a teenaged youth in boots, yellow cloak, and mask with an improbably impressive erection lying on his back, chained to a steel bench. A woman—dressed in as little as the others—cape, cown, and boots—was at the moment carefully easing herself onto the teenager’s prong.
She paused when she had impaled herself glans-deep, turned her head, and asked impatiently, “Can’t this wait?”
“Uh—s-sorry, to interrupt, Ma’am,” Lou managed to say, “but—uh—which way is out?”
“Right over there.” She pointed, then eased the teenager’s prong another two inches deeper while Lou, Flash, and Buck loped to the door she had indicated. Lou glanced back; the blue-cowled man’s prong was spurting ropy semen as he watched the woman and the teenager begin their fuck—but Buck and Flash hurried Lou through the door, which had dilated to let them escape.
“Which way now?” Flash glanced helplessly up and down the spaceport’s one street.
“That way,” said Lou, hurrying to a not-quite-out-of-place building a block down the street and into the Exotics Bar. His two naked companions followed close behind. At the bar, he found Mickey talking with a white-haired man who had spread out a sheaf of colored drawings for inspection.
“Oh, hi, Lou,” said Mickey. “This artist has been showing me some of his work…here’s a drawing of you, strapped to a bench, with Flash and Buck fastened to the wall. And this one shows a blond bodybuilder chained to a stone wall—a dungeon, maybe—with a little fire-breathing dragon toasting his balls.”
Flash put one hand on Lou’s bare shoulder and wordlessly pointed at a drawing of two naked spacemen struggling in the tentacles of a bug-eyed monster. Another showed a couple of men, one naked but for boots and a belt with holstered ray-gun, the other wearing just heavy gloves, both studying The Manual of Man-Eating Plants while leaves of a small tree nibbled on their stiff prongs.
“It turns out that the reality sub-routine got corrupted again,” Mickey explained, “but now that you’re here, Dolly’s re-programming it back to less exotic realms of fantasy—and science fiction, of course. It’ll take a while, though; so while she’s doing that—” He turned to Flash and Buck. “—Henrietta’s still with that messenger from the Very Highest Authority, but they might like to swap around a bit—these messengers pride themselves on their versatility. They’re in that booth with the red curtains off to the left. And there’s Laocoön and his sons—they might want a bit of variety too—you know where they are, Lou; but don’t step into the booth that’s reserved for the mint-green jelly by mistake, even though being eaten alive by the jelly is well-spoken of by those who have disposed of themselves that way. And watch out for the two carnivorous plants over there—” Mickey pointed.
Lou touched his own rigid shaft. “Uh—by the way—you never did tell me what happened to my training partner, the guy I came in here looking for.”
“Steve? Short guy, even more muscular than you? Yeah, I remember him.” Mickey pushed a glass of protein mix towards Lou. “The problem is, when a guy finds out someone he really likes has gone and—you know—finished himself off, he’ll want to go the same way. That’s why I kind of dodged the subject.”
Lou took a deep breath, ran his hand across his broad, bare chest. “Not to worry—I mean, I like—I liked Steve okay, but not that much.” He put his left arm around Buck’s bare shoulders, patted Flash on the rump with his right hand. “And besides, I just met these two hunks.”
“Well, Steve showed up the other night, just wallowing in woe. Mrs. Bolang is very fussy about who she lets her pups eat, so I had Vlad check him out, first. Then the Bolangs ate him.”
“Ate him?” Lou shivered. “Alive?”
“Well, he was alive for most of the time they were eating him. He even shot his load while he was watching the pups eat his prong and his balls. The Bolangs are a family of were-hyenas, and they’re very good at what they do.”
“Now you really don’t have to worry about me finishing myself off,” said Lou, feeling another shiver run up his bare back. He downed the protein mix in three swallows. “Come one, guys, let’s find an empty booth and get to know each other better.”
* * * *
MICKEY watched the three naked, hard-cocked men trot to the booths, then turned back to the artist and his drawings. “Have you ever tried your hand at writing a story about any of these?”
The Succubus
Virk looked up from the bench beside his small house at the approach of an outworlder, a big, broad-chested man in the uniform cap, belt, and boots of a Space Patrolman—but otherwise naked, like everyone else on planet, visitors and natives alike.
The visitor announced, “I am Research Officer Third-Class Rafe Johnson. I understand you are the succubus who was a member of a hiking group that some of the men from my ship—”
“Yes indeed.” The young succubus stood up, aware that the visitor was taller and more powerfully muscled than himself. “Three Space Patrolmen: Jeff and Danny and Lance, and two Space Marines: Ben and Pete.”
“And then all of them—”
“Yes. And then they fed the rest of the hiking party? One by one, they fed the rest of us. They were delicious, too.”
“You made them—”
“Certainly not; they all volunteered. Each asked me to fix him so he could generate enough semen—ball-cream—to feed all the others in the hiking party. They said that you yourself told them to explore our planet and study our customs, especially this one; and so they did.”
“You didn’t—”
“Force them? No need. Two of our people were the first to feed the other hikers—and to feed your Patrolmen and Marines too. When your people saw how much fun those two had, feeding the other hikers, they wanted to do it too. They even argued about who would get to feed his ball-cream to the party next when the previous feeder had been sucked dry and then cooked and eaten.” Virk licked his lips, remembering the five lusty outworlders, remembering how he had fixed them, one at a time, and then—along with the rest of the hiking party—how he had sucked breakfast, lunch, and dinner from their prongs. “But let us not stand when we can sit, Research Officer Third Class Rafe Johnson.” He gestured at the bench next to his home.
“Uh—just call me Rafe,” the muscular outworlder said as he seated himself. “Well, as long as it was their idea—look, uh—Mr Virk—”
“Just Virk.”
“Uh—yes. Well, anyway, since my men all volunteered to feed you and the rest of the party, none of them came back to report on—well, just how by Arcturus and Alderban do you you fix guys—studs, if you will, to feed themselves like—like—”
“You have asked; I will explain.” Virk sat down beside Rafe and put out his tongue, then slid out his centimeter-thick tendril from the tip. He waved the tendril for a moment, then withdrew both tongue and tendril. “To fix someone to feed others, I slide the tendril into a volunteer’s glans and down into the organs that are in the roots of his shaft. Inside, that tendril changes—it fixes those organs so that they produce more and more and still more semen, enough to feed a dozen men or more for days and days. And each squirt of that semen is just as much fun as when a buddy sucks you off or you fuck a woman,
