The Alien and The London Escort

by A. M. Knightley

  The Alien and the London Escort

  And Other Short Stories

  By A. M. Knightley

  © Copyright 2015 by A. M. Knightley.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used, reproduced, duplicated, or transmitted in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content, which is only suitable for mature readers.

  This collection contains three entertaining tales by the author A. M. Knightley.

  It is part of the Sexy Alien Series.

  The stories are:

  The Alien and the London Escort

  Miriam and the Time Machine

  Eleanor’s Garden of Earthly Delights

  Table of Contents

  The Alien and the London Escort

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Miriam and the Time Machine

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Eleanor’s Garden of Earthly Delights

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Excerpt from Aliens and the Hook-Up App: An Erotic Parody!

  The Sexy Alien Series

  Connect with A. M. Knightley

  About the Author

  One Last Thing…

  The Alien and the London Escort

  By A. M. Knightley

  Chapter One

  Throughout the universe, there are more life forms than we can imagine, and arguably, the most advanced of them all are the Esquaorians. Although not much to look at, resembling – to our eyes – a cross between pudding that’s been left too long in the fridge and something to be scraped off from one’s shoe if one hadn’t minded where one had stepped, the Esquaorians are a brilliant race of organic computers, each of them able to conjure a code at will to do their bidding. So it was that, when summoned to the Ministry of Reproduction, Chrubba merely composed a program which transported him to his destination.

  Chrubba knew why he was being summoned to the Ministry. Having just reached the age of manhood (186 human years, or 62 Esquaorian sun-cycles), today Chrubba would learn what his sexual destiny was to be.

  “As you know,” Professor Ben-Wa prefaced, “all Esquaorians possess the necessary organs to reproduce without a partner. You are merely lacking the code to actually bring the process to fruition.” He smiled knowingly, adding, “We know all too well what you youngsters do in your free time, and we’d be swimming in baby batter if you youngsters were left to your own devices."

  “But you, Chrubba, are not destined to reproduce. Your abilities are too profound for such a task. Rather, you have been chosen as a sexual ambassador, scouring the galaxies to pair with another species. You should be very proud.”

  Chrubba realized that to be chosen for interplanetary sexploration was indeed an honor, but he wasn’t completely clear regarding the concept. “What is the purpose of this mission, Professor? How does it benefit our race?”

  “Good question, Chrubba. Although no offspring will result from your foray, the data you collect will further our understanding of other civilizations, updating the information from previous sexcursions to track the evolution of their worlds. You will also benefit personally by developing a sense of empathy with other species. This furthers our efforts at peaceful coexistence with other, less developed life forms. And, of course, there is one other benefit.”

  “And what is that, Professor Ben-Wa?”

  “It feels really friggin’ good!” the professor cackled, giving his young charge a wink, although he didn’t really possess an eye with which to wink, nor a face in which to place the eye, but wink he did, nevertheless.

  A pink hue washed over Chrubba, as he blushed at the professor’s remark. Composing himself, he said, “I’m sold, Professor. What’s next?”

  “I’ve put together a collection of interplanetary porn for your viewing. Watch the monitor and choose which species you find most stimulating. Ready?”

  Chrubba sat fascinated, as one strange sex act after another unfolded before him. Some were unnerving, like the reptilian race of Rufus, whose fertile inhabitants perched patiently on rocks until they were vaporized by heat rays. Some were more visceral, like the violent copulation of Kardashius, whose inhabitants resembled garbage dumpsters clanging and screeching as they bumped uglies with all the grace of bumper cars colliding.

  And then something different from all the rest appeared, the images accompanied by exotic, whacka-whacka rhythms and moaning sounds, completely out of sync with the faces on screen.

  “Oh! Oh! Oh!” the voices implored. “Screw me with your big, hard cock! Oh, yes! Yes!” Chrubba wondered how the woman was able to articulate these commands with the huge pillar of penis jammed in her throat. Was it telepathy? The woman was soft-looking, well-rounded and glistening with various fluids. He loved how her bouncy mammary glands flopped around as the big man-organ sawed away in her central plumbing.

  “This!” Chrubba exclaimed, “This is what I want! I want this!”

  “Earth? An excellent choice,” Professor Ben-Wa observed. “I will make arrangements at once. But first, you must orient yourself to their ways. I am transmitting a code to you which contains all the characteristics and achievements of the Earthlings. Ready?”

  One minute later, Chrubba indicated he was finished absorbing the data. “Boy, talk about a backward race. It seems that for every step forward, they take five steps back.”

  “Yes, money and war have taken a toll we’ve never had to endure,” the professor agreed. “However, they do possess one asset for which they are rightly envied throughout the universe, and that is their plentitude of pussy.”

  “F$%^ing-A,” Chrubba laughed, adopting the vulgarity of the Earthlings.

  “There is only one more thing,” the professor said. “View the code I’ve just sent, and select the female who is most to your liking.” The professor paused. “I’m sorry. I'm being presumptuous. You have a choice. You can visit in either the male or female form. Which do you prefer, Chrubba?”

  “With all due respect, Professor,” Chrubba responded. “I’d rather be the screwer than the screwee.”

  “My, my, you are a fast learner,” Ben-Wa chuckled, “Listen to you sling that slang. Looks like you’re ready. Make your selection and leave the rest to me.”

  Chapter Two

  Cherie sat in the posh waiting area of Knobsworth Agency, growing more nervous by the minute. She was eagerly awaiting the emergence of her friend, Judy, from behind the door of the company’s namesake. Judy had located her at a workingman’s bar where Cherie was hustling patrons for drinks and the odd knee trembler in the adjoining alley.

  How the mighty have fallen, she thought.

  She and Judy had begun their careers in the sex industry at about the same time, beginning as party girls, which led to referrals and eventually to their serving as “hostesses” at various private clubs in Mayfair and Camden. But as the years took their toll and the wear and tear added up, Cherie’s clientele and venues became shabbier, and her appearance had begun to mirror her downward spiral.

  If only she’d
gotten off the circuit in her prime, as Judy had done. Now, Judy only had to please one man, the man whose name was printed on the glass door. As if on cue, the door opened and Judy appeared.

  “Mr. Knobsworth will see you now, Cherie.”

  Despite the brevity of her skirt, Cherie was careful not to flash her panties as she rose from the waiting room chair. She knew that her old friend would be scrutinizing her every move, noting every flaw and faux pas.

  Judy gave her a quick up and down. “Listen, Cherie. As I said, this is your big chance to… elevate your station, so to speak. Mr. K only employs the best quality girls in his operation.”

  “Ooh, I noticed, luv,” Cherie whispered conspiratorially, “I’ve seen ‘em come and go, all young and ladylike, while I waited.” Cherie had, in fact, felt very self-conscious, wishing she’d worn something more discreet than the silky lavender blouse and black mini-skirt, stockings and boots. Dress for success, they say, and although she could succeed in taking any red-blooded male’s money for a quickie with this outfit, she hadn’t realized she’d undergo an interview first.

  “I vouched for you, Cherie,” Judy continued, “and he’s willing to give you a chance. If all goes well, you’ll be assured a steady stream of quality customers and a salary to match. If not…”

  “I know, I’ll be hoisting me skirt under the streetlamp, working the immigrants and fishmongers. Girls our age have fewer options as each year passes, it seems. Whatever happened to respect for experience? These young tarts, sure, they’re shiny and new, but they don’t have the skills that we’ve acquired the hard way. Do you remember the time….?”

  “He’s waiting,” Judy interrupted, “Now, do yourself a favor: say as little as possible, be agreeable, and you’ll soon be on your way. Don’t let me down, Cherie.” She tapped on the door, opened it and allowed Cherie to enter. Cherie took a deep breath and plunged ahead.

  “Oy, Mr. Knobsworth – that’s quite a handle, I must say – I’m Cherie. Very pleased to meet you, sir.” She held out her hand, clip-clopping toward his desk, but Mr. Knobsworth remained seated and waved her toward a chair.

  “I just wanted to say how much I appreciate this opportunity, Mr. K, and you won’t regret giving me the chance. I’ll do right by you, guaranteed. Oh, I know there’s prettier out there, and younger, too, but what you see before you is completely natural as the day I was born; no surgeon’s scalpel has ever touched this skin, and I’ve got all the imperfections to prove it. Perfection is overrated, don’t you think?”

  Mr. K seemed at a loss for an answer, not that Cherie gave him a chance.

  “And you won’t find a better all-round slapper than myself, if you don’t mind me saying. That’s because I enjoy what I do. I’m one that doesn’t require a lot of foreplay, if you know what I mean. I get wet at the drop of a hat, not to mention a pair of trousers."

  “I don’t really have a specialty ‘cause I like it all. You name it: whip-wielding dominatrix, sniveling submissive, threesomes, foursomes, moresomes, girl-girl, no holes barred, and I’ve no qualms about business best done in the toilet. Best of all, I can still play the little virgin quite convincingly, if need be.”

  Mr. Knobsworth held up his hand. Cherie got the hint and ceased her presentation.

  “Thank you, Cherie, but I already know what I need to, about your background. Here, have a look at this.”

  He flicked a photograph toward her like a card dealer. Cherie automatically reached for her purse to retrieve her glasses, but caught herself in time. She leaned in and studied the photo.

  “Do you know who she is?” Mr. Knobsworth asked.

  “Haven’t the foggiest,” Cherie replied.

  “It’s Jean Harlow. She was a famous movie star several decades ago.”

  “Oh yeah, she looks familiar now. Don’t think I’ve seen her in anything, though. Before my time.” Cherie was grateful that someone was before her time.

  “Do you notice anything else?” Mr. K asked, “A certain resemblance to yourself, perhaps?”

  “Oh yeah, sure. She’s a dead ringer, sort of. A little thinner. She’s very thin, almost too thin, don’t you think. And black and white all over.”

  “The resemblance is so uncanny,” Mr. K continued, “that I thought you might have intentionally patterned your look after her, especially the hair. What would you call that, a platinum blond?”

  Cherie would have called it the result of too many dye jobs, rendering her hair a colorless wad of cotton candy the texture of straw, but she played along.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. K. Not every day a girl gets compared to a movie star!”

  “She’s the reason we sought you out, Cherie. You see, our clients know they can count on us to provide whatever they require for their enjoyment. We’re discrete and we always come through for them.”

  “Our most prestigious account has expressed a preference for a girl who looks like this,” he tapped the photograph, “Like Jean Harlow.”

  “So that’s why you chose me!”

  “Exactly. As much as I appreciate your versatility, what I’m looking for is someone who is extremely patient. This account sends us their young executives, foreign lads, with virtually no sexual experience. They require a gentle, understanding touch.”

  “They need some mothering then, is that it?” Cherie imagined cradling a young man in a three-piece suit, suckling at her breasts like a babe. It made her a little moist just thinking about it. “I can do that.”

  “Splendid. Now, it’s been my experience that these young, inexperienced foreigners are quite naïve when it comes to our mating… I mean, fornicating. I need you to keep your cool, no matter what happens. You must take care not to insult them in any way. Their culture is very different from ours, and they may make strange requests or act… erratically. Pay it no mind. Just keep your focus on accommodating them the best you can.”

  “I understand, sir. Don’t worry; I don’t scare easy. Why, this one time, this rugby team was having a bachelor party….”

  “We don’t have time for that, Cherie. Your client is waiting at the hotel. Our driver will take you there now.” He rose and offered his hand. “I can’t tell you how much I’m counting on you, Cherie. If anything were to go wrong, any kind of misunderstanding….” An image of flying saucers hovering over Hyde Park came to mind, laser beam weapons decapitating statues and causing mass panic as the city erupted in flames.

  “Just leave it to Cheri, Mr. K. I’ll give him the best souvenir he’s ever brought home!” She swished her way towards the door, and then turned. “And let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, as well,” she smiled, with a wink.

  Chapter Three

  Shortly after setting foot in his hotel suite, Chrubba stripped off all his clothes. Like a child tearing the wrapping from a new toy, Chrubba was eager to view the object; and there it was, his magic wand, already hard and ready for play. Seeing his reflection in the full-length mirror, he beheld the bobbing boner.

  It was a handsome specimen, and he hoped the woman arriving soon would find it worthy of insertion. To ensure her pleasure, Chrubba had made certain modifications to his sexual apparatus. The effects of these enhancements remained to be seen, but Chrubba took pride in knowing that there was not another cock like his in the entire universe.

  The telephone rang. Chrubba followed the sound into the bedroom and answered.

  “Mr. Chrubba, this is Nelson at the reception desk. A call came in for you from a Miss Cherie. As per your instructions, I told her you were unavailable. She asked me to relay that she will arrive within fifteen minutes. Shall we show her to your suite, sir?”

  “Yes, please show her all the way to my door. I will open the door, and she will come inside. Then we will have sex. Please do not disturb.”

  There was an awkward pause, “Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Fifteen minutes. Chrubba made a quick calculation: fifteen minutes equals three orgasms before she arrives. He couldn’t wait; he had
to act now.

  The phrases he’d learned floated by: flogging the dolphin; spanking the monkey; beating the meat. He knew they related to masturbation. Did the phrases offer clues as to how it was actually done? Would the woman help him? Would she bring a whip, or something with which to flog his dolphin? Were items like whips standard accoutrements in her profession? Did she carry them in a tool box? Would she bring a monkey?

  He opened the armoire and removed a complimentary robe. Perfect. This would afford comfort and easy access to his organ, which had begun secreting fluid from its tip. He walked carefully back to the kitchen, drops of pre-ejaculate dotting the carpet along the way.

  Chrubba searched the kitchen drawers for something that might work as a masturbation accessory. And then he saw it: a wooden mallet used for tenderizing meat.

  Beating meat he thought, Bingo!

  Without hesitation, he placed his erection on the counter and raised the mallet over his head. This is going to be good, he thought.

  He was wrong. Chrubba howled and hopped about the kitchen in an interpretive dance of his pain. His penis was still swollen and throbbing, but not in a good way. Inspecting the damage, he observed that the teeth of the mallet head had pierced the skin on his penis, drawing blood. Instantly, he conjured a code which relieved the pain and healed his flesh so that it was good as new.

  So much for beating the meat!

  There must be something here I can use, he fumed. And then he found it. In the training videos, the vagina appeared to be a hole in the body with sufficient heat, moisture and resilience to stimulate the penis. Looking down at the sink, he leered at the garbage disposal with wanton desire.

  Of course! The disposal must be designed for “quickies.” Along with other “garbage,” it allowed fast relief with no mess afterward. Ingenious! Chrubba ran his fingers around the pliable, rubber lips circling the hole. The lips were pliant and soft. He ran the hot water tap to warm up the orifice, and then climbed up on the counter. It was awkward but, as the Earthlings said, where there was a will, there was a way.