Ecstasy In The Martian P An Trasm

Leslie was instantly attracted to the male martian. Even though his body was the color of terracotta and covered in a coarse, rust-tinted fuzz, he had a face that made her long for the boys of her youth—the gosh, ma'am, you sure are pretty types that opened doors for her and then in the privacy of backseats peeled off her blouses like they were made of butterfly wings. Her nipples hardened at the sight of him bending down to lift the trap-door in the earth. His legs were shapely columns of muscle, his buttocks a tight W at the bottom of his torso. She went wet as he flexed his legs to spring into the hole the door had exposed in the earth. In another second she was alone with Paul on the warm, dead-looking surface of the planet.

"Christ," Paul said. "That thing had the biggest dick I've ever seen."

But that wasn't the weirdest thing about the creature. The people back home weren't going to believe this. Not only was America days away from deciding whether it would be the Kerry-Edwards ticket, leaving George Dubbleyew Bush out in the chilly D.C. night, or another four years of the same, but there had just gone a younger, orange version of the Democrats' wanna-be new Vice President, scrambling beneath the surface of Mars. A pure irony if Leslie had ever seen one, since it had been the Bush goal all along: Americans putting their feet into this rusty soil.

They made for the hole.

Beneath the surface, the martians had carved a world for themselves out of bare rock. But no cold and infertile land was this; instead, grass and trees grew over miles of precipices, stretching until Leslie's eyes gave out. A waterfall pushed over a cliff, filling a clear pool far beneath them all. And thousands of terracotta bodies stirred among each other, mixing on cobbled streets and before vendor booths. These bodies were soft, unlike the creature from the surface in their hairlessness (except along their Venus deltas), in their hourglass figures and pearlike breasts trembling with the smallest movements. Their heads were different also: suppository-shaped, with pointy chins and coarse mops of Ken-doll hair that flashed Leslie back to the previous summer of patriotism attacks and desperation.

She scanned the crowd for him, the martian they'd seen on the surface, but saw only one kind of face—that of the prim new President, the political other half of the beautiful creature she'd seen above ground.

"Where are all the men?" she asked.

"Servicing the court of Her Prevailing Greatness," said a female voice behind her. The female was at least six feet tall, broad-shouldered and ancient, with her carroty skin sagging around her breasts and buttocks. She carried a tall wooden stick with a swirl like a coiling snake at the top and used it to point out the palace's inner room, where they were to be received. "I am Ailia, leader of the council of elders. You must be the human delegates. Enter, please."

There was an orgy going on in the throne room. Not a simple group screw in the shadows of a velvet draped room, but a full-on fuckfest with orange bodies squirming, coiling, bucking, bending, arching, thrusting, bouncing and squeezing in a tangle of legs, arms, cocks and tits. They screwed on couches and on the cold tile floor; on tables, rugs of fine animal fur, and even the throne itself, where a lithe martian female wearing a gold circlet around her head was being pussy-eaten. She sat reared back on the throne with her feet propped on the throne's armrests and her legs bowed open wide. Ailia explained that the woman was the martian High Commander, recently installed after the death of her mother.

The other females in the room were her ladies in waiting—high-born women bred especially to live at court. The men were members of the Commander's harem, though Ailia used another word--one that reeked of exotic pleasures and dream-fulfillment. P'an-trasm. Leslie took a deep nose breath, trying to place the scent that was heavy in the room: spice, and a strange sweet musk—like something juicy cooked with too much cinnamon.

Paul tugged at Leslie's sleeve. "A matriarchal civilization to the extreme," he whispered, nerdily.

Among other annoying traits, Paul had a flair for affirming the obvious. He also had an increasingly jejune way about him, both in their working relationship and in the bedroom. Funny thing about space travel—one way or another, you always ended up getting stuck. In the pod, in the constantly unchanging view of the sparkling universe around you, and especially with each other. Whether you liked your podmate or not, there he was, and Leslie struggled with this. She hated Paul's guts most of the time, because of his incessant throat-clearing, his "nuke-yu-ler" mispronunciations; but after several weeks she realized he was the only thing she'd get her hands on for many months. She started seeing him as something he was probably, for the most part, not: a good-lucking scientist with a terrific cock.

Except that six months into this mission, their lovemaking was like exercise, with Paul's come-ons sounding more like a trainer's motivational speech than a lover's plea. Come on, Les. We haven't had it all week. We're going to forget how it's done. Their first several screws had been wild. Paul drove into her like a man possessed, filling her up with his hard thickness. Now when he came into her room looking for "a scrog," as he called it, she wished herself anyplace but inside that pod.

Leslie watched as the male martian stood up in front of the Commander and pushed his cock gently into her opening. He thrust meekly, like he was afraid of making a mistake—like she held something of his, possibly his life, in her hands. They finished with her coming first, making a series of high-pitched squeaks, and the male emptying his Creamsicle-colored jizz into a silver goblet next to the throne. When they were done, the Commander covered up in a gauzy pink robe and squinted at the visitors.

"All right, all of you," Ailia said loudly, her voice gamboling among the panes of the room's glass cathedral ceiling. She wrapped her stick on the tile. "Finish what you're doing quickly and then fall in line. We have visitors from the Cloudy Planet whose pleasure must be seen to."

The males thrust feverishly to bring their ladies to orgasm, within seconds spilling the same peachy come into bronze bowls scattered throughout the room. Then they walked toward the visitors in a line, soon surrounding them with their attention turned to Leslie—eleven taut terracotta bodies, their dicks already hard with brand new erections just for her. Eleven memories from her adolescence, eleven simultaneous swellings of her sex, eleven desires to have her blouse peeled off like it was made of butterfly wings.

The females took Paul to a plush lounge area on the far end of the room. The males took Leslie to a side room whose walls were draped with a soft-looking silver material. One by one, the eleven martian men entered the room and formed a semi-circle around the bed.

"Choose," the leader said. His name was Simi, and he sported a mammoth erection arcing from a gingery mass of pubic hair.

She scanned the half moon of bodies, the line of excellent cocks all asking to be chosen. She saw the face of the Vice President a dozen times before her and felt everything from her belly button to the tops of her thighs hum and swell wetly, but could not choose. Her own p'an-trasm. Each could do a separate, wonderful thing to her. The things she wished for in bed with Paul, and with any of the smooth, warm, hairless boys of her youth, with whom she'd wrestled in cars and amongst the impossibly high stalks of corn on her father's farm in Iowa—these things she'd wished for all her life and experienced only in moments too quick to grab onto could happen in this room.

And so, one by one, they screwed her. Simi led her to the bed and used two fingers to rub her until her cream rose. He kneaded her ass cheeks, spreading them wide so the cold air of the room's interior rushed over the tender flesh of her anus. She buried her face in the blanket as he pressed his mouth to her sex, inserting and taking back his pure muscle of a tongue. Hot tongue on hot cunt. He opened her and pushed his dick in slow, all the way to the hilt, and pumped her, slapping the side of her thigh every few strokes. He thrust his hips forward wildly as though he were trying to break through the top of her pussy.

Then came the first of ten mute lovers. He had her sit astride his lap, pushing his cock into her with the force and speed of a jackhammer while paying homage to her hardened tits with his fingers and tongue. She had not been fucked like this since college.

Three sucked her breasts while Four and Five screwed pussy and ass. New feelings—one cock sliding past another inside her, thinking she the pleasure, the weirdness would kill her.

Six through Ten took quick turns pumping her while she lay on her back, some holding her legs up by the ankles, some pushing her knees to her chest, and soon there were ten hard, pussy-moistened martians masturbating in a semi-circle around the bed, waiting for the payoff of Number Eleven bringing the Esteemed Guest, as they called her, to orgasm. Leslie was a trembling mess—liquified, charged up so that the slightest touch was like electric heat on her skin, close to coming just with the power of her own mind. She called out to be fucked.

Eleven was a hot young college-aged stud, by the look of his body, with the thickest, most powerful looking cock in the room springing toward her like a sturdy tree stalk. When he lifted her and pressed her to the wall, she found that the silver material was cushy, designed for against-the-wall love. He reached below her ass and found her hole with the tip of his cock, pushing it in gently and letting her weight slide her down the shaft. The cock spread her pussy to just shy of the breaking point, reaching places in her where no man in the cosmos had been before.

"You can speak," she said, her arms clasped around his neck. "Please speak. Say something dirty."

He shook his head and grunted--not allowed to speak, breaking the rules meant death--biting his lip while he summoned new force to fuck her with. The martian rested his head in the curve of her neck. In a moment, he allowed his knees to buckle, and they fell slowly to the floor, where he lay on his back and used a firm grip on her ass cheeks to guide her up and down his cock. He ground into her, and she into him.

When the orgasms came, there was no time for him to pull out and empty his come into the bowl, so he pulled her down by the neck and kissed her.

As the orgasm pounded through her, she was put back to the moment that had felt like a very wrong fantasy at the time, checking off that little box in the voting booth. It had come out of nowhere, really, but there they were—spasms of lust making her do their will. And now an even stranger thing, one she couldn't have predicted as she stepped off the pod onto the surface of Mars: hot martian seed showering the gate to her womb, and the arms of an alien holding her tighter than she'd ever been held in her life.