CYA 4

You grab the VR rig and take it upstairs with you, intending to be just a minute, to wash it off and replace it before your parents get home.

Upstairs, you strip naked and slip the pink, glittery helmet on over your head. Immediately you are greeted by a well-muscled man with gold bracelets, a distressingly uniform tan, a handlebar mustache, and a penis the size of a baseball bat. Your mother’s preferences, clearly, and not really your own, but you don’t really have time to fiddle with the settings, and anyway, he is rubbing your shoulders and you can actually feel his cock brushing up against your naked back, and what the hell, you are getting pretty turned on anyway.

He nudges your thighs apart, and your cunt is good and wet and slippery, and now seems as good a time as any to grope for the pink prong part of the rig, which is now humming pleasantly away.

You thought you’d just slip it in a little bit, just enough to itch the scratch, but once you start you find that you really can’t stop. The toy slips all the way in, just like that: a brief moment of resistance and a twinge as your hymen tears asunder, and then pure bliss. Mr. Mustache is grunting like a bear, hammering you between your legs, plunging in and out, and you are hooked, reveling in the sensation of fullness, the toy buzzing happily away deep inside you, as your virtual gigolo fucks your cunt, your clit straining out, swollen and ready to pop like an overinflated balloon…

…and then your Mom barges in, screaming her disgust. Dad is close behind, and you find yourself grabbed by the hair and dragged forcibly out of bed, down the stairs, and into the front yard, where your Dad hoses you down with the garden hose. Sobbing, shivering, and soaking wet, you are bundled naked into the back of their SUV and driven straight to the Barachi embassy.

The next few hours are a blur. You vividly remember the humiliation of standing soaking wet and naked on the sidewalk outside the embassy, trying to hide your tits and pussy from the curious stares of passers-by as your Dad negotiates entry. You are brought inside, and plastic restraints are placed on your ankles and wrists. You are given a shot of something to calm you down –at some point you had started weeping and screaming hysterically. Your patents must have left; you never see them again. You are taken to a holding cell, brightly lit and sterile, and left alone in your misery.

There was nothing particular to remember about the shuttle flight, other than the deafening noise and teeth-rattling vibration of launch, and the crushing g-forces as you arced up through the sky. Part of you hopes for an anomaly, an explosion that would end the nightmare in a brief bright flash of flames. But no such luck.

The artificial gravity makes you feel queasy, as if you had spent too much time on the whirling teacups at the amusement park. You’ll never get completely used to it, you’ll feel perpetually off-balance from here out, but the worst of the nausea passes after the first few days.

Once aboard the outpost, you are brought into some kind of operating room, where a drone is waiting for you.

You can tell he is a drone, because of his size (he isn’t much taller than you), and because he lacks wings. He hums and clicks mechanically as he secures your head between his middle appendages and paints an antiseptic gel on your lips with his upper arms, while the lower pair wields surgical tools. (You knew it was a ‘he’ because no human has ever seen a female barachi.)

Barachi don’t feel pain, so they aren’t particularly sensitive about the sensation in species who do. They do, however, have very sensitive hearing organs on their thorax; apparently human screaming is uncomfortable for them and makes them agitated. Once you are fully prepped, the drone begins wiring your jaw shut and rearranging and extracting teeth. Finally he takes a long, curved surgical needle and polymer thread, and proceeds to sew your lips together, pausing in the middle to insert a stainless-steel straw into your mouth, through which you will consume your nutrition. The pain is terrible, you would have said unbearable, except that it goes on and on and you somehow bear it: tiny careful stitches close together, sealing your mouth tight around the metal drinking tube. Almost as bad as the pain is the sounds that the needle makes as it punctures and pierces through layers of tissue.

Finally, the drone is done with his task. With a hum and a click, he wipes the blood off your face with a sani-wipe, and leaves you, sobbing silently, chest shaking, tears running down your cheeks and falling to the floor in the parabolic curve of artificial gravity.

They must have put some kind of drug into the slurry they fed you through the straw, because things go blank for a while.

You are naked. There is no need for clothing here. Your breasts are tender and swollen: your feed is laced with hormones. A drone leads you from your sleeping chamber to a large, brightly-lit room. The drone locks your ankles, wrists, and head, not uncomfortably but very securely, into a polymer frame. An instrument of some sort is inserted into your anus. You wince as the drone shoves the bullet-shaped plug in past your opening, where it stays, securely lodged. Suction cups attached to surgical tubing are placed over your nipples, quickly sucking them erect and distended.

There are other women in the room, similarly secured, in various stages of pregnancy. You can’t really look around because of the way your head is clamped in place; and in any case your attention is now focused on the thing immediately in front of you.

It is a full male barachi. He is much bigger and half again as tall as you. His exoskeleton is a livid, poisonous green. His gossamer wings are fully extended from his carapace, indicating fertility. Six small, red eyes travel up and down your body, for all the world like an ogling construction worker. His mandibles slowly open and close. An ovipositor juts out from his thorax, a wickedly sharp and oversized segmented parody of a penis. Despite yourself, you realize that your cunt is sopping wet and drooling.

The lower arms hold your knees apart. Fighting them would be like fighting a hydraulic press. The middle pair of appendages spreads your labia with surprising dexterity, the upper pair holds your midsection with pincers like tungsten-steel. His mandibles clack excitedly. He spears you, penetrating your cunt with one cruel thrust.

The pain is beyond comprehension. You scream through the straw, through sealed lips, and twist and struggle to escape. Methodically, he pushes deeper and deeper inside you. Your cunt feels as if it is being split apart. Cruel, barbed spikes project from his ovipositor, piercing your flesh, latching into your labia and vaginal walls, lodging him even more securely in your cunt.

He thrusts mechanically, in and out. His beady, multi-faceted red eyes seem to glitter with excitement. His wings rattle and quiver.

Finally, he explodes. You can feel it, deep deep inside your cunt. The barachi are a parasitic species: the queen, in a chamber somewhere on the station, gives the males eggs to fertilize. The males hold the eggs in a special internal sac until they deposit them in a host. Dozens of slimy ova, the size of fish eggs, are squirted up your cunt. Retro-enzymes and mimetic hormones go to work, coaxing your cervex open and herding the eggs up into your womb, where they latch on to the walls of your uterus.

His task done, the male barachi withdraws his spines. With a shrug reminiscent of a post-orgasmic human male, he pulls his ovipositor out of you, and tucks it back inside his exoskeleton. Red blood and greenish slime gush out of your wounded cunt. You gasp and retch, trying not to puke inside your sealed mouth.

The drone leads you back to your cell, where you pass out. Already, the young barachi are growing inside you, alien cells replicating, feasting on your body’s nutrients.

Sex play is actually encouraged between hosts. Stimulation increases blood flow to the uterus and helps with milk production. No words are ever exchanged, no licks or kisses. Three women gang up on you, one holding you by the hair while the other two boldly finger your pussy and asshole. You aren’t quite sure if it is rape, because it is actually quite enjoyable. Another, older and very pregnant women wordlessly instructs you on how to fist her. You get a huge charge out of feeling her cunt pulsate on your hand as she comes. There is another girl, about your own age, who sort of becomes a friend: you masturbate together, fingering each other’s cunts as you rub your clits.

Your belly quickly grows and swells, almost to the point of bursting. The suction tubing is now extracting milk from your breasts around the clock. Your middle is now so large that it is difficult, nearly impossible to stand upright or to walk.

Some males enjoy coupling with hosts while they are pregnant. Whether this is because they enjoy the sensations, a mating instinct gone wrong, or just out of rank cruelty, you don’t know. Sometimes they will attempt to insert their ovipositor in a woman’s ass. This can result in grave injury, infection, and if the male barachi isn’t very careful, death for the host. Fortunately, this does not happen to you during your first hosting.

The eggs gestate for about three weeks.

A drone leads you back into the insemination room. Your belly is bulging obscenely, the things inside you are squirming like a sack full of hyenas. You can actually see them wriggling inside you through your flesh. You are strapped into the rack not a moment too soon: your body convulses as a powerful contraction wracks through you. First one, then another and another and another squirms out of your vagina, falling with a plop onto the floor. The larvae are light green and limbless, each one about the size of a loaf of bread. More and more of them worm their way out of you, maybe a dozen in total.

Some combination of their texture, the wriggling action against your g-spot, the instrument in your anus, the way your cunt is stretched wide, and the cocktail of artificial hormones sets you off. You’ve never had an orgasm like this before: it is incredibly intense, and it goes on and on as the grubs squirm their way out of your body. The sensation is insidiously addictive. As soon as it is over you want more.

The larvae are herded into a special nursery room where a drone will feed them breastmilk until they pupate. Meanwhile, the male wastes no time. Even as the last larvae squirms out of your gaping vagina, he mounts you. It still hurts: the alien prong was never designed for a human cunt, and the spikes are still cruel and barbed, but as he thrusts inside you, getting ready to deposit his eggs, you begin to feel a certain twisted pleasure through the afterglow of your orgasm. You could almost learn to enjoy this.

This cycle will continue until your body is worn out. As the months pass, time seems to blur, and the days and nights blend together. Your senses dull, your mind wanders and atrophies. By the time the barachi are done with you, you are hardly even human. Not anymore.

END

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  1. […] If you take the VR rig, click here. […]

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