Things never turn out the way you expect, or so the saying goes.

The saying should be expanded. Sometimes, things turn out in ways you couldn’t possibly expect, and then become things that, prior to them turning out, you didn’t even know were the things you were supposed to be expecting… Does that make sense?

When Y’Dryth and its vassal planets finally disappear in our proverbial rear-view mirror and we’re literally four star systems over, Rune and Bane decide that we should start looking for a place to put down roots for a while.

Basically… house hunting, right? No pressure. I’ve watched plenty of Beachfront Bargain Hunt to prepare me for every eventuality.

Except that the “houses” in question are not exactly ideal. Not only are they mostly drippy grotto-type places, or hollowed-out trees, or the occasional intergalactic equivalent of a cabin in the woods, complete with the C-horror-movie feel to it. If that were the only issue, I’d gladly stay so long as someone always accompanies me to the outhouse.

No, it’s more that they are either on planets that don’t have an atmosphere I can comfortably breathe, are located on active volcanos, underwater, in sandstorm-nado alleys, swarming with insects (and I mean INSECTS. Think MEGAFAUNA) or surrounded by large, aggressive, pervy vegetation (don’t ask).

More often than that, they are already occupied by the locals, and more often than not, those locals recognize Bane and Rune for what they are, turn tail and run when we come, lurk somewhere close, and then start firing at us once as we’re leaving.

It’s kinda disheartening and also frightening just how far the Drythian reputation precedes them. We’re literally underway at max speed for several months into one direction and yet, wherever we go and find intelligent life forms, they seem to know what a Dryth is and to be scared of them.

With this in mind, when we finally find an actual abandoned planet that’s habitable for little old me, I’m the one who urges everyone ‘let’s stay here’ on the first day.

And, to be honest, it’s a good week, all in all. The two suns burn hot and the moon, although it reminds me uncomfortably of Majora’s Mask (because of the face...), is kinda pretty to look at. We’re camped out by a lake and the water is sweet, the plentiful fish only slightly scary and largely edible. The rains are devastating and frequent, but the ship offers protection from them.

I haven’t figured out exactly what’s bothering me about the place – and I’m determined to not say anything because it’s clear that Rune, Bane, and Kay all enjoy the wide open space – when new stars appear in the otherwise empty night sky one morning.

We end up being bombed out of our interim-to-permanent home by a small fleet of Dryth that’s apparently been following our trail across the universe, intent on killing us all, or killing three of us and kidnapping the elusive heir to the Dryth throne for their weird ass transition of power rituals or whatever. It is one of the scariest things ever, and it damages our ship and sends Kay into a funk.

We get away by the skin of our teeth. As we hobble along at reduced speed towards our next unknown destination, it turns out that Kay’s funk is more of a hormonal imbalance thing.

Pregnancy hormones.

In all fairness, she does end up asking me nicely – really, really nicely – even though it’s not really in her hands at that point.

Her mating heat comes over her from one day to the next and transforms her into a scary little harpy, and the ship into a sado-maso sex fest. Her pheromones hit Bane and Rune both (and me as well, to be honest – I masturbate until my fingertips are wrinkly those days) and send them into scuffles (sexy, sexy scuffles) with each other for the privilege of copulation with her. In the end, Rune puts his cock in her – and it is every bit as frightening and arousing as I thought it would be – and Bane puts his in me, and then spanks me until my ass is swollen and his hormonal rage has abated.

Thus, we’re now officially pregnant, on the run from assassins in a battered spaceship, with no clear course or destination. So much for preparing everything and prepping a nest for Kay. Something, something, gang aft agley.

The good thing is, Kay is entirely unbothered by the lack of comprehensive plans for her pregnancy or offspring. Somehow, she’s the one that ends up comforting me.

Val, Rune, Bane, Bun, Kay, yes together yes yes, she insists. I’m a little sad she’s learned their names properly, but very delighted that she’s adopted the name I’ve been calling our newest crew member-to-be. Bun, as in, the one in the oven.

Yes all good, together. Thyis’a-ku.

Who am I to argue with a pregnant lady?

It's almost a month until we finally arrive at a planetary system which, Rune informs me, is very similar to the Vurn X’lora cluster: part of a neutral-ish side corridor that is left alone by armies for ordnance purposes and/or because of its massively out-of-the-way location, nearby black holes, and asteroid belts, and left alone by everyone else because it’s just not interesting in any fashion – no significant natural resources, no commercial potential to speak of, not even enslavement-worthy locals. The planetary equivalent of an overgrown traffic island.

We touch down on M/83 Vevvy Oylee V’lva – I snort so hard when Rune tells me that’s the actual name of this planet and still giggle intermittently as we descend through rainclouds and see a sprawling settlement below – on what appears to be a drizzly Thursday afternoon. (Because, seriously, Thursday afternoons have a kind of drag and lull to them that’s just universally recognizable.)

Our ship checks in with the spaceport – a bit smaller than the one on Vurn X’lora was, and largely unbusy – and thence trundles straight towards the dockyard of a township merely designated “H0” for necessary repairs. Rune pays for the repairs upfront before we even get off the ship and before any locals can clap their eyes on us – just in case they refuse the money, refuse the service, and run screaming. Unnecessary, as it turns out, since the dockyard workers appear to be ten-foot-tall three-legged eyeless earthworms that ignore all four of us in favor of speaking (or flirting?) with our ship as they immediately get to work (I think? Really hard to tell, but it looked a bit porn-y to me).

Bane and Rune, half in Dryth battle dress with their more ostentatious weapons dangling by their thighs, flank Kay and me, both in sarong-like dresses – my left boob hangs out and my hair is freshly half-shorn, just in case, and Bane is gripping Kay’s tail tightly – as we make our way to the commercial district. We walk down the little hill on which the dockyard is perched and through a mostly deserted shopping street. (Thursday, remember?)

The buildings on each side have large round doors, and the majority of the people scuttling through them will maybe reach my elbow, so I immediately re-christen this place ‘H0bbiton’.

At first and second glance, H0bbiton is kinda dull in an inoffensive way, which is a nice change of pace after all those visits to planets that wanted to kill us (and especially the weakling human among the group) in a variety of ways the moment we set foot upon them. There are little shops that sell trinkets, clothes, furniture, and real estate. They seem to be operated by robots. There’s a bit of greenery between the buildings and also growing on the drooping roofs that soaks up the gentle drizzle of rain. I see two fat rodent-like creatures climb up a commercial structure, with a cat-like animal in pursuit.

Teeming with life, H0bbiton is not.

A couple of inhabitants in what looks like wheelchairs cross our paths (and then I realize that the chairs are actually part of their bodies), then a few toad-like people who seem to be walking on their hands (or maybe their heads are just located between their legs?), then two mermaids (absolutely frightening), accompanied by a la-z-boy with massive testicles (not joking). Seems like a diverse crowd, even though we’re on the ass end of the galaxy. And nobody pays us any particular attention, which is a relief. Kay is clearly not a fan of being led around by her tail, and Bane graciously lets go of it once it’s clear that nobody is giving a fig about us. (I leave my boob where it is because why the heck not.)

Since this place apparently isn’t exactly a tourism hotspot, there are no info maps or even road signs to guide us. We’re searching for a place to eat and drink, and a merchant willing to help us stock up on provisions, fuel cells, air filters – everything we’ll need for the onward journey, in as large quantities as possible.

And since we don’t know where we’re going, we end up going to the place where one can always get this sort of info, as well as any other type of info. The place that commercial streets in settlements like this always lead to.

You know the saying, “All roads lead to Rome”? Well, all roads lead to Rome because there were lots and lots of brothels in Rome and that’s where people wanted to go.

The brothel that, as usual, is also a trading place, a bar, a hotel, a repair workshop, a supermarket, a restaurant, a news station, and a post office is located at the very end of the mercantile district in a cute little park. I mean, it looks cute and little from afar and then turns out to be something of a Grimm fairy tale forest, with gnarled, thorned and suspiciously sentient-seeming vegetation. We pass by a couple of trees with reddish-brown leaves that flutter in the drizzling rain like so many butterfly wings and I don’t know whether I’m delighted or wigged out. A fitting feeling, really, considering where we’re going.

There are three bouncers. They look like a grasshopper begat a space shuttle. Rune and Bane ignore them, so I do my best to do that as well.

Bane steps in through the open door, followed by Kay, me, and Rune bringing up the rear, and then we're all... here.

Okay. So. I’m definitely more wigged out than delighted.

Not only does this place look like a freaking replica of “my” brothel on Vurn X’lora 15 – slightly nicer and bigger, and good gods, is that hardwood floor? That is gorgeous! – so that the sheer trip-down-memory-lane-ness of it makes my palms itch.

But there’s also a violent murder in progress, and there’s blood and brain matter dripping off the bar. (That can’t be up to health code.)

A tan-skinned female alien is pounding something that looks like an ashtray into the pulpy leftovers of an alien of indeterminable race. Said pulpy leftovers are making gurgling noises interspersed with high-pitched warbles that must be that particular race’s cries for help. Another, smaller female alien of the same coloring as the murderess is standing by, hollering up a storm and apparently trying (and failing) to stop her fellow alien.

A handful of people are sitting around at the scattered tables and watching the goings-on with that special Thursday Afternoon DGAFerrence. Up on a stage in the mid-center of the floor, a very pink, pixie-sized alien is standing with two of her hands on her hips, watching with her one eye and a definite air of ‘Can we get on with this? I was in the middle of my set’.

Eventually, there is nothing left for the ashtray-wielding female to pound and the noises have died, and she chucks the bloody hunk of heavy material to the floor, getting off the counter herself and looking around at her audience.

“Kat-xat neg aituk Sneferu bexet je-t!” she scoffs and spits at the mound of organ-and-bone jello. “The next round is on manager Sneferu.”

And then she slings an arm around the other female’s shoulders and leads her out of the main room and through the side door. As they go, I can see an angry-looking, red-and-black-singed pattern on the other female’s right buttock, standing out starkly against her sandy skin tone. A fresh brand, and an ugly and massive one at that, spanning the entire glute. The female is limping heavily to avoid jostling it. I grimace in sympathy. “Looks like Sneferu had it coming,” I mumble to myself. I had almost forgotten how much I loathe managers, but some are definitely more garbage than others.

Since every other patron ignores the bloody mess, we do as well and find ourselves a table. The pink pixie resumes undulating, contorting, and whistling on her stage, although I see her eye flick over to the corpse every now and then. The ‘I wonder who’s gonna pay me now’ is really clear on her face.

Rune manages to chat up an alien that looks like a frightened mop and extracts some information from him before the authorities inevitably arrive.

The authorities on Vevvy Oylee V’lva are… well. They are orange, tall, large and wide in stature, bulbous and wobbly in the belly area, with a weird bow-legged yet stiff-kneed gait. They’re brandishing wicked-looking guns clenched in strangely small hands. They remind me of someone, but I can’t put my finger on it. Seven or eight of them swarm the brothel’s main room, screaming and shouting at nobody in particular and for no discernible reason like the galaxy’s most obnoxious SWAT team.

None of the patrons, including us, moves. Not in a “rabbit in danger” kind of way, more in the “unbothered capybara” way. Alright. So, this seems to be a somewhat everyday occurrence in this establishment, then? Pink pixie throws all of her arms up and vanishes, chittering and grumbling loudly, behind her curtain.

Rune and Bane both just sit and watch, watchful but not tense. That means we’re safe. I act like I’m sipping my complimentary tea – it’s much hotter than water on Earth could ever be so I won’t be able to drink it, but it smells nice and the cup it’s in is merely nice and toasty warm in my palms – and still wish we could get out of here.

Then, two of the tangerine ‘officers’ are pulling the murderess through the side door. She’s shouting expletives, absolutely livid and writhing in the orange one’s grip while a third of them is leading her smaller, newly-branded friend behind them. His stubby fingers are fisted in that one’s hair. There’s a contraption slapped around her delicate throat, like a heretics fork. She’s naturally wailing in pain and fear and clearly fighting for her life.

I’m starting to feel ill and angry with sympathy. A voice in my brain – for once, it’s my own – is starting to go ‘No no no this ain’t right’, followed by ‘This is going to hell in a handbasket, fast’.

I should start a soothsaying business.

One of the Carrot Constabulary grabs the smaller one by her ass – clearly aiming for her pussy, though – with the air of a male who does that routinely and probably justifies it by saying that it’s a surefire way to control a truculent female and that they secretly all like it. This female has a painful fresh brand on her ass, though, and starts to howl in absolute agony and tries to get away from him even harder.

Her murderous friend then starts biting people. It’s not the wisest course of action, but damn, I can’t say it’s the wrong one.

Electro-guns go off. The sizzle and smell of burning flesh fill the air. More shouts, more howls.

Rune’s bird screeches a warning in my brain that sets my teeth on edge. Easy, there, easy.

More officers barge in through the front door, and then go through to the back rooms, quickly and none-too-gently pulling out a handful more workers, the pixie contortionist among them. She’s barely half their height and maybe a sixth of their weight, and still, they also put one of those torture devices around her neck.

What a bunch of motherfuckers. I grind my teeth and scowl.

“Jai na bigli covfefe—” One of the officers starts shouting, and my translator takes over: “This cesspit is being cleaned up. All vermin whores come with us.”

I have the time to pull a face and think ‘Wow, you are such a massive asshole’, and then realize that he and two of his asshole friends have turned to and are addressing us.

Our table, specifically.

Kay and me, to be precise.

Oh. Ohh. We’re apparently two of those vermin whores he’s talking about and whom he wants to come with him.

They come at us from the side and the one at the front grabs for Kay who’s sitting a little closer.

My Kay. Our Kay. Pregnant Kay with her adorable cantaloupe-sized baby bump called Bun, or Bunbun, Buns, or Bunny.

I’m on my feet before he makes contact with her skin and throw the uber-hot tea in his face with a subtle and concise, “DON'T YOU FUCKING TOUCH HER, YOU FUCKING FUCK!” and then hurl the emptied teacup itself for good measure, missing his head by a bare inch.

The bird that is Rune is now something closer to a vengeful thundercloud, and I can feel him exerting his awesome, horrible power on the fucking fuck and his friend both, boiling their synapses inside of their ugly heads.

At the very same moment, Bane’s halberd-machete zings through the air and cleanly slices off three of the officer’s stubby fingers. (I think he originally aimed for the arm, but the fucking fuck moved after he got a face full of lava tea.)

Blood sprays. Wilhelm screams. Severed limbs. I want to ask Bane if it’s also reminding him very much of our meet cute. Ah, good times, good times.

As I look at the severed fingers and see them writhe on the floor like little maggots, I decide that I can hold my shit together right now and delay my puking for at least thirty to forty minutes. Until then, I’m gonna be milking the adrenaline cow for all she’s worth.

So I get up on my stool and start yelling.

“And you!” I point at the assholes manhandling the murderess and her branded pal by the bar. I point with my index finger like I’m Hulk Hogan, except less problematic, and with only one nipple out. It’s bloody brilliant. “Yes, you, you mango-tango-colored bastards! Unhand these females, right the fuck now!”

And then one thing leads to another – shots, yelling, blood, gore, Rune making some heads explode with his brain, Kay poisoning some people with her quills (you wouldn't believe where they come from!), Bane throwing his scythe-thing around, tear gas, female empowerment, negotiations, a wee bit of trench warfare, yadda-yadda-yadda – and suddenly, a couple of grateful bordello workers and a newly-sole shareholder of the establishment, by a show of hands and hands-equivalent appendages, appoint me, Valerie Magdalena Greene, the new manager of a brothel at the end of the universe.

Someone call Alanis Morrissette. I have an idea for a song.

***

When I look out the window from the masters’ (and mistresses’) bedroom, I can see the dark outline of our ship in the garden, illuminated by the white moon. The dockyard workers have patched her up in record time – and, according to Rune, armed her to the teeth. She’s programmed to act like an antiballistic missile system and intercept anything and anyone that comes flying at the Volvo with the intent of doing harm.

Yes, I’ve renamed the brothel. The Volvo of Vevvy Oylee V’lva. I think it has a ring to it, personally.

Of the former workers, all but one have stayed after the takeover, and one of my first official acts was to emancipate them and hire them as proper contractors. Naurity is the only one who’s technically still enslaved because she murdered someone, and the slavery laws on this planet are such that she, being a ‘thing’, can’t be held responsible; her owner is. However, her owner – I – can’t be persecuted for a crime they didn’t commit themselves. Neat loophole, that. After some talk with the lawyers, I paid off the aggrieved party with the help of Bane and Rune and the matter was settled. To be honest, Sneferu’s family didn’t seem terribly aggrieved to me. Gee, I wonder why.

Naurity is now managing the bar, and the ashtrays, and has a therapist to help her manage her anger issues. (...and her statue plans. You see, Naurity has been saving all of her bar money for a nine-foot-tall marble statue of me - on a stool, pointing my index finger while yelling, one tit out - that she wants installed on the brothel's main floor. The therapist is trying to talk her out of it, with limited success so far.) (Send help.)

I also got all of my workers some health care – especially Evnity, who’s going to get a skin graft next month that’ll hopefully erase the horrific mark on her buttock -, updated the kitchen to their dietary needs, hired personal bodyguards, and had their rooms upgraded and their doors fitted with personalized locks – there had been, up to that point, locks on the outside of them.

Sneferu is lucky he’s already dead, really.

The grasshopper-bouncers were chased off... and possibly hunted to death… I didn’t really ask. Bane and Rune did the honors after the workers told me that the bouncers' main job was to shoot fleeing workers in the back.

The longer I think about my predecessor, the more I’m tempted to join Naurity in her anger issues therapy session, and maybe commission a nine-foot-tall statue of Sneferu that we can use as target practice.

The place now has a Dryth duo as bouncers/security bosses. Management and staff are very, very happy with them indeed. They're not super talkative, but they're dependable and fierce and fuuucking sexy in their armor.

The postal workers that were managing their mysterious postal-worker-y things in a downstairs archival room have renegotiated their terms with me. There’s a little-old-lady alien who came in one day last week and has been wordlessly working the kitchen all by herself (and scaring the living snot out of me ever since). (She also does take-out.) (It’s really good, too!) There’s an honest-to-goodness cobbler who’s interested in renting a space, a robot who fixes robots who wants to work out of an adjacent garage, and just yesterday, a vendor moved onto the premise and put their little drugstore-on-wheels by the driveway. Several of the sex workers have created additional jobs here as well – gardening, decoration, singing and entertainment, dance lessons, video classes, cleaning, and repairs.

Thinking about it all makes me a bit misty-eyed. It's all going so... so well! I mean, we had a bit of a slow start after the chaos with the cops, but the patrons/clients/customers are coming back to the Volvo now – according to the workers, in slightly greater and increasing numbers than before. Just a little more, and my brothel (restau-market-bar-thel-arage) will be breaking even.

My brothel. That’s insane. Let’s say it again: This is my brothel. I partially own and fully manage this establishment. My signature is at the bottom of that sheet of digital paper. My brothel. Mine.

It's really more than that, though. It's also our fortress.

Apart from the missile beast that is our ship that’s parked right outside, Bane and Rune have their supporting security personnel patrol the grounds with leashed gordruns, installed a permanent sniper on the roof, have commissioned the building of two bomb shelters, a subterranean maze of secret passageways, and an honest-to-goodness moat.

A moat with flesh-eating critters in it. Kay feeds them regularly. (I don't ask.)

Seeing that a) we’ve managed (ha!) to come to an agreement with the police force, b) we've buttered enough fingers of the local politicians to be benignly tolerated for the next fifty years or so, c) all the patrons, clients, and travelers coming through are extremely chill, and d) there almost certainly isn't a single hostile Dryth coming this way anytime soon (Planet Traffic Island perks), the ground defense Rune and Bane have set up seems a little bit like overkill.

I have a feeling, though, that this might just be the Dryth version of nesting.

Kay has popped out overnight, and suddenly Bun is roughly twice their former size. Apparently, Drahta gestation periods are a bit shorter than humans’, and fetal development is a bit more... erratic. Rune and Bane are around Kay like she’s the last musical chair in the whole universe and the song is about to stop. It’s actually adorable in a bossy kind of way.

I turn away from the view and look over at them on our big platform bed. (It’s more of a karate mat on stumpy stilts, but it has a pillow, so it counts. I haven't been able to persuade my three paramours to allow me to have a blanket - they all insist that I don't need one since I have them to cover me. Which is... technically correct. Grrr.)

Bane is at Kay’s head, Rune at her feet, she between them on her back. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they’re trying to tickle and/or strangle her. She seems about 85% okay with that. What’s really going on is that they’re peeling Kay out of her multiple layers of armored clothes which they insist she wear while she’s running around in the grove outside. She haaaates these clothes. But she haaaates getting out of them again even more. Pregnancy has made Kay a bit of a moody, irritable grump, to be honest. Or maybe she’s just not genetically hardwired to accept anyone’s, let alone two males', overbearing ministrations.

Grumpy or sunny, with or without clothes, she’s magnificent.

Personally, I like seeing any of them strip, or be stripped. Not picky.

Val, Val, Val!

I can hear Kay across small distances now. Only single words and it takes some ‘shouting’ on Kay’s part, but I get her. I don’t know if it’s a natural development, or if it’s because of her pregnancy – maybe it makes her stronger? – or maybe she’s riding on Rune’s frequency. I don't really care. All I know is that we’re in tune.

She sounds extra whiny tonight. She reaches for me with an actorly hand, which quickly gets snatched by Bane and divested of its wrist protectors. Vaaaal. Fucking shit hornyyyy.

Yeah, there had never been any hope for her vocabulary.

“Who's horny, darling? Me or you?” I snort and walk over, un’zipping’ my bio-garment and leaving it on the floor. It’s white and gauzy and very comfortable – a gift from Naurity. (I have a closet full of those now. She crochets them herself.) “Or Rune? Or Bane?”

She pouts, which looks charmingly weird on her alien face, and replies, Yes.

I laugh and lean down to give her a peck on the pouty lips. She catches my lower lip between her teeth, sucks on it a bit, and then snakes her tongue deep into my mouth. Ungh, yes please thank you.

Hot. Hot hot hot. My alien girlfriend is so fucking sexy, I want to eat her up.

Fortunately, with the help of my distraction, the boys are quickly finished undressing her, and I seize the opportunity to enjoy her now-bared tits – deliciously swollen and tender, tipped with newly puffy and extra-sensitive nipples that the boys (and I) love to chew on to drive her crazy (how convenient that there’s four of them!). Only after I'm good and done with that, do I pepper kisses on her taut stomach.

Drahta's pregnancy bellies are shaped like a gourd instead of a watermelon. Kay has some insane abdominal muscles that are keeping it all in place like an inbuilt belly-sling/corset, giving her skin actual tiger stripes that just look so, so badass. I like to imagine that the smaller bulb at the top of the gourd is Bunbun’s head, and the bigger one is their body, limbs all folded up and the tail tied around them like a bow, like Alien meets Anne Geddes.

Just in case they can somehow hear me or my thoughts, I think and murmur a couple of fond greetings at Bun while I caress their mother-to-be’s stretched skin with my fingertips and lips.

And then I slide lower, between Kay's legs, ready to lick her slit, tongue her hole, nibble on the sensitive fold of skin just where her tail attaches to her behind - and I rear back.

“Uhm. Kay?” There’s a… there’s something coming out of her. It looks a little like a… uuuh.

Is that a prolapse? I squint at it. It doesn’t quite look like the one I’ve seen in that leaflet in my OBGYN’s waiting room when I was fifteen. (Mildly traumatizing, to be honest. I was not prepared.) But it does seem to be a flesh-colored something that's coming out of her vagina, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t there yesterday.

I’m worried. My brain immediately starts computing which of the health care professionals I’ve had over for my workers these past weeks might also be able to help my A’Draht. S’s’siki is a lelepxi and they kinda sorta look like Drahta, and the ooli woman called Mirt once mentioned that her vagina prolapses as a part of normal intercourse, so maybe…

I bite my lip. “Kay, love, are you-” in pain? I want to ask, but she immediately interrupts me, shaking her head even as her feelers are lifting into the air around her head, reaching for me, and Rune, and Bane.

Kay is horny pregnant A’Draht, she purrs in my frontal lobe as she leans back luxuriously against Rune’s broad chest and spreads her legs farther for my benefit. Horny pregnant A’Draht must fight, must prevail against strong un-pregnant females in group. Kay can offer food, services, good favor for protection…

As her thoughts percolate through my cerebellum, the thing between her legs folds up tightly, like a rolled-up tongue, until it’s vaguely spear-shaped, slim, and maybe five inches long. It gleams with moisture and twitches obscenely as its smoothly tapered tip rises towards me.

“Holy shit.” I am a little bit shocked when the realization hits me that my alien girlfriend grew a pseudopenis overnight.

Every time I think I’m done being amazed by them, something like this happens.

And she is planning to offer me ‘good favor’ with it. I’m always in big trouble when Kay has something ‘good’ for me in mind. She either hasn’t realized that I’m a human with a comparatively low human stamina and pain threshold, or… she really doesn’t care all that much. And I’m too much of a horndog to honestly complain even when she makes me do the kind of athletic things that my body wasn't really designed for.

I’m still staring, open-mouthed, at my girlfriend’s new asset when Rune’s tale loops around my neck.

“Val, Teechir," he drawls in his sexy, heavy accent. "Leek. Tehhst."
 
A nervous giggle escapes me. Of all the alien penises I’ve seen (and licked and tasted), this one is definitely special.

I gently wrap my fingers around the slightly bulging shaft. It’s slick and sinewy and has little ripples that echo the pattern of the muscles inside Kay's vaginal canal.

Yes good yesyesyes, Kay chants in my head, and her pelvis rocks into my touch.

Bane groans and grabs his own cock in a tight fist.

Rune’s tail drags me downwards until my face is pressed to Kay’s crotch. I stick out my tongue and give this salmon-colored popsicle a long, slow lick-and-suck down the side. Kay’s now-familiar taste and texture fill my mouth. The bliss that I’m giving her floods the room. We all sigh as it pools between and washes over us.

Bliss. That’s what this is.

Bliss, which increases and increases with every passing minute that I get to spend with my lovers.

Later, when all three of my holes are being filled – feeling Kay’s pregnant belly bump against my ass and back as she drives into me is an interesting sensation – both my nipples are being pinched, someone is choking my neck with artful precision, and three different voices talk dirty to me… I realize with a small jolt---

That I’ve done it.

I made it.

I’m still breathing. (Well, not right this very moment, but you know what I mean.)

I’ve made a capital-C change in my life. Several of them, to be precise. I've followed through and persevered and made stuff happen.

The people I love – I have managed to keep them at my side. We're all alive and healthy and home.

I’m happy. I’ve managed to find actual happiness in a brothel – my brothel – at the end of the universe.

And I really don’t want this story to end anytime soon.



~~ THE END  ~~

Holy shit, you read all of that? Are you okay? Blink twice if you need help.

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Much love,
cydia