So Wrong (the collected pornographica of Elsie)

The womb is pleasantly dark, warm and comfortable. You have no worries, no cares, hardly any thoughts at all. A choice, however, must now be made:

If you choose XX, click here.

If you choose XY, click here.

Your parents always warned you that if you were a bad girl and misbehaved, they’d sell you to the barachi. You never really believed them though.

You knew it was bad, beyond bad, but it was so damn tempting… your mom had left her VR rig just sitting right there in her sewing room. The helmet was pink, the corresponding prong was soft-skinned, matching pink, with interesting ridges and a slight upward curve. It looked like it would be just exactly the right side for your horny little kitty.

And your kitty WAS horny. Your parents had gone to the neighborhood SETI committee meeting, leaving you to your own devices. Usually your own devices would have been a nice hot bath and the affections of your own four fingers, or possibly the shower head just for variety’s sake. Both options worked perfectly nicely, but frankly just lately they had both been getting a tiny little bit… boring. Your mom’s pink and sparkly VR rig would spice things up quite nicely!

You knew that a girl’s hymen (if not her actual virginity) was the most precious thing she owned, and that she should protect it at all costs. But you were pretty sure you could use that thing without damaging your precious maidenhead.

*

If you take the VR rig, click here.

If you resist temptation, click here.

You leave the pink VR rig where it lays, and go upstairs to your bedroom, where you strip naked and turn on the shower. You ride the showerhead to a very satisfying orgasm, thinking deliciously slutty things about naked boys and the mysterious things they have between their legs. When you are all done, you towel off and get dressed, just in time to welcome your parents home from their meeting.

You graduate from high school, and start college, but never finish. You marry a nice man named Daveed who takes your virginity on your wedding night. It is neither as painful as you were afraid, nor as exciting as you hoped. You end up having two kids, a boy and a girl. You try for a third, but the pregnancies keep ending in miscarriage.

Your son is moderately successful and makes you proud. Your daughter is a bit of a problem, rebellious and promiscuous, and ends up sold to the barachi.

You live a long, fairly healthy, and unremarkable life.

END

You grab the VR rig and take it upstairs with you, intending to be just a minute, to wash it off and replace it before your parents get home.

Upstairs, you strip naked and slip the pink, glittery helmet on over your head. Immediately you are greeted by a well-muscled man with gold bracelets, a distressingly uniform tan, a handlebar mustache, and a penis the size of a baseball bat. Your mother’s preferences, clearly, and not really your own, but you don’t really have time to fiddle with the settings, and anyway, he is rubbing your shoulders and you can actually feel his cock brushing up against your naked back, and what the hell, you are getting pretty turned on anyway.

He nudges your thighs apart, and your cunt is good and wet and slippery, and now seems as good a time as any to grope for the pink prong part of the rig, which is now humming pleasantly away.

You thought you’d just slip it in a little bit, just enough to itch the scratch, but once you start you find that you really can’t stop. The toy slips all the way in, just like that: a brief moment of resistance and a twinge as your hymen tears asunder, and then pure bliss. Mr. Mustache is grunting like a bear, hammering you between your legs, plunging in and out, and you are hooked, reveling in the sensation of fullness, the toy buzzing happily away deep inside you, as your virtual gigolo fucks your cunt, your clit straining out, swollen and ready to pop like an overinflated balloon…

…and then your Mom barges in, screaming her disgust. Dad is close behind, and you find yourself grabbed by the hair and dragged forcibly out of bed, down the stairs, and into the front yard, where your Dad hoses you down with the garden hose. Sobbing, shivering, and soaking wet, you are bundled naked into the back of their SUV and driven straight to the Barachi embassy.

The next few hours are a blur. You vividly remember the humiliation of standing soaking wet and naked on the sidewalk outside the embassy, trying to hide your tits and pussy from the curious stares of passers-by as your Dad negotiates entry. You are brought inside, and plastic restraints are placed on your ankles and wrists. You are given a shot of something to calm you down –at some point you had started weeping and screaming hysterically. Your patents must have left; you never see them again. You are taken to a holding cell, brightly lit and sterile, and left alone in your misery.

There was nothing particular to remember about the shuttle flight, other than the deafening noise and teeth-rattling vibration of launch, and the crushing g-forces as you arced up through the sky. Part of you hopes for an anomaly, an explosion that would end the nightmare in a brief bright flash of flames. But no such luck.

The artificial gravity makes you feel queasy, as if you had spent too much time on the whirling teacups at the amusement park. You’ll never get completely used to it, you’ll feel perpetually off-balance from here out, but the worst of the nausea passes after the first few days.

Once aboard the outpost, you are brought into some kind of operating room, where a drone is waiting for you.

You can tell he is a drone, because of his size (he isn’t much taller than you), and because he lacks wings. He hums and clicks mechanically as he secures your head between his middle appendages and paints an antiseptic gel on your lips with his upper arms, while the lower pair wields surgical tools. (You knew it was a ‘he’ because no human has ever seen a female barachi.)

Barachi don’t feel pain, so they aren’t particularly sensitive about the sensation in species who do. They do, however, have very sensitive hearing organs on their thorax; apparently human screaming is uncomfortable for them and makes them agitated. Once you are fully prepped, the drone begins wiring your jaw shut and rearranging and extracting teeth. Finally he takes a long, curved surgical needle and polymer thread, and proceeds to sew your lips together, pausing in the middle to insert a stainless-steel straw into your mouth, through which you will consume your nutrition. The pain is terrible, you would have said unbearable, except that it goes on and on and you somehow bear it: tiny careful stitches close together, sealing your mouth tight around the metal drinking tube. Almost as bad as the pain is the sounds that the needle makes as it punctures and pierces through layers of tissue.

Finally, the drone is done with his task. With a hum and a click, he wipes the blood off your face with a sani-wipe, and leaves you, sobbing silently, chest shaking, tears running down your cheeks and falling to the floor in the parabolic curve of artificial gravity.

They must have put some kind of drug into the slurry they fed you through the straw, because things go blank for a while.

You are naked. There is no need for clothing here. Your breasts are tender and swollen: your feed is laced with hormones. A drone leads you from your sleeping chamber to a large, brightly-lit room. The drone locks your ankles, wrists, and head, not uncomfortably but very securely, into a polymer frame. An instrument of some sort is inserted into your anus. You wince as the drone shoves the bullet-shaped plug in past your opening, where it stays, securely lodged. Suction cups attached to surgical tubing are placed over your nipples, quickly sucking them erect and distended.

There are other women in the room, similarly secured, in various stages of pregnancy. You can’t really look around because of the way your head is clamped in place; and in any case your attention is now focused on the thing immediately in front of you.

It is a full male barachi. He is much bigger and half again as tall as you. His exoskeleton is a livid, poisonous green. His gossamer wings are fully extended from his carapace, indicating fertility. Six small, red eyes travel up and down your body, for all the world like an ogling construction worker. His mandibles slowly open and close. An ovipositor juts out from his thorax, a wickedly sharp and oversized segmented parody of a penis. Despite yourself, you realize that your cunt is sopping wet and drooling.

The lower arms hold your knees apart. Fighting them would be like fighting a hydraulic press. The middle pair of appendages spreads your labia with surprising dexterity, the upper pair holds your midsection with pincers like tungsten-steel. His mandibles clack excitedly. He spears you, penetrating your cunt with one cruel thrust.

The pain is beyond comprehension. You scream through the straw, through sealed lips, and twist and struggle to escape. Methodically, he pushes deeper and deeper inside you. Your cunt feels as if it is being split apart. Cruel, barbed spikes project from his ovipositor, piercing your flesh, latching into your labia and vaginal walls, lodging him even more securely in your cunt.

He thrusts mechanically, in and out. His beady, multi-faceted red eyes seem to glitter with excitement. His wings rattle and quiver.

Finally, he explodes. You can feel it, deep deep inside your cunt. The barachi are a parasitic species: the queen, in a chamber somewhere on the station, gives the males eggs to fertilize. The males hold the eggs in a special internal sac until they deposit them in a host. Dozens of slimy ova, the size of fish eggs, are squirted up your cunt. Retro-enzymes and mimetic hormones go to work, coaxing your cervex open and herding the eggs up into your womb, where they latch on to the walls of your uterus.

His task done, the male barachi withdraws his spines. With a shrug reminiscent of a post-orgasmic human male, he pulls his ovipositor out of you, and tucks it back inside his exoskeleton. Red blood and greenish slime gush out of your wounded cunt. You gasp and retch, trying not to puke inside your sealed mouth.

The drone leads you back to your cell, where you pass out. Already, the young barachi are growing inside you, alien cells replicating, feasting on your body’s nutrients.

Sex play is actually encouraged between hosts. Stimulation increases blood flow to the uterus and helps with milk production. No words are ever exchanged, no licks or kisses. Three women gang up on you, one holding you by the hair while the other two boldly finger your pussy and asshole. You aren’t quite sure if it is rape, because it is actually quite enjoyable. Another, older and very pregnant women wordlessly instructs you on how to fist her. You get a huge charge out of feeling her cunt pulsate on your hand as she comes. There is another girl, about your own age, who sort of becomes a friend: you masturbate together, fingering each other’s cunts as you rub your clits.

Your belly quickly grows and swells, almost to the point of bursting. The suction tubing is now extracting milk from your breasts around the clock. Your middle is now so large that it is difficult, nearly impossible to stand upright or to walk.

Some males enjoy coupling with hosts while they are pregnant. Whether this is because they enjoy the sensations, a mating instinct gone wrong, or just out of rank cruelty, you don’t know. Sometimes they will attempt to insert their ovipositor in a woman’s ass. This can result in grave injury, infection, and if the male barachi isn’t very careful, death for the host. Fortunately, this does not happen to you during your first hosting.

The eggs gestate for about three weeks.

A drone leads you back into the insemination room. Your belly is bulging obscenely, the things inside you are squirming like a sack full of hyenas. You can actually see them wriggling inside you through your flesh. You are strapped into the rack not a moment too soon: your body convulses as a powerful contraction wracks through you. First one, then another and another and another squirms out of your vagina, falling with a plop onto the floor. The larvae are light green and limbless, each one about the size of a loaf of bread. More and more of them worm their way out of you, maybe a dozen in total.

Some combination of their texture, the wriggling action against your g-spot, the instrument in your anus, the way your cunt is stretched wide, and the cocktail of artificial hormones sets you off. You’ve never had an orgasm like this before: it is incredibly intense, and it goes on and on as the grubs squirm their way out of your body. The sensation is insidiously addictive. As soon as it is over you want more.

The larvae are herded into a special nursery room where a drone will feed them breastmilk until they pupate. Meanwhile, the male wastes no time. Even as the last larvae squirms out of your gaping vagina, he mounts you. It still hurts: the alien prong was never designed for a human cunt, and the spikes are still cruel and barbed, but as he thrusts inside you, getting ready to deposit his eggs, you begin to feel a certain twisted pleasure through the afterglow of your orgasm. You could almost learn to enjoy this.

This cycle will continue until your body is worn out. As the months pass, time seems to blur, and the days and nights blend together. Your senses dull, your mind wanders and atrophies. By the time the barachi are done with you, you are hardly even human. Not anymore.

END

Your parents always warned you that if you were a bad boy and didn’t do as you were told, they would sell you to the barachi someday. You never really believed them though.

Mom was at work, dad was at SETI. You had planned on taking a shower and violating the sanctity of your body’s temple under the warm, soapy water; but something caught your eye. Your dad had left the door to his study open a crack, and there on the desk was his VR rig.

You knew that it was a mortal sin for a boy to spill his mother-of-pearl; that was why you always did it in the shower, where your horny nastiness would leave no trace. But honestly, there is only so much a guy can do with one soapy hand, and the VR rig was right there for the taking. You should have plenty of time before any came home.

If you take the VR rig, click here.

If you resist the temptation, click here.

With a sigh, you go on past your dad’s study. You strip off your clothes and step into the familiar warmth of the shower. Your cock is already hard. You grasp it in one sudsy, slippery hand, thinking hazy thoughts about the girls at school and the warm, mysterious, fuzzy place between their legs. When the mother-of-pearl comes, your back arches in ecstasy, and you rise up on tiptoe, squirting milky white semen all over the shower stall. How can something that feels so good be so wrong?

The last traces of sin are washed down the drain, and you towel off and get dressed in plenty of time for your parents to get home.

You graduate from high school, and go on to college where you get a degree in civil engineering. You marry a nice girl who you suspect is smarter than you are. You lose your virginity on your wedding night, discovering that sex, while enjoyable, is nowhere near as much fun as you had anticipated.

Your wife bears you two children. You try for a third, but she miscarries several times. Your son does moderately well in life, and you are proud of him. Your daughter is a bit of a problem, disobedient and promiscuous, and ends up sold to the barachi.

You live a longish and perfectly ordinary life.

END

You should have plenty of time before either of your parents get home. Knowing that what you are about to do is wrong, that it could get you into the worst kind of trouble, you do it anyway. Careful not to touch anything else, you snag your dad’s VR rig, and bring it up to your room.

When you slip the helmet on over your head, you are immediately presented with a trio of women, virtually identical except for the color of their hair: a redhead, a blonde, and a brunette. Each is naked, with a pair of oversized breasts, and a hairless, hourglass-shaped body. Your dad doesn’t have a lot of imagination in the sexual fantasy department, but there is no time to fiddle with the controls, so it will have to do. You slide the sleeve attachment over your already hard cock, and are immediately overwhelmed with sensation.

You are sucking the blonde lady’s big tits and playing with her pussy while the redhead and the brunette take turns sucking your cock. It all feels so real: so amazingly warm and wet!

You are just about to come, your cock buried impossibly deep in the red-haired lady’s throat, when you hear an angry shout from somewhere outside this world, and then a stab of pain as the helmet is yanked off your head and you are slapped across the face.

Unfortunately, your cock chooses this exact moment to shoot off, and your precious mother-of-pearl squirts out the end of the VR tube, splattering all over your tummy and chest.

Your father is standing over you, wearing a scowl of disapproval. Your mother stands in the door, her face a mask of tragic disappointment. Your dad grabs you by the hair and drags you down the stairs and into the front yard, where he hoses you down with the garden hose, washing away all traces of your sin.

You are bundled naked into the back of your parent’s SUV, and driven straight to the barachi embassy.

The next few hours are a blur. You vividly remember the humiliation of standing soaking wet and naked on the sidewalk outside the embassy, your cock shrinking and your balls trying to climb back up inside you as passers-by stare curiously while your Dad negotiates entry. You are brought inside, and plastic restraints are placed on your ankles and wrists. You are given a shot of something to calm you down –at some point you had started crying and begging hysterically. Your patents must have left; you never see them again. You are taken to a holding cell, brightly lit and sterile, and left alone in your misery.

There is nothing special to remember about the shuttle flight, other than the deafening noise and teeth-rattling vibration of launch, and the crushing g-forces as you arc up through the sky. Part of you hopes for an anomaly, an explosion that would end the nightmare in a brief bright flash of flames. But no such luck.

The artificial gravity makes you feel queasy, as if you had spent too much time on the whirling teacups at the amusement park. You’ll never get completely used to it, you’ll feel perpetually off-balance from here out, but the most intense nausea passes after the first few days.

Once aboard the outpost, you are brought into some kind of operating room, where a drone is waiting for you.

You can tell it is a drone, because of his size (he wasn’t much taller than you), and because he lacks wings. He hums and clicks mechanically as he secures your head between his middle appendages and paints an antiseptic gel on your lips with his upper arms while the lower pair fusses with surgical tools. (You knew it was a ‘he’ because no human has ever seen a female barachi.)

Barachi don’t feel pain, so they aren’t particularly sensitive about the sensation in species who do. They do, however, have very sensitive hearing organs on their thorax. Apparently human screaming causes them agitation and discomfort. Once you are fully prepped, the drone begins wiring your jaw shut, and rearranging and extracting teeth. Finally, he takes a long, curved surgical needle and polymer thread, and proceeds to sew your lips together, pausing in the middle to insert a stainless-steel straw into your mouth, through which you will consume your nutrition. The pain is terrible, you would have said unbearable, except that it goes on and on: tiny careful stitches close together, sealing your mouth tight around the metal drinking tube. Almost as bad as the pain are the sounds that the needle makes as it punctures and pierces through layers of tissue.

Finally, the drone is done with his task. With a hum and a click, he wipes the blood off your face with a sani-wipe, and leaves you, sobbing silently, chest shaking, tears running down your cheeks and falling to the floor in the parabolic curve of artificial gravity.

They must have put some kind of drug into the slurry they fed you through the straw, because things go blank for a while.

You are naked. There is no need for clothing here. Your balls are tender and swollen: your feed is laced with hormones. A drone leads you from your sleeping chamber to a large, brightly-lit room. He locks your ankles, wrists, and head, not uncomfortably, but securely, to a polymer frame. An instrument of some sort is inserted into your anus. You wince as the drone shoves the bullet-shaped plug in, past the opening, where it stays, securely lodged. It feels pleasantly unpleasant, and your asshole is tender and stretched out. The thing vibrates back there, making the roots of your cock hum, and you find that you are incongruously erect.

There are other men and boys in the room, similarly secured. Some of them are sporting erections. Some have bulging, grotesquely oversized scrotums. You can’t really look around because of the way your head is clamped in place; and in any case your attention is now focused on the thing immediately in front of you.

It is a full male barachi. He towers over you, much bigger and taller than you are. His exoskeleton is a livid, poisonous green. His gossamer wings are fully extended from his carapace, indicating fertility. Six small, red eyes travel up and down your naked body, sizing you up. His mandibles slowly open and close. An ovipositor juts out from his thorax, like a whip or a sabre, a wickedly sharp long and thin armored and segmented parody of a penis. Despite yourself, your cock stains out from your body toward him.

One pair of appendages grasps your penis with surprising dexterity, another pair is wrapped like tungsten-steel around your midsection and a third pair is manipulating your balls. His mandibles clack excitedly. He spears you with one cruel thrust, inserting his long, slender, barbed sex organ straight up your urethra.

The pain is beyond comprehension. You scream through the straw, through sealed lips, and twist and struggle to escape. Methodically, he pushes deeper and deeper inside you, his ovipositor worming its way through your inner plumbing. Your penis feels like it is being torn apart from the inside. Cruel, barbed spikes project from his ovipositor, raking the inside of your urethra. You will piss blood for a week. Finally, an unpleasant sinking feeling deep inside you lets you know that the end of his tube has finally reached your balls.

He thrusts mechanically, in and out. His beady, multi-faceted red eyes seem to glitter with excitement. His wings rattle and quiver.

Finally, he explodes. You can feel it, deep deep inside your ball sac. The barachi are a parasitic species: the queen, in a chamber somewhere on the station, gives the males eggs to fertilize. The males hold the eggs in a special internal sac until they deposit them in a host. Dozens of slimy ova, the size of fish eggs, are squirted into your scrotum. Retro-enzymes and mimetic hormones go to work, and the eggs latch on to your testes, where they will consume your nutrients and grow. Already alien cells are replicated, growing inside you.

His task done, the male barachi withdraws his spines. With a shrug reminiscent of a post-orgasmic human male, he pulls his ovipositor out of you, and tucks it back inside his exoskeleton. Red blood and greenish slime gush out of your wounded cunt. You gasp and retch, trying not to puke inside your sealed mouth.

The drone leads you back to your cell, where you pass out. While you sleep, a suction cup is placed over your cock: from now on your mother-of-pearl will be milked from you and fed to the grubs.

Sex play is actually encouraged between hosts. Stimulation increases blood flow to the testicles and promotes semen production. No words are ever exchanged, no licks or kisses. Three grown men gang up on you, one holding you by the hair and another pinning your arms while the other boldly fingers your asshole. You aren’t quite sure if it is rape, because at some point it actually becomes quite enjoyable, even when they take turns fucking your ass. The experience leaves you horny, hard, and confused. Another guy, an attractive fellow about your own age, shyly shows you how to hold his cock, and wordlessly you jerk each other off.

Your ball sac quickly grows and swells, almost to the point of bursting. It is almost to walk now, or even to stand upright for long, because of the basketball-sized growth between your legs.

Some male barachi enjoy coupling with hosts while they are ‘pregnant’. Whether this is because they enjoy the sensations, or just out of rank cruelty, you don’t know. Sometimes they like to hold a guy buy his throat with their mandibles until the points penetrate the skin and the blood flows and runs down their chest. This can result in grave injury, infection, and if the male barachi isn’t careful, death. Fortunately, this does not happen to you during your first hosting.

A drone leads you back into the insemination room. Your scrotum is bulging obscenely, the things inside you are squirming like a sack full of hyenas. You can actually see them moving inside, which is stomach-turning. You are strapped into the rack not a moment too soon: your body convulses as a powerful contraction wracks through you. First one, then another and another and another squirms through your urethra and out the end of your penis, falling with a plop onto the floor. The larvae are light green and limbless, each one about the size of a marshmallow. More and more of them worm their way out of you, maybe a dozen in total.

Some combination of their texture, the wriggling pressure against your prostate the instrument in your anus, the way your cock is stretched, and the cocktail of artificial hormones sets you off. You’ve never had an orgasm like this before, completely separate from ejaculation. It is incredibly intense, and it goes on and on as the grubs squirm their way out of your body. The sensation is insidiously addictive. As soon as it is over you want more.

The larvae are herded into a special nursery room where a drone will feed them semen until they pupate. Meanwhile, the male wastes no time. Even as the last larvae squirms out of your gaping urethra, he mounts you. It still hurts: the alien prong was never designed for a human cock, and the spikes are still cruel and barbed, but as he thrusts inside you, getting ready to deposit his eggs, you almost feel a certain twisted pleasure through the afterglow of your orgasm. You could almost grow to enjoy this.

The cycle will continue until your body is worn out. As the months pass, time seems to blur, and the days and nights blend together. Your senses dull, your mind wanders and atrophies. By the time the barachi are done with you, you are hardly even human. Not anymore.

END