A little something for Leonard Delaney.

curdlestock chronicles

One

The unblinking gaze of the unnervingly handsome man in seat 2B made Becky’s hand shake just a little as she poured his wine. “Can I do anything else for you?” she asked politely, and he looked her up and down slowly.

“Perhaps,” he said. She risked another glance at him, mesmerized by his high cheekbones and perfectly tousled dark hair. He was pale and refined-looking, but his rolled sleeves showed off elegantly muscled forearms, and her breath quickened as she looked at him.

“What made you decide to become a stewardess?”

She hadn’t expected the question, but in her experience the first class passengers were capable of doing or saying anything, sublimely confident that they deserved respectful submission to their every whim. At least this one was sober, and well-mannered. In fact she’d never seen a more perfect gentleman, all icy composure and posh accent, more like a character from television than a real person.

She tucked her brownish-blonde hair behind her ears nervously. “I did my degree in modern languages and then realized I didn’t want to teach, and couldn’t afford grad school. So I thought this job would at least let me use my languages.” Besides, everyone had assured her that her slender figure–and her height–would be assets on international flights, and they’d been right; she had no problem maneuvering narrow aisles or wrestling bags into overhead bins.

“So you were accepted to grad school?” The accent was so gorgeous it took her a second to absorb exactly how intrusive that question was, so she’d answered him before considering that maybe it would be best to just walk away.

“Yes. At the time I was terribly disappointed when I worked out that my teaching assistant position wouldn’t be enough to live on. But I didn’t want to go into debt, so that was that. And I love my job.”

He was staring at her, his eyes intense. It was unnerving. “Can I bring you anything, Mr.–?”

“Smith,” he said. “Doctor, actually.” He corrected her in that offhand, diffident way that really well-bred and privileged people used to deflect attention from their achievements. The boys she’d grown up with, on the other hand, would never have been able to make that announcement without a note of pride. Neither, she knew, would she. If her career had been anything grand, she’d have practically sung out her title.

But she’d gotten used to dealing with people richer than she was, and she was used to their funny ways. She knew no hint of what she was thinking showed on her face. They didn’t like being confronted with envy or resentment, though most of them secretly liked a little fawning respect.

“Well, enjoy the rest of your flight, Doctor Smith,” she said, smiling, “and let me know if you need anything.”

She could feel those unusual eyes following her when she stepped away. There was something almost desperate in his gaze, though she couldn’t fathom why. Perhaps he was secretly afraid of flying.

For the first hour out the trans-Atlantic flight was uneventful, apart from the routing flurry of activity involved in getting the first round of drinks and snacks distributed to the passengers. Becky couldn’t shake off her hyper-awareness of the gorgeous Dr. Smith, though. And she was almost sure he returned her interest, though she was trying not to stare, or to keep checking to see if he was staring.

But ninety minutes out they hit a pocket of turbulence, and she and her coworkers scurried to secure everything and ensure the passengers were belted in. She worked quickly and efficiently, while striving to remain calm; this was next to routine for her, but she knew some of their customers would be scared, and a huge part of her job consisted of reassuring them, through her tone and demeanor as much as anything she said.

Then her own heart gave an anxious leap: Dr. Smith wasn’t in his seat.

Of course she instantly guessed he’d probably gone to one of the two tiny first-class washrooms, and hadn’t had time to return to 2B.

But it wasn’t unheard of for people to be injured during unexpected turbulence. He could have slipped, or knocked his head on something. So she scurried down the aisle and tapped on the locked door. “Dr. Smith? Are you in there?”

She was entirely unprepared when he opened the door just wide enough to grab her and haul her inside, one strong hand covering her mouth so that she couldn’t scream.

 

Two

“Don’t panic,” the doctor told her, and his voice was so calm and commanding that Becky instantly stopped struggling. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I can explain.”

Her body was pressed against him in the semi-darkness, and she couldn’t help but notice his arousal. Still: that posh, cultured voice sounded so at ease, and so confident of being believed, that she found herself waiting, convinced an entirely reasonable explanation would be forthcoming any minute now.

“I’ve been running out of time,” he said. “The longer I went without fulfilling my mission, the harder it got to keep up appearances. Of course I had my work–that helped. Gave me a sense that I was helping humanity somehow even if I hadn’t yet found the right woman to assist by improving her bloodline.”

“Found the right woman?” Becky repeated, focusing on the only part of that which had made any sense.

“Yes,” he said, and turned her around so that she was facing him. Odd: in the flickering lavatory light, his skin had a greenish cast. It was almost…glowing.

But his features were as breathtaking–and unique–as ever. She sighed in helpless admiration.

“One can get away with quite a lot as a billionaire surgeon,” he told her, “but my appearance is getting harder to conceal. I have to begin to fulfill my mission. I have to find a mate. Not just anyone: she has to be as beautiful as I am, at least by ordinary human standards, and intelligent, but willing to stay at home and raise our brood.” He gazed down at her, his almondine eyes alight. “I believe you are that human woman.”

Her head spun. Was he proposing to her? Or just hitting on her?

Privately she admitted that even if he only wanted a brief hook-up, she’d be game. He was stunning; she’d never seen anyone quite like him. How could she possibly say no? Even if he did babble a lot of nonsense…

But she needed to make sure of what he was saying. No point in getting her hopes up, after all. “So you’re telling me,” she said cautiously, “that you’re…”

“I’m an alien billionaire surgeon,” he stated matter-of-factly, “and I have decided to mate with you, and fill you with my spawn.”

For a moment she almost laughed. As a pick up line, it was beyond absurd. But his oddly shaped face was perfectly solemn, and Becky’s breath caught in her throat as her heart began to beat a terror-stricken rhythm. Oh God. He was insane.

She drew a deep breath, readying herself to scream, but he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers.

Her body betrayed her by going limp and warm against his chest as his impossibly long prehensile tongue snaked its way inside her mouth. He lifted her so she was sitting on the narrow counter. Each of her wrists was held against the wall behind her, making it impossible to move, and he’d moved swiftly forward, insinuating himself between her legs. Between her thighs.

She struggled, briefly, but her urge to resist was fading rapidly. In its place she was filled with unnatural desire. Her breathing quickened beneath the onslaught of his tongue, and her legs trembled. She fought the impulse to wrap them around his waist, clinging tight to him and granting him fuller access to her suddenly throbbing clit. Her head spun with the intensity of this rapid need for him.

She felt her skirt being pushed up her thighs, and Dr. Smith let her lower her hands and brace them against the countertop so she could lift her ass, letting him bunch the skirt up around her waist and deftly remove her soaking underwear.

Except, hang on a minute: he still held her by the wrists. His two hands were fully occupied. How the hell had he managed her clothes?

Panic flooded her chest like ice water, but before she could struggle or scream his kiss had deepened, and once more she lost the will to escape. Dazedly she tried to work out what was happening as something began to tickle her thighs, and insistently part her outer labia, and ever so gently rub her engorged and aching clit. She arched her back and pushed forward, trying to increase the maddeningly delicate pressure, but he was holding her too firmly in place. He was in control of whatever this was; all Becky could do was submit to the unfamiliar sensations.

Then she felt it, long and sleek, probing at her entrance, then slowly pushing its way inside: something both silken and erect, and far more mobile than any cock should be.

With a huge effort she pulled her mouth away from his and bent her neck sideways, trying to catch a glimpse of the…thing that was invading her, its dewy lubricant already triggering waves of involuntary spasms that shook her like a series of mini-orgasms. She whimpered, barely managing not to beg for more.

The light overhead flickered and went out, but not before she saw them: three long, thick, prehensile erections. One was beginning to contract and expand, plunging into her, pistonlike, as it settled in to fuck her; the other two were throbbing and writhing as they waited their turn.

Three

When finally the alien released her and Becky made her way out into the cabin, her coltish legs trembling beneath her, there was no one to witness her mussed hair and wide eyes. Everyone was asleep. She stared around at the passengers in bewilderment, all the while trying to straighten her clothes, and calm her breathing, and look less like she’d been having sweaty, ecstatic, impossible sex in the head.

It was futile, of course. Even without a mirror to check her appearance she could smell him on her, an animal-like musk that she was ashamed to realize was still turning her on faintly even now, when she’d already been stuffed full of him over and over again, when she could barely walk from the multi-pronged fucking he’d administered, when her thighs were slick and wet with the copious amounts of god-knows-what he’d spewed out of his triple dicks.

She sat down abruptly, right there in the aisle. The trembling was full-body shaking now, and she felt like she might be losing her mind. Had any of that even really happened?

She noticed distantly that even her fellow stewardesses were sleeping. Two had made it to their seats, and were facing their unconscious passengers; from the floor she spotted two more lying sprawled in the aisle down at the back.

There wasn’t a soul awake to see her reach one hand beneath her skirt to investigate and pull it back to stare, confused, at the thick, viscous, glittering liquid.

“It glows in the dark as well,” said Dr. Smith, crouching down behind her, and she jumped. She’d forgotten, or blocked out, that there was at least one other person still awake.

“Why is everyone asleep?” she asked, not looking at him. She felt…peculiar. Full, as though her abdomen were distended and aching, almost the way it felt during a really bad period. But not quite. There were no cramps, just tenderness, and a strange bloated sensation.

As though, she thought in horror, she’d been literally pumped full of his come.

He looked unaccountably smug. Now that she thought about it, his face was smug even in repose, but something about her question had leveled that up and added a perceptible layer of even-smugger-ness.

“Pheromones,” he said crisply. “They’re all having the most erotic dreams of their lives. They won’t wake until well after we land. Even then some might require medical intervention before they regain consciousness. But they’ll be fine. Hornier than hell, poor buggers, but your species are powerless to help that when they encounter one of mine.”

She had a sudden horrible thought. “What about the pilots?”

He looked amused. “Still awake,” he assured her. “I shook hands with both of them as I boarded, and coated their hands with a biological emission designed to make them resistant to the unconsciousness-inducing portion of my pheromone spectrum–although not, alas, to the arousal. They’ll be taking turns pulling each other off all the way over the Atlantic, I expect.”

“But why are the others unconscious?” she persisted, relieved to have something to think about other than what had happened between them. “What possible biological benefit does that have?”

He shifted so he was sitting on the floor in front of her, and regarded her coolly. “It allows me to complete your impregnation without having to listen to them debase themselves by begging for a touch of one of my cocks.”

She flushed hotly all over, freshly aware that at several points during the proceeding she had, in fact, begged for more. Begged to have him spill inside her, begged him to use and debase her, and then–humiliatingly, in retrospect–begged permission to come before each and every one of her orgasms.

He’d cocked his head to one side and was observing her closely, compassion in his inhuman eyes. “It is to be expected,” he said kindly. “Mine is the superior species, you see. You can’t help your disproportionate reactions to me. At least it makes your fate enjoyable.”

“My fate?” she asked numbly. Something he’d just said was nagging at her, but she was still so dazed it had gone by her in a wave of words, and she couldn’t catch the memory. She only knew she’d started feeling nervous.

And uncomfortable. She looked down at herself, wondering if she could be so off-cycle that her period was starting this early in the month. Or maybe something was medically wrong: her whole lower abdomen felt so sore. Briefly his thick, writhing tentacles flashed before her mind’s eye and she shuddered, acknowledging to herself that that had certainly been enough to leave her sore and tender for a long time.

But she was starting to feel like someone had switched out her uniform skirt for one two sizes too small. Or as though she were slowly swelling…

“Your fate,” he repeated. Her reached out and held her chin, lifting her head so that she was looking at his odd, angular face. He was a beautiful creature, though how she could have ever accepted him as human was a mystery. No one had cheekbones like that, for heaven’s sake, and look at his hair! In this light it was practically green.

“Your fate is a special one, my sweet, and in time you will feel grateful to have been chosen. But for now, I think we had better retrieve your cabin baggage so you can change into something more wonderful. Your body is already beginning to adapt to its new role, and you’ll be more comfortable in something loose until we land and I can take you home.”

“My body.” She seized on the one part of that she was getting frantic about. “What’s happening to my body? Have you injured me?” She couldn’t quite believe that; after all, it certainly hadn’t hurt at the time. Quite the opposite: it had felt deliciously, disgustingly good. But something was definitely wrong now. Her abdomen was roiling; she half thought she could actually see it moving slightly.

He chuckled, and rubbed her shoulder in a gesture that was equal parts reassurance and possession. She would have hit him, except something–probably the damned pheromones–had left her in a pathetic state of hyper-arousal, and right now she craved any contact the alien cared to bestow. “Injure you? I would never injure you. Your body is just making the necessary adjustments as it serves my intentions.”

“What intentions?” She practically screamed at him, her voice high pitched and close to hysteria. “Adjustments to what?”

“The pups,” he said soothingly. “You’ve been filled with my first clutch of spawn, and your body is acclimatizing to its new role in supporting the growth of a superior species.”