#alien fic

It’s a strange sensation when you wake. The air is so clean and the room is so bright and shiny. Everything is silver. Overhead lights in a pure white are blinding. Blurry–blurry and hazy, yet crisp. 

It’s not your bedroom, that much is clear, and the rest comes gradually. Padding touches your knees and molds to them like they were made for you. Cuffs wrap around your wrists and lock your hands and your ankles to the floor–no, not the floor. You’re high up on something. A table?

It’s hard to think. There’s something over the lower half of your face, a thick material covering your nose and mouth with a tube keeping your mouth open. 

Naked.

You’re naked.

Cold air makes you drop to see yourself shiver. Naked on…on a table? In a silver room with too-bright lights and cuffs that keep you captive.

What–?

It’s sweet–the taste, the scent. It’s sudden. A drip along your tongue that you can’t avoid. Just there. In your lungs, in your throat. It expands in a heat that starts out dry, but you don’t cough. You…sink. It’s a sink beyond your lungs and past your stomach. A tension in your back and thighs. A tightening of your balls and a rush of blood to your cock.

And the haze that engulfs the room remains. It burns. 

Precum dribbles as your cock throbs in pain.

At a distant, quiet hum, you barely manage to lift your head to see the silver walls parting. A backlight so white and bright, the entering figures can barely be made out. Two enter, one pushing something. Something on a cart or maybe it’s a table? Every blink gets heavy, but no sleep comes with it. It’s just heat.

Writhing, throbbing heat.

The figures walk past you.

Behind you.

A cart–it’s a cart–stops next to you. 

Green. A long, slender green hand moves in your tunneling peripheral vision. Precum dribbles consistently through every aching pain injected into you with every drop of sweetness on your tongue. Moving–you don’t mean to, but your hips jerk forward. There’s nothing to touch, nothing to help–the way you’re cuffed, you can’t drop to the table just right to hump the pain away. Anything, any bit of friction, just something.

That green hand comes into view again. A glint of clear glass is tube-shaped in their fingers. Long and thick. Another clear, plasticky tube at one end and the other open. A dribble of something is inside of it. Something that’s cold against your cock when that tube is brought right to you. An easy slot of your cock inside of it with straps buckled over your hips. 

Your vision blurs into itself again. It wasn’t glass, no. Whatever molded to your knees was inside of that tube. It wrapped around your cock cleanly and nestled it into a warm, tight, wet embrace.

Something’s spoken. Something in a language you can’t quite make out, but it doesn’t matter. It’s there, then it’s not. And all you have left to process in a dwindling sliver of coherence are the silver robes the blurry figures wear. That one wears. Beside you.

The other–

Click.

Warm, wet, and perfectly fit to your cock starts to vibrate. It hums. It pumps. It waves from the base of your shaft all the way to where your tip is so sensitive, the end nudging against it makes you scream behind that muffling mask.

A snap of sanity without a bridge to return it.

You drink up what comes quicker onto your tongue, chasing every drop before it’s fallen. And as the pain echoes into the realm of pleasure, the device humming and pulling you right into a blinding, breaking climax, there’s a new sensation. A slimy, slithering wetness over your legs. Up your hips. Brushing against your nipples and locking around your throat. It closes tightly around your balls and where it can sneak inside the tube at the base of your shaft.

Pressing against your asshole and spreading you while another slowly slides in and brushes that spot–

Blinding.

They close around your nipples and pinch hard. They suddenly thrust into your asshole, pounding against your prostate. The pain in your cock swells instantaneously into a climax that cracks out across the room like a gun shot. You thrust as if you have anything to thrust into. Grunt and groan, drinking up what falls into your mouth, and feel the hot tears spill down your cheeks at the strong suction taking your cum through the tube.

Nothing stops.

Nothing alleviates. Nothing stills. Nothing hesitates.

Your eyes roll back as the tentacle seems to expand, and it drills pointedly and purposefully into your prostate. Again. And again. And again. Your elbows give out and your body jolts with every thrust. 

Your next climax hits you with a squeeze of your balls, and that tube milks you.

And it milks you again.

And again.

And endlessly again as that tentacle pounds into you and the tube strokes your cock. 

Vaguely, you can see it. A glint of glass. A wide and tall tube the size of a large pitcher. Filling slowly. Continuous. From you. Your cum dripping down into it. You drool behind the mask watching it fill. Tears spilling down in pure, blinding, mindbreaking pleasure. Orgasm after orgasm ripping through you. The tentacle in your ass pounding into you and driving you further into the haze of ecstasy. 

It never stops.

It never fades.

A robe only drops to the floor where one is picked up, and you’re left gaping and clenching rhythmically on the edge of another orgasm before they’re both. Tweaking your nipples while drilling into you.

They speak a few times, and it sounds deadpanned. It’s hard to make anything out beyond that, but they do speak. Presumably about you because when they talk, for a second, something the tentacle will thrust into you harder, still, and rub against your prostate until you’re violently climaxing. 

Then they return to how they were fucking you.

Over. And over.

Your eyes roll back at some point with a mindhazing, consciousness striking orgasm that has your sobbing moan pushing through even the mask, and your body goes limp.

Tentacles become long fingers that spread you gaping, and fingertips push into you. No. Not just fingertips. There’s a thick, bulbous end that makes you gasp in its thickness. It goes deep and curved, pressing against your prostrate cold and smooth. 

The tube leaves your aching cock. Still not relieved. Still leaking. But something else replaces it. Something freezing cold. Something metal. Something that latches in a way that you feel it not just at the base of your cock, but around your balls, and then back around your hips.

It latches loudly. Twice.

And then that bulbous plug starts to vibrate.

Wait–

Your cock swells with a new ache, and you jolt awake in your bed. Bedroom. In the bright morning sunlight soft and welcoming. Or, it would’ve been were it not for the loud hum and the pulsing vibrations thrusting into your ass. It’s one moment of confused bliss, looking around your room, before you’re on your stomach, back arched, pulling at your bedsheet moaning.

Metal presses against your cock hard. A cage. One look down, and your cock’s caged in, leaking, but stuck half-hard, strained and trapped. 

Wait. Wait. Wait.

On your headboard, as you writhe in place, humping your bed to ease the ache that wouldn’t ease, there’s a piece of paper. A note. In perfect handwriting taped right above you on pristine paper.

If artificial insemination does not succeed, we will proceed with the traditional Earth method.

Do not waste in our absence, we require all you give.

We will return at sunset.

A small pit drops in your stomach. You just collapse onto the bed, stuck in the belt, the cage, plugged and stimulated. There’s no helping what dribbles out of you, and you make due with being stuck in bed, overstimulated to hell and back without an orgasm to speak for it.

At sunset….

Your eyes fall shut before it reaches.

Sterile.

There’s a sterile smell when your eyes open. 

It’s sterile and cold, and there’s a quiet hum of some type of machinery that breaches beyond the air around you. It sinks. Past your skin, the cuffs on your wrists, the freezing, padded table underneath you molding to your body.

Cuffs?

A heavy blink brought a blinding light above you that made you shut your eyes again. The hum continued. Deep in your bones and into a strange pit in your belly. 

Table? 

Lights? 

You cracked your eyes open again and winced at that horrid light.

Lights. Rows of them above you. Spotlights. Silver and perfectly polished. All honed in on you. You. You on a table that wasn’t your bed. Cuffed at your wrists, held high above your head, and down at your ankles–

Naked.

In a silver room of too many lights, dead center next to a tall table covered with a thin papery blanket, you lay naked. Gagged. Gagged with a thick mask over your nose and mouth. A tubular piece pressed into your mouth to bite on without any give to it.

Pulling at the cuffs was a futile effort. A quick, panicky realization. Cold air pebbled your nipples and made you shiver, and writhing about only dug the cuffs into your wrists harder. Down on your ankles, stirrups held your legs up and as open as they’d go. A faint stretched going through the back of them and down through where the table was clearly angled. Your hips higher than your upper half, angled back, yet lifted. 

Where were you? What happened? Were you dreaming? Last you recalled, you’d climbed into bed with a cup of tea to help you sleep. It’d come so quickly, it’d been a quiet miracle. And now…?

Sweet.

The humming grew louder, and something sweet came in on your next breath. Down across your tongue. Sweet like blueberries and whipped cream. A soft, addictive sweetness that came in every breath and dripped down your throat in small, rhythmic drops.

Where….

The silver room began to blur.

The chill began to fade.

Where…were…you?

To your left, at a silence-breaking woosh, the wall broke in half. Four figures, too shadowed in blurry vision to see, came strolling in. Tall. Twice your size, at least. Masks covered the bottom half of their faces, green skin stood out against the silver, and a range of different eyes looked upon you. Red, pink, purple, and yellow. Tall, yes, but their bodies were distinct. Curvier. Slimmer. Muscular. 

A heavy blink seemed to ease away the pit with heavy help from the sudden flood inside of you that felt wrong. Felt like a swell of pressure in your nipples and clit. Like a heat sinking down into your cunt and making you want to writhe.

Were.

You were writhing. Squirming and pulling on those restraints again. Pain–there was pain. An overwhelming, encouraging pain that pushed a sound out into the room. You. That was you. That crack of a sound, a moan drawing out to the edges of pain was you. 

It hurt.

Your nipples, hard peaks. Clit, throbbing with the beat of your heart. Your cunt, clenching around a nothing so apparent, you felt wasted. 

One blurred being tilted their head.

A language lost to translation came as the next sound in the room.

Robes. They wore robes. Silver and white fine robes. Robes that, as one stepped forward, were opened at the front and dropped. 

A slimy, slow slithering was gooey over your legs. Across your sides. Stomach. The blurs remained blurs, but there were new ones. Green. Small and large. Draped across your body and climbing up like rising water. Warm and wet, they came up. They wrapped around your nipples in a slow pinch that worsened into a point of jolting hips. 

Hips held as they were by more. More parting you where everything felt hot. Where a small end nudged your clit, and the jolt of pleasure was electric. 

You screamed.

Another spoke. 

The one who’d dropped their robe stepped forward again.

Planting two large hands on your inner thighs, you were given just one glimpse. One stomach-dropping glimpse of the leaking cock coming to your cunt. Tentacles. They were green tentacles roaming your body, tweaking your nipples and finding a sudden, simple rhythm on your clit. Immediate attention. Immediate relief that came with none.

That cock wasn’t anything more than a sudden need the last of your rationale knew was wrong.

Someone spoke, and the figure shifted their hips. The tip of their cock pressed against your entrance with a stretch so enormous, your eyes rolled back. Then a push. No warning. No unknown language spoken again.

Just a push.

Everything shot toward that filled and stretched sensation in an instant. The silver room glowed bright as that substance dripped down your tongue. And as the fat head of their cock pushed into you, the tentacles rubbing and tweaking your nipples and clit, it was instantaneous. 

You kicked. Screamed. Sobbed. Writhing around in pure blissful agony as you clamped down around just his tip, climaxing. Climaxing so hard it ripped through where your back arched, and you tried to lift your hips to get more. To get away. To do something other than succumb to the rippling pleasure gushing out around the alien's cock.

But they pushed in. Further. Deeper. Slower.

A push that pushed every blinding second of your orgasm through to the end. 

A tear slipped down from the corner of one eye as you started to go limp, cunt fluttering around the cock pushing deeper, and deeper, and deeper. So deep your eyes fluttered shut before you could even blink. The pain, again, before you even tried a breath, was back.

Fluttering around their cock, it was back.

Begging.

Desperate.

They stilled, as deep inside of you as they could go, your entire body taut and shaking.

A large green hand pressed low on your belly and patted it twice.

The language was spoken again.

What you didn’t know would be the last of your sanity.

And then they moved.

Slow, deep thrusts that struck spots that had you screaming. Tears slipped, and you pulled on the cuffs. It was too much. They were so big, and the tentacles on your nipples were rolling them and the one of your clit wrapped around it in a circle, rubbing at it consistently. 

The table was bolted down.

Slow and deep, but the thrusts were still rough.

At the drop of your head back and a hard, pinching pull at your nipples and your clit, their cock dragged inside of you, and something snapped. With an orgasm that came on a hard snapping thrust, with a gush around their cock, a scream erupting as pleasure took over and confiscated everything.

Something…snapped.

There was nothing, then, outside of climaxing. Being filled. Being fucked. The touches, the pleasure–your head stayed back and your back stayed arched off the table as every other thrust had you barreling toward another orgasm. And when it hit, you squirmed and moaned and lapped up what dripped down your throat.

Fucked raw.

Fucked slow and hard.

Fucked through tear-streaking orgasm after orgasm. Until the thrusts stopped with their cock nestled deep as they could go, and they came. All over you, from the ends of the tentacles, they came.

They retreated.

Then another robe dropped to the floor.

The silver room blurred into oblivion. Tears made it one glimmery silver mess with the bright lights taking everything away. Freezing air kept you shivering, and tentacles swarmed over you to pinch your nipples, to rub your clit, and stuff lower. Prodding inside your ass as another cock rammed into you. 

Hard. Hard and rough and with short thrusts and hands gripping your hips with painful bruising. Or the slow ones that had you sobbing for more. To cum again. So close, yet kept on the edge. Over and over. Until short, hard thrusts were back, and you couldn’t contain it. Couldn’t hold anything back even if you’d tried.

Endless.

It was endless.

Cum dribbled out of you before more was loaded back in by another fuck. They stayed with you for an indeterminate amount of time. Was one with you only for a few minutes, and then another joined? There were times where it felt like the hammering thrusts continued and continued and continued while you came, and came, and came until you were cracking out moan after moan for a reprieve. 

But they kept fucking.

And in came another climax.

Another world-breaking, mind-shattering orgasm that made you squirt around their cocks.

Full.

Both holes, so full.

They stayed as such even when you were barely conscious, barely registering the tentacles falling away and not another set coming to replace them. Heaving breath after breath, still drinking what fell down your throat, a deep tremor making you shiver uncontrollably, cold metal pressed into your cunt and your ass.

Thick.

Cold.

Smooth.

Click.

A whirring brought a chill around your cunt and over your ass. Then your hips. A little of your wait.

Click. Click. Click. Click. 

A hard latching.

With a slow loss of consciousness, a void filling in where you looked down at the four figures each putting a hand on your belly. Low on your belly. There was a metal cage over your lower half. Locked with four keys tucked away into robes they wore once again.

Each gave your stomach a pat.

And then each departed.

The table whirred and hummed, vibrating beneath you. The end beneath your bottom tipped up higher. Higher. Higher, angling you to lie on your back, your hips up in the air.

An impossible heat struck where their hands were, and all you could do was blink at your belly.

Sleep claimed you right as the sleek plugs started to vibrate inside of you. One over your clit hummed to life. Your eyes fell shut and rolled back as you came.

And came.

And came.

Their ritual, as you’d later learn, for breeding.

One that continued even when you awoke naked in your bed come morning, the cage still locked on your lower half. A single note written in perfect handwriting on your nightstand. The plugs assaulting every sensitive spot and making you scream with no mask muffle your cries.

None will claim what we have as ours. 

We will return at the Earth's sunset to repeat the ritual until one of us has succeeded. 

You will hold in all we have given you. Your pleasure will be bountiful.

We will return.

Another orgasm slammed into you and brought your face into your pillow. You frantically reached for your nightstand clock, staring at the 6:00 mocking you with the rising sun. 

Sunset? 

Your back arched with another cataclysmic orgasm.

It takes hours, but eventually, you reach it: a compact settlement that is barely any different from the military base, with sturdy buildings and wide farmlands all around.

You are not sure what you expected of Bruk’x’s family. Stoic, maybe. Disciplined. Like the soldiers on the base. But what you get is something else entirely.

They aren’t loud in the way humans are loud, but they fill the space, effortlessly. They demand it without meaning to. Bruk'x brothers, three of them (two older, one younger), come barreling out of the house, crowding you the moment your boots hit the ground. They speak over one another in fast, fluid Xanari. Their questions are layered and eager, and you need several seconds to catch up and understand them.

Your alien tries to calm them down, but they are relentless, and in the end, it’s their mother who saves you. A tall woman with silver-grey locs swept into a high coil and a presence that commands obedience with a single look. But it's not a soldier kind of authority, it's a mother kind. She doesn't raise her voice. She just steps forward and smacks the back of the nearest son's head with the flat of her hand. He straightens like he has been whipped. You almost laugh at it. You know, she didn't hit that hard.

"Let her breathe," she says simply.

And just like that, the chaos is tempered.

You are ushered inside, introduced properly, offered something to drink, and suddenly, you are no longer the outsider. You are part of something. If you had any lingering fear about being judged or rejected, it vanishes the moment the stories start.

And oh, they tell stories. His brothers take such joy in it. Awkward, embarrassing memories from Bruk'x teenage years, from his first failed hunt to the time he passed out during his first military ceremony. Your alien takes it all with gritted teeth and dry commentary, though he is quick to come up with just as many humiliating tales about them, too. Apparently, their parents had their hands more than full with four boys who had no concept of personal boundaries or self-preservation.

But beneath all the laughter and teasing, you get a more real picture of Bruk'x. The serious one. The quiet one. The one who always took things a little more heavily than his brothers. The one who stayed in the military while the others went back to working the family’s lands. The one who didn’t just survive basic training, he excelled at it.

Because on X’arnat, everyone trains. Male or female. It’s not optional. You learn to fight, to build, to survive. You learn to respect the land and its dangers. But after that, most Xanari return to their homes, their trades, their families.

But Bruk’x didn’t.

He chose the structure, the discipline.

And yet… here, with his family, he softens. He stays close to you, arm brushing yours, occasionally murmuring small translations or names into your ear. His voice is low and warm, grounding you when all of this becomes too much.

You also notice something else. His parents. The way they move around one another. There is no fight for dominance, but his mother leads the rhythm of the household like it’s a dance she knows by heart. His father follows without hesitation, not because he is lesser, but because he trusts her lead. And when she pauses, he’s there to catch the next step. It’s beautiful, subtle. A mutual respect that has been built over decades.

Bruk'x father is quieter. Similar to his son, but there is a steady warmth in him that his family leans on without thinking twice.

This is what Bruk’x grew up with. What shaped him. What he wants, maybe in the future.

Of course, no family visit is complete (anywhere) without someone asking the universal question.

"So, when will there be younglings?"

You nearly choke.