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Erotic Hitchhiker's Guide

By: diggypop



In the backwaters of the Milky Way galaxy, there's resides, or rather resided, a small blue-green planet whose inhabitants were so amazingly primitive that they still relied on their external genitalia for sexual satiation. This created no end of problems for them.

Around half the members of the dominant species of the planet found that they couldn't have nearly as much sex as they wanted unless they had sufficient amounts of little pieces of paper. This paper would either be used to procure sex directly, purchase goods which were bartered in exchange for sexual access, or would fund elaborate rituals designed to convince the participants of the sincerity and hence the longevity of the couple's attachment to each other. Coincidentally, the mere possession of large amounts of these pieces of paper was enough to render the possessor significantly more attractive to the half of the population that seemed to have little or no problem having sex regardless of how much paper they had. As a result, many were getting less sex than they wanted. Those who had enough paper to purchase significant amounts often felt bad simply because they had to pay for it. Many couldn't get the partners they wanted regardless of how much paper was offered, and had to settle for those who were willing. And those whose professions involved sex for paper directly often had so much sex that their genitalia became degraded from overuse. Not to mention there were large amounts of people going around trying to force or persuade people NOT to have sex, especially if it was pleasurable. 

Unfortunately, before anyone could figure out a way to ensure that everyone got just enough sex to keep the whole bleeding lot of them happy, the planet was destroyed as an extreme pre-emptive strike against illegal immigration.

This is the story of the very few survivors of that benighted place. It's also a story about fucking. Lots and lots of fucking.

*****

Stardate 147592 2200 Hours Galactic Standard Time

"All passengers prepare for hyperdrive. Hyperdrive commencing in five seconds. Four... Three..."

Arthur had no idea how he'd ended up in this situation. This was a fairly common feeling for him; in fact, he was less surprised by the thought, How did I get here? than by the sheer number of times that thought resurfaced in his consciousness. His body and mind were completely disoriented, and his mind cast frantically backward for any explanation. Wait, he could just remember waking up this morning to the doorbell...

*****

April 22, 2010 9:00 a.m. Greenwich Mean Time

While 9 a.m. was earlier than he usually preferred to receive visitors on a Saturday morning, the sun had been up for a few hours already, so this wasn't too devastating an event. And the first couple of seconds after he opened the door were quite pleasant indeed, as his eyes were greeted by the sight of a pleasant face with attractive cheekbones, full lips and a slightly upturned nose, all of which were surrounded by wavy blonde hair. A wide forehead, which Arthur thought looked rather nice in her case, was suspended about five feet and six inches above the ground by a body that was itself supported by high-heeled, red open-toed shoes, which made it plain that the toes were covered by thin white stockings. The body itself was clad in what would ordinarily be termed business attire, the business aura of this red skirt and jacket combo somewhat disrupted by being tightly wrapped over noticeably large breasts and provocatively wide hips.

After this pleasant (and bracing) first couple of seconds, then followed another four or five which were a bit less enjoyable, as Arthur suddenly became uncomfortably aware of his own disheveled appearance, comprised of uncombed hair, unshaven face and a bathrobe with visibly frayed edges, which he had not even managed to close properly, although thankfully his faded white briefs were not on display. (He looked more than once to reassure himself.)

Arthur wasn't naive; he had no illusions that the presence of an attractive, briskly dressed women on his doorstep of a Saturday morning anticipated anything more than a sales pitch or a possible invite to a church social, but still he liked to make a good impression on the fairer sex, at least the fairer members of that group.So it was that several seconds went by before Arthur's brain decided to tackle a more relevant topic: just what in the world was this attractive (although rather severe) thirty-something businesswoman (come to think of it, she hadn't smiled once, not even briefly) doing at his door at this hour on a weekend morning? "Ah, hello," he ventured tentatively, as if the way he approached this situation might still influence it towards a positive outcome, "can I help you with something, Miss..." Arthur was always nonplused by women's addresses being dependent on their marital status. He could always default to 'Ms.' of course, but that always felt like cheating, plus he never felt confident that he was enunciating the 's' clearly enough. Arthur was often made uncertain by a great many things, usually in rapid succession.

Her reply, brisk and lacking even an atom of geniality, did nothing to set him at ease. "Agnes Middleton. Westbridge Security and Loan." 

*****

2202 GST (Galactic Standard Time)

Hyperdrive sounded like something out of Star Wars. What it felt like was, well, there was nothing he could honestly compare it with. At first, it felt like the entire universe had been shut off. After a brief, terrifying, moment of this, his mind was frantically attempting to find some way to generate its own sensory input. A kaleidoscope of images followed, a maelstrom that momentarily seemed even more terrifying. He felt he had to seize onto something, anything stable. What he chose (if that word means anything under the circumstances) was porn.

The last porn magazine he'd read was an old one, dug out of his "reserve stash" (otherwise called the "When are you going to throw this shite OUT" stash. It was one of those that promised "real, natural looking girls," and it was from America, which meant he could safely fantasize without having useless, impractical thoughts about how brilliant it would be to go looking for this girl in Knightsbridge, based on the probably sexist assumption that if she'd let herself be photographed pulling her labia apart, she could probably be talked into a good shag without too much trouble.

Anyhow, she had long, brunette hair and looked rather petite, breasts a bit on the small side but still a nice handful, pussy totally shaven and a bum worth smacking once or twice to see how she liked it.

She had an impish grin and lovely green eyes, and the expression on her face was all "Let's have some fun," and Arthur felt himself keen to oblige. He never liked sultry serious looks, looks that said, "Aren't I sexy?" They were asking too much; the place to tell a woman how sexy she was, was at the bar, but once they got naked Arthur, for one, didn't feel like answering any more questions; there was always afterglow for that.

He was a little startled when he realized it really felt like there was a magazine in his hands. He was even more surprised to notice the girl in the pictures was moving. By the time he realized he'd been drawn into the pictorial with her, he was sliding towards acceptance again. And he suddenly was very curious to know if he could touch her. Only as he reached out his hand did he regretfully consider how a bit of chat might have been a nice precursor than a technically uninvited grope. But even as he paused, she gave him the most welcoming smile, and he felt that NOT groping her might be even more rude, under the circumstances.

*****

9:02 GMT

He was certainly familiar with the bank she named. He had even applied for (and been denied) a home-improvement loan from them two years ago. The loan arranger had been equally brusque in his denial of Arthur's application, and Arthur was startled to discover that merely hearing the company's name could still evoke a discernable sensation of resentment, even after so much time had passed. Still, that was not going to prevent politeness from guiding his actions on what he'd suddenly noticed was a sunny, cloudless, yet pleasantly breezy Saturday morning.

She proceeded to follow her introduction up with several seconds of increasingly icy silence. Eventually Arthur found it unbearable; unfortunately, to break the silence he would have to take up the task of moving along a conversation with no idea of its intended destination.

"So this is a bank-related matter, then?" Although her composure was as coolly maintained as if it were in an ice chest, Arthur could swear she was starting to get angry. He wasn't sure what he would do if she started displaying her temper, but he was getting uneasier by the minute.

"This is about the delinquent status of your current loan, and the measures we will be taking to settle your debt."

Bizarrely, Arthur felt a sudden sense of relief after hearing this. It's just a misunderstanding, he thought, and he had never been able to let go of the idea that all a misunderstanding required was lots of calm, rational dialogue and good faith by all concerned, and clarification would result. Eons of history apparently was insufficient to dislodge this belief from Arthur's mind.

*****

2210 GST

His hand was on her shoulder. His body was somehow in a completely different position than it had been just a second ago. Assuming this was his real body. Assuming.

Although surprised, he did not start at realizing that he currently had his arm around his public school sweetheart, Cindy Matthews. Not that it would have been especially noticeable if he had. They were both a bit breathless, and had apparently been at each other for a good while. Her blouse was completely off, and bra was well on its predictable way to sliding off her shoulder, with a little help from him, naturally. 

She turned him on so much. He didn't even mind that they weren't fucking. Sure, his erection was throbbing painfully at this point. But she wouldn't get mad if he needed to relieve the pressure at some point. She had even lent a hand once or twice. No, things were progressing quite nicely, even if his supposed best mate kept telling him she should be taking it in her mouth by now. He leaned over to kiss her once more, but she stopped him on the way with a surprising announcement:

"I just finished my period today."

He liked that she was so open. She was always very honest about what her limits were, and she encouraged him to be open as well, even sometimes to share his desires and fantasies with her. At least once it had led to what on his end was basically phone sex. But it was an odd thing to bring up when he was trying to be amorous. Unless...

"It is now just about the safest time possible if I want to engage in sexual intercourse." she said, matter-of-factly. "And I think we've both been very good, and patient, and the fact we've both turned eighteen is something very momentous, something to be celebrated." She smiled. "And besides, I'm tired of that thing getting all lovely and hard and I STILL don't have any idea of what it would feel like inside me."

Unable to fully believe his good fortune, he said, stupidly, "Are you sure you don't want to start with oral?"

Shaking her head, she said, "I'll be amazed if you last two minutes the first time, and my pussy will be so sad if that doesn't happen inside her. And don't worry, me and a friendly dildo took care of Mr. Hymen a while ago. Now lets get these clothes out of the way,"

*****

9:05 GMT

"I see what the problem is," he said brightly. "I did apply to your bank for a loan a few years back, but I was turned down. Rather rudely, in fact. The denial letter said something about "having better things to do with the money," if I recall."

Her eyes narrowed, and her mouth formed a tight grimace. She seemed unimpressed with his information. "This would be the loan applied for May 5th, 2005?"

"I believe that was the date, yes," Arthur replied. "It's not something I commemorate, you know. I don't keep a scrapbook of rejections to keep them fresh in my mind, you know?" He hoped she knew. He suspected she didn't.

"That loan was in fact approved and disbursed on May 15, 2005, and the check was deposited on May 20th. Payments have been received regularly until five months ago, from which point we have received neither money nor notice from you regarding this matter. We have attempted to contact you." She paused, presumably for emphasis. "Several times. Frankly, we thought you'd done a runner on us."

The possibility that this was all some sort of elaborate prank suddenly occurred to him. It was such a tempting thought he embraced it as long as he could; any alternative he could contemplate seemed too much to bear at the moment.

"How is it, then, that I haven't received a single piece of mail from you since the rejection, not to mention I check my caller ID regularly, and I haven't seen your bank's name on it once?" He felt almost triumphant. Surely she would be acknowledging defeat any moment now.

*****

2217 GST

The morning seemed to be coming back in fits and pieces, as long as he didn't force it. But it was hard to keep track: as soon as he thought to himself : Oh, yes! THAT'S what happened, he was back to the bodiless maelstrom, back to the weird blend of memory and dream that seemed to solidify only when he forgot his present state. 

Right now, for instance, he was back in his first strip club. If the details seemed a bit hazy now, well, he was pretty sure they had been back then, as well. 

It didn't take long for looking at girls on stage to seem about as exciting as, well, looking at girls on stage. One could get a little bit of contact by tipping them, of course, as well as a closer view, but this seemed like it would wear thin after a while, as well.

It wasn't until the third girl came over to thank him after his tip that he realized there might be more to this than he'd been told. His friends had been vague, just saying things like, "Sometimes it gets interesting," and, "Make sure to tip the one you fancy at least two quid; it'll get her attention."

He had only tipped this one a pound, but he certainly had noticed her. She was a black girl, probably about nineteen, with white, white teeth, a long, swanlike neck, and a slender frame with long legs and one of the firmest, most muscular asses he had ever seen. It took him a while to see past the striking contrast between the darkness of her skin and the brightness of her smile, but he began to notice her strong features, her exceptionally full lips, and her almost hypnotic, almond-shaped eyes, so dark he couldn't tell where the pupil ended and the iris began. He suddenly realized this Amazon had asked him a question, and he hadn't heard a word she'd said after, "Would you like some company?" (Thankfully, his mates had gone back to the billiards table, leaving him all by himself)

He decided honesty might be the better part of flattery in this case, and said, "I'm sorry, but I've been so taken with how gorgeous you are I didn't hear a word you just said. Isn't that daft of me?"

She seemed, if anything, charmed by this admission, although he hadn't yet absorbed just how much her livelihood depended on appearing charmed no matter what her customer said. 

Smiling, she repeated, "There's a room in back where we can have a bit of fun together. I can let you get a nice long look at..." She paused, giving a delicious smile. "...anything you like. There can even be a bit of touching, if you're nice and make sure to do exactly what I say. It's ten pounds for a songs worth; then I try and do it like a little dance routine. But for thirty pounds, you get me for a whole half-hour, and I promise to make every minute worth it. Does that sound like fun?"

Of course it SOUNDED like fun. So did every car commercial he'd ever seen. Still, there was only one way to find out, and this was the closest he'd gotten to shagging anyone since Cindy had decided she wasn't cut out for long distance relationships, or possibly monogamy in any form. She'd been quite willing to make herself available to him when both of them were home for the holidays, but she'd taken a hike through the continent that first summer, and he was taking an internship at an advertising agency this year, so a long, dry spell it had been. Part of the problem was that he kept wanting a replacement for what he'd lost, instead of settling for what (more times than he'd noticed) was available to him.

Well, it wasn't a replacement, but this girl was at least willing and available, and even if this would only be a taste of what he'd been missing, maybe something to whet his appetite was just what the doctor ordered.

*****

9:12 GMT

She was not acknowledging defeat. He suddenly became aware that she was carrying a rather large folder under her arms, which, almost as soon as he noticed it, was then in her hands. There seemed to be a lot of paper in it, some of which she pulled out and handed to him.

"These are copies of the various letters we've sent you regarding your delinquent status." She pulled out another sheet and handed it to him. "And here is a copy of the check which you endorsed and deposited on May 20th, as previously mentioned."

Mystified, Arthur perused the papers. Immediately he noticed a discrepancy.

"Look here," he said, excitedly pointing, "look at the address you have listed. It isn't my address, it's a PO box!"

She was unimpressed. "It is the business address we have listed. It certainly sufficed up to now." But Arthur had all the confidence of a man with no real knowledge of the law and nothing to lose. "Well, whatever you sent, it can't have been certified, can it? I mean, a PO box can't sign for anything."

"The mail requiring your signature is still at the post office," she admitted with reluctance. "Still, we have made several good faith efforts to reach..."

Arthur interrupted her. "And this bank," he said, stabbing at the paper, "Spurious Financial Services? It tells you it's a fake IN THE NAME!!!"

She sighed. "The address given for the aforementioned institution is, in fact, that of a now defunct check-cashing establishment. As near as we can determine, the funds were deposited into a Nigerian bank which has so far refused to respond to our inquiries. As have the Nigerian authorities."

"Well, then obviously someone has defrauded the bank and stolen my identity!" Arthur exclaimed. "Shouldn't the police be handling this matter?"

Tight-lipped, she replied, "We rather hoped we could avoid involving the police. That's why I'm making this little visit."

"Well, I think I WOULD like to talk with them! Who knows what other mischief this...this SCOUNDREL has gotten up to?!!"

She seemed a bit skeptical in her reply. "Are you really maintaining that you had nothing to do with this? Even though you admit it was you who applied for the loan in the first place?"

"Even if I'd gotten it, it's only £3,000! D'you really think I'd go to such trouble to steal three quid large AND leave my own bloody name at the scene?"

Her expression at this point was unreadable. " Sir, this loan was for five hundred thousand pounds." She paused, slightly. "Five. Hundred. Thousand." The words were spoken with a peculiar inflection, as if the weight of the words equaled the amount of the money equaled the undeniability of his culpability.

*****

2240 GST

Arthur had to restrain himself from swearing. It seemed every moment his poor mind grasped at, although undoubtedly erotically charged, could only be just prior to, or just after, the orgasmic fulfillment he now craved more than ever. This didn't mean the memories weren't, of themselves, pleasant, but they kept leaving him with a thirst for more, a thirst it seemed his mind was unable or unwilling to slake.


Erotic Hitchhiker's Guide Ch. 02



"And that's how I came to be stuck on your primitive little planet," said Ford, concluding his long-winded, almost certainly fanciful (at least in parts), and probably never-to-be-repeated-OR-paraphrased exposition. Both Arthur and Agnes had manfully (or womanfully) maintained a polite silence throughout the entire narrative, and were loath to ask any questions for fear it would result in further monologues. This fear effected a prolonged silence once Ford had finished, which (astonishingly) felt even more excruciating. 

When Ford next spoke, thankfully it was to deliver practical, helpful information.

"If you're gonna fly around the galaxy with me, there's a few items you'll need, items I just happen to have a surfeit of." He began to rummage around in his dilapidated duffel bag, stopping when it seemed he'd found something useful. He pulled out two objects that, to Arthur, looked a lot like artificial phalluses.

Handing one to each of them, he explained, "This is a Diverse Intelligent Life-form Decoding Object. It insures that you will be sexually compatible with any sentient being you encounter. It's called DILDO for short."

(It should be noted that the DILDO does nothing to facilitate linguistic translation, as it is unnecessary. As every English speaker naturally intuits, every intelligent life-form in the universe is automatically fluent in it, barring some hideous genetic defect.)

Arthur looked at it doubtfully. "Um, what do I do, exactly?"

"Just place the base of it next to the head of your penis." Ford then gave Agnes a teasing look. "I assume you don't need me to tell you where to put that..."

Smilingly shaking her head, "No," she reached her hand down her skirt and (for all Arthur and Ford could tell) installed the device perfectly.

In the meantime, Arthur was intrigued to discover that following Ford's instructions caused the device to open up at the base, fitting over his penis like a sheath, then conforming to its original appearance exactly.

Arthur poked at his apparently unmodified member with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. It doesn't seem especially...enhanced," he said, sounding somewhat disappointed.

"Wait until you're banging an Antarean sex-priestess up her eight-inch circumference pleasure hole," said Ford knowingly. "No point in carrying extra weight until you need it, eh?"

"You've got nothing to worry about, sweetie," said Agnes, with a sly smile. "I know a place you'll always fit..."

"Yes, well," said Arthur, a bit flustered and embarrassed. Whatever Ford had done to make her so besotted, he knew it couldn't last forever. He just wasn't sure he felt comfortable taking advantage, now that he knew the source of her ardor. Plus he dreaded her eventual outrage.

Opting for the time-honored stratagem of changing the subject, he shifted the focus of the conversation. "Erm, so, what else have you got in that bag of yours, Ford?" he asked.

Rummaging again for another second or two, Ford pulled out two towels, which looked suspiciously like towels from a Holiday Inn that had had the logos bleached off of them. Ford then proceeded to disabuse Arthur of that notion. "This, he said, with what sounded like a note of pride in his voice, "is the Toweltron Mark Zeta. It is the vanguard of towel technology. Automatically self-cleaning, it also serves to clean 100% of all surfaces, particularly biological ones." 

Seeing the humans puzzled expressions, he rushed to clarify. "In other words, you can wipe yourself – or anything else – clean. Completely adjustable for moistness and soapiness, also serves as a makeshift bandanna or do-rag, AND," (now his grin was almost maniacal) "perfectly suited for life forms of the bipedal variety for turning any surface into a dynamite shag pad, no matter how harsh the surface may seem at first glance."

The next item looked even less impressive. Which isn't all that fair, since when it first came out, the I-phone, which this closely resembled, looked pretty damn impressive. But perhaps humans have gotten a little bit too used to the rapid pace of technological advance. Which is why the first thing out of Arthur's mouth was hardly enlightening:

"Oh, did you manage to save your I-phone?" He then paused and continued in a more sober tone. "I don't suppose it's much good with the planet destroyed and everything. No more phone service, no more Internet." Both him and Agnes sighed, unhappy to think of how completely the structure of their previous lives had been dismantled.

Then Agnes chimed in, in a brighter tone. "Are any of the apps still operational?"

Ford was visibly impatient. This, Arthur felt, was ungracious, considering they'd been attentively listening to his every word for some time.

"This isn't a bloody I-phone!" he yelled. This is a link to the vastest, most useful body of knowledge in the entire galaxy!"

"Oohh!" said Agnes. "You mean like the Internet?"

"No, not the Internet," said Ford, growing ever more irritated. "This is the Hitchhiker's Manual, a continually updated open-source informational text about everything in the galaxy, every planet, every sentient species, every political system; you name it, and if it's not in the Manual, you're probably making it up."

Understanding dawned on Arthur. "So it's like Wikipedia!" he exclaimed.

"Sort of," conceded Ford. "But it's for profit, and the last time someone tried planting fake information, they were reduced to a crispy cinder, then a very fine ash."

"What?!" cried Arthur, alarmed. "You mean that thing can barbecue people? How can you carry it around without being sure a solar flare or something won't trigger it?" Arthur's faith in technology was inextricably linked to his belief in Murphy's Law.

"Oh, no," chuckled Ford. "The Manual didn't fry them. No, they slandered one of the holy prophets of Andromeda Seven. His followers found out, and took care of business."

"So I take it freedom of speech doesn't get much protection in the galaxy at large?" asked Agnes, concerned.

"There are two ways to protect your freedom of speech in this cosmos," said Ford, "just as there are two excellent ways to protect your reputation . Anonymity and a gun."

*****

Ford had left what were probably the last two remaining humans by themselves in the consequently slightly larger cabin, which Arthur (once his senses started reliably informing his awareness again) could not help but notice had a distinct odor that was an odd mixture of leather and copper. Ford was presumably working out how they were going to abandon their current abode, being that it was presumably under the control of whoever had just demolished Earth, making it a less than hospitable environ for a majority of their party.

Before leaving, he had made a point of informing them that he would be gone for at least an hour, which filled Agnes with glee and Arthur with a sense of dread. He had to admit to himself he was tempted to say the Hell with her eventual disillusionment and take full advantage of her continued desire for him while it lasted. The conflicting urge, to break down and confess the truth of the matter, as far as Arthur understood it, also boded disaster. How could she ever trust him or Ford again? And Arthur was certain that their continued survival depended on them staying together at all costs. (Maybe not Ford's, but definitely him and Agnes's.)

But look at her! Sitting there all moon-eyed, eager to offer up her body to him, perhaps more, and don't most relationships start this way, a temporary skewing of perception, lust overriding reason? And there were no other humans. Didn't they, didn't HE, especially, have a duty? Didn't their survival convey SOME responsibility?

And, come to think of it, how much was HE under Ford's spell? Certainly he didn't need much manipulation to accept a blowjob from a beautiful woman, or to cooperate with someone who was helping him escape certain death, but he still had gone along with it with remarkably little protest, internal or external, which was unusual for him...

So, in that case, couldn't he be excused if he just gave in, went with the flow? Surely Ford could be relied on to make sure everything went well; perhaps he could even fix things so the two of them fell in love and stayed that way. Deep down, Arthur had always wanted to meet a nice girl and settle down with her, not quite under these precise circumstances, to be sure, but Arthur wasn't one of those people they consulted when the rules were drawn up; he just considered himself lucky if he was invited to play, so why not just make the best of whatever situation he found himself in?

Ultimately, it was the look of utter adoration she was giving him that decided him. Pissed off at him he could handle. The glare that said, "You're an utter bastard!" he'd weathered, not often, but often enough. But that look, that fawning, almost-more-appropriate-to-pets-than-humans look, the look that carried with it the certainty that anything hurtful or selfish he did would be met with that utter crestfallenness best express in the phrase, "Did I do something wrong?" It wasn't something he could just take advantage of, that required a level of callousness he just couldn't allow himself. 

Of course, telling Agnes the truth of the situation wasn't going to make things any easier. It probably wouldn't even make things right between them. But it would be a start.

If you aren't by nature a courageous person, it doesn't mean that you're doomed to a life of ineffectual cowardice. But it does mean you need to be emotionally intelligent. We've all done things that surprised us, in how they surpassed the limits of our everyday selves, some brave, some merely foolhardy. Sometimes we're motivated by conscience, sometimes one gets possessed by a sense of reckless abandon, and sometimes alcohol is involved. Regardless, if we want to maximize those experiences, it's important to pick our moments.

A surge of bravery isn't necessarily ours to command; sometimes the best we get is a little voice saying, "If I don't do this now, I'll never be able to." It may not seem fair, that voice may not even sound encouraging or helpful, but sometimes doing the difficult thing boils down to taking that little voice at its word.

"You don't really fancy me, you know," blurted Arthur, having no idea what to say next.

The look of hurt surprise accompanying her response told him he'd better do a more thorough job of explaining things. "Do you think I've just been pretending, to, I don't know, get a free ride off the planet or something? Is that the kind of woman you take me for?"

"No, no," he said, hoping he could manage to make sense of all this. "Look, this is a little hard to understand, but Ford, with what I'm sure were the best of intentions, mind you, played a – how can I put this?" He paused. "You've seen Star Wars, right?" 

She nodded. She was starting to look more like her old self again, which is to say, increasingly stern and morally disapproving.

"Well, remember how the Jedi mind-trick worked, 'These aren't the droids you're looking for,' all that?"

Again, a tight little nod.

"Well, basically Ford used his mind powers to get you to give me a blow job, so we'd stop arguing, and apparently it's easier to get people to do sexy stuff, and now we're both attracted to each other, but it's bound to wear off eventually, and then you'll be furious and won't want anything to do with me, and you'll still be dead gorgeous and I'll just be some idiot in a robe and skivvies and I never meant to take advantage of you but I just got so pissed at you and that bloody bank, and now I'm just ranting so I'll stop."

He then was silent, a silence in which he attempted to gather his resolve at least enough to look over at Agnes and gauge her, so far, intensely quiet reaction to his confession. When he finally did, to his immense shock and relief, he saw a great deal of puzzlement, but it seemed the hurt and anger had receded. At least she wasn't ready to kill him just yet, which would be more reassuring if it weren't for the whole 'Jedi mind trick' complication, but he'd expected to have a shoe thrown at his head immediately on the telling, so he was going to allow himself to feel that things were going well for the time being.

When Agnes finally spoke, she was almost laughing, whether induced by hysteria of by the humor of the situation was not clear. "None of this is real to me," she said, her relatively calm demeanor indeed lending her an almost dreamlike aura. But how long till she wakes up? Arthur wondered silently.

"I have, since this morning, fellated a total stranger, accused that same person of financial impropriety rather than admit my employer made a mistake, lost everyone I've ever known along with my job, and somehow managed to stow away on an alien spaceship. By rights, I should – we both of us should – be curled in a ball on the floor, whimpering.

"So when you tell me someone's been manipulating my mind and my emotions, well, it seems quite likely. Either that, or this is a dream and deep down I know it, and that's what's keeping me calm.

"I'm probably horrible for thinking this, but I don't feel like I lost anything. I never knew my biological parents, and the foster parents who raised me died ten years ago. None of my girl friends meant that much to me, which is sad, but all we ever talked about were men and reality television. Utterly superficial – and I think it was intentional on my part.

"And then there's Rodney, the most boring boyfriend in the world. The closest he ever got to showing his emotions was that face a man gets when he comes. And that was deliberate too! Maybe it's a sixth sense or something, but all my life a voice in my head keeps saying, "Don't get too attached," so for the most part, I didn't.

"So now here I am shut in a cabin with you, and I find myself ridiculously attracted to you for no good reason, except that you are the sort of guy I always end up with, I just never found it a turn-on before.

"I mean, that sort of bewildered deer-in-the-headlights look you get, somehow just picturing it makes the blood rush to my cunt.

"You're the type of bloke who can't ask a girl for her number unless you've chatted her up at least thirty minutes. You exude 'nice' and 'harmless' from your pores and you still worry that you'll seem threatening. If you dance with a girl and get an erection, you pray she doesn't notice."

Arthur, utterly unable to deny the accuracy of her assessment, said nothing.

"Like I said, I've dated nothing but your type. Because I don't trust myself with the men who make me weak in the knees. But now you do just that. I feel like one of the girls in a Revenge of the Nerds movie."

Arthur wondered if he should feel insulted. He decided it would be the stupidest thing he could possibly do, and prayed that he could avoid it if at all possible.

"I'm sure I should be acting outraged about all this. I mean, my mind's been – I guess 'violated' would be an accurate term. And yet, it's not that different from what happens to other people normally. You hear talk about teenagers, how their hormones take control of them. And adults aren't always in control; we get caught up in love, or anger, or even sadness. And we don't always see it as a bad thing – maybe we should, maybe we're just a bunch of animals with vocabularies, and maybe we'd be better off if we were like Vulcans.

"I guess if I'm upset about anything it's learning that, well, after so many years of being proper and in control, with my biggest problem being how boring my life was, my perfectly planned, predictable life, suddenly I don't have to worry about what my friends think, or what my work thinks, suddenly I'm capable of being this crazy, impulsive sexbomb and setting off on the wildest adventure any human has ever experienced, and I find out none of it is really me. On my own, I could never be that wild, that interesting. Arthur, I know why you felt you had to tell me – guys like you always end up telling secrets, unless you promise not to; then you take them to the grave. But I think maybe I prefer the fantasy, at least for now."

She smiled, and it looked like relief. Apparently she'd been working through a lot as she talked.

"So, what do you say, Arthur?"

Taken aback, all Arthur could do was stammer, "Erm, uh, about what? I mean, I know what about but what do you, exactly..."

"Can I be your sex goddess, Arthur?" Her grin showed she knew exactly how ridiculous it sounded. "Can I rock your world, and maybe show you how to rock mine? If I worship your cock, will you worship my cunt?"

Somewhat recovered, Arthur could only reply, "I think that'd be lovely, but, um, if you ARE going to be a sex goddess..."

"Yes?" She looked at him encouragingly.

"...you probably shouldn't ask. I mean, goddesses command, and they overwhelm the will of their subjects..." Was his mouth saying stupid things? He wasn't sure.

"You're right," she said. He looked startled at this. Her voice took on a note of steel. "Get your ass over here, get on your knees, and get your mouth on my pussy, you bastard! How dare you leave me unsatisfied?"

For an instant, sheer terror filled Arthur. Had he just created a monster? But, if nothing else, his British-born sense of fair play could not be squelched. She had pleasured him with her mouth wonderfully. Didn't he owe her at least that much in return?

Walking over to where she sat on the bed, he gently pushed her onto her back, "So that I may pleasure you more easily, my Queen," and knelt down in front of her lap. Folding his towel into a makeshift pillow, he placed it under her ass, enjoying the opportunity to get his hands on her ample buttocks. He than began unbuttoning her skirt, apparently not quickly enough for her tastes.

"Damn it, Arthur, I've had enough of your politeness and your...fastidiousness to last me te lifetimes! You should be diving in there! Tearing off my bloody knickers! I want that tongue lapping at my cunt, like you're a dog going at some peanut butter. Be fucking MESSY for once in your bloody life!"

Arthur felt a surge of excitement. He grabbed her skirt at the seam and pulled with all his might until he heard a satisfying rip. He roared with enthusiasm at the white silk panties thus revealed to him, especially the growing wet spot. Snagging the waistband in his teeth, he yanked at them with both hands, snapping the ties at the hip, then furiously throwing them aside. Ostentatiously sniffing, he let the odor of freshly aroused pussy linger a few seconds, prompting another "LICK me, you bastard!"

At hearing this, a cruel grin sprung onto his face. Lowering his head, instead of the cunnilingus she demanded he proceeded to administer little bites to her inner thighs, getting ever closer. Her pitiful cries prompted him to run his tongue over her slit, which made her squirm. She was already very wet, and, his nostrils filled with the scent of her, he started licking enthusiastically, seeing how much of her juices he could get in his mouth. Taking her moans as encouragement, he decided to attack the clit directly, first delicately nudging it with his tongue, then going in full force when her hands grabbed hold of his hair and clamped his head tightly to her crotch, sucking and nibbling her pearl with abandon, all the while her juices soaking his chin.

At last her grip subsided and he was able to raise his head. Immediately he leaned over and kissed her, fiercely, wanting her to taste herself, hoping it turned her on like it did him. His robe had come loose again, and his erection was quite visible under his boxers.

Her next words were an unequivocal command. "Take those damn things off."

Arthur did so, stepping out of them, causing his dick to bob slightly, a sight which pleased Agnes greatly. "Stick it in me," she directed. "Stick it in me now."




Erotic Hitchhiker's Guide Ch. 03



Arthur's day was not going especially well. This in spite of the fact that he'd had sex twice and met a girl who was turning out to be rather nice, all things considered. Of course, he'd also 1) been accused of financial malfeasance (by the very girl who was now keen to bestow sexual favors on him); 2) lost his home planet (a quaint carbon-heavy sphere known to its inhabitants as 'Earth'; and 3) been threatened with asphyxiation in the depths of space if he didn't somehow manage to ingratiate himself with a bunch of what seemed like extremely foul-tempered aliens ('alien' being a relative term, of course).

The foul-tempered beings ( he supposed 'alien' wasn't that accurate being that it was their ship) had destroyed his planet, apparently out of concern for humanity's demonstrated aggression levels and their habit of allowing sociopaths to obtain key positions in the political and financial sectors.

Ford hadn't been able to explain to Arthur why no one had implemented similar measures against their current hosts, but then they hadn't had much time for explanations.

And then there was the name of the species -- Vagines. It sounded like a bad pun to Arthur, but according to Ford there were a lot of those floating around the galaxy.

All in all, he really would have preferred to spend about thirty-six hours or so shagging his new sex partner, Agnes, who might not even be attracted to him for very much longer, once Ford's mind whammy, which effectively transformed her into an uninhibited nymphomaniac who only had eyes for Arthur, wore off. He supposed it was shallow to be so obsessed with sex under such circumstances, but he was pretty sure his natural inclinations, untampered with by friendly aliens, would have been to lie on the floor, weeping, so his focus on sexual matters was probably a boon, considering.

He supposed he should also be thankful that he, Ford and Agnes were walking through the lighted corridors of the spaceship of their own volition instead of being dragged kicking and screaming by armed guards. According to Ford, as three unauthorized but certainly detected life-forms, they could easily be reduced to energy patterns and beamed into deep space, or simply never be reconstituted again. It was like Star Trek, if Captain Kirk were known to use cold-blooded murder when dealing with stowaways. 

Being summoned meant, again according to Ford, they definitely had "more than a two percent chance to make it out of here with our hides intact." But he would give no other advice than, "Try to make a good impression."

Arthur wished he were in something more presentable than boxers and a bathrobe, and he was sure that Agnes regretted her torn skirt, although thankfully they'd been able to mend her panties with some scotch tape, but neither of them was confident it would hold up.

Still, as the stood at the door of the ship's meeting room, all three made last-ditch efforts to straighten clothes and tame unruly hair, in the futile hope of currying favor with their collective judge, jury and executioner.

(The Vagines are a species whose essence is defined by their astonishing capacity for pure unbridled selfishness. Their name, far from signifying any uniquely feminine characteristics, developed from the (supposedly) affectionate nickname given them by the first anthropologist to compile a comprehensive study of their culture, Zenwad Throckmorton III. He'd taken to referring to them as "selfish, stupid cunts" even in his formal publications, a designation subsequent researchers felt the need to alter, possibly to prevent confusion with the political organization, the Stupid Selfish Cunt Party, whose views are too convoluted to get into here.

Complicating matters was the bizarre fact that they were the only sentient species on record not to have come up with a species-specific self-designation. This denotes a central contradiction of this life-form: completely self-centered, they never-the-less cannot, or have no inclination to, make a name for themselves.)

It is a tribute to the amazing advances in cinematic special effects over the past century that their current host's appearance wasn't a complete shock to either human's systems. A legitimate exobiologist would most certainly have been more startled, mainly because of the overall humanoid anatomical structure of these so-called aliens. For all that, no one was going to mistake them for homo sapiens, and they would almost certainly have been insulted if anyone had.

Their faces were human-seeming enough, each one of the three had what most humans would consider androgynoous, but normal features, and green skin, from the tops of their hairless, round, smooth craniums to their slightly webbed feet. All were naked, with neither primary nor secondary sexual characteristics evident at first or even second glance.

Their skin was smooth in appearance, glistening slightly under the room's lighting, which was a series of hot, naked, ceiling-mounted glass bulbs.

After all that, the last thing Arthur expected to hear came out of the mouth of the one standing in the center of the room. "Friends," it said, seeming very happy. "It's so GOOD to see you in person!"

"You DO want to be friends, don't you?" asked the one on the right. It had a slightly more prominent chin than the others, and its eyes were slanted -- if it were a human Arthur would have thought they had an oriental cast to them.

"It's so difficult to find good friends," said the one on the left. "No one seems to have the time or the inclination." She blinked her eyes rapidly; they were impossibly round and it gave her an ingenuous appearance. She also had an upturn to her nose that Arthur inexplicably found rather fetching. This was puzzling to him; still, better to view them as appealing than be revulsed and offend them.

It was a bit of a shock to both Ford and Arthur that Agnes took it upon herself to reply. "Well, time is something we have plenty of, and I can't imagine we'd be stupid enough to turn down an offer of friendship, in our circumstances."

Arthur noticed Ford flinching at that. He apparently thought her approach was less than optimal, so he launched himself into the conversation.

"What she means is that we bear you nothing but goodwill, and will be glad to compensate you for any inconvenience we've caused, as soon as we've been able to regain access to our, let me say, considerable resources."

The middle one, sporting what could have passed for a Roman nose on a human, and rather full lips, a darker shade of green than the area just surrounding them, let out a small hiss. "Are you saying," she said, obviously irritated, "you don't wish to be our friends?"

Arthur, panicking at the thought of what a refusal of friendship might gain them, effused, "Of COURSE we'd love to be your friends! Ford simply meant we were, um, grateful." Arthur suddenly remembered that, of the three of them, only Ford could possibly have had experience with other species and the protocols inherent in interacting with same. Not to mention he could do cool mind stuff. Dreading what his outburst might have cost them, he asked, "Eh, what exactly would being your friends entail?"

The center one smiled, and licked her full, green lips. Arthur would have sworn her tongue was forked. He was more intrigued than he thought he should be, and less frightened than seemed prudent.

We just like it when people do things for us. Nice things."

The one on the right smiled. She had almost too many teeth, it seemed. "And say nice things about us. Especially how nice and attractive we are."

"And then leave us something to remember you by," said the one on the left, pouting. "'Cause otherwise we'll miss you terribly." It then sighed, in what Arthur, inexperienced human that he was, could only characterize as a feminine manner.

Agnes decided to chime in again. "Why, that sounds like nothing more than you'd expect from a friend." She then turned to Ford, who was glaring at her in an almost tactile manner. "I don't know why you were so apprehensive. These, um, people seem perfectly nice. Maybe they're just a bit lonely."

Arthur immediately thought of all the lonely, needy people he'd met over the years, and how firmly they'd wedge themselves into your life if you weren't careful, but decided this wasn't a good time to bring that up.

*****

Ford sighed. It wasn't that the lizard-like creature lounging on the soft rug in front of him wasn't appealing. For him, that simply wasn't an issue. Thanks to his training in interspecies relations (required before the Manual would hire him) he could, in the course of encountering any of the five billion sentient species catalogued by the Institute for Obsessive Taxonomy, become sexually attractive AND attracted, within five minutes maximum. There were also numerous non-sentient life-forms he could make the adjustment for, but it took longer, and was generally less than rewarding.

No, it was just that some species seemed to have evolved for the sole purpose of making every other species that encountered them want to pull non-essential parts of themselves off their bodies, a puzzling yet near universal reaction to dealing with the Vagine for over, well, the record was twelve hours, but the life-form in question was a sentient form of moss who up till then has been assumed, even by members of its own species, to have no emotions. The average tolerance was three hours for trained diplomats, four for trained anthropologists, and seven for trained psychologists, who have the professional advantage of curtailing any and all interactions after fifty minutes and telling the subject, "Your hour is up."

What made it worse was that inevitably on first contact they came off as quite amiable. There had been for centuries a fiercely debated theory claiming that the Vagines had an unspoken but steadfastly adhered to taboo that every person who'd ever made contact with them invariably broke, thus resulting in passive-aggressive hostility which manifested itself as their insufferable nature. This theory was finally refuted when an open letter to the Vagines, titled, "What Are We Doing Wrong, We're Sorry" was responded to with a letter entitled "When You Call Us Passive-Aggressive It Hurts Our Feelings." 

The end result is, when it comes to the Vagines, the galaxy at large has decided we're washing our hair this weekend. The Vagines, having no hair, and no other plans, have decided the rest of the galaxy is collectively a bunch of meanies, but they're still willing to give every single person they meet a fresh chance and a clean slate, and no one has ever been able to dissuade them.

Oh well, thought Ford, maybe I can get it happy enough to let me off at the nearest space-port. Just don't show your irritation.

Aloud he said, "So which gender are you, you bewitching creature?"

Pout. Oh God, it's starting already. Still, it isn't out of hand yet.

"So you don't think I'm feminine enough? Maybe I'm just some freak, trying to pass as female?" OK. "Gender doesn't matter to me" won't work, let's see if I can come up with some workable flattery. "Of COURSE you're feminine. I just get suspicious when I see anyone who looks as good as you. I think, all that beauty couldn't just come from evolution, but I guess you're just naturally gorgeous." Oh, good. I made her smile. That was touch and go for a second.

Speaking of touching..."Do you mind if I get my hands on you? I'll touch you anywhere you want."

Shit. Another pout. "If you really found me attractive, you wouldn't be able to keep your hands off me." Well. That one he'd heard before. Still, he also knew what happened when you touched a Vagine who wasn't ready. Imagine if skunks squirted Super Glue. The scent literally stayed in for years. Only remedy was a full body transplant.

Still, diplomacy was called for. "You're right, baby, it's just I've been stuck with this inhibitor chip. Insurance reasons. Means I can't even make the first move. Always have to ask permission. Believe you me," he said, running his hand up her leg, "that chip weren't in, seeing you would've soaked my shorts, full on."

She seemed to be mollified by his words, and to be enjoying his hands on her. Now if he could just remember whether Vagines like puffs of air or love bites...Caressing her buttocks, he blew gently on her crotch, and was rewarded for his efforts with a warm orange glow.

"Goodness," she gasped, "are you trying to get me in season early? I hope you're worth the eggs..."

Ford's grin was positively lascivious. "A healthy female like you? You could drown me in eggs and still fill five hatcheries."

OK. So far so good. Ford was thoroughly grateful his years on Earth with no refresher hadn't totally wiped out his training. Now was the time for the bites. Three light ones on the back of the neck, just so, to bring out the ridge along the back. Typical Vagine, won't reciprocate, which is just as well, she'd probably take chunks out of me, greedy little bitch. At least she's moaning, giving me SOME feedback, should be ready for mounting soon...

Even though this wasn't his dream date, he still felt a sense of eagerness as the impending act resonated with archaic drives common to all life-forms. Maybe the next few minutes wouldn't exactly be productive (or, more to the point, reproductive) but the simulated (and stimulated) that ancient dance of cellular division and recombination, spurred on by the promise of pleasure and of transcending the limits of physical bodies.

Ford looked down and noted with satisfaction that he was already erect. That was a definite plus about the DILDO. Impotence was pretty much a thing of the past. Anyone could get as big and as hard as they needed. Or as tight and wet. Or as gaseous and/or thixotropic. Or even, in one memorable encounter, detachable.

Of course, some argued that removing the uncertainty removed the excitement as well, not to mention the feeling of accomplishment that could arise after a fuck well fucked. And, although Ford had exaggerated, it was true in fact that the DILDO responded to resistance and rejection with an automatic shutdown. It was configured to recognize every variety of "No," from verbal rejection to a slap in the face. So Ford knew there was always the chance someone would reject him. He figured he was due for it sometime in the next five years. But not tonight.

Of course, the DILDO wasn't quite done with the configuration process. He gave his member an almost wistful glance as it shrunk down to the appropriate length and width. The Vagine receptacle cavity was notoriously small; ensuring a proper fit required that his member take on the approximate dimensions of a child's crayon. Luckily intercourse with them wasn't so much a matter of thrusting as it was of placement.

"My cavity should be accessible by now," she said, with possibly a hint of impatience. "Please place your appendage in there. I hope you will provide me with much pleasure."

Like it'll ever be enough, thought Ford. Placing his penis in the cavity as instructed, he allowed as to how it certainly wasn't unpleasant. He didn't especially enjoy being so passive; more effortful forms of intercourse certainly felt more...recreational. And also more powerful. Nothing like a spent, dazed partner, under you or even on top of you, saying disbelievingly, "Darling, where did you learn to do THAT?!!" 

Course it inflated the ego. You could feel like you were a god. It was, frankly, addictive. Which, of course, was the real reason he'd stayed on Earth so long. He was just lucky he hadn't gone completely off the rails and started his own temple. That brought down the inter-galactic police like nobody's business, and that was a big reason why Earth religions had so many martyrs.

But back to the matter at hand, the Vagine exuded chemicals that directly (and pleasurably) stimulated the nerve endings of a large swath of biological entities, of whom Ford's, the Betelgeusians, were included. But this was just a prelude (and an all too brief one) to the main event. Plugging into a Vagine was quite similar to plugging into an electrical socket. The two beings' personal electrostatic charges essentially fed into a makeshift battery, (i.e. the couple's genitals) which charged itself up to a level of quite high voltage but very low amperage. It then discharged itself into both partners, in a manner often pleasurable but but definitely overwhelming to most species; in the Vagines it was both exquisitely pleasurable and necessary for the release of both sperm and eggs. The fact that it only takes on average ninety seconds from initial insertion is difficult for less reptilian species to get used to, and some (Ford being one of the some) view it as not worth the bother.

At least the near unconsciousness that followed the procedure was blissfully quiet. It allowed Ford to feel almost tender towards the limp little she-lizard that dozed in his arms. Of course, once it wore off, he'd get an earful of how it wasn't the best she'd ever had, and what compliments she would have preferred to hear, and what inadvertent insults he'd uttered. And he would need to spend the entire time being apologetic, all the time worrying how his friends were making out.

Ford had decided in this case sheer naivete and unpreparedness were their best weapons against what they were in for. If nothing else, possibly their ineptitude would come off as charming. It was what he'd come to love in humans, at any rate.

*****

Agnes wasn't sure how she should feel about this development. In a whispered, hurried conversation, both she and Arthur had agreed that this was no time for traditional family values to rear their ugly head. They were both most definitely in Rome, and not the one with the cathedrals and the Swiss Army Guard.

Sure, there was a big stupid part of her that would have been flattered if Arthur had said something like, "No woman of mine is going to be ravished by a space creature. I won't hear of it!" The traditional roles and responses were comforting, if nothing else. But the point of a protective male was to keep you and any kids you had alive -- not to get you both killed. 

And, of course, the rather rushed nature of their...courtship made it all seem a bit unreal. They hadn't met each other's parents, sworn solemn vows. They'd been thrown together by circumstance, and circumstance stood a good chance of making their union -- such as it was -- permanent. Of course, if they were cast into the depths of space, the foundation of their relationship would swiftly cease to be a relevant topic.

But even so, fucking a lizard creature she'd just met -- this fell a bit outside her comfort zone. As disconcertingly affable as they were acting, she couldn't help but think how helpful the serpent in Genesis was -- at first. Not that she Believed that old story, still...As much as the summary destruction of Earth by aliens seemed to refute every eschatological scenario from every religion she'd ever studied, it also shredded her mental file titled, "Things I'm Unwilling to Believe Are Possible."

She knew asking would be a major faux pas, so she just sincerely hoped this creature didn't sink its teeth into her flesh or drink her blood or -- oh God what if it tried to impregnate her with its alien seed? Calm down, she told herself. Ford had explained that the DILDO is a contraceptive as well as a sexual facilitator. Now, let's just focus on the matter at hand.

"You seem nervous," her new friend noted. "Do you anticipate some aggressive action on my part? My species is not known for being violent."

Right, she thought. Unless you're extirminating an entire planet, or evicting unauthorized passengers. But bringing this up seemed more likely to provoke aggression than to inspire him towards passivity. Nervously, she smiled.




Erotic Hitchhiker's Guide Ch. 04



Chapter 4

Hitchhiker's's Manual Page # 748653724165874.6 Entry: Preference, Sexual

"A much debated version of sexual preference (or 'type' as it is more casually referred to) is the far more restrictive concept of sexual orientation. Essentially, it is the idea that one cannot be truly satisfied with a partner who does not fit a previously specified set of criteria (e.g. dissimilar external genitalia or quadrupedal body type). When adhered to by an individual, this pattern of behavior is often considered a perversion; when shared by an entire species, it is widely accepted to be one of the 26 indicators of barbarism; the most recent species to suffer extermination as a result were the bipedal inhabitants of the planet they termed Earth.

Certain radical fringe groups have taken to extolling the virtues of sexual orientation, claiming its restrictive aspects make the attainment of one's sexual goals that much more gratifying. Also, the automatic outcast status indulging in it bestows on the practitioners makes them more likely to be artists, philosophers, musicians and janitors, occupations generally disdained by the more conformist members of society, but essential in creating and maintaining a vibrant, healthy culture. Currently, having a restrictive sexual orientation is not a punishable offense, but it does preclude one from a career in architecture, beadwork, or antimatter waste disposal.

*****

When we last left our heroes (and their reptilian hosts) they were waiting to see if they would be kindly deposited at the nearest spaceport or be expelled into an arid vacuum. Ford, the only non-human in the group, had been willing to allow himself a measure of cautious optimism, based on the fact that all three of them had been able to resist the (completely natural) urge to strangle their incessantly annoying hosts, with Arthur even achieving a mutually affectionate interaction with one of them.

That was until the Vagines bestowed high praise (for them, anyway) on the stowaways sexual performance. Ford knew that a Vagine's favorite activity following sex was to kvetch about the supposed inadequacies of their partner. It irritates them no end that these negative ratings are never taken seriously, and indeed are often claimed as a badge of pride. Ten galactic cycles ago, a common pick-up line in any spaceport bar was, "Ever satisfied a Vagine?" This approach went out of favor as it wreaked havoc with various inter-galactic consent laws, being an obvious example of "No!" emphatically meaning "YES!!!"

If they were complimenting you, they didn't intend for anyone else to hear about it, ever. Ford decided it was time to get a word in edgewise, figuring he couldn't make things worse.

"All right, put the honey talk back in the jar. Why'd you decide to give us the axe?"

The head Vagine looked irked. "We are merely trying to express our appreciation for the sincere efforts –"

"Oh my God!" cried Agnes. "Ford's right! This is exactly like every forced retirement dinner I've ever attended! You could at least drop us off somewhere we'll have a chance, you cold-blooded –"

"Alas," said the Vagine who'd mated with Agnes, "there are circumstances that make it impossible for us to assist your survival in any way, being as you are the last two known survivors of a species condemned to extermination. "

Ford was taken aback. "Surely you've done enough," he argued. "They have no home world, no source of diverse genetic material – it's not like they'll be able to last more than one or two generations, tops!"

"Our instructions state we are to leave no trace of the species. We have even been instructed to forgo retention of the genetic material we extracted from you during our passionate trysts –"

"WHAT?!!" cried Agnes, outraged.

"Oh, yeah," said Ford. That's standard Vagine practice. They keep trying to breed a species that can tolerate them. It always terminates in the embryonic phase, so nobody frets about it."

Agnes, looking horrified, was unable to say anything further.

Finally, Arthur found the presence of mind to enter the discussion. "How can you just go along with this?" he implored, addressing his own private Vagine, as he had come to know her. "Isn't this the kind of behavior that makes you hate being a Vagine?"

She shook her head. "I think as much as I hate being a part of this, I can see where being on your own gets you."

"And me," Ford said, dispirited and desperately hoping to avoid sharing in his friend's apparently inevitable demise, "any reason why you have to throw me onto the scrap heap as well?"

"We naturally assumed your loyalty to your friends would override your survival concerns," said the head Vagine. "But since you ask, we have been instructed that anyone with significant exposure to human culture must be dealt with as a probable contaminant."

"Just doing your jobs, eh?" said Arthur bitterly.

"Oh no," said the female who had until recently been his favorite. "We expect a sizable bonus for our actions here."

The head Vagine sighed. "Unfortunately, this is a black-ops mission, so no official commendation. Which is another reason we're putting you out. Sor–"

Sadly, his intended audience never got to hear him complete the apology, since by then transmat beams had transferred them approximately 186,000 miles from the relative safety of the Vagine transport, presumably into the void of deep space.

*****

One of the reasons the transmat beam is such a useful device for disposing of waste or unwanted life-forms is that it abrogates the necessity of doors, airlocks or any other possible weaknesses in the structural integrity of one's space craft. As many safeguards as can conceivably be built into the average airlock, for example, there is no more certain way to guarantee that it won't spontaneously open, disgorging 50% of one's carefully maintained artificial environment, than to not have one in the first place. 

Of course there is always the possibility that the transmat system itself will malfunction, but this has proven to be an unpopular speculation, and all apparent instances of this have been assumed to be particularly creative and utterly successful suicide attempts.

An even more unlikely occurrence than a transmat malfunction would be that of one beam, containing, say, three bipedal life forms, encountering the interference pattern of another beam from an entirely different ship, attempting to dispose of six months worth of garbage and biological waste, and therefore resulting in the three unbelievably lucky transmittees being deposited via a feedback loop to the very corridor which had been used as an impromptu trash bin.

The chances of this are so unlikely, in fact, that nobody in this galaxy makes a high enough salary for it to be worth their while to calculate them. So just keep that in mind. It might be relevant later.

Ford was the first of them to get back on his feet. Looking around, all he could think to say was, "Well, I hope these guys are nicer."

Arthur was quick to stand up himself, once it was clear 'up' had a workable definition in this frame of reference. "And who are 'these guys,' exactly?"

"Dunno," said Ford. "But it's definitely a different ship."

"And how can you tell?" asked Agnes, who seemed very uncertain if her balance worked at all, moving from foot to foot as if to catch it off guard.

"No methane," said Ford. "Whoever lives here doesn't come from a swamp planet."

"There are entire planets that are nothing but swamp?" Agnes sounded quite skeptical.

"Of course." He turned to look at Agnes, a bit skeptical himself. "You don't think most planets are like Earth, with the different climates all jumbled together, do you?"

Agnes told herself this was another discussion she would have to file away under 'Later.' Right now she was more concerned with the fact that everything suddenly seemed to be emitting a green glow, even her.

"Are we being irradiated?" she asked Ford, her voice uneasy.

"Never heard of any radiation that looked this red," he said, puzzled himself.

"Arthur, what do you see?" asked Agnes.

Arthur blinked. "Everything's gone sort of...yellow," he said, mystified.

Ford smacked himself on the head. "Of course!" he cried. "Nothing's changed color. It's our eyes going wonky."

This did not reassure Agnes. "Is this a result of that transmat beam?"

"No," Ford said. Then he grinned a grin, a guilty sort of grin. "I'm afraid it's the DILDO. It's making adjustments."

Arthur was aghast. "You mean it actually thinks we want to have SEX?!! Here and now?"

Ford grinned again. "Yeah. There's got to be some kind of local interference. Normally it won't spontaneously adjust like –" He paused. "Hey, are my arms getting shorter?"

"Yours and mine both," said Arthur, mildly horrified. "And my legs, they're connecting!"

"My feet seem to be swelling, too," noted Ford. Luckily, the DILDO automatically divests the user of any clothes that might become uncomfortably restricting, so his shoes and socks promptly slid off, as his feet continued to swell alarmingly.

"And for Christ's sake, what's happening to your nose, Agnes?" yelled Arthur. Indeed her nose was growing into what Ford and Arthur almost concluded was a penis until the hood grown over it made its feminine essence obvious. Agnes's mouth opened, at first apparently in shock but it just kept opening wider and wider, teeth and tongue retracting until her lip stretched the entire length of her body like the giant vagina she had stretched into. Her hair had completely frizzed into a furry pubic patch, and she was already exuding a musky feminine odor.

As shocking as the transformation was to Arthur (only mildly surprising to Ford) their own mutations were every bit as startling. Their hands had completely shrunk into their bodies, and their feet had swollen into impressive scrotal sacs. Their own mouths had migrated to the top of their completely bald, and now surprisingly spongy heads, from which drooled a clear, slick fluid.

Luckily, they still functioned as mouths, for speaking purposes anyway.

"Ford," said Arthur, who seemed likely to blow his top, "is there a good reason we've transformed into giant genitalia?"

Ford was cautious in his reply. "Well, I'm sure there's a reason, if not a good one..."

"Ford!" boomed Agnes, understandably having a spot of trouble with volume control, "how do we change back?!!"

Ford was almost apologetic. "Only quick way is to, um, perform the operation we've been configured for."

Arthur saw his point immediately. "So I need to insert, um, my entire self into her..."

"Actually," said Ford, "you two might prefer it if I took the front, since the, um, back entrance is considered to be rather intimate..."

Arthur rolled around to the back of Agnes. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "It's nothing but arse cheeks and your, er, rosebud."

"So you're both just going to impale me?" echoed Agnes. "No foreplay? Just ram it in me?"

"It doesn't seem to be an option, sweetie," said Arthur, regretfully.

"Well," Agnes sighed, "you may as well get it over with then."

Ford slid in pretty quickly, as the DILDO was ensuring maximum lubrication, and had successfully angled himself so that a good amount of stimulation was imparted to her clitoris with each eager thrust. But Arthur was having a tougher time of it.

Remarkably, the self-lubricating function of the DILDO even allowed her arsehole to secrete lubrication. But that didn't mean he could just slide in like a pinworm. Her butthole was tight, and Arthur was perhaps a bit too gentle.

Baby," she gasped, "you've GOT to keep pushing. If you let up for half a second I'll reclench!"

Arthur tried to remember something from the million or so men's advice columns he'd read in his life. "Um, sweetie," he said, maybe too nicely, "maybe if you bear down a bit, I can squeeze in..."

Oh, for Christ's sake!" snapped Ford. "This is all stupid human mental blockage! Arthur, be a man and tame that asshole. Push, for God's sake!

"And you, Agnes, I can tell you want to get it in your arse! For once in your life, you get to take it like a whore, show Arthur how dirty you can be. Go on, tell him how much you want it!"

"Arthur," she moaned, "I want it in my ass. I want YOU in my ass. Now, tame it with that huge prick! Fill me UP, God damn it!!"

With a roar Arthur shoved through. This precipitated a gasp and a mighty clenching by Agnes's anus. But Arthur would not be squeezed out. As Ford aggressively pumped in and out of her massive fuck hole, her ass relaxed enough for Arthur to do some pumping of his own.

As they quickly developed a rhythm with each other, both Ford and Arthur began to twitch expectantly and swell as they thrusted. Giving herself up to the feeling of being a massive cavity serving no function other than being stuffed full of man-flesh, Agnes could not distinguish their climaxes from her own. As they pounded her into submission, she pondered living as a hole, as a pair of holes, stretched out to fit two massive penises, empty without them...

*****

"Now, if we're quite done, could someone PLEASE tell me what that was all about?" Agnes was clearly directing the question at Ford; she hoped he had an answer. He definitely had some explaining to do.

"I have a theory," Ford answered. "Now, obviously this has been a little...disconcerting, but please bear in mind that ultimately I am responsible for you guys getting off your doomed planet with seconds to spare, raising your odds of survival juuussst enough to keep you alive so far. So, a little faith, please?

"Now, I've been beamed around a time or two. Usually conspicuous by it's lack of affect, right? Not even a long, dark moment, just first you're there, then you're here, right?"

Both humans nodded to show they understood, even if they didn't. It seemed polite.

"Well, before we came to in this passage, I felt an...expectancy, like a hesitation, like maybe we'd beamed but not quite? Admittedly, this is pure subjectivity, because once they break you down, they can either scramble your patterns to nothing, or store 'em on a database until they're good and ready to welcome you back to the living, and of course the former group doesn't talk, but the latter...all the same. Like time stood still, but not in a magnificent, awe-inspiring way, more like an oh-they-must-have-lost-that-reel-of-the-movie way, a don't-blink-and-you-still-missed-it way. So I think we must have got to our destination..." Pause for effect. "...and something happened."

Agnes reflected that after about a year of these sorts of occurrences, she might be able to participate in a sensible discussion about such matters, if she hadn't been driven stark, staring mad in the meantime. Arthur wanted to get her in a room alone, strip her naked, and cling to her, hoping she wouldn't hate him forever if he started weeping. Letting Ford speak seemed easier than expressing either of these thoughts.

"I think," Ford said excitedly, "that either this ship materialized around the space we were beaming into, which disrupted our materialization just enough to create a small but noticeable delay in the process, or –" (and here he seemed to get really excited) "something intercepted the beam, and either captured or bounced us to a completely unexpected but utterly safe destination."

Arthur wondered if they'd gotten to the explanatory part yet.

Ford now spoke in a low, confidential tone. "Now either of those events, " he said as if sharing a secret, "is very unlikely."

He nodded as if to say, I must agree with myself, so someone will. Now, the likelihood or unlikelihood of events is a very important field of study recently."

"I believe the proper term is 'probability,'" said Agnes.

"Only for smug academics," said Ford. "Now, the DILDO has a circuit that directly affects this."

Arthur was confused. "Why would a sex aid be given the ability to affect prob–"

Ford cut him off. "Please say "likelihood." I'm really trying to avoid copyright infringement here."

"All right, likelihood. Even so, the point remains."

"I'm getting to that. Look; have you ever bought a pack of condoms, then a year later you discover you only used half?"

Arthur was embarrassed and could only reply with, "Er..."

"Exactly. Nothing like getting your overconfidence flung back in your face. Well, what if a condom was able to determine where its purchaser's most likely prospects were, steer him in their direction, and even tweak the odds so she – or he – is 90% likely to give you a 'yes?' All, of course, to increase the likelihood of the product being used in a timely manner."

Arthur was enthralled. "I'd spend half my paycheck on condoms. I'd likely go days without food, if necessary."

"Right," said Ford. "Now imagine a device that can tweak both your chances of success and you, so every likely target just happened to be what you were attracted to because you just happened to be the sort who's attracted to that type?"

"Wait, why did you wait until we were off-planet to share this with me?" Arthur felt an indignance which he wasn't sure was justified. Still, he'd slept alone a lot more Fridays and Saturdays than he'd cared to.

"Because you're too bloody nice to use it properly," said Ford. "You'd convince yourself that every two-bit skank just looking for a new rod to ride was capable of oh, so much more if she gave herself a chance, and you wouldn't see it was best for you and her to fuck and move on. And you have to get over the idea that every woman that shags you is doing you a colossal favor." Ford had gotten a bit red in the face. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself down.

"Anyhow, this device tweaks reality enough to basically position you and someone else close enough together to let nature take its course. But if it were to come in contact with an even stronger field, then the feedback could impact the biological adaptation circuit, in which case we get turned into, um, fucking machines."

Agnes thought she might have understood half of that, which made her worry she was going crazy ahead of schedule. "So what could make reality warp on that kind of scale? And will it happen again?"

"I can tell you," said a voice from the end of the corridor. "But I'd rather take you to someone who feels like explaining it. The whole thing is more than I want to deal with."

Who could this new character be? Isn't it kind of aggravating to give them just one mysterious line and end the episode?

And what's with the "Destroy All Humans" directive? Are we really that bad? Or is there some darker, more sinister purpose at work?

And lastly, aren't there less ham-fisted ways of foreshadowing than constantly asking rhetorical questions?

There may be answers, or just more sex, or maybe about as much sex, in the next "Erotic Hitchhiker's Guide."



Erotic Hitchhiker's Guide Ch. 05



Hitchhikers Manual Entry # 2639467287.6

Category: Entertainment

In virtually every civilization, there are people who perform particular tasks so well that the performances, or the artifacts of them, are of immense interest to others. There is no real rhyme or reason to what activities a given culture will find amusing; while the spectacle of toilet construction is eagerly attended to on Rigel 6, whose inhabitants excretory systems appear to be modeled after a Klein bottle, equally puzzling is the observation of excretory functions, which is the primary recreational activity of the meiotic macrophages of Cygnus 3, also known as the first species to devise a calculus of flatulence frequencies, quite useful for settling disagreements over the primary contributor of methane to the local atmosphere in enclosed spaces, which has prevented untold wars.

The realization that any activity may conceivably be someone else's entertainment has resulted in market forces rendering the antiquated concept of privacy utterly obsolete, with most cultures who gave even lip service to the notion having coincidentally met their demise in a series of unrelated incidents over the last century.

These days, one's best source of financial security and physical protection is a camera crew following one around the clock (which clock depends on local ordinances primarily), a loyal sponsor, and a large, affectionate audience. These things are also required for one to hold public office in any sector of the galaxy that hasn't been condemned unfit for biological habitation and reconfigured as an orgone dump.

*****

"I hope you don't expect me to act like I'm happy to see you."

The sullen, pouty expression on the face of the woman addressing them somehow only seemed to exacerbate her alabaster skin, her lustrously dark hair which spilled out of her scalp to rest at her shoulders, her slightly long, almost Mediterranean nose (all descriptions stem from Arthur's still Earthbound frame of reference), and her slightly pointed, insolent chin. She had impressive cheekbones, and lips that were almost too big for the mouth they encompassed. The black dress draped over her slender frame exposed her sharp shoulders, and disdained to cover any part of her legs below mid-thigh.

From what Arthur could tell, the entire raison d'etre of that face was to appear unhappy to be anywhere, doing anything, and look devastatingly attractive in the process. Had he not heard her speak and seen the play of her features match the words issuing from her mouth, he'd have been convinced she was a mannequin, As it was, he suspected–

"Oh, hello robot." Ford apparently had not trouble detecting her artificiality. As an aside to his compatriots, he noted, "Standard Sexbot, Olympia Corporation, Mark 7.3. Never seen one look this sullen, though."

"I was supposed to be modeled after an Orionian princess, from the post feudal era," said the quite fetchingly disingenuous facsimile. "They made me post-industrial."

Agnes thought she had it. "So your like our Generation Y?"

"Even worse," said Ford. "Orion 5 decided they could continue their colossal rates of per capita consumption with no drawbacks once someone invented an engine for a matter replicator that ran on hope."

"Not such a bad idea if it worked," said Agnes, who possessed a large supply of optimism herself.

"Only turns out there's a limited supply of the stuff," said Ford. "It's a renewable resource only if it isn't completely drained from the central nervous system of the organism generating it."

"So a cycle of ever-increasing wasteful consumption, limited only by whim and temperament, resulted in a generation of teenagers who were jaded, cynical and morose?" said Arthur. "Who could have guessed?"

"Congenitally morose," corrected Ford. "The only cure was hope transplants from those members of the population that were almost psychotically hopeful."

"Mostly registered voters," said the sexbot. Arthur, who'd voted straight Labour ticket until Blair's ascendancy, felt indignant, but held his peace.

All through this conversation, they'd been following the saucy sexbot and her abnormally long legs through various corridors, some brightly lit, others the light level of an average nightclub, minus the strobe effect. 

Finally they reached what Arthur had come to recognize as a Significant Door. These doors serve the function of allowing people to carry on a conversation at full volume without being interrupted by the ambient noise of, say, another set of people arguing about whether they've gotten lost or not. They also provide a ready supply of cheap suspense before new characters are introduced.

As this one is opened, both Arthur and Ford are startled by the realization that they have encountered at least one of the inhabitants previously, although, for Ford, this just reinforces his conviction that they are caught up in a web of Extremely Unlikely Events.

Here they are," said the sexbot, clearly feeling no satisfaction at the completion of her assigned task. "Does anyone want me to have sex with them or something?"

"No, Marvella," said a clearly female voice. "I don't think any of us want sex just now." This voice was attached to a slender woman with brown hair frizzed up into what on a black woman would have termed an Afro. She had large brown eyes and a small button of a nose, her lips pale and quite thin.

While the sexbot was long and lithe, and Agnes medium-sized and curvy, this woman was petite, with small, but emphatically feminine proportions that refused to concentrate in any one physical feature, clothed anyway.

"Speak for yourself." The dual reply was almost synchronized, as if Ford and the man standing at what were obviously the ships controls had rehearsed this collaboration. Both of them also grinned, and moved towards each other to culminate in a bear hug, which was released after a good minute.

"Fame hasn't changed you that much," said Ford, giving the object of his declaration a final once-over before pronouncing judgement.

Said object had jet-black hair, on both his head and his face, as unkempt as a logger's and almost frighteningly large teeth, now proudly on display thanks to their owner's manic grin. Slender as a footballer, his outfit was a shiny, silky purple, except for the vest, which was black crushed velvet.

"And how about you," this living monument to tacky excess exclaimed. "Done chasing obscurity and bad investments, are we?"

Ford stopped grinning. "That planet was a prime vacation spot! If it hadn't been destroyed..."

"The population would have been up to 12 billion in 15 years and there'd be no more ice," said the man with certainty. "Trillian told me all about it."

"Trillian being me," said the lady in question, walking up to Ford with her hand outstretched. "Zaphod's never been much for politeness or introductions or...well, I'm sure he's good for something." She then turned towards Arthur and Agnes. "And Arthur I've met, but not your...friend?" If their disheveled appearance fazed her, she gave no sign. Agnes seemed startled, however, possibly by their familiarity.

"So when you took off with this bloke from the party, you completely ditched the planet, didn't you?" said Arthur, as if it had all been a laugh, not a past humiliation he really would have preferred not to recall.

"Well," said Trillian, "when Zaphod here came up out of the blue and said he had his own spaceship..."

"You believed him completely," said Agnes.

Trillian shrugged, embarrassed. "He just seemed to have this way about him," she said, then looked puzzled.

"As it happens," said Arthur coolly, "I think I know exactly what you're talking about. Which is a relief, because I had gone home thinking you were a total bitch and I was a complete prat."

Zaphod looked unhappy at this turn of the conversation. Ford was merely surprised. "So you were all at a party together?" he asked, still puzzling it all out.

"I had really only stopped in to use the loo," said Zaphod casually. "But any party that doesn't get you drunk or laid is a failure, right?"

"Was this the party at Islington?" Ford asked Arthur. "The one I passed on cause I had tickets to For Better or Worse: the Musical?"

"Wasn't that the show cancelled halfway through the first performance?" asked Agnes.

"Yeah, it was all a prank by Sacha Baron Cohen," said Ford. "Wish I'd known you were on the planet; I'd have bummed a ride."

"Oh, yeah," said Zaphod. "Well, not that evening, third wheel and all that, but I definitely would have swung by later."

"Yes," said Trillian. "For the President of the Galaxy, he has an awful lot of free time on his hands."

"Oh..." chortled Ford. "Is that what you're telling the birds these days?"

"No, it's true," said Trillian. "He has a certificate and everything."

Under Ford's smug, knowing gaze, Zaphod became suddenly defensive. "I really did win the title," he insisted. "Yeah, OK, it's ceremonial, but over 40 quadrillion viewers chose me, mate, and I get a recording contract."

Arthur was feeling triumphant. "So, this President of the Galaxy gig, it doesn't involve any real authority or power, does it?"

"I know I've seen him with staff," said Trillian, "although they may have just been makeup consultants..." She trailed off as realization dawned. "I've been the world's, no, the galaxy's most gullible idiot."

"Don't blame yourself," said Arthur. "You're almost certainly suffering from alien mind manipulation. It's pretty potent." He chuckled, pointing at Agnes. "It made her infatuated with me."

She nodded ruefully. "I do think the worst of it is wearing off, though." She patted Arthur's shoulder. "You're still head and shoulders above any other current prospects. For one, you don't use mind tricks to get laid." Both Ford and Zaphod looked quite nervous at this implied criticism. "Not deliberately, at any rate." At this, Arthur looked a bit chagrined, though he recovered nicely.

"Well, my gramps always said, There's worse paths to success than being the best of a bad lot."

"Right," said Zaphod, who'd had enough of the current conversation. "Let's get all of our new friends situated in their respective cabins, we'll all take a few hours to rest and freshen up, and then I can brief the new members of our crew on our current mission."

"What exactly is this ship called, anyway," said Arthur.

"The Heart of Coincidence." To everyone's confused looks he reiterated, "Rest. Freshen up. Then explanations."

*****

The command to rest turned out to be an irresistible one for Ford, Arthur and Agnes. Nearly twelve hours went by in their frames of reference while they embraced blissful unconsciousness. Of course, thanks to atmospheric controls which precisely reversed normal relativistic effects, only one-and-a-half hours passed on the rest of the ship, which allowed them to spend additional time engaging in various activities without unnecessarily straining the patience of their inadvertent rescuers.

Trillian was fully willing to press her moral advantage, now that she'd discovered how completely she'd been snookered by her thoroughly conniving boyfriend.

"So from the time we met, it's been like you slipped me a psychic roofie, and I guess once you got bored I'd just wake up one day at the oasis on some desert planet, maybe with bus fare, and hopes that the local populace gave amnesty to stranded aliens!"

"Oh, hey," soothed Zaphod, obviously offended. "If you think I'd just ditch you, you've got me all–"

"Like I'm supposed to believe you have some innate sense of honor, some moral compass that prohibits such behavior?" she said with disbelief woven through her voice.

"Hey," he said, his dander up, "maybe what I did to get into your pants was a bit dodgy ethically–"

"Glad to see you can finally admit it," she said, sarcasm dripping from her words. "This may be the dawn of a Great Moral Awakening."

"–but as I was saying," continued Zaphod, irked now, "I'm still not such a bastard that I'd just ditch someone with no means of support or –"

"Zaphod, anywhere you left me would count as abandonment. Didn't you hear what Arthur said? There's no place for me to go back to. And an Earth PhD. in Astrophysics isn't going to garner me a job in a galaxy where the so-called super-luminal speed limit gets sidestepped on a routine basis! Everything I studied for years to learn isn't just wrong; it's irrelevant!"

"Still beats being dead," said Zaphod, a bit callously.

"No, instead I'm dependent on the whims of an irresponsible rogue who right now is in danger of spending the rest of his feckless existence in a maximum-security prison, all because he couldn't resist taking the newest, shiniest space toy he could find out for a test drive!"

"Are you normally in this bad of a temper?" asked Zaphod incredulously. "Because any emotional dissonance you're experiencing right now isn't coming from me, I swear."

"No, it isn't, and no, I'm not!" screamed Trillian in a fury. "I'm just finally able to feel things normally after whatever fog you kept me in for months. Don't expect me to have any warm, fuzzy feelings about you any time soon, either."

There was a pause. "Well, like I said, for a total bastard I have my limits. Even if I get locked away, I'll make sure you're taken care of. I mean it."

"Yeah, well," she said, only the slightest bit mollified. "You know what's really embarrassing?"

"What, babe?"

"I am so fucking turned on right now." There was no affection in her voice. "I'm going to want those cocks of yours in me very soon."

He grinned. "I knew there had to be something about me you still liked."

Her smile was ruthless. "If I ever figure out a way to get them to work without that idiot brain of yours, we may have to revise our relationship."

*****

Zaphod never had been much for foreplay. Which was unfortunate, because Trillian's arse still hadn't gotten used to Zaphod's prick (usually the lower one, unless they were doggy styling) , which, on the upside, meant he hadn't yet done her sphincter any lasting damage. But it also meant she needed a good warm-up before he jammed it in there. 

Even with all the mind bumps he'd given her, suggesting how immediately her assimilation of a DILDO would render such preparations pointless, she'd still refused the offer. Her own unmodified genitalia had given her all the pleasure she could handle throughout her adult life, and she liked that, with her method, he had to wait.

Perhaps eventually he'd decide it was more fun to warm her up with a good tonguing than to wait passively while she revved up her engine herself, but she'd never ask. It would feel too much like begging. No, one didn't keep a well-hung, two-dicked asshole around because he was attentive and thoughtful; one held onto him precisely because he was sure he didn't need such affectations. 

Perverse, yes. But at least now none of her friends or family would ever have to meet him, and pretend they were happy for her. (When she had thoughts like this, to her credit, Trillian didn't like herself very much.)

Trillian had gotten so used to having to muster her own enthusiasm for a good plowing that she had developed a fairly intricate ritual. Her tools were: one tube of odorless, water-based lubricant; one six-inch dildo (earth-standard) of average circumference; one battery operated Pocket Rocket vibrator; and one well-thumbed copy of The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty, which by now she wished thoroughly she'd supplemented with some Anais Nin or even one of Charlaine Harris's trashy vampire stories.

The ritual started with her lying completely naked on the bed she and Zaphod usually shared. She then performed an intricate mental calculation designed to provide her with a random page number to turn to. (She really enjoyed making Zaphod wait.) Then, as she browsed through a few pages of paddles and saddles, she idly, with her right index finger, touched first the left nipple, then the right, then circled oh-so-delicately around, but never directly on, the clitoris. 

By the time she'd gotten through five pages, her clitoris was nicely swollen. By the time she'd reached ten, her vagina had nicely lubricated itself. Still, if she was anything less than dripping, she preferred to slather the dildo with a good coating of lube, before placing it securely in her now moist cunt.

Then it was time for the Pocket Rocket to strut its stuff. By now, she was pretty well able to conjure in her head delightful images of well-bred nobility cheerfully submitting to the strictest discipline, or just dressing up like horses. So the book would be set down and the vibrator would be set to the same task her finger had been assigned, describing a triangle which intersected her torso deliciously. The object here was to see if one could get one's pussy to the point where it could fairly be described as sopping. The arousal, however, was only a secondary goal. The true object was to raise the temperature of the dildo and get it sufficiently dampened by the vaginal wetness.

By now, hopefully, her anus would be exuding its own sweat, so as to make the next step easier. Forsaking her nipples, Trillian would fully concentrate the vibrator on the clitoral area, still avoiding direct stimulation in favor of ever constricting circular motions around the bull's-eye. This was matched by the firm, steady probing she provided to her anus with the dildo. Occasionally she would twist the dildo, so as to wedge it in a little deeper.

But, gradual as her approach was, inwardly she relished the feeling of giving way, the almost audible 'pop' that resulted as she gave her toy a firm, determined shove. Even the little whimper this produced was more one of surprise and effort than of pain. Do I really have a penis-sized (and shaped) object lodged in my rectum? Yes, Trillian, you do.

Now came the tricky part. Left to its own devices, the sphincter would slam shut pretty quickly as soon as the dildo was removed. This required a mental readjustment as much as a physical one; one had to teach one's rectum that, for the time being, it should let objects be shoved into it, and it needed to be taught this in as gentle a manner as possible, a sore anus being no one's friend. She had developed a technique that combined pulling the dildo back and forth, in slow strokes, with aiming relaxing thoughts at her sphincter, commanding it to open up and receive pleasure.

If she were to describe this ritual to others, she could not began to explain how she knew when her pussy and arse were prepped to receive Zaphod's cocks. She just knew.

Luckily, a throat clearing from her was all it took to get him up and at attention, so to speak. Knowing he'd take her any way she presented herself, she got on her hands and knees, lifted her ass in the air and hoped she'd made Zaphod impatient enough that he wouldn't waste any further time. The feeling of two penises slithering into her orifices relieved her of any further worries on that score.

If only he'd keep his mouth shut. "All this rigmarole isn't necessary, you know," he said as his pelvic thrusts began working themselves into a rhythm. "The Dildo Mark 5 is configured to work its way into any orifice in such a way as to maximize pleasure for both individuals. Just because you won't let me fit you with one is no reason we can't maximize the use of mine."

"Speaking of maximization," Trillian grunted, "angle your thrusts so your top dick moves a little ahead of the bottom one, if you please. When thrusts are...too...simultaneous – UH – that's it, that hits...the fucking...spot!!"

A sneer curled Zaphod's upper lip. He knew no one else in the galaxy could shag like he could.

"Stop...smirking!" Trillian growled, his arrogance somehow palpable to her. "Without that Frankendick of yours, you're just another lame fuck!"




Erotic Hitchhiker's Guide Ch. 06



Chapter 6

Hitchhikers Manual Entry # 7539287287.2

Category: Language

Language is, at base, a mind-bogglingly useful device for sentient beings to give instructions to each other regarding various tasks that need performing. It also serves to enable sentient beings to feign sympathy, affection and other mind-sets likely to put one's fellow beings at ease and, thus, more susceptible to manipulation. 

Many also use it as a device to persuade others of the superiority of one's own cultural, political or ethical systems, in the hopes that they will then adapt them as well without the need for additional coercion. This last usage has proven to be of limited efficacy, but is still a popular use of the technology.

For a technology it undoubtedly is. The widespread use of language throughout all known sectors of the universe is presumed to have an origin that is traceable, at least theoretically, to somewhere in the distant past, either bestowed on all sentient entities by an extremely powerful and clever being of some sort, or concocted by a confederation of immensely clever scientists and wizards, who then took pains to erase all records of their existence, as such groups are wont to do.

There is effectively only one language in the entire universe, with one regrettably obsolete exception. Extensive study of this planet is currently impossible, but reports from previous visitors tell of a legend involving interference from an immensely powerful being as the culprit behind this multiplication of tongues, but without approval for extensive temporal investigation of the entire history of its native sentient species, speculation is all the serious scholar may avail themselves of.

*****

Questions had to be asked. The last thing Arthur wanted was to come off like he was interrogating her, but it would be tricky to avoid. A brief flashback to his grammar school days reminded him that the technical term for questions was 'interrogative statements,' so interrogation was already worming its way into the even most innocuous question by virtue of definition, and there was little to be done about it.

At least she didn't seem upset, or defensive, not at the moment. Surprisingly, she appeared to be more amused than anything else, while he was just on the verge of panic. It was hard for him to tell if he was anxious for the future, or just upset by the over-all weirdness of his current situation, by how dramatically his inability to influence events had been demonstrated over the past couple of days.

He wondered if this was why all the aliens he'd met so far were so obsessed with sex:either it made them feel, just for a second, like they had even the tiniest bit of control, or it simply proved to be a handy distraction from the real state of affairs. Plus, there seemed to be something about the DILDO that encouraged happy accidents. If the universe was essentially random, a happy accident might be the best thing you could ever hope for.

Of course, endlessly nattering to one's self via an internal monologue was Arthur's preferred method of avoiding unpleasantness, but he was rapidly discovering the limits of that technique, as it required a certain momentum and routine of daily life to render most noteworthy situations, unpleasant or not, essentially temporary. 

It was the same impetus that led a store clerk to nod sympathetically at a litany of complaints, take no action, and conclude the encounter with the phrase, "Is there anything else I can help you with?" Only retirees and lawyers have the time and/or stamina required to wear down an intransigent employee, as a rule, especially one supported by official policy. The rest of us almost always have something better to do.

Neither Arthur nor Agnes had anything better to do than talk with each other (except maybe have sex, and Arthur knew they would have to have an Important Conversation before that could happen again) and literally nowhere to go for either of them. So one of them would probably need to say something. That ended up being Agnes.

"So are you ready to talk?" she asked. He was privately impressed that she'd learned to read him so well after such a short time. But then, he was just her latest in a long line of boyfriends stamped from essentially the same mold as him.

"Yes, he replied, "but I'm not entirely sure where to start. I gather the bloom is off the rose, so to speak."

"I don't feel the way I did just a couple of hours ago, that's for certain." She furrowed her brows slightly, as if trying to recall. "To be honest, I don't think I've ever felt that way before. It was like I'd been transformed into this incendiary slutbomb who kept homing in on you for some reason. If there's an active trigger inside me for that, I might not mind setting it off once every couple of weeks or so. But I'd want the duration cut by about half at least."

Arthur shook his head sadly. "It sounds like the attraction to me was more of an afterthought."

She smiled, but it was tinged with guilt. "Sometimes it's all about being in the right place at the right time."

"I guess then the question is how do you feel about me now?"

She started as if this was the first time she'd pondered the matter. "Quite fondly, oddly enough."

Arthur supposed this was better than nothing. "Does that include any residual attraction?" He looked at her expectantly, knowing it could easily come off as pathetic but hoping she'd find it amusing.

"You know, I think it does." She laughed, not unpleasantly. "If nothing else, we had the best sex of my entire life, also the weirdest, and--" she scrunched up her eyes in remembrance, "--it's less like a real memory than some incredible erotic dream, the kind that makes you want to ravish the person the next time you see them."

Arthur smiled. "I guess I can live with being in the right place at the right time. But I do have a confession."

She looked at him quizzically. "What?"

"I still think you're dead gorgeous."

This time, her smile lit up the room. "We really should see how the sex is when we're both in our right minds. I've got an idea all of a sudden..."

*****

This idea had been sparked by some delightfully silky material Agnes had spied spilling out of a mostly closed drawer in a dresser that appeared to be made of wood, and might well have been. By checking in all the compartments they were able to obtain an assortment of...well, it wasn't clear what they were at first.

They seemed to have no definite shape no matter how they were held or laid down, and it was impossible to say with any conviction whether a given section was for sticking one's head or arms through, or for covering one's crotch, and all that could be ascertained with any confidence was that this material would feel positively delightful against one's skin, which made the inability to nail down the intended form of the garment (if garment it was) most frustrating.

Finally, in a move that was equal parts frustration and playfulness, Agnes simply stuck her head into the damned thing and was rewarded to discover that it fell onto her body in precisely the form of a baby doll nightgown.

She was further delighted to discover that the fabric was responsive to a degree that seemed almost self-aware. It clung to her breasts lovingly, miraculously imparting better support than even the firmest under-wire she'd ever worn, while never pinching or chafing, only bestowing delicious comfort as it wickedly highlighted her nipples, allowing Arthur to share in the enjoyment.

Deciding a little mystery might be just the thing, she pulled the fabric down so it just rested at her mid-thigh area, which gave it an opportunity to form around and flatter the spectacular globes of her ass and the flare of her hips.

By working it carefully with her fingers, she discovered that it could also be stretched into almost transparency, a diaphanous, almost gauzy look that retained the original silky feel, which she then pulled over her arms to her elbows, doing the same with the equivalent of the hem, pulling it down to mid calf, then finally over her shoulders, even covering her neck.

She could never explain why something that promised concealment while actually revealing everything it 'covered' should be so sexy, but she was startled to discover the level of arousal it gave her, even though by rights she should still be exhausted, physically, mentally and emotionally.

But she didn't want to seem too easy this time. Looking sternly at Arthur, she said, in as serious a tone as she could manage, "All right, let's dress you up and see how it goes."

Arthur's garment folded itself into a just long enough bathrobe, which, while not the least bit frilly, still tested his intuitions about what type of attire counted as masculine. Agnes calmed him by promising he could keep as much body hair as he liked and she had no intention of getting him to try makeup.

"Besides," she said, "if I'm going to play dress-up, you have to wear something that matches. Otherwise one of us will feel damn silly."

Arthur had to admit this sounded sensible.

"And doesn't this fabric feel fucking amazing?"

Arthur had to nod to that as well. It seemed the fabric contrived every so often to brush against one part of his body or another in a way that felt -- the word 'magnificent' kept coming to mind.

And yet 'magnificent' seemed insufficient to describe Agnes in her current attire. The way her curves shifted underneath the practically animated fabric made Arthur doubt the accuracy of his vision. 

It seemed one second as if she was on the verge of spilling out of it, even as it wrapped snugly around all her protuberances. And then a few seconds later it gave the impression of imminently melting off of her, only to merely reconfigure itself into yet another enthusiastic ode to her sensational figure.

Agnes could tell, without Arthur saying a word, that he was lost in his ogling of her body. She wasn't sure if this could fairly be called seduction.

She smiled. "Maybe it's time you look with your hands," she said encouragingly, "and not just with your eyes."

He hadn't stumbled more than two steps towards her when she held up a finger, halting his progress. "I think," she said, "we need some rules first. Not to be autocratic about things, but I am feeling in the mood to be serviced, and properly. Plus I think things have been too rushed around here lately."

"All right," said Arthur, "I like taking my time about things. What did you have in mind?"

"Until I say otherwise, I want you to keep your hands over the fabric. Touch me wherever you like, but it has to be covered."

"You do realize," Arthur said solemnly, "this means I can't stroke your hair, rub your feet, or kiss your lips."

"Exactly," said Agnes. "However, after a while, I will likely desire to take things a bit farther. At that time, I will tell you that it's all right to ask my permission to touch me in an uncovered area. Obviously you must specify the area and how you plan to touch it. But I will allow you to start using your mouth."

"May I ask what the next stage will be?" inquired Arthur. Arthur routinely perused the last few pages of every mystery novel he ever read first, preferring to know who the murderer was before looking through all the clues and red herrings. The first time he saw Columbo, he seriously thought God had granted a wish he'd never explicitly formulated. He also thouroughly loathed surprise parties.

Luckily so did Agnes. "You may," she said, already sounding the part of the benevolent queen. "I shall allow you to use your mouth and hands both over and under the fabric, increasingly subject to my direction, until such a time that I either have an orgasm or am just too exhausted to continue. And you should strive for the former, because that's the only way we're getting to Phase Four."

"And what is Phase Four?" asked Arthur, though he had an inkling.

"I get to see if I can make you feel as much pleasure as you've made me feel. So let's set the bar high, hm?"

Arthur just nodded. It was a nice incentive, but he really didn't need it. She'd had him at, "Put your hands on me."

She sat on the edge of the bed and patted it invitingly, softly. He sat where she'd indicated and pondered his next move.

She'd basically given him carte blanche, but he was, paradoxically, eager not to seem too eager. He'd done the tearing-off-of-the-clothes thing already, and he was happy at the opportunity for a slower approach.

He started by putting both hands on her shoulders. Holding the right one steady, he began stroking slowly, from her shoulder to her back. He caressed her back for a while, then began running his left hand up and down her right arm.

He wondered if she felt the same feeling on her skin he did on his hands. It was like an artificial liquid, which left no residue of wetness, greasiness or stickiness. It seemed to draw the skin of his hand into her skin, only to come away clean as a whistle, with no adhesive effect. It felt like boundaries were exploded, yet everything was held inside, safe as houses. And it was making him insanely horny.

For one brief, insane second he felt that if he were to just lunge at her, he could dive into her, as if she were a pool. For all he knew, the fabric could accommodate that. But he'd received explicit instructions, so he figured he'd keep everything skin-level, for now.

He took his right finger and placed it just below her neck, on her spinal column. Then he drew his finger down her spine slowly, to just past her tailbone, right at the cleft of her ass, then pulling it away. She shivered at thet, and made no protest as he guided her to lie on her stomach. This acquiescence was rewarded by his hands rubbing at her back, rubbing lower and lower until they'd made their way to her buttocks, which had been Arthur's destination all along.

Her ass was such an ideal mixture of muscle and fat that it almost brought tears to Arthur's eyes. In his experience, plump arses felt the best, whether grabbed in one's hands or lain against in the dark of night. But there were drawbacks, mostly visual.  

Fat rear ends seemed to have a less than symmetrical appearance, the adipose simply didn't tend to arrange itself beneath the skin in a firm and taut manner. Also, some complections seemed ill-served by a visible layer of fat, rendering particularly the lightest and darkest of skin tones blotchy, further enhancing the asymmetrical appearance. 

And there was the unfortunate creasing that occurred when pressure and a less than smooth surface were applied against the buttocks for too long. Although minor irritations at best, these things were noticeable, and he had never been able to not see them as flaws, albeit insignificant ones.

One could teach one's self an appreciation of the more Rubenesque bottom, partly by developing an interest in Renaissance nudes, partly by constant reminders of the tactile pleasures such anatomies can bestow, remembering to feel first and see later, a feat that, in Arthur's experience, became easier with practice.

But every so often one came across a rump that truly embodied the best of both worlds, that gave just enough under pressure to allow the gentleman in question to truly feel he was taking possession, but betrayed not a hint of sag, that only bulged in a perfectly Callipygian fashion, that only betrayed marks when firmly smacked. Agnes had such an ass.

The fabric that adorned it was close to magical, so it is likely it would have looked luscious so displayed even were it on the dumpy side. But Arthur had happy memories of seeing it both unclad and filling a pair of white bikini panties, and this memory was perfectly in agreement with the way the silky, filmy stuff draped over it and the feel once his hands started vigorously kneading her firm, yet pliant cheeks.

As he massaged her buttocks, he slowly worked the material into the crack of her ass, allowing him to lightly probe her anus with his pinky every so often, which prompted several small squeals.

Wanting to mix things up, he rolled her on her back. He wanted to continue the slow teasing, but her breasts all but screamed out for his attention. He would give them at least a couple of minutes, he decided, as a reward to himself for what he felt had been admirable self-control.

He allowed himself a few seconds of simply cupping them, delighting in their heft and size. The fabric made the nipples glaringly visible, so he proceeded to attack them, first by means of gentle finger strokes, followed by firm, sharp tweaks, as they began to jut out prominently and she began whimpering more loudly. 

He had to restrain himself firmly from lunging at them with his mouth, marveling at how immediate the impulse was. He decided it was best to leave them alone for a bit, hoping that other areas would allow him to keep his ardor at a lower burn.

Gently, almost religiously, he stroked her belly, relieved to see she seemed to be enjoying it. Too many women, in Arthur's opinion, would prefer to forget that part of their anatomy existed, especially if an inch or two of fat had found its way on there. 

This...touchiness might have been part of what Arthur always loved about the belly; wives and girlfriends generally believed that access to the cunt, shameful as that body part might be, was something they owed to their men. The tummy, on the other hand, could and should be covered up as much as possible. So when a woman didn't mind her belly being stroked, tweaked or fondled, it always conveyed an intimacy or comfort level that made Arthur smile.

And of course, with some exceptional women, starting at the navel was a so-called happy trail that led enticingly down to her pubic mound. Although Agnes was sadly not one of these women, (unless she had been scrupulous about removing it up to now, and slow to grow it back) he could not help but think of the far too few times his fingers had been so happily guided, and smile. (Something about this particular encounter was making Arthur alarmingly happy; it was a relief to look down and see that Agnes seemed to share his mood.)

In his mind, he replayed John Cleese's admonition not to go "stampeding for the clitoris," and decided to take himself a bit lower, the object being to work his way up, of course. He was surprised Agnes hadn't moved them into Phase Two already; he guessed that ordinarily she was more of a slow-burner than she'd displayed in the past few days; plus she appeared to be enjoying herself, and he certainly didn't want to throw a wrench into those works, so he'd keep easing his way into things.

Best to spend some time with her legs. Of course, the leg is a far more powerful erogenous zone when one is in a public or semi-public setting, simply because it can be accessed in a clandestine fashion provided the object of one's affections is in reasonable proximity. Putting one's hand deliberately on another's leg, particularly the thigh area, is at once blatantly sexual yet somehow not the least bit obscene.

This is one area the Victorians were dead-on about. Even to say "legs" was indecent. Anything with legs, such as a chair or piano bench, was fair game for putting a skirt on, which of course made them even sexier, to the point that the merest glimpse of an ankle was enough to send men into a frenzy.

Arthur, being in a fully private area with an openly consenting partner, was not granted quite the charge he would have gotten sitting in a theater box in 1905, giving a quick squeeze to his oh-so-proper companion, risking her bringing the bobbies running if she decided to protest, so he was forced to make do with the current situation.

Of course, the female leg still possesses inherent charms even in the absence of brutal repression. They are pleasing to look at, the inner thighs are quite sensitive and make excellent erogenous zones, and they inexorably lead to the vulva, which is useful to remember if one happens to get lost from time to time.