Chapter 1: The Screen and the Strain
The room was all chrome and shadow, a converted surgical theater that smelled of antiseptic and something else—something metallic and dark, like old blood pretending to be clean. Anya hung suspended in the rig, her wrists locked into the overhead harness, her knees spread wide by the carbon-fiber bars bolted to the floor. The position left everything exposed. Everything on display.
A massive screen dominated the far wall, and there she was, magnified ten times over. Her own ass, pink and trembling, framed by the cold white light of the camera rig.
"Look at you," XORGON said. His voice came from everywhere and nowhere, a low rasp that vibrated through the walls. "Already so eager. The body doesn't lie, does it, Anya?"
He circled her slowly. Seven feet of lean, gray-skinned alien, his movements too fluid, too precise. His eyes were black and flat, like polished obsidian, and they never blinked. She'd never seen him blink. Not once in the three sessions she'd paid for.
"Say it," he commanded.
She swallowed. Her throat was dry, but that was part of it too, wasn't it? The discomfort. The anticipation.
"I want it," she whispered.
"Louder." He stopped behind her. She couldn't see him, but she felt the heat of his body, the alien rhythm of his pulse. "I want to hear you say it like you mean it."
"I want it." Her voice cracked. "Please. I want you to stretch me."
His laugh was a dry, papery sound. "Better."
Then his finger was there—slick with something cold and viscous—pressing against her anus. She hissed through her teeth. The screen showed everything: the tight ring of muscle, the way it resisted, the way it slowly, inevitably gave.
"Resistance is such a human thing," XORGON mused. "You cling to your limits like children to blankets. But look."
He pushed deeper. One finger, then two knuckles, then his whole digit disappeared inside her. The burn was immediate, a bright flare of pain that made her gasp. But beneath the pain was something else—that crawling, electric heat that spread through her pelvis and pooled low in her belly.
"Beautiful," he said. "Your body is adapting. Fascinating."
He withdrew, and she clenched involuntarily around nothing, a reflex she couldn't control.
"Don't tighten," he snapped. "You know better."
"Sorry. I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. Just open."
Something larger pressed against her. She knew what it was. She'd seen the schematics on his datapad during the consultation—the tapered shaft, the ridged texture designed to stimulate every nerve ending. His cock. Alien and unyielding.
"Breathe," he instructed.
She breathed. And he pushed.
The first inch felt impossible. Her body screamed at her to close, to protect itself. But she'd trained for this. She'd spent months with silicone plugs, working her way up in size, chasing this exact moment.
"Good," XORGON said as he sank deeper. "You've prepared properly. I appreciate that. Most of you humans are so sloppy."
She couldn't respond. The pressure was overwhelming—a deep, gnawing fullness that radiated through her entire pelvis. On the screen, she watched her own hole stretch around him, the skin going white with tension, then slowly blooming pink.
"Round one," he announced.
He began to move. Slow at first, long, deliberate strokes that made her breath hitch and stutter like a dying car. Then faster. The ridged texture of his shaft dragged against her inner walls, and she felt something building—a pressure that was entirely separate from the pain.
The tentacles came down from the ceiling on silent hydraulics. Three of them, smooth and black, tipped with suction cups that clamped onto her nipples and clit with a wet, obscene sound.
"Don't come yet," he warned.
But the tentacles had their own programming. They pulsed in a rhythm designed to override human willpower, squeezing and releasing in a pattern that mimicked breastfeeding and bleeding edge simultaneity.
She came. Hard. The orgasm ripped through her like a seizure, her vision going white, her mouth opening in a scream that echoed off the chrome walls.
"Disappointing," XORGON said. But he didn't stop. If anything, he drove harder, and she felt her rim stretch further, felt the skin go taut and slick with lube and her own body's desperate attempts to accommodate him.
The tentacles didn't stop either.
"They're programmed to wring you dry," he explained conversationally, as if they were discussing the weather. "Each orgasm makes you more pliable. More receptive. Don't fight it."
She tried not to fight it. But her body was already overwhelmed, already shaking.
Round two.
He pulled out entirely, and she mewled at the sudden emptiness. But then his thumb was there, pushing against her gaping hole, massaging the stretched tissue.
"See how you gape now? You're learning."
It was a foreign sensation, almost disembodied. Her ass felt hot, swollen, oversensitive. Every brush of his thumb sent sparks of pain-pleasure shooting through her.
"Swollen," he noted. "Your skin is darker here now. The capillaries are responding to the strain. On a scale of one to ten, where's your pain?"
"Eight," she gasped.
"Good. We'll reach ten by round four."
He shoved inside again. No warning, no preparation. Just the sudden, brutal fullness of him filling her, and she screamed—not in protest, but in surrender.
The tentacles started again.
By round three, she'd lost count.
Not of the rounds—she knew he'd said five—but of the orgasms. Six? Seven? The screen showed her ass in clinical detail: the rim had gone from pink to deep red, and there was a slight swelling visible, the skin puffed and engorged.
"That's the inflammation setting in," XORGON said. "Your body is trying to heal the micro-tears. It won't succeed before I'm done with you."
She sobbed. Or maybe laughed. She couldn't tell anymore.
"Still with me?" he asked.
"Yes." Her voice was a croak. "Yes. Keep going."
He made a sound of approval. "You're better than most. Most humans quit after round two. But you—" He drove into her again, and she felt her inner walls clench around him, the muscles exhausted but still fighting. "You're a work of art in progress."
The tentacles had switched to a lower frequency. They dragged orgasms from her now like water from a sodden sponge—slow, dripping, inevitable. Her clit was a raw bundle of nerve endings, and her nipples were so sensitive that even the air from the vents made her twitch.
Round four.
"Ten," he said. "Admit it."
"Ten," she sobbed.
"Good. Now round five."
Round five was different. He pulled her hair, yanking her head back so she had to watch the screen. Watch her own destruction.
"Look at that," he whispered in her ear. "That's your limit. That's the edge of what you thought you could take. I've pushed you past it."
The screen showed everything: her red, gaping hole, the way it had softened and loosened, the way it looked almost... welcoming. Obscene and open and so, so broken.
"I could stop now," he said. "You've paid for five rounds. But you'd be unsatisfied, wouldn't you?"
She nodded frantically.
"You want more."
"Even though it hurts. Even though you're bleeding a little. Even though you'll barely be able to sit tomorrow."
"Yes. Please."
He drove into her one final time, and the tentacles went into overdrive. The orgasm that ripped through her was different—a kind of climax that felt like it was tearing her apart from the inside. Her vision went, her hearing went, everything went except the pressure and the pain and the alien heat of him inside her.
"Five rounds," he said when it was over. "And a little extra. For the effort."
He withdrew. She felt her body try to close and fail—the muscle exhausted, unresponsive. On the screen, her ass was a red, gaping testament to his art. It twitched weakly, unable to perform its most basic function.
"Don't worry," he said. "It will recover in a few days. They always do."
He released the harness. She slumped forward, her arms numb, her legs shaking. The tentacles retracted with soft hisses.
"Same time next month?" he asked.
She looked at him—at the flat black eyes, the unreadable expression, the slight smirk that was the closest thing he ever showed to satisfaction.
"Same time next month."
She hobbled toward the recovery room, her body a symphony of hurt. But somewhere beneath the pain was a profound, quiet satisfaction. The kind that couldn't be explained, only felt.
The screen flickered off behind her. The chrome walls went dark.
And somewhere in the deep, cold dark of space, XORGON logged her data and began planning their next session.