Someone, while puking loudly, made metallic scissoring sounds in the restroom, a few feet away from Cel’s graffiti-scrawled stall.
“Some peace and quiet, please? I’m trying to shoot up here!” Cel yelled.
The puking, scissoring and spitting sounds abated. Not completely, but enough to allow Cel, sitting on the toilet, to refocus her attentions on the six nallics – sausage-like, needle-tipped disembodied dicks – that were burrowing and stimulating the clit-enhanced holes (street slanged troglos) near the underside of her elbows.
The collective rush hit her immediately. She swooned back against the tiled wall, colors and sensations – particularly touch and smell – blurring into one ultra-orgasm. Her heels jerked, clacked on the tiled floor, her mouth and pussy dribbling narcotic desire.
Cel reveled in this, grinning like a latter-day Mad Hatter. Her teeth, startlingly white against her dusky skin, were bared in a half-snarl, half-mewl.
Pounding on the stall door shook her out of her brain-rush reverie; the pounding was followed by a pissed-off monkey screech.
Cel’s eyes flew open. The first thing she saw was the little brown-and-black monkey perched precariously atop the stall door, glaring and gesticulating at her. The top of the micro-camera attached to its shoulder glowed red.
“O-kay, Vornoff! I’m going!” she yelled at the monkey.
Vornoff, an immobile cyborg with three rotating heads, was the head security cop of Parking Area 51. Two of his heads slept while one scanned an array of security screens, patched into his monkeys’ cameras – in this way, Vornoff watched over the fly lot from his central kiosk, twenty-four hours a day.
“Thank you, Cel.” Vornoff’s voice was honey-oozy. Cel, who’d been sprawled out in the booth, wondered if Vornoff had been focusing on her crotch, barely covered by come-stained panties and a red mini-skirt.
Probably was. It wouldn’t surprise me if he gets off on watching nalheads get off.
The monkey screeched and hopped onto the next stall partitions as Cel pulled out the nallics – three per arm – and placed them in their plastic carrying case in her purse, hanging on the stall door hook.
They were shriveled now, much like the dicks she milked for a living. The needles had retracted more than last time, she noted, less mind-drenched than she’d been a few minutes before.
Damn. Only one more usage. For the money I pay, I should get more than four hits off of them.
Exiting the stall, she wrinkled her nose at the bubbling, electric pink vomit on the floor and quickly glanced at the mirror. She was presentable enough for the declowns, the cricket-eyed demon clowns who were waiting for her in Spot thirty-five.
It wasn’t easy, working on the outermost edge of the universe, but it was still better than the Earth ghetto, where she’d been born.
The eight-foot, blade-headed ziphoyd paused as the human passed it. It snipped its scissor-hands at her threateningly, meriting only a curious look and a middle finger from her. Undoubtedly, she, like many of the other aliens here, hadn’t seen a specimen like itself.
That would all change soon, the scout scissored happily, thinking about the emetic it’d left in the bathroom, and wanting to puke again, this time for joy.
Cel tapped her fingers on the entrance flap of the declowns’ ship, shaped, predictably, like a yellow and red glowing circus tent. An extendable human eye, its root an electrical circuit, poked out through the center of the flap, looked around before finding her and retracting back through its flap-slit.
The flap whooshed open.
As Cel entered the short hall, she smiled. She’d been here before – many of her customers were repeat customers. There weren’t many human women who worked this end of the universe.
She followed the straw path, outlined by merry-colored light bulbs, past the circus ring, to a second whooshing door.
She smiled at the seven four-foot clowns as she entered the hologram room. The backdrop was bucolic. It made Cel think of the film The Sound Of Music. She hummed its theme song as she quickly stripped for them, and laid down among the spring flowers and vividly green grass, which smelled so much like Earth’s.
The declowns slid their enormous dicks –at least nine inches long when erect – out of their clown-suits, causing Cel to wonder why the declowns didn’t topple forward.
She spread her legs and began to masturbate, her fingers slip-sliding on her pussy lips, clit and nipples, moaning as the declowns, their jowly face-paint sweaty, wanked. Low-pitched hisses emanated from them. Cel was never sure whether they were hissing to themselves or to each other, but it didn’t matter. As long as she got her money, it wasn’t her concern.
Hot, cotton-candy-like clown come splattered sticky on her breasts and collar bone. She became noisier, as she edged towards her own sweet oblivion. Its high wasn’t as pure as her nalgasms, but it was nothing to sneeze at, either.
The other declowns popped less than a minute later, coming across her belly and thighs, as well as her face. She smiled for their benefit, licking at their cotton-candy come, and feigned her impending orgasm (time was money), causing the first declown to come again, this time across her belly.
The declowns hissed among themselves, tucking their withered dicks back into their clown suits.
The bucolic bukkake was over.
One of the declowns, hissing quietly and reverentially, handed her a wet towel. Cel, smiling, accepted it. After cleaning herself up and discarding the towel in a beach-ball shaped bin, she dressed herself.
Using the Translator computer, one of the declowns asked her how much they owed her, and also, could they book her for the Declown Ball in three months?
Cel read the screen, typed in her price, and “yes” to the second question. The declown, nodding and grinning, handed her the money. Smiling in return, she turned and exited the tent-ship.
She was debating about whether or not to visit her dealer, Flint, for more nallic when a lot-shaking, popping sound came from the direction of the bathroom. Not only that, an electric pink hue emanated from it. It reminded Cel of the bubbling puke she’d seen
What the fuck?
The lot inhabitants, geckobots, declowns and others, were pouring out of their ships now, clamorous in their polyglot questions. The police bubble above Vornoff’s kiosk flashed yellow. Behind the protective glass, all three of Vornoff’s heads were
yelling, presumbably calling for back-up security.
Cel ducked behind a terranium-shaped geckobot ship, and peeked out at the bathroom.
It was a fortunate decision on Cel’s part: the bathroom exploded, fire and debris flying everywhere.
Seconds later, as Cel watched the stunned lot inhabitants recover their wits, dark shapes swarmed out of the bathroom ruins like towering, clanking locusts. The bizarre slaughter was over quickly. The swarm – whatever comprised it – had decimated everything in its shredding path. The fly lot was awash in screams, smoke and darkness.
Cel, covered in soot and a few minor cuts, stood up. Her legs shook as she watched the swarm arc upward, into the smoky sky.
Clanking, scissoring sounds drew her attention back the bathroom ruins. Her eyes widened as she saw the next wave, and she screamed, too late: “Invasion!”
More of Steve Isaak’s sexy stories can be found here.
Steve Isaak, also published under the name Nikki Isaak, lives in California. He is the author of the anthologies “Charge of the scarlet b-sides: microsex stories & poems” and “Behind the wheel: selected poems”. (available at Lulu.com). He is also the author/editor of www.readingbypublight.blogspot.com and the multi-author www.microstoryaweek.blogspot.com.