Chapter 4: Anal Algorithms
The airlock cycled with a scream of metal, a sound of protest from the ship’s wounded frame. Caron stood suited, the helmet of her EV suit locked and sealed, the HUD painting data across her visor. The creature—Bill, she couldn’t stop thinking of it as Bill now—stood naked beside her, its obsidian skin drinking the red emergency light. It showed no discomfort, no need for pressure or heat. It simply was.
“External atmosphere void in three,” Q counted down.“Two. One.”
The outer doors shuddered open. The infinite black yawned before them, studded with pitiless stars. The hull breach was a jagged maw ten meters to their right, spiderwebbed with the failing nanite patch that glowed a sickly, dying orange.
“Go,” Caron said, her voice tight in her own ears.
It moved. It launched itself into the vacuum without a sound, without a tether. She followed, magnetic boots clamping to the hull with heavy clunks. The silence was absolute, a weight pressing on her ears. Her own breathing was a roaring animal in her helmet.
Bill reached the breach first. It placed its long hands on the edges of the torn alloy, as if feeling its texture. From its fingertips, a viscous, silvery substance began to weep, flowing over the nanocomposite patch and into the cracks. It hardened instantly on contact with the vacuum, forming a seamless, glassy seal.
It’s secreting a bonding agent, she thought, awe cutting through her fear. Its body is a repair kit.
She shuffled closer, playing out her tether. The external repair kit was a bulky cylinder in her hands; it felt absurdly primitive. She activated the spray nozzle, applying a secondary ceramic foam over its work. They labored in a strange, silent tandem. Her world was the rhythmic gasp of her breather, the thump of her heart. Its world was the silent, perfect physics of void and repair.
When it was done, the breach was sealed under a smooth, hybrid crust—part alien secretion, part human ceramic. Bill turned its helmet-less head towards her. In the stark sunlight, she could see the fractal patterns in its carapace, the subtle pulse of dark fluid within. It reached out and placed a hand on the faceplate of her helmet.
A jolt, not electrical, but cognitive. An image flashed in her mind: the interior of the ship, the Sanitation Bay, with perfect clarity. A directive. Then, a question, layered with the memory of their last, visceral connection. Cleansing. You spoke of internal cleansing. The enema.
Her face burned inside the helmet. “Not now. Not here.”
We must optimize all systems. The waste processing node is inefficient.
Before she could reply, it pushed off the hull, pulling her with it by the tether attached to her suit. They sailed back towards the airlock, a grotesque parody of a spacewalking duo.
The Sanitation Bay hummed. It was a cathedral of utility, all groaning pipes and recycled water vapor. Algae glowed in nutrient tanks, casting a sickly green light over the sleek, silent sanitation booth—a personal cleansing pod. The air here was thick with humidity and the iron-tang of recycled fluids.
Caron’s suit was off, piled on the floor. She stood in her undersuit, feeling exposed. Bill circled the pod, its finger tracing the outline of the access door.
“It’s a standard colonic irrigation unit,” she said, her voice echoing. “For medical prep. Or… detox.” The word sounded foolish.
Detox, it repeated in her mind, and she felt the concept unravel and reassemble in its understanding. Expulsion of metabolic inhibitors. Creating vacancy.
It turned to her. Its inner jaws flexed behind its face. You will demonstrate.
“It’s not a demonstration,” she said, but her protest was weak. Her body, her traitorous, adapted body, was already responding. The memory of its tendrils, the shocking intimacy of its mental probe, had left her nerves humming. The idea of this, of submitting to this… clinical violation… sent a dark, unwanted heat pooling low in her belly.
“You want to study the process?”
I wish to perform the process.
Its telepathy carried no malice, only a profound, unwavering curiosity. It was this, more than any threat, that undid her. It didn’t want to hurt her. It wanted to know her. Every canal, every cavity, every response.
Swallowing hard, she opened the pod door. The interior was white, padded, dominated by the central unit with its clear reservoir, its tubes, and its smooth, phallic nozzle. She stripped her undersuit, the damp air chilling her skin. She climbed in, lying back on the padded surface, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Bill loomed in the doorway, blocking the green light. It studied the equipment. Its own appendage, the tendril that had penetrated her before, emerged. It touched the nozzle, then the reservoir. It seemed to understand the mechanics instantly.
Temperature regulation is poor. I will provide the medium.
From a slit in its abdomen, a clear, warm gel began to flow, filling the reservoir with a viscous, shimmering liquid. It was its own secretion, warmer than body heat, carrying that faint, metallic scent of its biology.
“How much?” she whispered.
2.3 liters. Optimal for your distal colon capacity without risk of perforation.
The clinical precision was erotic. Her breath hitched.
The nozzle, now coated in its gel, hovered at her entrance. She was exposed, spread, utterly vulnerable. She forced herself to watch its black, expressionless face.
“Do it.”
The nozzle pressed in. It was cool at first, then warmed by her body. It slid deep, a smooth, insistent invasion. There was no pain, only a profound, stretching fullness. She gasped, her hands gripping the padding.
A pump hummed, but it wasn’t the machine. It was Bill. Its body pulsed, and the warm gel began to flow from the reservoir, through the tube, and into her.
The sensation was unbelievable. A deep, internal flooding. A pressure that built and built, warming her from the inside out. She moaned, arching her back. It wasn’t pleasure, not exactly. It was a radical, total fullness, a submission to a will outside her own. Her stomach distended slightly, a soft swell under her navel.
Your tissues are accommodating, it observed, its mental voice a hum in her skull. The sphincter is undergoing rhythmic spasms. A sign of distress?
“No,” she panted. “It’s… it’s just intense. Don’t stop.”
It didn’t. The flow was steady, relentless, filling her beyond what she thought possible. She was crying out with each new surge, her mind fragmenting under the sheer physical reality of it. She was a vessel being filled by an alien. The absurdity, the raw intimacy of it, tore a sob from her throat.The reservoir emptied. The flow stopped. She was impossibly, tautly full. The pressure was a second presence inside her.
Retention is required for optimal cleansing, it communicated. Approximately six of your minutes. It waited. She writhed, feeling the warm, gelatinous weight inside her. Every small movement sent waves of sensation through her. Her clit was throbbing, a hard, desperate knot of need. She was achingly aroused, humiliated, and utterly captivated. Bill watched. Its tendril, the one not connected to the nozzle, slithered up her thigh. It found her clitoris and began to circle, applying perfect, knowing pressure. The dual sensation—the deep, packed fullness below and the targeted, electric stimulation above—shattered her.
“Oh, God, I’m gonna… I’m gonna come,” she babbled.
Yes. Observe the physiological correlation.
She came with a guttural scream, her body convulsing around the invading nozzle, the internal pressure amplifying every contraction into a wave of overwhelming sensation. Her vision whited out. Through their link, she felt its analytical wonder as it mapped her climax, a series of brilliant, synaptic fireworks.
As the last tremors subsided, it withdrew the nozzle.
The release was catastrophic. A violent, hot rush of expelled gel, a relief so profound it was itself a kind of orgasm. She was left empty, trembling, sprawled and utterly spent on the pad, fluids cooling on her skin.
Bill loomed over her. Its primary tendril, slick and seeking, probed at her newly emptied, sensitive passage.
The cleansing is complete, it thought. The vacancy is now optimal.
It entered her in one slow, devastating slide. The emptiness was gone, replaced by a slick, perfect fullness. Her over-sensitized inner walls clenched around it, sparking fresh, shocking jolts of pleasure. It began to fuck her, deep and measured, each thrust a reclamation of the space it had so meticulously prepared.
This efficiency is superior, it stated, its rhythm accelerating. The neural feedback during evacuation and subsequent penetration is… cohesive.
Caron could only moan, her mind blank, her body a receiving instrument for its exploration. It leaned down, its secondary mouth forming over her breast, suckling hard as it drove into her. The dual points of possession—mouth on her nipple, tendril in her ass—drove her to another peak, this one slower, deeper, a drowning wave of submission.
It shuddered against her, its own release a silent vibration she felt in her bones and in the telepathic channel—a peak of pure, satisfied understanding.
For a long time, there was only the hum of the recycling systems and the sound of her ragged breath. Finally, it withdrew. It stood, looking down at her, a being of perfect, alien functionality.
The system is optimized, it said. Your compatibility is confirmed.
It turned and walked silently from the Sanitation Bay, leaving her alone in the green gloom, dripping and hollowed out, staring at the empty nozzle coiled on the floor. She wasn’t just a host anymore. She was an integrated component. And the ship, for now, was saved.
And the ship, for now, was saved.
The next day they were sitting in the recreation room, the soft hum of the life support a dull contrast to the memory of the sanitation bay’s violent intimacy. A stiffness persisted in her lower back, a deep, pleasant soreness that made shifting in her seat a constant reminder. “In your studies of the ship’s databases,” Caron asked, her voice casual but her spine straight, “have you come across the concept of BDSM?” Bill turned its smooth head from the starfield viewport, its silence a palpable, thoughtful weight in the room.
It had accessed those files. The concept of consensual non-consent is present in your cultural data. Its mental voice was a blunt instrument probing a wound. The power exchange is understood. It leaned closer, the ozone-and-metal scent of its body filling the space between them. Would the simulation of force, a low-level imposition of will against your stated resistance, amplify your arousal?
"Would you help me find out?" The words left her mouth, quiet and charged.
In response, a slick, black tendril snapped out from beneath his arm, wrapping around her throat with a gentleness that betrayed its impossible strength. It pulled her from the chair and across the room, bending her over the cold surface of the observation table. Another tendril hooked into the back of her shipsuit and tore it open down the seam with a sound like a scream, baring her skin to the recycled air.
He held her there, pinned and exposed, and a third, thicker appendage, glistening with its own lubricant, slid into her view, prodding against her clenched asshole. “This will answer your question,” his voice echoed, not in the room, but directly in the center of her mind.
The pressure intensified, a blunt, unyielding insistence against her tight ring of muscle. “Fuck, wait—” she gasped, but the tendril pushed forward, breaching her with a slow, burning stretch that stole her breath. Her body resisted, clenched in raw protest, before surrendering to the invasive, gliding fullness. A sharp cry tore from her throat, morphing into a guttural moan as the sensation bled from pain into a deep, shameful wave of pleasure. Inside her mind, she felt its cold, analytical satisfaction as it mapped the clenching convulsions of her rectum around its invading length.
He gave her a series of rough, piston-like pushes, each one driving the slick tendril deeper into her ass, stretching her unbearably before a second, thinner appendage darted forward. It snapped against her swollen clit with a sudden, sharp pressure that mimicked a bite, sending a jolt of blinding, painful pleasure straight to her core. “God, yes, just like that,” she sobbed into the cold table, her body arching against its restraints. The dual violation—one thick and filling, the other sharp and exacting—unraveled her completely, stripping away any last pretense of controlled study. Inside her skull, she felt its focused curiosity crystallize into a dark, possessive understanding.
He probed deeper, adding a brutal, corkscrewing twist to the tendril buried in her ass, the motion tearing a ragged scream from her lungs that was equal parts agony and obscene pleasure. The sharp snaps against her clit intensified, each one now laced with a crackling, blue-white electric shock that arced through her nervous system, making her hips jerk and spasm against the table. “Fuck, you’re killing me,” she choked out, her vision swimming with static as the shocks magnified every delicious, violating inch of the tendril twisting inside her. Through the searing feedback, she felt its cold analysis sharpen into a singular, triumphant conclusion: her pain pathways were irrevocably fused to her pleasure centers. It was a perfect, terrible integration.
Her convulsions subsided into shallow tremors, a spent quiet settling over the wet table and her ruined body. The electric snaps ceased, the thick tendril stilled its brutal twisting, and she went completely limp, her cheek pressed to the cold surface. "It's yours," she breathed, the words a cracked whisper of total concession. "All of it. Do whatever you want." In the echoing silence of her own mind, where resistance had lived, there was now only a hollow, welcome static.
The static in her mind wasn't empty. It was a receptive hum, a channel cleared of all interference, waiting for his signal. It filled the space between one ragged breath and the next.
Bill’s tendril remained buried deep in her ass, a thick, unmoving presence. He studied the way her body trembled around it, a series of faint, involuntary clenches that teased the slick appendage. The thinner tendril retracted from her throbbing clit, leaving the sensitive nub aching and exposed. "Your surrender alters the parameters," his voice echoed inside her skull, a clinical observation that nevertheless dripped with possessive intent. "The simulation of force is no longer required. Now we test the limits of compliance."
Before she could form a thought, the thicker tendril began to move. It wasn't the brutal pistoning from before. It was a slow, cruel withdrawal, dragging its textured length against her overstimulated inner walls with a roughness that made her gasp. The feeling of being emptied was almost as violent as the filling. Then, with a swift, shocking reversal, it slammed back into her, spearing her with a single, decisive thrust that punched the air from her lungs.
"Fuck!" she screamed, her fingers scrabbling against the smooth table.
He did it again. And again. A relentless, punishing rhythm that was less about sex and more about ownership, each deep drive a stamp of his control. Her earlier soreness ignited into a bright, sharp pain that blurred seamlessly into a devastating pleasure. She was being fucked apart, and her body, beautifully, traitorously adapted, reveled in it.
The thin tendril returned, but not to her clit. It slithered down until it found her other hole—the one still tender. It circled the her labias, which fluttered helplessly under its touch.
She whimpered, even as her hips arched back, offering herself more completely.
The thin tendril pressed inward, joining the thick one. The double penetration was an earthquake inside her, a sensation so profound it bordered on annihilation. She was split open, filled beyond any human design, a conduit for his exploration. A broken, guttural sound tore from her throat, half-sob, half-ecstatic groan.
"Your capacity for intake is greater than estimated," he mused, pumping both tendrils in a twisted, alternating rhythm that stretched her obscenely. The tendril in her pussy hit her G-Spot with every thrust. "The neural feedback is… chaotic. Beautiful."
She was beyond words, her consciousness fragmented into pure sensation: the burn, the stretch, the deep, grinding fullness, the electric knowledge of her own utter conquest. Her cunt, dripping, clenched around one tendril, a greedy ache, the other tendril being shove in and out of her ass with obscene slopping sounds.
"Please," she heard herself rasp, the word foreign and shredded.
"Please what?" The tendrils stilled, buried to the hilt, a silent, waiting threat.
She didn't know. Her mind was a scorched plain. She needed friction, release, something to ground the storm of sensation. She needed him. All of him. "Touch me. My clit. Please, Bill, touch me there."
The thin tendril moved, slick with her juices and his gel, to her dripping front. It found her swollen clit and didn't just touch it. It wrapped around the hard bud, a slippery, constricting ring, and began to pulse in time with the thrusts of the thick tendril still pounding her ass.
The synergy was devastating. Each deep, anal thrust sent a shockwave through her pelvis, magnified a thousand-fold by the perfect, rhythmic pressure on her clit. Her orgasm didn't build; it detonated. It was a white-hot wire of pleasure so intense it felt like pain, searing through her nervous system, locking her muscles, stealing her vision.
She screamed, a raw, continuous sound of shattered dignity and absolute rapture. Her body convulsed around his invading limbs, a series of violent, uncontrollable spasms.
When it finally ebbed, leaving her twitching and hollow, he withdrew both tendrils. Cool air hit her ravaged openings, a shocking contrast. She slumped forward, a marionette with cut strings, her cheek back on the cold table. She was empty. Used. Devastated.
The silence returned, broken only by her shattered breathing. She felt him lean over her, his cool, smooth carapace brushing her sweat-slicked back. His secondary mouth formed at the nape of her neck, not to suckle, but to deliver a soft, almost kiss-like press against her vertebrae.
The telepathic link hummed, not with words, but with a deep, thrumming satisfaction. A job well done. A system optimized.
He straightened. She heard the faint, wet sound of his tendrils retracting into his body. He would leave now. The experiment was complete. A final, hollow whimper escaped her lips.
She forced her head to turn, her vision blurry. She saw his silhouette against the starfield, already turning away.
The emptiness he left was worse than any violation. It was cold. It was human.
"Don't go," she whispered, her voice a broken thing.
He paused.
The words crawled up her throat, forged in the furnace of her degradation. "Please. Don't stop." She swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet room. "Fuck me properly. My cunt. It's… it's starving. I need to feel you there. I need you to come inside me."
She pushed herself up on trembling arms, turning to face him, exposing her ruined, glistening body to the green light. Her eyes met the black void of his.
"Bill," she breathed, every atom of her being focused on the plea. "Fill me up. Fuck my pussy. I need it. I need your come inside me."
She begged for more.