Dimensional Attraction
Velvet touch. Perfect rhythm. Pierre closed his eyes and willed her to come all over him. She obliged, her eyes flying open, her body overloaded.
“Captain!” The computer’s flat voice cut in with a special note of panic. “We’re leaking atmosphere!”
Pierre leaped up, flailing to cast aside the simulation. It collapsed in on itself in a cacophony of scattered light and garbled sound. “Fuck! Get it sealed down!” He groped at the edges of his jumpsuit, trying to force his disappointed cock back inside.
“Don’t bother,” said a silky voice beside him.
Pierre froze. Someone was standing right behind him, her long-clawed hands draped over his shoulders like the ends of a very sharp scarf. Her breath, like rose petals and old books, prickled at the spot just behind his ear.
There were no females, human or alien, on board his ship beyond the models contained in the AI for virtual reality. He steeled himself against the distinct possibility of death as he turned around.
She was incandescent: sparks showered all around her, but these winked out of existence before they came into contact with anything real. Her whole slender, black-clad body—or was she clad? It could have been downy fur—shimmered as if not quite present. If her claws hadn’t been digging into his neck, Pierre would have guessed she was a hologram.
“Down, boy,” she purred, and he tumbled back into the simulation chair. Instantly she was straddling him, rubbing her tight-wrapped crotch against his cock, still dangling out of the jumpsuit. Pierre shuddered towards her.
“Who the hell—”
“An inter-dimensional being hell-bent on getting laid. Now, are you going to fuck me or what?” The creature began to peel off her own suit, and Pierre saw that she did indeed have fur, but it was a rich blue and curled in tight kinks. He reached up a hand without thinking and touched it; she hissed and snapped at his fingers, her teeth puncturing the air where his skin had been seconds before.
“You’ll break the slipstream,” she mewled. “I’m riding behind a warship. I’ve got about…” She glanced down at something on her wrist, though Pierre saw nothing there. “Forty-five seconds.”
He shrugged and tugged at his cock, his eyes taking her in. She had no reason to be here, on his ship—there were hundreds within range, silently orbiting the Zeus station. As if in answer to his unspoken question, she said, “Size matters,” and then settled her entrance right over the tip of his cock.
There was an audible rush of air, and he found himself sucked up inside of her. He flinched, expecting pain, but instead a very active set of muscles rippled up and down the length of his shaft, bringing him to the brink in seconds.
“Aahhwraanbeffflisshhhhh,” he attempted. The creature grinned and buckled down to the business of riding him. Pierre fell into it, relishing the touch of real flesh instead of the half-hearted squeeze of a simulation; his head lolled on the simulation chair and he tried to size her up, figure out what kind of a being she was, whatever he could think of not to come too soon.
Her claws were dangerously close to puncturing his skin, but rested lightly enough that she never drew blood. Still, she raked them down his sides, drawing responses from nerves he had never even known were in his body. Suddenly, she rippled and faded, almost gone, her face contorting as her vagina tightened around him.
“Gods!” she screeched, and as Pierre’s whole body rippled with an orgasm, the tension released from his cock and he spurted into the air. There was only a lingering scent of roses and ancient pages as the roar of a warship passed by.
Robot Uprising
The lab hummed with life and nearly-life as Titus sidled through. He tried to keep his clumsy apologies to a minimum, but it seemed that every time he turned to make his amends he bumped into someone else’s delicate project. Finally, grumbling, he reached the bank of office doors at the back and dove into his.
Gleaming a tantalizing silvery-blue, the robot stood slumped against her upright harness. Her faceted eyes were lifeless, and even her metal breasts seemed to sag. Titus ran his hand down her chrome-plated arm, a whisper of a touch that lingered over the activation pod at the base of her wrist.
She blinked and straightened, her head swiveling as she gathered vitals about her surroundings. After a moment, she locked her eyes on Titus. "Hello, sir,“ she said in a voice several notches too loud.
"Ttssshhhhhshhhh!” Titus’s fingers danced frantically over first his mouth, then her mouth-opening, as he scrambled to find the volume. A few flicks of the remote on his desk and she was speaking in a sensuous whisper. He glanced over his shoulder. No one in the lab had seemed to note the interruption, but instead of taking chances he hit another button, which darkened the windows.
Now he crossed back to the robot and wrapped his arms around her. She stood unmoving except for her eyes. "Are we alone?“ she asked.
Titus nodded. "Yes. Yes, very alone. Very much alone.”
Whirring and clicking, the robot sprang to life, stepping down from her harness and pushing him onto his knees. "Make my pleasure modules sing,“ her staccato voice snapped.
Titus’s face creased in a beatific smile. "You forgot – ”
“Make my pleasure modules sing, BITCH.”
Titus fell to licking at the slit of artificial flesh as the robot purred and gripped his tousled hair in impossibly strong fingers.
An Unusual Weapon
She is almost six feet tall, her breasts bound in plated strips of pulsing charged armor. Most of the rest of her body is nude, except where similar electrified panels hold in the un-aerodynamic parts of her body. She moves like the night, dark and sudden, shadowed and malicious.
It doesn’t strike me that anything is unusual about her until she draws her blade.
My hand drops to my holster, but her weapon whips out and strikes my hand. My hackles rise, my ears flatten, and by instinct a howl fills my throat, a cry of pain equal to the sting of her blade. Instead of a mortal wound, a harsh red welt rises on my wholly intact furred fingers.
I stare in disbelief at the warrior woman’s weapon, which quivers upright in the air. It shimmers insubstantially, as if undecided on what form it will take. One of those forms is distinctly phallic, and now the weapon hardens into this shape as she smacks it into her other palm with a toothy smile.
“We both know how this fight ends,” hisses her translator. Her grey lips do not move, but her eyes narrow and widen expressively. "You, on your knees, ass in the air.“
She is so frank that I give her the benefit of the doubt. My jaws work around the words of the common language, but it is like gnawing tough game. "And if I shoot you first?”
“You won’t,” her translator says, and follows this up with an eerie facsimile of a chuckle.
Something whips under my feet and I am on my face in the loam, spitting leaves. She gently rests her booted feet against my hips, and the cool tip of her weapon slides into the small of my back and against the waistline of my uniform. She leans down, so close that I can feel the pulse of her armor on the back of my neck.
“Now,” she says, and it is not the translator speaking for her anymore, “let’s see how you like this.”
The tip of the weapon moistens and slides down my skin as I shudder with anticipation. If only every spat between bounty hunters ended like this.
