CYA 7

You should have plenty of time before either of your parents get home. Knowing that what you are about to do is wrong, that it could get you into the worst kind of trouble, you do it anyway. Careful not to touch anything else, you snag your dad’s VR rig, and bring it up to your room.

When you slip the helmet on over your head, you are immediately presented with a trio of women, virtually identical except for the color of their hair: a redhead, a blonde, and a brunette. Each is naked, with a pair of oversized breasts, and a hairless, hourglass-shaped body. Your dad doesn’t have a lot of imagination in the sexual fantasy department, but there is no time to fiddle with the controls, so it will have to do. You slide the sleeve attachment over your already hard cock, and are immediately overwhelmed with sensation.

You are sucking the blonde lady’s big tits and playing with her pussy while the redhead and the brunette take turns sucking your cock. It all feels so real: so amazingly warm and wet!

You are just about to come, your cock buried impossibly deep in the red-haired lady’s throat, when you hear an angry shout from somewhere outside this world, and then a stab of pain as the helmet is yanked off your head and you are slapped across the face.

Unfortunately, your cock chooses this exact moment to shoot off, and your precious mother-of-pearl squirts out the end of the VR tube, splattering all over your tummy and chest.

Your father is standing over you, wearing a scowl of disapproval. Your mother stands in the door, her face a mask of tragic disappointment. Your dad grabs you by the hair and drags you down the stairs and into the front yard, where he hoses you down with the garden hose, washing away all traces of your sin.

You are bundled naked into the back of your parent’s 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, your cock shrinking and your balls trying to climb back up inside you as passers-by stare curiously while 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 crying and begging 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 is nothing special to remember about the shuttle flight, other than the deafening noise and teeth-rattling vibration of launch, and the crushing g-forces as you arc 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 most intense 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 it is a drone, because of his size (he wasn’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 fusses with 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 causes them agitation and discomfort. 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: tiny careful stitches close together, sealing your mouth tight around the metal drinking tube. Almost as bad as the pain are 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 balls are tender and swollen: your feed is laced with hormones. A drone leads you from your sleeping chamber to a large, brightly-lit room. He locks your ankles, wrists, and head, not uncomfortably, but securely, to 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 the opening, where it stays, securely lodged. It feels pleasantly unpleasant, and your asshole is tender and stretched out. The thing vibrates back there, making the roots of your cock hum, and you find that you are incongruously erect.

There are other men and boys in the room, similarly secured. Some of them are sporting erections. Some have bulging, grotesquely oversized scrotums. 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 towers over you, much bigger and taller than you are. 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 naked body, sizing you up. His mandibles slowly open and close. An ovipositor juts out from his thorax, like a whip or a sabre, a wickedly sharp long and thin armored and segmented parody of a penis. Despite yourself, your cock stains out from your body toward him.

One pair of appendages grasps your penis with surprising dexterity, another pair is wrapped like tungsten-steel around your midsection and a third pair is manipulating your balls. His mandibles clack excitedly. He spears you with one cruel thrust, inserting his long, slender, barbed sex organ straight up your urethra.

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, his ovipositor worming its way through your inner plumbing. Your penis feels like it is being torn apart from the inside. Cruel, barbed spikes project from his ovipositor, raking the inside of your urethra. You will piss blood for a week. Finally, an unpleasant sinking feeling deep inside you lets you know that the end of his tube has finally reached your balls.

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 ball sac. 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 into your scrotum. Retro-enzymes and mimetic hormones go to work, and the eggs latch on to your testes, where they will consume your nutrients and grow. Already alien cells are replicated, growing inside you.

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. While you sleep, a suction cup is placed over your cock: from now on your mother-of-pearl will be milked from you and fed to the grubs.

Sex play is actually encouraged between hosts. Stimulation increases blood flow to the testicles and promotes semen production. No words are ever exchanged, no licks or kisses. Three grown men gang up on you, one holding you by the hair and another pinning your arms while the other boldly fingers your asshole. You aren’t quite sure if it is rape, because at some point it actually becomes quite enjoyable, even when they take turns fucking your ass. The experience leaves you horny, hard, and confused. Another guy, an attractive fellow about your own age, shyly shows you how to hold his cock, and wordlessly you jerk each other off.

Your ball sac quickly grows and swells, almost to the point of bursting. It is almost to walk now, or even to stand upright for long, because of the basketball-sized growth between your legs.

Some male barachi enjoy coupling with hosts while they are ‘pregnant’. Whether this is because they enjoy the sensations, or just out of rank cruelty, you don’t know. Sometimes they like to hold a guy buy his throat with their mandibles until the points penetrate the skin and the blood flows and runs down their chest. This can result in grave injury, infection, and if the male barachi isn’t careful, death. Fortunately, this does not happen to you during your first hosting.

A drone leads you back into the insemination room. Your scrotum is bulging obscenely, the things inside you are squirming like a sack full of hyenas. You can actually see them moving inside, which is stomach-turning. 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 through your urethra and out the end of your penis, falling with a plop onto the floor. The larvae are light green and limbless, each one about the size of a marshmallow. More and more of them worm their way out of you, maybe a dozen in total.

Some combination of their texture, the wriggling pressure against your prostate the instrument in your anus, the way your cock is stretched, and the cocktail of artificial hormones sets you off. You’ve never had an orgasm like this before, completely separate from ejaculation. 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 semen until they pupate. Meanwhile, the male wastes no time. Even as the last larvae squirms out of your gaping urethra, he mounts you. It still hurts: the alien prong was never designed for a human cock, and the spikes are still cruel and barbed, but as he thrusts inside you, getting ready to deposit his eggs, you almost feel a certain twisted pleasure through the afterglow of your orgasm. You could almost grow to enjoy this.

The 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

1 Comment »

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

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