Date: Tue, 2 Aug 2016 20:52:14 +0000 (UTC)
From: aboardthedarwin@yahoo.com
Subject: Thirsty Planet - Part 3

Disclaimer: This story contains graphic sexual content with an emphasis on
sci-fi creatures and men. Forced orgasm through "unconventional" means is a
favorite fetish of mine, but there just isn't much of it out there--and
it's even harder to find them without fetishes that don't really appeal to
me. Complaining can be shamefully fun, but I decided to stop sulking and
write something of my own.


If you have any comments and suggestions (or maybe even related reading
recommendations) feel free to drop me a line at aboardthedarwin@yahoo.com.


This content is entirely composed by me. Out of respect for Nifty, I have
to ask you not to monetize it. However, I'm not going to go overboard with
the "DO NOT STEAL OR REPOST" business. I wrote this strictly for my own
amusement, and I hope you get something out of it too.


Thirsty Planet: Boys-in Ivy


Assistant Xenobiologist Holden Crawford was going through what could best
be described as "a rough day."


He staggered through the alien woods of Planet Bismuth on bowed legs. His
crotch still felt like a sticky morasse of sweat and slime despite his
efforts to scrub the effluvia away using water from a nearby creek and his
socks (which his blistered heels now missed terribly). During the freezing
spongebath, he had found another unpleasant surprise. The head of his cock
was noticeably bruised thanks to the rough treatment the eel creature had
given him. To make matters worse, his balls and inner thighs were decorated
with red rings where the grasping mouths of the smaller predators had left
hickies.


"God, if you're listening, I don't care if I ever get out of quarantine,"
Holden mumbled to himself. "Just please don't let this result in me
developing some kind of space herpes."


His sexual future was the least of his present concerns, however.
Contacting The Darwin and getting off this hostile planet was a no-brainer
first priority. Trooper Harris, the cowardly meatheaded grunt, had left him
high and less-than-dry without a communicator. The only thing at Holden's
disposal was a small satchel containing a very basic set of tools, provided
by NATO and manufactured by a Chinese company with highly questionable
quality standards. The kit contained a set of adhesive bandages that
flopped away at the first sign of moisture, a flashlight the size of a
thumb that could only produce a sickly yellow glow, a tube of generic
disinfectant gel, a needle with thread, and a single flare that claimed to
fire its payload 300 feet in the air before exploding into a fireball that
rescue vessels could see for miles.


The flare was, obviously, the most promising method of drawing (hopefully
heavily armed) humans to his location. Unfortunately, Bismuth wasn't very
firework-friendly. The thick canopy above afforded only small gaps through
which sunlight filtered through in yellow shafts like a Kinkaid
painting. Several times Holden had removed the flare, squinted up at a
break in the broad leaves, and willed himself to shoot a lifesaving ball of
fire right through. But then he envisioned the missile shooting from his
hand, striking a leaf, and splashing fire back down onto him as he screamed
and ran. If the flare was anything like the other cut-rate crap in NATO's
bag of tricks, it would function in only the most ideal conditions--if it
could even manage that. No, he would need a substantial clearing in the
foliage to make absolutely sure he didn't expend his lifeline scorching
some alien tree bark.


For two miserable hours, Holden trudged through the woods. His feet ached
tremendously with each step. "I swear to god, I will never take socks for
granted ever aga--"


Holden stopped dead in his tracks. Up ahead, barely visible through a
barrier of tangled roughage, a gentle, bald hill was bathed in unfettered
sunlight. The man couldn't help but laugh as hope flowed through him like
cool water down a parched throat. He sprinted towards the clearing and
stopped at the heap of dead shrubbery marking its perimeter.


"I'll be damned."


Despite everything, the scene sprawled out before Holden was quite
beautiful. The short hill, which had at first appeared to be coated with a
thick carpet of short grass, was actually blanketed by a layer of
glistening moss. A strange pink mist swirled and danced just above the
green surface. Also present were a number of fallen logs--perhaps the
remains of the trees that had once stood here. Strangely, they exhibited
none of the usual rot and decay one might expect from dead wood. In fact, a
number of them had clusters of purple leaves growing from their remaining
branches. Roots appeared to be sprouting from the SIDES of the log nearest
the ground. It wasn't much of a surprise to a man of science like
Holden. There were trees on Earth that could take a lot of abuse and still
ultimately survive. Why should Bismuth be any different?


A sudden rustling from nearby startled Holden into a crouch. He clutched
the NATO emergency kit by it's strap and held it up. As shameful as it was,
the only self-defense strategy Holden could conjure up in his fear and
fatigue was to use the satchel like a woman might use her purse to fend off
a mugger.


Suddenly, the faux leather strap was torn from his hand. A creature,
swinging from its long arms through the branches above, had grabbed it
before achieving a nimble 10-point landing in the soft moss of the
clearing. Tendrils of pink fog exploded upwards from the ground, obscuring
the beast for a moment. It resembled a macaque, with black fur and long,
gangly limbs. The most striking difference was a short-haired face
featuring two intelligent, piercing eyes and an elongated snout with
jutting incisors at its front. The monk-dog turned back to observe the
human, perhaps daring Holden to try and retake the satchel. Then it began
to waddle-walk on two legs over the crest of the hill, its prize held
triumphantly up over its head.


"You little bastard!" Holden shouted in dismay at the cheeky primate. He
sprung to his feet, scrambled back several yards, and made a run at the
hurdle of brittle foliage. Holden had never been much of an athlete, but he
felt confident that his long, adrenaline-infused legs would be enough to
propel his scrawny 6'3 frame over the barrier. For one exhilarating mid-air
moment, it seemed that he would make it. One particularly stout piece of
deadfall caught the toe of Holden's boot and brought him crashing
face-first into the ground.


The monk-dog paused at the hill's apex to observe the clumsy biped's
shameful display. It coughed wheezily before continuing down the other side
of the mound--its actions drunken and unsteady.


Holden was doing plenty of coughing of his own. The squishy moss had been
kind enough to break his potentially painful fall, but it had also emitted
a cloud of pink gas directly into his face. The stuff felt strangely hot
and stung his respiratory tract in a way that reminded him of taking the
final hit from a mostly-spent joint, where the cherry burned centimeters
from the lips.


(Great, another contamination.) Holden groaned internally. (At this rate
I'll be in quarantine for decades. If I can even get off this fucking
planet, that is.)


But if he was going to go home, he would have to get that flare back. There
was no other way. Determination drove him to his knees, and then to his
feet to stagger forward after the thieving monk-dog. Holden wasn't sure if
it was because of the mist or standing up too quickly, but his head felt
light and cloudy. Sensations of happiness and giddy pleasure began to
bubble up through his frenzied thoughts--threatening to bury his anxiety
and weariness completely.


"God, this is even better than weed," Holden choked out between coughs. "I
could make a fortune selling it back on Earth."


Despite his inebriation, Holden still felt a quiver of fear as he reached
the hill's summit. If the monk-dog was gone, he'd be up shit creek. If it
wasn't, there were the animal's jaws, claws, and God only knew what other
hidden threats standing between him and his flare.


The beast was still there, but it didn't look like it was ready for a
fight. It lay sprawled out over a log, writhing weakly against its
bark. The strap of Holden's bag was dangling from a hand-like paw that
gripped and relaxed rhythmically.


"What's-a-matter? Tired already?" Holden slurred. "I'll be taking my shtuff
back now, okay?"


Holden stumbled down towards the exhausted primate and snatched at the
emergency kit. The monk-dog held on for only a second before it's fingers
fell away.


Victorious, the human clutched the satchel to his breast. "Little
bastard. Not so tough now that--now--"


Holden found that his anger towards the beast was rapidly being subverted
by feelings of pity and empathy. He stared into its vacant eyes and tossed
the emergency kit aside. "Hey, look. I know you were just playin'. I'll
help you. Come on."


In his impaired state, the danger of a potential mauling seemed like a
small price to pay to help his fellow primate. And it WAS pretty adorable,
after all--especially as it snuggled against the bizarre log. Holden
reached down and gave the placid monk-dog a rub in the soft hair behind its
ears (boy, it felt nice against his hand) before lifting the limp, warm
body away from the log. The monk-dog's lower torso didn't come away easily,
as though the bark was covered in some kind of sticky substance. Holden
peeked down under the animal and gasped.


The slender length of the creature's penis was extended down into a
knothole in the log. Instead of swirling, warped woodgrain, there was a
pair of wet, grasping purple walls of flesh apparently trying to pull the
monk-dog fully back into their embrace. The beast reciprocated the plant's
efforts by squirming in Holden's grasp and pushing its hips forward, trying
to return as much of itself to the knothole as possible. The startled human
dropped the creature back down and plopped backward on his ass, sending
another cloud of intoxicating vapor into the air.


Holden stared dumbly at the blissful monk-dog as it slowly sank itself back
down into the log's alien guts. The log, apparently pleased, began
squelching beneath its prey as its innards did SOMETHING. Holden's mind
couldn't help but return to his first fateful collision with a Bismuthian
lifeform. The deervark and, of course, the eels. The eels with their
grasping mouths and throats that gripped wetly. His manhood ached in a dull
and distant way as it fattened into its full seven inch length against his
thigh. The memory of the eel creature, which had inspired disgust and shame
only minutes before, was now inspiring some very different feelings.


What was left of Holden's rational mind cried out. (I've got to get away
from this place!) But the intoxicating effects of the vapor spoke
louder. (But first, shouldn't you take care of...that?) Holden's cock was
pushing painfully against the fabric of his suit. With the eel, fear and
disgust had lead to an erection that was serviceable, but still
pliable. Whatever this stuff in his lungs was, it was making him hard as
steel. And there was another log nearby...


Holden left the lifeless monk-dog to its fate and crawled carefully across
the moss to a log several yards away. Sure enough, there was a knothole in
the bark with two fleshy walls the color of eggplant. As soon as his shadow
fell over the hole, the plant's innards spread apart. Holden peered into
the hole, looking drowsily for any threats despite his penis' desire to
plunge inside without delay. Strands of ooze like thick saliva dangled and
drooped between the glistening walls. Bumps lined the surface of the moist
flesh like goosepimples. Holden gulped as he extended a shaking finger into
the knothole. It snapped shut on the digit and began frantically massaging
it. The bizarre tree's flesh was warm, and the bumps that he had seen were
hard, like tiny ball bearings.


(I need this. God, I need this.) The thing sucked frantically at Holden's
finger as he tore free of it's slippery embrace and began to wrestle with
his zipper. It came down with a fight, snagging and then breaking
apart. Holden's erection sprang out into the warm sunlight and throbbed
amidst a haze of pink. Holden shuffled awkwardly onto the log and angled
his cock down into the knothole, where the thing's walls once more stood
open and waiting. His head passed through the hole and had only just begun
to brush against the bumpy walls when it snapped shut around him.


"Ah! Ow, Jesus!" Holden moaned. Pleasure and pain blurred into one another
as the plant worked its magic on his bruised glans. The human's legs shook
and jostled as he strove to keep just the tip inside--distantly afraid of
what might be waiting at the bottom of the hungry knothole. "Whoa, shit!"
Holden's knees scraped painfully against the tree as the crumbling bark
gave way. His torso flopped flush against the tree and his penis sank fully
into the hole, which received it very enthusiastically.


Holden was powerless to resist. He could only move his hips in weak pumping
motions, helping the creature wrapped around his shaft do its work. His
cock slid easily in and out of the wet walls, with hundreds of hard beads
kneading and coaxing his organ to the inevitable conclusion. Despite all
that he had been through that day, Holden had a notion that his climax was
going to be massive. He imagined the precum that surely must be drooling
into the thirsty plant, and the lewdness of it all sent him over the edge.


"Fucking take it!" Holden grunted. "Here it comes you bastard!"


The plant, perhaps sensing the violent throbbing pulsing through its prey,
pushed the bottom of its milking organ up suddenly until Holden's cockhead
was dangling out into the void within it's guts. The bunched up flesh
around Holden's circumcision scar and frenulum began to scrub frantically
at the human shaft as gouts of cum surged from the tip. It squeezed and
pulled at Holden as he squirmed in ecstasy--ecstasy and fear over his
cockhead being suddenly exposed to whatever lay deep inside the log. With
increasingly gentle and sluggish movements, the plant continued to milk
what it could from the organ as it softened and retreated. The semen was
pulled down into the plant, where its bizarre "roots" delivered it to the
thing that lurked below the hill. Holden groaned and flopped away from the
log, his flaccid, abused penis pulling free with a squelch.


During the infamous male post-orgasm moment of clarity, Holden's heart
jumped up into his throat. (If I'm done, then I bet that monkey thing is
too! What if the little shit took my satchel with him?)


Holden shifted his head to the side and gave his eyes a moment to
unblur. The bad news was that the monk-dog was long gone. The good news was
that the animal had lost interest in his prize, which lay where Holden had
discarded it earlier.


The winded assistant xenobiologist rolled unsteadily onto his hands and
knees and began to make for the emergency pack and the flare inside. His
cock, still dangling neglected from his fly, drooled down onto the moss
below, where every drop was instantly consumed by Bismuth's thirsty flora.