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Close Encounters of the Thrid Kind

“We are Thrid. Resistance is futile.”


“What does that… mean… Mr. Phuck?” The Captain queried his first officer.


The Betelguisian raised its single eyebrow and considered both the cryptic message and the question it prompted. “I believe it means we’re about to get our butts kicked, Captain.”


“Not on my watch!” the Captain bellowed. “Helmsman, hard astern!”


“Aye, sir,” the helmsman chirped.


“So, we’ll be running away then, Captain?” The Betelguisian sighed.


“Of course. Turn and run away today, live to see another day… or something like that… Helmsman, get us the hell out of here, pronto!”


“Aye, sir.”


“Mr. Phuck, you have the bridge. If you need me, I’ll be hiding… er… going over battle strategies… in my quarters.”


“Aye aye, Captain.”


* * *


Captain Jonathan Thomas Maxiumus Casanova pondered, for the umpteenth time, the turn of events that had brought him to this point in his career. The youngest Captain in the Imperial Fleet, he had leapfrogged over other more capable and experienced Centurions to achieve what no other had ever achieved. And he hated it. Had he known, at the time, what being the Captain of an Imperial Star Cruiser would entail, he would have saved his sexual favors for more appetizing, and less regimented, pursuits. Like being a well-paid gigolo.


But such was not the case. Instead, he had listened to the carefully rehearsed pitch being spouted by the Imperial recruiters, when they came to visit his high school on his backwater home world. They made military life sound exciting and exotic. See the universe, they said. Explore new worlds and plunder ancient civilizations. Be one of the few, the proud, the conquering horde.


It all sounded so glamorous. How was he to know that being one of the conquering horde meant he’d have responsibilities and liabilities? Being a Captain meant everybody looked up to him for hard decisions and worse, he had to answer to pompous, hard-assed superiors--whose faces were so pinched they looked like a Plutonian cat’s ass--for every action. He hated it!


So lost in thought was he when he entered his luxurious cabin, with a whoosh of pneumatic doors closing behind him, that he almost missed the naked blue man lying languidly on his bed.


“Ngyah!” he said, spastically, once the intrusion had registered on his troubled mind. “Who the fuck are you?”


“I am Thrid,” the naked blue man said, flashing a broad, toothy smile. “I am for you.” The Captain’s eyes traveled over the entire length of the naked blue man hungrily. Aside from his obviously unnatural light blue pigmentation, the man appeared to be human in every respect. Right down to the quarter-sized blue nipples, the perfectly muscled chest, arms and legs, the washboard abs and the foot long, uncut meatroll lying turgidly against his lightly furred thigh.


“For… me?” Casanova asked suspiciously. His eyes darted around the room. “Is this some kind of a joke? Did somebody put you up to this?” Nodding he pulled himself up to his full height and feigned a laugh. “Ha Ha Ha, very funny, Mr. Phuck. You got me. You can come out now…” He waited, nervously. “Mr. Phuck?”


“There is no Mr. Phuck here,” the naked blue man said, languorously pulling at his enormous blue sextant, rolling the foreskin back to reveal a dark periwinkle head, sparkling with the pre-cum oozing from its winking slit. “Only Thrid and I am for you.”


The Captain began to sweat profusely. It had to be a trick. With practiced movements, he systematically searched every inch of his quarters, expecting to find something, anything, to prove his suspicions correct. After half an hour of tearing the room apart--all the while studiously trying to ignore the indisputably mythic dimensions of the naked blue man’s enticing kidney cracker--he came up empty. No cameras, no microphones, no recording devices of any kind. He was alone. In his cabin. With a naked… Thrid.


“Promise you won’t tell anyone?” the Captain asked coyly, fumbling with the catches in his skin-tight uniform.


“I am for you alone,” the Thrid whispered seductively, pushing shiny black curls off of his forehead boyishly. It was too much for Captain Casanova. In record time his uniform had been shed and he was on the Thrid like mean on a drill sergeant. Unceremoniously, he buried his face in the Thrid’s ample ball sack, drowning in the ambrosia of manly smells, which caused his own weapon of mass destruction to jerk spasmodically. Licking and sucking up the shaft of the enormous lap cannon, Casanova rolled back the foreskin and began polishing the head. The Thrid sighed heavily. It had been so long since Casanova had put his considerable skills to use. He was going to enjoy this.


No sooner had the thought entered his head, then the communicator on his uniform buzzed. The Captain jerked his head up, the Thrid’s magnificent thruster slipping from his mouth with a wet pop. “Damn!” he said, fumbling through the pile of clothing, as his own straining moisture seeker flopped against his stomach forlornly. Finding the device, he punched the button and growled, “What is it?”


“Captain, it’s Mr. Phuck on the bridge. Sensors indicate that we have been boarded by several alien life forms. In fact, they’ve even found their way to the bridge. Crewmen are beginning to act peculiarly throughout the ship. Odd, considering I had no idea there were so many species interested in female Betelguisians…”


The Thrid slipped from the bed and took Casanova’s raging tractor beam into its warm, inviting mouth. “What’s your point, Mr. Phuck?”


“Point, sir? That your ship has been invaded by alien life forms. I thought I had made that clear.”


“Well… I’m busy right now. You’ll just have to deal with it. Don’t call me again, unless there’s a real emergency.” And with that, the connection was cut. Looking down at the Thrid, single-mindedly making a meal out of his yardarm, the Captain apologized. “Sorry about that. Ship’s business. Now, where were we? Oh, that’s right, I was conducting a… personal interview with a new alien life form…”


The Thrid made a hungry noise. “Never have I tasted such exquisite maleness.”


“You don’t taste so bad yourself,” Casanova murmured proudly, playfully slapping the Thrid on its shapely bottom. “Now, let me at that fuck stick.”


Pulling the Thrid into a sixty-nine position, the Captain set to work investigating every inch of the alien landscape before him. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said he liked the way the Thrid tasted. The copious pre-cum which drizzled from the alien’s probe was sweet and light, though it curiously seemed to dissolve into nothingness before it ever made it to the back of Casanova’s throat. “Mmm...” he thought to himself. “Like cotton candy. At least I don’t have to worry about swallowing with this one…”


Despite his best efforts, however, sucking and slobbering on the alien’s delightful dip stick, Casanova couldn’t seem to bring him close to orgasm. The pre-come continued to ooze in buckets, but nothing more. As for himself, the Thrid’s expert ministrations on his woefully underused rudder was beginning to reach critical proportions.


The familiar tingle began to build in his balls and slowly travel up the length of his shuddering shaft until he couldn’t stand it any longer. With a mouth full of fleshy alien fuck fruit, Casanova huffed, puffed and instinctively began humping the Thrid’s face, slamming the back of its head into the carpeted bulkhead. Without missing a beat, the alien received his thrusts all the way to the pubic bone and when Casanova finally came, it was in a protracted series of bursts straight into the alien’s eager gullet.


To Casanova’s surprise, when the alien finally pulled off of his lodestone, it was still as hard as a dylithium crystal and seemingly ready for more. “That’s odd,” he thought briefly, before the thought was whisked away as the Thrid began kissing up his body, finally planting a firm, tongue filled-kiss on his mouth. They lay like that for a while, entwined in each other’s arms. Casanova was becoming more excited by the minute, until finally he rolled the Thrid onto its back and lifted its legs up onto his shoulders, preparing to mount.


“Take me, human,” the Thrid trilled. “I am for you.”


That was all the invitation Casanova needed. Using the cum still oozing from his purple picklock as a lubricant, he placed the head against the alien’s dark blue pucker and pushed. Effortlessly, the Thrid’s sphincter opened to accept him. In fact, rather than protesting the invasion, it seemed to pull and suck at Casanova’s spine tickler, as though welcoming it deep into the confines of its inner sanctum. The alien sighed and closed its eyes as Casanova began pumping slowly into it.


“Harder,” the Thrid cooed. “Do not be gentle with me, human.”


Casanova smiled. Perfect. Just the way he liked it. Rocking back onto his knees and pulling the impaled alien along with him, he began to jackhammer furiously into the grasping and curiously soft orifice. Soon he was howling like a madman as his hips pummeled the alien’s shapely ass. Another orgasm began to build slowly to an almost painful crescendo, finally sending him over the top and into blissful oblivion.


Languidly, Casanova opened his eyes to find the alien Thrid standing over him, its enormous blue flagship hooded once again and dangling like so much kosher sausage in a deli counter. He had no idea how much time had passed, but aside from a dull ache in his nether regions, the only evidence that anything had occurred between them was the fact that they were both naked. Casanova ran his hands across his flat, furry stomach. No sticky residue, so hardened clumps, no matted hair. He was as clean as he’d been at the start of the day. Odd.


“Thank you, human,” the alien said smilingly. “We find the essences aboard this primitive vessel more than satisfactory.” And with that, the Thrid was gone.


“Bitch,” Casanova mumbled lazily. “Didn’t even leave me his phone number…”


* * *


Hours later, the Captain was in the ship’s sickbay, grilling his Chief Medical Officer. “And you’re sure that all that… mindless debauchery… is over, Doc?”


The Ophidian turned its reptilian head sideways, so as to look his human commander directly in the face. “It appears to have passed as quickly as it came, Captain.”


Casanova nodded officiously. “And none were… harmed… by the insidious effects of whatever diabolical mind ray these aliens used?”


“There is no indication of a mind ray, per se, Captain. In fact, my investigations suggest exactly the opposite; that each crewman aboard this vessel acted of his own free will…”


“Obviously that’s an oversight, doctor,” The Captain growled. “We’re all… professionals… aboard this vessel. If they didn’t use a mind ray, they must have had some sort of… chemical aphrodisiac… oozing out of their pores. Or something. The details aren’t important. What I want to know is… was anybody harmed?”


The doctor stared unblinkingly through one wide yellow eye. “There doesn’t seem to be any lingering effect, except perhaps for widespread lethargy and the overwhelming need for a smoke.”


Putting his arms behind his back, the Captain turned and strode purposefully to the nearest view port. The stars whisked by like Christmas lights being dragged across a black tarp. “What I don’t understand is… why, Doc? Why would it be so important for these… Thrid… to have sex with every male aboard this vessel?”


The doctor shrugged his thin shoulders. “Perhaps semen contains something the Thrid need to survive. Perhaps they’ll use it for the building of a multi-race slave colony. Perhaps it’s nothing more than a gastronomical delicacy. They’re a species unlike any we’ve ever encountered. And they left nothing of a residual nature behind for us to study. We may never know.”


“Insidious,” the Captain growled, his square jaw set. “How can anyone, no matter what the species, conduct a full course of wild, sloppy sexual experimentation and not leave a single drop, smudge or stain behind? Insidious.”


“Indeed,” the doctor agreed. “On many levels. Not only do they leave no trace of their attack, apparently the Thrid have the unique ability to take on the characteristics and form of our deepest and most perverse sexual desires to conduct that attack effortlessly.”


“They what?” Casanova all but shouted, turning to fix the alien doctor with a penetrating glare. “How can you be sure of that? What… proof… do you have?”


“We’ve all experienced it, I’m afraid,” the doctor hissed apologetically. “We all saw exactly what we wanted to see. Including you, Captain, if I read you correctly. What was your pleasure, a multi-breasted Amazon from Sapphos Prime? A dancing girl from Labia Majora?”


The Captain’s steely eyes narrowed. “Something like that. I’m not the… kiss and tell sort, Doc.”


“Of course not, my mistake,” the doctor deferred, his spines rattling with embarrassment from crown to tail. “So far as I can tell, the only males who weren’t affected were those in rejuvenation stasis, including Security Chief McFelcher.”


The Captain had turned back to the view port, his expressive face hidden from the doctor. “I see… And what if… they come back for the rest of them, doc? What… then?”


“As I said, the Thrid don’t appear to have harmed anyone, but, on the off-chance that they do return, there is one way to spot them.”


“Their color,” Casanova grunted.


“Exactly. They may be able to change their form at will, but they can’t seem to change their soft blue pigmentation.”


“And you’re… sure… that even when they’re seen with someone else, they always take on the form of the… viewer’s desires?”


“My investigations appear to bear that theory out. I’ve questioned several crewmen and the story is always the same. Girlfriends, slave girls, mothers, whores, they only saw what they wished to experience. And I also have my own personal familiarity--involved as I was in the ship’s cafeteria orgy--to attest to the validity of the supposition. I’ve never seen so many crimson tailed and amply sacked sleestak in one room. Not even during my mating assignments to the Imperial Nest…”


The words trailed off as the doctor realized that the Captain was staring intently at him, his face registering something akin to… relief? Or was it annoyance at his prattling. He couldn’t be sure. Human emotional response was still something of a mystery to him, even after years spent serving aboard the I.S.C. Bearded Lady.


Just then the communicator on Captain Casanova’s wrist chimed. “This is the Captain,” he clipped.


“McFelcher here, Captain,” the Security Chief’s brogue crackled abrasively over the tiny speaker.  “I canna be certain, but I think I may be hallucinatin’…”


“Report, Chief.”


“I think I just saw a blue goat wanderin’ the hall outside my quarters.”

* * *

© David Salcido, 1996. Published in my anthology Dimensions of Desire, Renaissance Books, 2010. Registered with the Library of Congress and the Writers Guild of America. All rights reserved.

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