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A bulky, six-handed slaveshop employee rolled Martin’s stand—with Martin still in it—out of the presentation area, where a client had just… had just… oh God.
No, no longer a client—Martin’s new owner.
Oh.
God.
His cock.
Oh God, oh God, oh God!
Starting from now, on a regular basis, Martin would have to take that alien cock. That monster.
He’d die.
God.
“This one, full sensitization treatment,” said the bulky alien in fragmented Intergalactic to a roomful of his fellow slave handlers and their more-or-less immobilized charges, “then the fancy packaging.” He squeezed Martin’s entire aching buttock in a huge, clumsy hand, and Martin wheezed.
Martin knew this one was a “male”—the slaveshop handlers wore pronoun badges—but he had no idea of what species. The perfunctory work course which the XenoX corp had made Martin take included little more than learning Intergalactic and memorizing basic info about some hundred systems with which Earth had regular relations. At the start of his career as a bottom-level trade office worker, Martin wasn’t supposed to need much more.
Career, ha!
His new owner was qivaq.
He’d learned about qivaq, at least.
Enterprising. Smart. Shrewd negotiators. Power-obsessed, and promiscuous in that regard—equate sexual domination with proof of strength.
Avoid entirely, and if that’s not possible, refer to a senior employee.
A soft-limbed lammea slithered closer. “Should we empty it?” they asked, voice quiet and liquid. They slid a long finger-tentacle distressingly deep into Martin’s swollen hole, and wiggled the tip.
Martin’s belly spasmed and sloshed.
“Boss didn’t say.”
“Then we don’t.” The lammea probed Martin’s throbbing walls. “Although it looks full. All this from just one client?”
“Qivaq.”
“Ah.”
Another agile tentacle entered Martin, and he felt his muscles clench painfully against his will.
Those were the nanites embedded in individual muscle strands of his belly and ass, acting up—making sure he retained all the alien cum. No matter how plentiful it was. No matter how much it—
Fuck.
The lammea’s fingers spread, and Martin felt slimy warmth passing them, then a slow trickle.
“Stop,” said the bulky one. “Boss will reprimand you again.”
“Hmph.” The lammea jerked his fingers out—Martin shivered—then unceremoniously wiped up the spilled cum. “We’d better do the sensitization when it’s still like this,” they said. “That is—immobilized enough.”
“Yes. Hate it when they’re all wiggly.”
“True.” With a single aching tug, the lammea pulled the thick tube out of Martin’s still constricted cock. “Hah, untrained humans. They’re so inconvenient. Shameful, how they can’t handle even a tiny bit of stimulation.” Something cold poked at Martin’s tip, then shallowly entered. “Full treatment, you said?”
“Yes. I think?”
“Come on, I don’t want a repeat of that time you said ‘full’ and the client meant ‘extended’. They docked our pay for two months!”
“I think it was full…?”
“Heh, we’d better do extended, then. Throat, tongue, lips, nipples, shaft of the penis, both inside and out, with double dose for the glans, prostate, also double, bladder, buttocks, the inside of the belly, testicles, perineum, then triple dose for the anus and rectum, all of it repeated twice.”
Martin didn’t know exactly what this “sensitization treatment” was, but it sounded terrifying.
In his box, he struggled.
Tentacles wrapped around his balls and squeezed. “Quiet, you,” the lammea said.
His new owner had said “full”, not “extended”!
Fuck.
“Go bring me the tools,” the lammea said. “And observe carefully. Someday you’ll be expected to do this on your own, Infinity help us…”
The bulky alien huffed something incomprehensible and went to the automated dispensers. Much too soon, he was back with a white, hovering sphere almost as wide as he was, marked on all sides with small symbols of intimate body parts of a human.
The lammea turned it over in the air until they found what they were looking for. “Bladder first, I think.” They tapped the correct symbol, and a compartment opened with a quiet hiss. The lammea pulled out a wiggly, translucent thing from it, then a small vial of purple liquid. They slithered behind Martin, and Martin felt his cock being manipulated again. The short, cold thing—probably some sort of plug—slid out, and something much wider poked inside instead.
Martin tensed, expecting pain, but the thing was soft and malleable; besides, Martin’s urethra was already much too used to stretching. The thing entered with no problems—just firm pressure, discomfort, and a deep, overwhelming sense of wrongness. It inched in like it had a mind of its own. Which could as well be the case—most tools and toys used here had tiny AIs embedded. Like a cold worm, it squirmed deeper, so deep that Martin’s skin got all sweaty again. Past his prostate. With a throb of sudden ache, it opened his bladder’s inner sphincter and spilled there. The rest of it shlicked through his constricted, impotent cock, fast now that it had gained purchase inside him.
Martin struggled again. His eyes filled with tears.
How could something feel so horrible and so good at the same time?
The foreign, demanding presence grew inside him. Settled. The lammea handler slid a tentacled hand under Martin’s hips and massaged it. The massage disturbed the cum already in Martin’s guts, causing another barrage of cramps. The thing in his bladder grew and grew—until the ache there turned pulsing and nearly unbearable.
“This should do,” said the lammea.
Martin couldn’t see what was happening between his thighs because of his full belly, but there was shuffling there. Something touched the thing protruding from his slit, then more pressure moved slowly up and inside him.
That purple vial.
Oh.
Martin tensed, waiting for something horrible to happen, but nothing did.
Instead, the thick presence stretching his urethra slipped inside, leaving his cock completely empty. And what an odd, unfamiliar feeling that was—since Martin had been captured, something had always plugged him there, taking away every single physiological function his groin was capable of. How quickly had he gotten used to it. This emptiness—this weird, distressing lack—was supposed to be his cock’s natural state, yet it felt so foreign.
The lammea turned the sphere again. “The prostate, now, since it’ll take a while.” This time, they retrieved two smaller purple vials and another wiggly thing, black and tiny this time.
Again, there was pressure in Martin’s cock—a weird relief—that traveled up until it settled into a single point of intense, aching bliss.
Martin moaned and uselessly thrust his hips, which earned him a stinging slap to the bottom; he forced himself to stop.
Something still stuck out of his cock—some part of the black thing—and it’s what the lammea next manipulated. The gentle tugging brought another wave of tears to Martin’s eyes, then the pressure grew and spread deep and cold, like a frostbite. The nerves at the base of his penis started pulsating, thrumming almost.
So filled.
So tight.
He moaned, desperately yearning to cum.
In the lammea’s dexterous hands, another vial clicked open, and Martin couldn’t keep his hips still this time.
The bulky alien snorted. “He sure is feeling it.”
“That’s the entire point,” said the lammea. “He’ll be feeling it from now on.”
Martin’s crotch heated—his prostate a blue-hot pulsar, his bladder a nearby sun. He couldn’t help but clench the muscles of his underbelly, compressing the qivaq cum trapped inside him, which augmented both his discomfort and the maddeningly unproductive arousal.
He hadn’t orgasmed since he’d been captured, not even dry; something beside the cock cage—maybe some sort of drug—was preventing him; maybe they’d done something to him, permanently. No matter how long he was being teased, how hard and deep, his body couldn’t tumble past that magical peak of blessed oblivion.
“Don’t worry.” The lammea patted his trembling hip. “You’ll get used to it.” They turned to the hovering sphere again. “Urethra, urethra…” They pulled out a long, thick rod. “We’ll have to uncage it for this,” they said to the other alien.
The bulky one pressed a point on the side of Martin’s box, and the vise constricting Martin’s cock fell away.
Goosebumps covered every single inch of Martin’s skin. His cock hardened—expanded—in a single pulse.
“Don’t get used to this.” The lammea slapped it.
Martin moaned.
They enveloped Martin’s cock in their jointless fingers, then tried to feed the rod into the tip; it couldn’t fit. They tsked and pulled Martin’s stone-hard, touch-starved penis back and between Martin’s sweaty thighs.
The pressure in Martin’s prostate twisted—Martin twisted with it.
He whined.
The alien paid him no heed. They poked and rubbed his slit—until the tiny spot of flesh pinched and burned. Then Martin felt something wet and slick touch there, blessedly cold for a moment, then searing hot like live fire. He struggled weakly, but it’s not as if he could stop it.
It didn’t even hurt all that much, in comparison; just that it was concentrated to such a pinpoint area, just the tip of his cock, just his slit. And that, once it started, it didn’t wane in intensity one bit.
“There,” said the lammea. “Now it should go in.”
The distressingly thick shape pressed past the burn at the tip, then continued in, reshaping Martin’s cock from the inside. Painfully. The lammea pushed slowly, so Martin could appreciate every inch. It forced the bend inside him to give in, then stirred his flaming prostate, pushed past. The black thing which was already there had to give space, and Martin felt it burrow deeper, into every single duct available in his flesh. More sensitizing fluid pressed out of it in a sudden, plentiful burst—Martin’s eyes rolled in, and he almost passed out.
Not completely—there were drugs denying him that, too.
The rod penetrated into his bladder and settled.
Another vial of the drug later, and it twinged, then heated up.
The lammea handler patted Martin’s distended, smarting glans. “That’s three done.” They released Martin’s cock.
It hung heavy and throbbing.
“Now the shaft and the glans.” The lammea sprayed something—first cold, then heating—on the already tender tip. Then they took an elastic, rubber-like tube and, in a single motion, snapped it over the entire throbbing length of Martin’s penis.
Martin’s eyes rolled into his head again, and he arched his spine. His hips swayed minutely, but there would’ve been no way for him to dislodge the tube, even if he had a full range of movement.
The thing stuck to him like glue. It wasn’t as constricting as his usual cage, so his cock remained hard, but it touched everywhere. Something on the inside of it singled out each nerve. Just a pleasant frisson at first, the sensation soon turned to hundreds—thousands—of ants creeping into his inflamed skin.
Martin struggled and whined some more, for which the bigger alien gave him a brief but intense spanking.
Martin was grateful. The pain in his backside overset the unbearable, foreign feeling crawling all over and inside his groin.
“Why is it so uncooperative?”
“This device is mapping its nerve endings. The sensation is supposedly disquieting.”
“Uhm.”
“Now, look here. See this tiny socket underneath? I’m going to plug the vial for the shaft into it.”
Martin felt more than heard the click, then the upper part of his cock ignited.
“Although connected, technically the glans part is a separate unit, see?” Both aliens bent over Martin’s ass, and there was tugging. “This model allows for simultaneous injection of two doses at once—look, there are two of these sockets here, one on the left side of the glans, one on the right. Mind that you don’t push too hard when you’re plugging in, they’re fragile. Although, with your hands... Hah. If the boss is ever stupid enough to give you this task, just call someone to do it for you.”
“Hmph.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
The burn already searing Martin’s slit spread and became uniform. It enveloped the tip of his penis in a throbbing bulb of fire, to the point where Martin stopped perceiving it as unpleasant. It pulsed evenly, his cock, inside and out, lightening his head and spinning his thoughts in squishy circles.
“You have to push this part into the urethra, around the black rod. The sleeve is supposed to envelop the glans from both the inside and the outside, and usually you put it on before you’ll insert the urethral rod, but this slave is still much too tight for its own good, so that wouldn’t have worked. Instead, you do this.”
A blinding pain spread Martin’s slit. It was already widened beyond what he thought was possible—now it was worse.
“There, like that, in one go. And don’t worry, it won’t break. Earlier, I smeared it with a cream that improves elasticity. Anyway, you’ll have to only do it once. If the sensitization treatment is ever repeated on this one—and it now belongs to a qivaq, so it will be—its urethra will be stretched enough to handle anything you put inside. You may even need to use a thicker rod. After all, better filled too much than too little. The sensitization drug gets distributed more evenly that way.”
Something clicked again, and the rod started vibrating.
Through his nose, Martin took quick, shallow breaths. His airways were clear—they’d performed an assortment of medical procedures on him after he’d been captured, and during one of them, they’d done something to his throat and sinuses; now his nose didn’t get clogged no matter how much he cried, and he could breathe even if his mouth was plugged (which was always). He thought he could still talk—they’d said vocal cords removal is only done when the client demands it—but until now he hadn’t been able to test that theory. He could grunt and whine, and it sounded voiced most of the time, so his vocal cords must be either only slightly modified or fully intact.
His helpless noises still sounded like himself, even if sometimes he wished they wouldn’t.
Soft finger-tentacles enveloped his balls.
“His new owner is qivaq, so the testicles and the perineum are important,” said the lammea. “Qivaq have those tiny, lively feelers on their groin, and they really like when their toys properly respond to them. For any other client we’d just slowly inject a dose into the sack and let the body absorb it naturally, or even forgo that part—a lot of the owners will want the testes removed later, anyway—but with qivaq that won’t fly. They’re particular about male gonads, especially on a human. They want the slave to be constantly aware of its maleness, and of the uselessness of it. They want to be able to tease and punish that maleness, just for existing. It’s part of the reason qivaq males only choose slaves from species with an obviously male-presenting gender, and only when that presentation is similar to theirs. That is, they require their slaves to have something akin to a penis—which can be made useless, bound, and then displayed—and at least one hole they can penetrate. They like humans especially because of the outside testes.” The lammea weighted and rolled Martin’s cum-swollen testicles in their nimble palm. “Here is an additional clear sign of male power they can torment and subjugate.”
A band snapped around the base of Martin’s balls. They bulged, and the hairless skin on them tightened.
“We’re doing the injection, of course,” the lammea said. “But later. For now, we have to tenderize these.” The lammea’s fingers squeezed, and squeezed, and squeezed again. “Fast, mechanical spanking would’ve been good, but a tad uneven. We’ll be using a crusher pouch instead.”
From the corner of his eye, Martin glimpsed a vividly red, ball-like thing, with an opening on one side. It was the size of a big orange, but otherwise unremarkable. The lammea did something between his immobilized thighs, and there was a tight pressure on his balls, then weight. It ached immediately—then the lammea turned it on.
Martin did his best to scream.
It was like someone was squeezing and spanking and punching him at the same time, so all-encompassing. Each nerve, each pain receptor—abused. He tried, unsuccessfully, to curl into himself. All the muscles inside his abdomen tightened in defense, squeezing more traitorous fluids from the devices already buried in his bladder, prostate, and cock. The pleasure blooming there counteracted the pain in his balls, but also, in a weird way, amplified it. No matter how hard he tried, Martin couldn’t disconnect from what was happening. He was trapped, and his balls were trapped, and the pain was trapped within them. It built and built into white, frozen fire, then those flames spilled up into his crotch, met the burning, lava-like hotness which had taken residence there, then—instead of nullifying each other—they crested into a mind-melting inferno.
In the darkest recesses of his mind, Martin loved it.
It was the most he’d ever felt.
“That should be enough,” he heard as if through pressurized water.
The pain in his balls lost immediacy, but it didn’t stop.
“This model is especially made for sensitization,” the lammea continued. “It has openings for the IV needles.” Piercing in. “We’ll fill the pouch with an additional half a dose, to sensitize the skin. That’s not standard, a bit of a bonus, but it’s a qivaq, so he’ll pay for it with no complaints.”
The needles pumped Martin swollen, then more swollen still. The lammea hadn’t removed the hellish pouch, and the pressure inside it mounted until Martin was shaking and throbbing. Then the needles slid out—Martin shivered—and the torture began anew.
It was more intense now, yet somehow easier to handle. All the sensations between Martin’s thighs blended together into one molten pain-bliss. He didn’t know what to do with himself—could do nothing—so he just panted and whined and shivered. His skin slickened with rivulets of sweat.
The lammea wiped him strategically, then adhered some sort of itching plaster to his perineum, but, at this point, that was just a tiny blip on Martin’s sensual radar. It burned, that plaster, somehow penetrating into the thin, vulnerable skin, and Martin wished those finger-tentacles had stroked him there, pressed, scratched; then—when the same plaster, just in larger sheets, stuck to his buttocks—he wished for a spanking. The big, six-handed brute should slap his ass like before, beat that itch out of Martin, beat it in. He didn’t, and Martin heated and heated. He burned. He was on fire. Invisible, wet flames licked into his pores and sunk their fangs into the meat of his ass. He was vaguely aware that he received multiple injections, and it was like his buttocks expanded. He’d beg them for a spanking if he could, to disrupt that feeling; he’d beg for a cock.
He needed to get fucked, it downed on him suddenly, yeah, he needed his hole spread. It had been so complete earlier, serving that huge, ridged penis.
He needed his new master.
Cock.
Fucked.
He needed to get fucked now.
“This is a human-compatible intestinal snake.” The lammea was holding something not unlike the animal in question, writhing around and between their jointless hands. “See those worm-like protrusions all over its skin? Those will ensure that the drug gets distributed in every nook and cranny. It’s faster if you do it when the slave is empty—the innards are tighter, and there’s no cum for the drug to get diluted in. To counteract that, you either have to double the dose, or wait hours for the snake to finish squirming. We’re going to do a bit of both. Sometimes, if the slave has been adequately modified, and this one was, you can also use one of the bigger snakes—look how meaty this thing is, almost as meaty as a qivaq’s penis.”
Martin’s hole tingled at the words.
The lammea slithered behind him, and Martin strained towards them.
The alien chuckled softly. “So eager.”
A blunt shape squished Martin’s inflamed rim, then wriggled in, thick and assertive. The multitude of thinner tendrils which covered its skin palpated Martin’s insides and dug into flesh, quickening its way. Then, when it advanced past the length of Martin’s rectum and gained solid purchase, it undulated—fast, and sharp, and in.
Martin trembled. His entire skin prickled—every square inch.
Despite the lammea’s claims, the snake was much softer than a qivaq’s cock. It didn’t piston; it only slithered in. Still, Martin appreciated his renewed fullness. The added weight. His stomach wiggled and sloshed, and when he looked down, he saw raising and falling bulges beneath the tight dome of his skin. The snake coiled inside him, being longer than his large intestine, and fought with the qivaq cum for space. Under the pressure, and because his nanite-infused muscles couldn’t keep up with the snake’s furious writhing and sudden twists of shape, some cum squirted out, thick and viscous, and—after dirtying all the devices between Martin’s legs—was now oozing down his thighs.
Martin’s belly ached in the oh-so-familiar way of too-deep fucking. That ache slid deliciously over all the other impossibly intense sensations—it coiled against his full, pulsing bladder, now even more squished; tugged at his cock, from within, almost like it could suck it inside out. Martin’s balls swung swollen and heavy, flaring with hurt every time he as much as twitched—which made him twitch more then clench hard on the meaty snake, which then writhed harder, causing deep cramps and making Martin twitch again. But it was his prostate that was the most grateful. Filled and swelled, it protruded from the front wall of his rectum, so substantial, so fucking exposed. The intestinal snake massaged it viciously, both with its thick bulk and with its curious, wriggly feelers. Mercilessly, it rubbed the mix of alien ejaculate and the sensitizing drug into the bulging, defenseless tissue and around.
Oh, how Martin wished he could cum.
“We’ll be leaving that in till morning,” said the lammea above him. “Now, time for the hole itself.”
“But isn’t it plenty full already?”
“Don’t be silly. The hole is a slave’s prime asset. The dose will need to be much more concentrated there, to facilitate the growth of plenty of new nerve endings. And the rim—that’s a whole separate issue. You know how qivaqs are. If it’s not red and swollen, and flinching at the lightest touch, then it isn’t worth the time.”
Martin blinked in the direction of the dispenser sphere again in time to see the lammea remove a sizable anal plug from it. They pressed a button on the base, and the shiny, metallic body of the plug grew even more, cylinder-shaped and huge, tapering suddenly near the flared base to half of its diameter, which would ensure that Martin’s body wouldn’t be able to dislodge it once it was inside.
God, they were going to put that thing in.
The lammea deflated the plug again, and Martin saw the coat of tiny silver needles covering the plug’s neck and the inner side of the flared base. He imagined them burrowing into the muscles of his rim, aching, stinging; he imagined the plug painfully spreading his hole, but, for some reason, those images failed to terrify him. Instead, he whined for it.
Eager, the lammea had said.
What had happened to him, to his confused brain, that he was fucking eager?
Slowly, the lammea pushed the plug inside. Even deflated, it strained Martin’s capacity, painfully stretching his rim. The intestinal snake had to make space for it, and it did so with aching squirms, rearranging its body, coiling and recoiling within Martin’s overfull, abused guts. The plug was long, longer than Martin’s rectum; it straightened the bend inside him and rearranged his organs, metal-heavy and unforgiving. Then, when it settled, the lammea pressed the button at the base again, and the cursed thing inflated in a single, continuous swell—stretching Martin wider than, even after over a month of use, Martin had ever been stretched before.
Again, it both hurt and it didn’t. Martin squirmed around it as much as he was able, but the plug was lodged sound. The sensation of wrong, of foreign object, had blanked him out at first—had all the muscles inside him squeezing, fighting—but then his hole heated, and the sting of overstretched muscles diluted and gentled into full. He slumped in his bonds and shivered. Then, the searing burn swelled his sphincter, turning it into a fat ring of fire—those damn needles at the base, Martin guessed, though he could feel no individual ones going in. His hole became melted sensations, bloated too-muchness, throbbing want. He was full, satisfied, complete, yet the need—that constant, underlying need—had only grown stronger. Even when the deep, burrowed part started vibrating, squeezing yet more tears out of Martin’s eyes, trapping his swollen prostate between two fighting, trembling, drilling forces, Martin couldn’t get rid of that need, he couldn’t forget it. He should be able to dissolve into bliss—tortured as it was—but he stayed; even no longer sure of his own name, he stayed present in his body. The need had rooted him in, constantly reminding him there was a heaven waiting just beyond his reach; that there was oblivion, unattainable; that there was a road forever blocked, a single step he’d never make.
He wouldn’t cum from this.
Even from this.
“Now, the nipples,” penetrated through the ringing in Martin’s ears. Pressure attached to his left breast, then pricked, then ached. His head already hanging down, he blinked open his eyes and saw a transparent cup full of translucent violet liquid attached around his nipple and areola. Under the suction, the enveloped flesh bulged and swelled a rich, purple-red color. In the middle of the cup was a thin needle that pierced into the center of the swelling, and Martin felt a throb, burning and concentrated, spread from there.
He moaned.
The lammea attached the second cup to him, and this time he watched his nipple grow and darken; he watched the needle slowly go in deep; he watched the violet fluid bathe his skin in liquid flames. His face burned, and he wished his hands weren’t bound inside the display box so he could touch them—those cups—feel the edge where they attached to his flesh, feel where the ordinary skin ended and the bruised, oversensitive swelling began. He wondered if they’d stay like that, his nipples, huge and alien, thrumming with ache every time he moved.
“Now it’s time for its mouth,” the lammea said above him, then opened Martin’s gag and pulled out his feeding tube.
“Pweese,” Martin managed—vocal cords still intact—for which the handler immediately punished him by turning up the power in the ball crusher. Martin attempted a scream, but even that was quashed—the lammea stuffed three of their long, wiggly fingers down Martin’s throat, well past the remnants of his gag reflex.
Martin probed around those fingers with his uncooperative tongue, and his mouth filled with saliva at the foreign but not unpleasant taste. He swallowed around the alien’s flesh—it was soft—and moaned at the stretch.
Sucked once.
“Good reflexes,” the lammea praised.
They touched deep inside. Martin felt their fingertips as gentle pulls of pressure, as if he was swallowing warm, thick noodles whole, and they got stuck, then fucked him, back and forth. Before he was kidnapped, Martin had never sucked cock, and having his mouth used like this had been an adjustment bigger even than having his ass fucked. They hadn’t pulled his teeth—his owner’s prerogative—but he was wearing soft guards on them, and he knew they’d done something to the joints of his jaw that would prevent him from completely closing his mouth unless explicitly ordered.
They’d done everything to turn his mouth into another hole.
Just another hole to fuck.
Martin whined.
The lammea tsked and pulled his wet fingers out. “If it was up to me, I’d remove the vocal apparatus, then stuff this and seal it permanently. Humans are much too noisy for my tastes, even with their cords cut. One more hole isn’t worth the trouble.”
Martin’s balls were in too much agony as it was, so Martin didn’t dare beg.
“But again, qivaq,” the lammea continued. “Can you believe, they actually like the whining? And there’s never enough holes for them.” Unceremoniously and accompanied by whimpers and gurgling, the alien pulled out Martin’s tongue and injected it with the purple liquid—it turned swollen and heavy and hot—then they took out a bright blue, meaty dildo, long and floppy, and fed it down Martin’s throat. “Throat means esophagus also, in a qivaq’s book.”
The device descended, making Martin’s chest feel tight and bloated. His throat tingled, and soon both it and his mouth filled with a thick, salty-sweet taste.
“The policy is to make the sensitizing drug used for the mouth resemble the ejaculate of the owner’s species as much as possible.”
Cum. He was tasting qivaq cum.
Martin tried to moan again, but his throat was too full. Thanks to his modifications, he could breathe, but right now, any sound was out of the question.
The dildo ended with an inflatable bulb that filled Martin’s mouth and bloated his cheeks. The bulb was too big to swallow and too big to spit out. It locked behind Martin’s impotent teeth, plugging him effectively and completely, stretching him wide, wide, wide. His jaw ached. His lips were pulled taut at the corners, but the fleshy parts—all the sensitive meat—remained plump.
Accessible.
Martin had full, sexy lips. He used to be embarrassed about them when he was younger, but eventually he started to appreciate them as one of his most attractive assets. Together with his big, brown eyes—which were probably even more striking now that they’d shaved him bald—Martin’s lips made people focus on his face; they made him hard to forget.
Now, those lips were going to become even fuller.
“The effect isn’t permanent,” explained the lammea to their colleague while mounting a pump around Martin’s mouth. “Few weeks at best, and most of the swelling will go down—that is, unless this hole is very intensely used. But the added sensitivity will remain forever. Human lips are already pretty sensitive, so most clients forgo this part, but I’ll bet you half of my salary that this one”—the lammea patted Martin’s bulging cheek—”will have his face stuffed full again before the year is through.”
Under the heavy bulk of the dildo in his mouth, Martin’s tongue twitched, and the cum-tasting drug found new crevices to soak into. Something hot shuddered in his chest, around his spine—a helpless, hopeless sensation, a feeling of being here—then traveled lower and sunk into the melted inferno between his legs. His belly squirmed and throbbed, his aching cock, fucked from all sides, fucked in, swayed heavy and thick. His balls pulsed with agony, a white-hot pain, strong and quick. Around his tortured, exposed crotch, his buttocks tried to clench protectively, but that only drove the damn plug in. It oscillated deep in his hole, impossibly huge and beyond mad, and made his nerves rattle and sing. He was so swollen, so full, so good, so horrible, too much, too much!
“Now what?” asked the bulky alien.
“Now we wait for the first round to absorb,” answered the lammea. “Should only take a few hours. Meanwhile, leave it there.” Absentmindedly, they gestured at the corner by the equipment dispensers.
The other alien harrumphed and rolled Martin’s box away.
“Oh, and put a lid on it.”