance exactly.

Arthur poked at his apparently unmodified member with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. It doesn't seem especially...enhanced," he said, sounding somewhat disappointed.

"Wait until you're banging an Antarean sex-priestess up her eight-inch circumference pleasure hole," said Ford knowingly. "No point in carrying extra weight until you need it, eh?"

"You've got nothing to worry about, sweetie," said Agnes, with a sly smile. "I know a place you'll always fit..."

"Yes, well," said Arthur, a bit flustered and embarrassed. Whatever Ford had done to make her so besotted, he knew it couldn't last forever. He just wasn't sure he felt comfortable taking advantage, now that he knew the source of her ardor. Plus he dreaded her eventual outrage.

Opting for the time-honored stratagem of changing the subject, he shifted the focus of the conversation. "Erm, so, what else have you got in that bag of yours, Ford?" he asked.

Rummaging again for another second or two, Ford pulled out two towels, which looked suspiciously like towels from a Holiday Inn that had had the logos bleached off of them. Ford then proceeded to disabuse Arthur of that notion. "This, he said, with what sounded like a note of pride in his voice, "is the Toweltron Mark Zeta. It is the vanguard of towel technology. Automatically self-cleaning, it also serves to clean 100% of all surfaces, particularly biological ones."

Seeing the humans puzzled expressions, he rushed to clarify. "In other words, you can wipe yourself – or anything else – clean. Completely adjustable for moistness and soapiness, also serves as a makeshift bandanna or do-rag, AND," (now his grin was almost maniacal) "perfectly suited for life forms of the bipedal variety for turning any surface into a dynamite shag pad, no matter how harsh the surface may seem at first glance."

The next item looked even less impressive. Which isn't all that fair, since when it first came out, the I-phone, which this closely resembled, looked pretty damn impressive. But perhaps humans have gotten a little bit too used to the rapid pace of technological advance. Which is why the first thing out of Arthur's mouth was hardly enlightening:

"Oh, did you manage to save your I-phone?" He then paused and continued in a more sober tone. "I don't suppose it's much good with the planet destroyed and everything. No more phone service, no more Internet." Both him and Agnes sighed, unhappy to think of how completely the structure of their previous lives had been dismantled.

Then Agnes chimed in, in a brighter tone. "Are any of the apps still operational?"

Ford was visibly impatient. This, Arthur felt, was ungracious, considering they'd been attentively listening to his every word for some time.

"This isn't a bloody I-phone!" he yelled. This is a link to the vastest, most useful body of knowledge in the entire galaxy!"

"Oohh!" said Agnes. "You mean like the Internet?"

"No, not the Internet," said Ford, growing ever more irritated. "This is the Hitchhiker's Manual, a continually updated open-source informational text about everything in the galaxy, every planet, every sentient species, every political system; you name it, and if it's not in the Manual, you're probably making it up."

Understanding dawned on Arthur. "So it's like Wikipedia!" he exclaimed.

"Sort of," conceded Ford. "But it's for profit, and the last time someone tried planting fake information, they were reduced to a crispy cinder, then a very fine ash."

"What?!" cried Arthur, alarmed. "You mean that thing can barbecue people? How can you carry it around without being sure a solar flare or something won't trigger it?" Arthur's faith in technology was inextricably linked to his belief in Murphy's Law.

"Oh, no," chuckled Ford. "The Manual didn't fry them. No, they slandered one of the holy prophets of Andromeda Seven. His followers found out, and took care of business."

"So I take it freedom of speech doesn't get much protection in the galaxy at large?" asked Agnes, concerned.

"There are two ways to protect your freedom of speech in this cosmos," said Ford, "just as there are two excellent ways to protect your reputation . Anonymity and a gun."

*****

Ford had left what were probably the last two remaining humans by themselves in the consequently slightly larger cabin, which Arthur (once his senses started reliably informing his awareness again) could not help but notice had a distinct odor that was an odd mixture of leather and copper. Ford was presumably working out how they were going to abandon their current abode, being that it was presumably under the control of whoever had just demolished Earth, making it a less than hospitable environ for a majority of their party.

Before leaving, he had made a point of informing them that he would be gone for at least an hour, which filled Agnes with glee and Arthur with a sense of dread. He had to admit to himself he was tempted to say the Hell with her eventual disillusionment and take full advantage of her continued desire for him while it lasted. The conflicting urge, to break down and confess the truth of the matter, as far as Arthur understood it, also boded disaster. How could she ever trust him or Ford again? And Arthur was certain that their continued survival depended on them staying together at all costs. (Maybe not Ford's, but definitely him and Agnes's.)

But look at her! Sitting there all moon-eyed, eager to offer up her body to him, perhaps more, and don't most relationships start this way, a temporary skewing of perception, lust overriding reason? And there were no other humans. Didn't they, didn't HE, especially, have a duty? Didn't their survival convey SOME responsibility?

And, come to think of it, how much was HE under Ford's spell? Certainly he didn't need much manipulation to accept a blowjob from a beautiful woman, or to cooperate with someone who was helping him escape certain death, but he still had gone along with it with remarkably little protest, internal or external, which was unusual for him...

So, in that case, couldn't he be excused if he just gave in, went with the flow? Surely Ford could be relied on to make sure everything went well; perhaps he could even fix things so the two of them fell in love and stayed that way. Deep down, Arthur had always wanted to meet a nice girl and settle down with her, not quite under these precise circumstances, to be sure, but Arthur wasn't one of those people they consulted when the rules were drawn up; he just considered himself lucky if he was invited to play, so why not just make the best of whatever situation he found himself in?

Ultimately, it was the look of utter adoration she was giving him that decided him. Pissed off at him he could handle. The glare that said, "You're an utter bastard!" he'd weathered, not often, but often enough. But that look, that fawning, almost-more-appropriate-to-pets-than-humans look, the look that carried with it the certainty that anything hurtful or selfish he did would be met with that utter crestfallenness best express in the phrase, "Did I do something wrong?" It wasn't something he could just take advantage of, that required a level of callousness he just couldn't allow himself.

Of course, telling Agnes the truth of the situation wasn't going to make things any easier. It probably wouldn't even make things right between them. But it would be a start.

If you aren't by nature a courageous person, it doesn't mean that you're doomed to a life of ineffectual cowardice. But it does mean you need to be emotionally intelligent. We've all done things that surprised us, in how they surpassed the limits of our everyday selves, some brave, some merely foolhardy. Sometimes we're motivated by conscience, sometimes one gets possessed by a sense of reckless abandon, and sometimes alcohol is involved. Regardless, if we want to maximize those experiences, it's important to pick our moments.

A surge of bravery isn't necessarily ours to command; sometimes the best we get is a little voice saying, "If I don't do this now, I'll never be able to." It may not seem fair, that voice may not even sound encouraging or helpful, but sometimes doing the difficult thing boils down to taking that little voice at its word.

"You don't really fancy me, you know," blurted Arthur, having no idea what to say next.

The look of hurt surprise accompanying her response told him he'd better do a more thorough job of explaining things. "Do you think I've just been pretending, to, I don't know, get a free ride off the planet or something? Is that the kind of woman you take me for?"

"No, no," he said, hoping he could manage to make sense of all this. "Look, this is a little hard to understand, but Ford, with what I'm sure were the best of intentions, mind you, played a – how can I put this?" He paused. "You've seen Star Wars, right?"

She nodded. She was starting to look more like her old self again, which is to say, increasingly stern and morally disapproving.

"Well, remember how the Jedi mind-trick worked, 'These aren't the droids you're looking for,' all that?"

Again, a tight little nod.

"Well, basically Ford used his mind powers to get you to give me a blow job, so we'd stop arguing, and apparently it's easier to get people to do sexy stuff, and now we're both attracted to each other, but it's bound to wear off eventually, and then you'll be furious and won't want anything to do with me, and you'll still be dead gorgeous and I'll just be some idiot in a robe and skivvies and I never meant to take advantage of you but I just got so pissed at you and that bloody bank, and now I'm just ranting so I'll stop."

He then was silent, a silence in which he attempted to gather his resolve at least enough to look over at Agnes and gauge her, so far, intensely quiet reaction to his confession. When he finally did, to his immense shock and relief, he saw a great deal of puzzlement, but it seemed the hurt and anger had receded. At least she wasn't ready to kill him just yet, which would be more reassuring if it weren't for the whole 'Jedi mind trick' complication, but he'd expected to have a shoe thrown at his head immediately on the telling, so he was going to allow himself to feel that things were going well for the time being.

When Agnes finally spoke, she was almost laughing, whether induced by hysteria of by the humor of the situation was not clear. "None of this is real to me," she said, her relatively calm demeanor indeed lending her an almost dreamlike aura. But how long till she wakes up? Arthur wondered silently.

"I have, since this morning, fellated a total stranger, accused that same person of financial impropriety rather than admit my employer made a mistake, lost everyone I've ever known along with my job, and somehow managed to stow away on an alien spaceship. By rights, I should – we both of us should – be curled in a ball on the floor, whimpering.

"So when you tell me someone's been manipulating my mind and my emotions, well, it seems quite likely. Either that, or this is a dream and deep down I know it, and that's what's keeping me calm.

"I'm probably horrible for thinking this, but I don't feel like I lost anything. I never knew my biological parents, and the foster parents who raised me died ten years ago. None of my girl friends meant that much to me, which is sad, but all we ever talked about were men and reality television. Utterly superficial – and I think it was intentional on my part.

"And then there's Rodney, the most boring boyfriend in the world. The closest he ever got to showing his emotions was that face a man gets when he comes. And that was deliberate too! Maybe it's a sixth sense or something, but all my life a voice in my head keeps saying, "Don't get too attached," so for the most part, I didn't.

"So now here I am shut in a cabin with you, and I find myself ridiculously attracted to you for no good reason, except that you are the sort of guy I always end up with, I just never found it a turn-on before.

"I mean, that sort of bewildered deer-in-the-headlights look you get, somehow just picturing it makes the blood rush to my cunt.

"You're the type of bloke who can't ask a girl for her number unless you've chatted her up at least thirty minutes. You exude 'nice' and 'harmless' from your pores and you still worry that you'll seem threatening. If you dance with a girl and get an erection, you pray she doesn't notice."

Arthur, utterly unable to deny the accuracy of her assessment, said nothing.

"Like I said, I've dated nothing but your type. Because I don't trust myself with the men who make me weak in the knees. But now you do just that. I feel like one of the girls in a Revenge of the Nerds movie."

Arthur wondered if he should feel insulted. He decided it would be the stupidest thing he could possibly do, and prayed that he could avoid it if at all possible.

"I'm sure I should be acting outraged about all this. I mean, my mind's been – I guess 'violated' would be an accurate term. And yet, it's not that different from what happens to other people normally. You hear talk about teenagers, how their hormones take control of them. And adults aren't always in control; we get caught up in love, or anger, or even sadness. And we don't always see it as a bad thing – maybe we should, maybe we're just a bunch of animals with vocabularies, and maybe we'd be better off if we were like Vulcans.

"I guess if I'm upset about anything it's learning that, well, after so many years of being proper and in control, with my biggest problem being how boring my life was, my perfectly planned, predictable life, suddenly I don't have to worry about what my friends think, or what my work thinks, suddenly I'm capable of being this crazy, impulsive sexbomb and setting off on the wildest adventure any human has ever experienced, and I find out none of it is really me. On my own, I could never be that wild, that interesting. Arthur, I know why you felt you had to tell me – guys like you always end up telling secrets, unless you promise not to; then you take them to the grave. But I think maybe I prefer the fantasy, at least for now."

She smiled, and it looked like relief. Apparently she'd been working through a lot as she talked.

"So, what do you say, Arthur?"

Taken aback, all Arthur could do was stammer, "Erm, uh, about what? I mean, I know what about but what do you, exactly..."

"Can I be your sex goddess, Arthur?" Her grin showed she knew exactly how ridiculous it sounded. "Can I rock your world, and maybe show you how to rock mine? If I worship your cock, will you worship my cunt?"

Somewhat recovered, Arthur could only reply, "I think that'd be lovely, but, um, if you ARE going to be a sex goddess..."

"Yes?" She looked at him encouragingly.

"...you probably shouldn't ask. I mean, goddesses command, and they overwhelm the will of their subjects..." Was his mouth saying stupid things? He wasn't sure.

"You're right," she said. He looked startled at this. Her voice took on a note of steel. "Get your ass over here, get on your knees, and get your mouth on my pussy, you bastard! How dare you leave me unsatisfied?"

For an instant, sheer terror filled Arthur. Had he just created a monster? But, if nothing else, his British-born sense of fair play could not be squelched. She had pleasured him with her mouth wonderfully. Didn't he owe her at least that much in return?

Walking over to where she sat on the bed, he gently pushed her onto her back, "So that I may pleasure you more easily, my Queen," and knelt down in front of her lap. Folding his towel into a makeshift pillow, he placed it under her ass, enjoying the opportunity to get his hands on her ample buttocks. He than began unbuttoning her skirt, apparently not quickly enough for her tastes.

"Damn it, Arthur, I've had enough of your politeness and your...fastidiousness to last me te lifetimes! You should be diving in there! Tearing off my bloody knickers! I want that tongue lapping at my cunt, like you're a dog going at some peanut butter. Be fucking MESSY for once in your bloody life!"

Arthur felt a surge of excitement. He grabbed her skirt at the seam and pulled with all his might until he heard a satisfying rip. He roared with enthusiasm at the white silk panties thus revealed to him, especially the growing wet spot. Snagging the waistband in his teeth, he yanked at them with both hands, snapping the ties at the hip, then furiously throwing them aside. Ostentatiously sniffing, he let the odor of freshly aroused pussy linger a few seconds, prompting another "LICK me, you bastard!"

At hearing this, a cruel grin sprung onto his face. Lowering his head, instead of the cunnilingus she demanded he proceeded to administer little bites to her inner thighs, getting ever closer. Her pitiful cries prompted him to run his tongue over her slit, which made her squirm. She was already very wet, and, his nostrils filled with the scent of her, he started licking enthusiastically, seeing how much of her juices he could get in his mouth. Taking her moans as encouragement, he decided to attack the clit directly, first delicately nudging it with his tongue, then going in full force when her hands grabbed hold of his hair and clamped his head tightly to her crotch, sucking and nibbling her pearl with abandon, all the while her juices soaking his chin.

At last her grip subsided and he was able to raise his head. Immediately he leaned over and kissed her, fiercely, wanting her to taste herself, hoping it turned her on like it did him. His robe had come loose again, and his erection was quite visible under his boxers.

Her next words were an unequivocal command. "Take those damn things off."

Arthur did so, stepping out of them, causing his dick to bob slightly, a sight which pleased Agnes greatly. "Stick it in me," she directed. "Stick it in me now."