Stolen and Seduced

by Christine Pope

  I’ve never seen breasts for myself. The idea of them intrigues me.

  Our women, when they existed, did not have breasts. Or nipples.

  Not at all like the earth women do. Each earth woman has a unique set and some surgically alter them, too. It’s fascinating.

  I’ve been summoned to meet the latest arrival, and I’m not disappointed.

  The newest volunteer’s nipples show through the fabric of her thin shirt, and I can’t take my eyes off the dark circles in the center of each breast. The nipples seem like pebbles beneath the clothing. Had they grown harder since she arrived? What causes such reaction?

  I scowl with concentration. How would her nipples respond if I use my phallus to stroke her? Do the breasts bring pleasure to the human female? Literature indicates they do. Would it work with this woman?

  The woman turns to the pinch-faced male liaison, listening to instructions. Then she steps down from the traveling pad, and her breasts bounce with each movement she makes.

  It’s hypnotic.

  I’ve heard of these appendages, of course, and I understand what they are biologically, down to what they’re made of. But I’ve only just arrived from our home planet as a top-breeder, a genetic specimen worth repeating. Only a handful of my brothers have been given the chance to procreate. The human females are not as eager to become our surrogates as we had hoped.

  Human females are smaller and weaker in stature than our females were. The human senses are less perceptive than our own. It seems humans are much earlier in their evolutional cycle than we are in our evolutional cycle. I’m still surprised by the depths of our genetic compatibility. If I had been in charge of the scout ship, I am not sure I would have taken the time to test them.

  The captain requires much praise for leaving no possibility unexplored.

  These women are not the giants in we hoped to find, but our time is running out. We have been searching galaxies for hundreds of years, and these humans are our first and last hope. We require an increase in our population before more of our older brothers begin to die out. We have already lost too many.

  The liaison moves across the decking toward me. She takes another step to follow him, and I watch as the nipples grow tighter, becoming more raised beneath her shirt. The phenomenon intrigues me, and my gaze moves to her face. She’s staring at me, her gaze follows the designs that lead down my body, and her look burns my skin. By the pheromones in the air, she likes what she sees. At least a little.

  It pleases me.

  But I am unfamiliar with human expressions, so I am uncertain what the depth of her reaction to me is. Would it be enough to impregnate her? I hope the slight opening of her mouth is pleasure, but I cannot be sure. I consider her breasts once more. What did they look like without coverings? I want to see.

  “Remove your skin coverings,” I demand. The words escape me before I can stop them, and I won’t take them back.

  The liaison’s face turns pale and his cheeks turn more red. “Um, well, that is,” he stammers. “We don’t usually ask them…”

  The female’s eyes widen as she looks from the liaison and back to me, and she taps her ear. “I’m sorry. What did you say?” She turns to me. “What did he say? I cannot understand the language yet.”

  I can understand her words. Perhaps her translator needs a moment to initiate. I count to three. “Remove your skin coverings,” I repeat.

  She turns to the liaison. “I can’t understand him. What is he saying?”

  I glare at the liaison. “Her translator is malfunctioning. Tell her what I demand and then procure another.”

  The fidgeting man clears his throat, and he leans close to her ear. He murmurs something I cannot make out. It’s as though he is apologizing.

  Her eyes go even wider, but the set to her mouth tickles something in my mind. Perhaps she holds within her the mettle of the warriors yet. The prospect thrills me.

  The female drops her bag on the decking and then peels her top covering from her body. She puts her hands on her hips.

  The liaison spins around, but I’m not certain why he turns away from the beauty standing in front of us. I’ve never seen anything so exquisite. The ring of color around the nipples and the curve of the breasts themselves. It echoes the shapes of the galaxy. If possible, her nipples tighten even more. They pucker as though they are dissatisfied to be bare and alone.

  I would warm her. From head to toe. Over and over.

  “Is that what you wanted? Or do you want to see the bottom, too?” she says, but her expression doesn’t change.

  “This is satisfactory,” I say.

  The liaison repeats my words.

  Her arousal scents the air. Would she be salty or sweet against my lips?

  She makes her back straighter and moves her tongue along her top lip. She has a something metal in the middle of her tongue, and I try to discern what it might be. Then, to my shock, she huffs and bares her teeth, showcasing the white of each one.

  At this, I can barely contain myself. Not only has she obeyed my wishes, she has shown herself not only open to mating but seeking it by baring her teeth to me.

  The desire stabs my chest and snakes through my body. Sweat slicks me. I begin to mirror her expression, hoping she understands what I am offering, but I withdraw at the last moment.

  The female must pass the screening process. When she does, I will test her reactiveness myself. When she passes with the superiority I am certain she holds, I will make my offer.

  She redresses, and her breasts quiver with each movement. “I’m not sure what my tits have to do with my uterus,” she mutters, “but I am sure I will carry babies well.” She turns to the liaison. “Is Zette Dee around here somewhere?”

  They murmur together.

  The exit whooshes open, and my commander strolls into the transport room. I cringe at his arrival. He will recognize my sweat for what it is.

  He looks at chest, tips his head to the side, and then meets my gaze. Abruptly, he stops on the threshold. “Have you selected already?”

  I gesture to the female still on the transport pad. “If she passes the tests, I will make this one my consort.”

  My captain hisses. “Sidorial mryori,” he curses. “Your consort? We are not here for long-term mating, Felmorax. We are here for breeding.”

  “She will be mind, commander. I will have no other.” I speak it as the truth I know it to be

  “The high commander will not be pleased. He finds these human females substandard.”

  I do not answer. I am old enough to have grown weary of loneliness, and the harden spirit and the softness of this female’s body appeals to me. I would gather her in my arms and hear her cry out in the passion of orgasm. I would drive myself into her center, deep enough to implant my offspring deep within her. The sweat on my skin increases.

  The liaison gestures ahead of himself, and she crosses the room ahead of him. “We’ll get you a new translator,” the liaison says. “Yours must have been damaged in transport,” the liaison says, and he escorts her from the arrival room.

  The commander sighs. “Can you not remain on the high commander’s good side even for one day?”

  Crossing my arms, I consider my superior. “The high commander’s happiness is not my concern.” I have no interest in pleasing anyone other than myself. I have give much to our home planet, Melaxia. These human females seem to be our only chance for mating companions in the universe.

  “What brought you to the arrival room, commander?” I ask.

  “The ship’s captain requests you prescience for mealtime.”

  “I will attend,” I say, but I’m already plotting to see the human female and her breasts once more.

  Translator

  Roxanne

  In Lunar Orbit

  Nerves are a bitch.

  And I am not really sure how I talked myself into this, but here I am… showing my tits to aliens. Well… not aliens as in more than one of them.

 
ONE purplish alien asked me to lift my shirt, and I did. For him.

  As I follow the balding liaison, David Michael, my slip-on shoes don’t make much noise against the decking of their mobile space station, and my thoughts churn. How had I managed to be a part of half-a-percent? I had a hundred thou in the bank; I checked this morning. I guess that got deposited no matter what, but I had been ushered onto their ship as quickly as I could go.

  How had I managed to be a part of the half-a-percent?

  Then I came face to face with him.

  One sexy, huge mother-fucking alien. I had wanted him to command me. I’d peeled my shirt off and wiggled my shoulders… in… in… what? Challenge?

  Zette said their women didn’t have breasts. Of course he was curious. The way a person buying a horse might be curious.

  Yet his nostrils had flared, and he’d gotten sweaty almost instantly. That had to mean good things, right? I couldn’t understand anything he said, but my panties grew more and more soaked with every growling syllable that came out of his mouth. Could they speak our language? I shiver. What would my name sound like from his lips?

  He certainly wasn’t vanilla. Maybe butt stuff wouldn’t scare the shit out of him.

  I giggle and then promptly stumble on the flat floor.

  David Michael, the harem-keeper, as I’m already thinking of him, gives me an odd look. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” I’m grinning, still tickled by the memory of the ex. “I’m fine,” I say.

  He ducks his head at one of the passing aliens. “What is it?” he asks, speaking quietly.

  “Nothing.”

  The silence stretches between us. We wind through the corridors. I don’t see many humans, but there are hundreds of Melaxians.

  He clears his throat. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Take your shirt off.”

  I shrug, and my skin heats. “It’s fine.”

  “You’re here to perform a service, but you aren’t chattel,” he adds.

  “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” But even as I say it, I already know if that big purple alien tells me to take off my clothes, I’m going to have a tough time saying no.

  I touch David Michael’s elbow. “Have you ever seen what their females looked like?”

  He shakes his head. “They don’t like to talk about them. Somehow, it was the result of an intergalactic battle. Genetic warfare of some kind.”

  “How long ago did it happen?”

  “Hundreds of years.”

  That brings me up short. How old are they? How long do they live? I have so many questions, but I don’t ask any of them. Surely, there’s some kind of orientation class.

  We pass more Melaxians in the halls. They all look at me, but none of them stare. Not like the one in the transporter room.

  Their bodies are generally shaped like earth men, but they are taller and more buff than anybody back home. They each have unique patterns all over their tinted skin. Some are tinted more blue and some of them are more green. There’s not a lot of purple.

  Instead of eye whites like humans, they have irises that fill their eye opening with square pupils in the middle. It makes looking them in the eye a bit weird, at least until I get used to it.

  My commander—when had I started thinking of him like that?—had been more purple. I wonder if that means anything. Do their tints mean something? Indicate anything? Is their skin like a mood ring? Is it their age?

  We stop at a supply window, of sorts, at the intersection of two corridors, and David Michael asks me for my translator. I pull the earpiece and unplug the wires.

  Then he turns it in and received another. He helps me get it situated inside my ear then he connects the leads to the implant behind my ear. It works sort of like a cochlear implant.

  “Can you hear me?” he asks. “Do you understand me?”

  I nod. “I could hear and understand you before.”

  He turns to the supply window attendant. “Can you say something to her? We’d like to test the translator.”

  “Human females,” the attendant says. His expression doesn’t change, and he speaks in a bored tone.

  The attitude is clear in any language, but I hear it in English. I’m not really hearing it, but my brain gets the English version. “Works now. Thanks,” I say.

  The attendant disappears inside his supply room.

  David Michael grins. He holds his fist up for a fit bump. I haven’t seen anybody do that in ages, but I oblige the middle-aged man.

  “Ready to see your quarters?” he asks.

  “Sure. I think I would like that.”

  When he glances over my shoulder, he freezes.

  So I spin around to see what he’s looking at, and my mouth goes dry.

  The purple Melaxian hulk is standing there, right behind me with his arms crossed. He doesn’t blink, and his dark eyes glitter in the ship lights. “Can you understand me, female?”

  His words slam into me, and my knees want to buckle. Instead, I lift my chin. “I understand you. Did you come to ask to see my breasts again?”

  His upper lip curls in almost a snarl. His skin is as shiny as it was in the transporter room. “I will ask again, female, but not yet. I will be there for the sexual compatibility tests, and I will be hands on.”

  David Michael sounds like he’s having a conniption. Maybe he’s hyperventilating.

  But I can’t drag my eyes away from the Melaxian standing in front of me. His shoulders are twice as wide as any human males, and his pectoral muscles bulge over washboard ab muscles. He doesn’t have a six-pack. He has a twenty-four pack.

  Yet there’s something else, something more going on. I have to know.

  My skin catches fire, and I’m trembling. Warmth blazes in my belly, spreading through me, and I want to know what his dick looks like. I need to see. I take a step toward him, and my thighs slide against each other.

  I have to know.

  He blinks as though he heard me. Had I said it out loud?

  “In good time,” he growls. “You will become my captive.”

  I can’t tell if he means it as a threat or a promise, and I’m not sure I care.

  No, scratch that.

  I bite my bottom lip, and drag my gaze over every other-wordly inch of him.

  I definitely do not care how or why it happens. Goodbye, vanilla.

  I want to be the first human female to ride his weird-ass alien dick.

  The End… for now.

  Enjoy this story? Be sure to leave a review!

  And don’t forget to pick up another story in the Melaxian Surrogate series!

  About the Author

  Writing as Star Wing, J. A. Wing dreams of chocolate and flying. Or maybe flying /in/ chocolate. When she's not writing her latest contemporary dark romance, feathers and whiskey are two of her favorite things. When asked for the time, purple is the correct answer. Always. She lives in the middle of Nowhere, USA, with the man of her dreams.... and his pack of wolves.

  To keep tabs on the Melaxian invasion, follow Star Wing on Amazon.

  The Aliens Need A Bard

  Edeline Wrigh

  About The Aliens Need a Bard

  Nova’s a normal college student with a disappointing string of human men and an off-and-on love affair with her ukelele. Too bad she’s playing it when an adventuring band of aliens comes to earth to seek their bard.

  But worse things could happen. Her captors are sexy, considerate, and ready to attend to her every need.

  Besides, isn’t the prospect of saving a planet far more exciting than studying for her sociology exam?

  The Aliens Need a Bard is a quick and dirty, sexy short story about a college girl and her alien mate that will one day turn into a full-fledged reverse harem novel. Sit back, relax, and prepare for abduction.

  Chapter 1

  “We didn’t need one for our last quest,” F’ght’r said, huffing. “Or for
the ones we went on before that.”

  Clyrick put his fingers together. He spoke slowly, as was typical for his race, and it was even more pronounced next to the others. “It was closer than you want to admit, F’ght’r,” he responded. “You lost your faith.”

  “I didn’t-”

  “What he’s trying to say,” R’gu cut in, “is that you nearly got us all killed because you stalled.”

  “I didn’t...” F’ght’r started again, but with less conviction this time. “Okay, fine, I stalled,” he said. “But we still pulled it off without a bard. Where do we even get a bard in this part of the galaxy, anyway?”

  Wyzard, who had been silent, looked into the beyond. The Mudhai were blind, at least where it came to the physical world, but their kind had evolved to see things those around them could not: the past, the future, and alternate realities. Some could control it better than others, but for most, it was a combination of seemingly random scenes generated partially by their stream of consciousness. Wyzard’s sense was a little more refined, and he could find the most useful information within it.

  He moved in such a way that alerted the others he had a solution. And when Wyzard had a solution, they waited.

  Finally, he spoke. “Earth,” he said.

  The others didn’t argue; this was what the Mudhai were good at, and Wyzard was especially good at it even for a Mudhai. That didn’t mean they understood. But they had an understanding.

  The humans were understood to be among the most unrefined species known in the sixteen galaxies. While most species had solved problems and forming alliances, the humans continued to fight among themselves, allowing plagues to overrun them and destroying their planet despite that they still hadn’t figured out how to live elsewhere. But their biggest advantage was just that, in some ways: they understood how to be happy even in times of intra-species strife, and having not forced their evolution to specialize, they still had a broader ability to tap into a lot of their... well, primal senses.