Norah poured sighs and whines and whimpers of incoherent rapture into the air over the bed as Vashar took her with his lips and tongue. His tongue flickered wetly up and down her folds and its tip expertly served the pulpy knob of her womanly joy. Norah tossed her head, bombarded with ecstasy as if she were a primeval planet bombarded with meteors. Vashar licked her sex up and down, stoking his tongue in and out of her opening, and returned again and again to her joy bud, hitting her with pleasure that, if she had the means to express it, she could only describe as "cosmic". As if this were not wondrous enough, he changed his tactics, switching from licking to kissing and sucking. He enveloped her sex with his mouth and drew the petals of her womanhood into it, almost making her scream. Her sounds melted into half-sobs at this deep kissing of her most intimate place.
He finished with a few last, long licks on her opening before at last coming up on all fours, moving the breathtaking length and stiffness between his legs to her wetness, and aiming the head of it where his mouth had been. In a dizzying moment of euphoria, Norah permitted Vashar to lay the utter perfection of his body on top of hers and to slip his tool all the way inside her.
All the wonders of the universe that Norah had ever known were as nothing compared to the wonder of Vashar lying upon her and briskly, urgently pumping in and out of her. The uncanny sense of shared selves that accompanied the finishing of the Shaper device seemed a small thing now. The sharing of their bodies was a thrill that Norah could not measure or quantify. Vashar's body—this delicious, heaving thing of muscle and hair—and his tool—this phenomenal, hard, probing and thrusting thing of purest joy—became for her not only her entire being but her entire cosmos. Every thrust propelled her into orbit. She kneaded the straining and releasing muscles of his back and buttocks, urging him on, and he gave her everything that his breathtaking body had to offer. She squeezed the rising and falling mounds of his perfect bottom, making him grunt and huff in her ears, muttering what she could only guess were sex-drenched curses of passion in some alien tongue. At the sound of her whimpers from his pounding atop her, Vashar captured and plundered her mouth in kisses like burning meteors, taking her more like the warriors of his heritage than like the urbane lord that he had raised himself up to be. He pounded his throbbing piece in and out of her as if to take the place of every magnificently beautiful man who had ever not wanted her. And Norah cried out as his every deep and savage thrust took away a moment of disappointment and fulfillment she had ever known.
Vashar humped and beat away on top of her, harder and faster with every stroke, until he reached his pinnacle and could hold back no more. With a long grunt that sounded almost like the growl of some prehistoric beast, he rammed his hardened length all the way into her one last time and poured forth his seed, deluging Norah's depths with white wetness. His milkiness surged copiously into her, making her tremble from head to toes at the fleshy thunder of Vashar's orgasm.
He held himself all the way inside her until his piece was too soft, though still long and thick, to go on. As if in a trance, he climbed back down to the tingling wetness between her thighs and concentrated the full attention of his flicking tongue on her joy bud until Norah heaved like a quaking mountain and cried out in a fever of bliss at her own release. It was a big bang that seemed to create a universe of satisfaction inside her, and as Vashar rested his head on her stomach and strummed at her sex with his fingers, she gloried in the aftershocks.
Her exquisite Sarmian Lord remained there in Norah's bed all night and well past dawn, just as he promised. Again and again he mounted her, entered her, thrust his erection and his passion deep inside her. And so both the engineer from Earth and the wondrous machine of another world were complete.
THE END
Desired by the Alien Rogue
STACEY AND THE ALIEN ROGUE
She stood, dressed only in a black body suit, and checked herself in the mirror to compare what was with what soon would be.
Of course it was not just any mirror in which Stacey Fagan, all of nineteen years old since last week, scrutinized, judged, and prepared to bid a happy farewell to the overly round and stout body that nature had dealt her. It was a simulation mirror in whose program she could do with pixels what a surgeon would soon do with lasers, and re-sculpt the image that she saw into her future self: a body sleek and svelte, lean and tight, with slippery curves of exactly the right contour and in exactly the right places to be interesting. A figure to attract and hold what she wanted most.
She frowned a bit at the thought of what she must soon undergo, even knowing it would not hurt and her new body would be ready for business after a day's rest. It really shouldn’t even be necessary for people with bodies too large or too round to lie down for a surgeon with adipose lasers to conduct a physical reconstruction. The mastery of the human genome had enabled humanity, at will, to switch genes on or off or add genes to different organisms. With one flick of the chromosomes it was possible to render fat, girth, and obesity obsolete. But before Stacey was born, there was such a hue and cry about eugenics and genetic discrimination that the technology had never been used to its fullest potential. If applied to the extent of their capabilities, genetic engineering and biotechnology could transform humanity into true beings of the stars, not just travelers in spaceships with warp drives. Perhaps by the time of Stacey's grandchildren it might still happen. For the time being, those unhappy with the girth of their bodies relied on laser surgery to become physically who they wished to be. And now, just on the other side of her nineteenth birthday, it was Stacey's turn.
Like a sorceress making an incantation, she waved her hand before the mirror and said, "Display Stacey Fagan makeover." At once, the reflection in the mirror broke into billions of pixels and reconfigured itself. From the mirror's memory appeared a very different Stacey, recognizable only by the ripples of chestnut-brown hair flowing over her shoulders and down her back and the open smile and eyes like sapphires in her lovely, bright face. The rest of her, in the mirror, had metamorphosed into a body like that of a heroine in a 20th century comic book. Her smile broadened all the more to behold the Stacey-to-be. This was who she was inside, not that too-round and ungainly figure standing outside the glass. She could not wait to become her real self.
Inspecting who she would soon be, Stacey could not suppress a girlish giggle at the rewards of her transformation. Stacey expected to soon know her heart's fondest desire, just as soon as she was surgically remade into what giggled back at her from the simulation. Just outside her window lay boys—so many boys. Handsome boys, muscular boys, athletic boys. Perfect boys. Boys who never wanted the Stacey who stood in front of the mirror. Boys who, assuming they were heterosexual, always wanted something more like what stood inside the simulation looking out. First Stacey would shed the fat that stood between her and what she wanted. With that gone, her equally unwanted virginity would be next.
She knew girls who had what she craved: the touch, the kiss, the physical union with perfect boys. How many nights had she lain alone in the dark, knowing what those girls were getting from those boys, imagining what it must be like to feel them, to be held and entered by them? How many times had she cried for want of knowing what those girls knew? How many times had she despaired of ever knowing it herself? The only boys who would have her stout body were boys she did not want. She had begged and cajoled her parents since she was sixteen to let her go in for the surgery. Now she was nineteen and they finally agreed—which was what brought her to where she was now.
"Freeze display," she commanded the mirror. The simulator locked the image of her post-operative self into a still frame, and Stacey reluctantly turned away from it and crossed her luxury suite to the large picture window. Beyond her window beckoned the lights of Nirvana Planitia, the largest pleasure resort on the planet Mars, enclosed under a connected series of mighty transparent domes that shut out the almost, but not quite, terraformed Martian atmosphere.
The place looked as if the mon
umental architects of Ancient Greece, Rome, and Egypt had set themselves to building a city like Las Vegas on 21st Century Earth. Nothing about Nirvana Planitia was small and nothing about it was dim. It was all towers, spires, domes, arches, and pyramids, all done up in lights. A bustling traffic of beings from every planet in known space passed through every hour of every day. They came to do anything and everything, so long as it was entertaining or stimulating or sensual or fun. It was a city made solely for gamblers and hedonists of every type and every species, where some laws were written expressly to look the other way from certain pastimes. The slogan and motto of Nirvana Planitia was, "If you can't do it here, you can't do it at all."
Stacey eyed the wonderland of games, entertainment, and pleasure outside her window with a smile to match the lights that called out to her. Without a doubt she would "do it" here on Mars—and then have the most perfect boy she could find "do it" to her, again and again and again.
Feeling as though she had already been through the surgery, she spun around from the window, bounded back across the room, and flung herself across the bed upon which she knew some achingly beautiful boy would soon fling her lighter, sleeker self on. Oh, the things he would do to her! The things she would let him do, and do back to him! This was her birthday gift from her parents, two prominent attorneys of Earth: her first adult trip on her own, and an appointment with one of the finest plastic surgeons on Mars to have her body reshaped. She had not told her parents her intended final objective for this trip, but she and her mother had talked quite a bit about relationships and responsibility, and her mother had made utterly certain that precautions were in place for whatever may arise.
Grinning on the bedspread, Stacey mentally went over her checklist of measures. She had had her ovulation suppressed and her intrauterine condom was in place—double security against accidents. At Stacey's request, her doctor had used a routine cellular procedure to regenerate Stacey's maidenhood after placing the condom. She had been innoculated against all known STDs, not only those of humans but also of non-Earth humanoids. Only her outer body was not ready. Her outer body would be the final thing. After that...
She would be here for ten days in all. Ten days would be plenty of time to find that one boy. Or, who could say, perhaps two. She was hungry for experience.
Stacey rolled over from her stomach onto her back and imagined how the boy that she sought would spread out her new body the same way beneath him. Would he take her here, or somewhere else in Nirvana? Perhaps she'd have him on one of the artificial lily pads on Ares Lake, or on a force field in one of the artificial clouds that floated around and over the spa. The possibilities were endless. All she knew for sure was that it would be the most wonderful thing ever to happen in her life. He would be radiantly handsome with a tight, hard body and every muscle cut like a precious jewel. He would worship her new body as she worshipped his, and he would do all the things to her that young girls—heterosexual ones, anyway—dreamed that a stunning, handsome boy would do to them. And he'd do them over and over. She would find him among all the available young men visiting Nirvana who had posted themselves on the links. All she asked was that he was young, heterosexual, had no girlfriend or wife, and was not a hired stud. That, and physical perfection of face and body, was all she wanted—and what she would soon have at last.
_______________
"Rovan! Hey, Rovan!"
Tavos did not respond at first as he climbed up naked out of the pool in the staff quarters of the resort. He should have known better after all this time. Not responding to the name he had given for himself was liable to give him away. A novice mistake could cost him. When the voice called out a third time—"Rovan! Did you hear me?"—he flinched and started, and turned in the other young man's direction. Jed Nash, one of the other masseurs, lay on a deck sofa between the pool and the rear entrance to the resort and was calling him over.
Tavos changed directions and strode over toward Jed, water rolling off his lean and sinewy body, his zazansa swinging idly between his thighs. The water slicked down the dark hair that normally piled atop his head as well as the triangle of hair that tapered down from his hairline to his nose. Jed was naked as well, this being a clothing-optional resort. It amused Tavos to think of how much more ashamed humans had once been of their bodies, insisting on covering up their zazansa and gliarra when they swam and basked. Well, it was just another of the myriad differences between beings that Tavos might never have known first-hand if he had stayed on Sarma, instead of leaving to be on his own in space.
Jed tossed him a towel. Tavos caught it and began to dry himself off. Jed was another darkly handsome, lean and hard specimen, only a little older than Tavos. Except for the thick, dark hair on his head, he was smooth all over—not like Tavos, who kept a few days' growth of hair on his face and whose chest and abs were seductively haired as well. "Thank you," said Tavos. "I forgot to bring a towel from my room."
"Seems like your mind was somewhere else," said Jed, "like taking a swim didn't get you too clear. Big booking with a client today?"
"A young one," replied Tavos, holding onto the ends of the towel as it draped over his shoulders. "She has just come from Earth by herself, a human girl on holiday."
"Is that right?" Jed grinned. "A lot of the best tippers are on either end—the young ones and the older ones. I had an older one this morning. She'd just had all her wrinkles lasered away. Felt younger than she was, and tipped well—really well. She asked me if I'd throw in the extras for a separate fee. I didn't take her up on it—this time. I usually throw in the extras for the younger ones. Hey, have you done that yet?"
Knowingly, Tavos replied, "The 'extras'? No, I have decided to put a limit on my services."
"Why's that?" Jed answered, sitting up, curious. "You could be making out, Rovan. I mean making out and 'making out,' you know? Some of these women, they've got the looks to match their money. And you're set up like nobody else here. You've got what nobody else has got to offer. You’re a Sarmian in a Martian resort, surrounded with Earth women with money who come here looking for something exotic. Rovan, there's nothing more exotic here than you! You're already the most in-demand masseur here, and the word's getting around. How many clients do you get in a day?"
More modestly than he knew he ought, Tavos said, "I have my share."
"Yeah," said Jed, "you get your share and some of mine and some of all the other guys' too. The other masseurs are getting jealous of all the clients asking for you by name. Do you know how many Earth women fantasize about getting it from a Sarmian warrior?"
Tavos shook his head, dismissing the notion. "I am from Sarma. I am not a warrior."
"They don't know that. A fantasy only knows what it wants, and I'm telling you, buddy, you're it. You could be getting rich."
"I am doing well enough. And I am content to please them just with my hands and oils."
Jed shook his head, rubbed the back of his neck, and sighed. "I don't get it, man—not snatching money when it's being thrown at you. Come on, they must ask. They ask, don't they?"
Tavos thought back over the dozens of Earth females he had tabled since coming to Nirvana, and the generous number with whom tabling could easily have become an even more lucrative bedding. "Yes, some of them have asked," he said. "But my services... are limited."
Jed shook his head again. "I just don't get that. If I were you I'd be working what I’ve got. I'd be capitalizing, that's all I'm saying. Coming from Sarma, with your looks and your body and that prong of yours... I'd just be capitalizing."
"I do well enough," Tavos repeated. "Do you mind if I keep the towel to return to my room?"
"Keep it," said Jed. "Tell 'em inside I need another one, would you? And think about what I said. You're what they want."
Wrapping the towel about his waist, Tavos said, "I will consider it. And thank you."
Watching Tavos stride back into the resort, Jed called after him, "Give 'em what they want, buddy! You'll thank yourself
!"
_______________
In the sonic shower in his room, Tavos—alias Rovan—of Sarma let the mist of water and the acoustic fingers do for his body what his own hands would shortly do for his latest client. He was booked for the afternoon with a human girl who had decided to pamper herself with his massaging of her body fat before she had a surgeon laser it all away and turn her from a doughy-figured debutante to a sleek and dewy-eyed princess. Tavos did not judge. After all, he could easily be the one facing judgment. A most dire, severe, and final judgment.
"Rovan" was the latest of the series of aliases he had adopted since he’d stolen away from Sarma, years ago. Since then he’d always kept a step ahead of the hunters who had been sent after him.
He considered Jed's words, but not in the way that Jed had urged him to do. Jed was right about one thing: there was nothing more exotic in Nirvana Planitia right now than Tavos, a Sarmian estranged from the fields of battle, wielding carafes and bottles of interplanetary oils instead of deadly weapons. In this place Tavos stood out like a stiff zazansa. And Jed was right that Tavos had quickly become the busiest masseur in the resort. He was attracting attention, and it could easily become the kind of attention he did not want. It was only that the money was so good, more money than he had ever imagined. With what he was earning here, he might well afford to lie low for a long while on some little-trafficked planet in a star system on the frontiers. It was just too good an opportunity to pass up, so long as he did not get himself caught.
Arranged Marriage To The Rogue (Victorian Romance) Page 13
