“Who are you?” I whisper, my hand shaking as I realize I’m still pointing my weapon at this naked green-eyed monster with a hard-on like a horse.
“My name is Flash,” he says, his thick lips tightening in a strange smile that once again gives me the impression that this creature isn’t used to having a body—not a human one anyway.
It takes me a second for the name to register, and when it does I almost laugh. Now I know this is a dream. A lot of strange shit happens up here in space. Maybe I got sucked into a wormhole or my ship got shredded in a meteor shower and I’m dead, my consciousness set adrift, spitting out nonsense from my memories, my thoughts, my . . . fantasies . . .
“Your name is Flash,” I say slowly. “Of course it is. This is my dream, and so of course your name is Flash. Well, Flash, what’s your mission in this episode of Fran’s Fucked-Up Fantasy?”
“Replication,” he says without blinking, with no intonation in his voice. “Reproduction. The merging of two races, two ancient forms of life that have reached their evolutionary potential and must now be combined. We will create a new strain of genetic material. We will create the future.”
I blink and take a step back, forcing myself to smile as I remind myself that it’s just a vivid dream and I should have fun with it because I can’t get hurt in my own dream. “Wow,” I say. “That’s a pretty ambitious plotline for a porno-movie dream.”
“Porno movie . . .” says “Flash” slowly, his eyes darting to the left like he’s accessing all the information he just sucked out of my brain. He blinks and looks back at me, smiling and nodding like he found what he was looking for.
I frown and stare as he reaches down and begins to stroke his cock and lick his lips. It’s so ridiculous that I want to laugh, and in fact I do. I just laugh, full and hard, shaking my head as my body convulses in my spacesuit. I haven’t watched a lot of porn in my lifetime, but the girls and I had some laughs over a few online clips back in college. I thought I’d forgotten that cheesy, over-the-top shit. But clearly my brain recorded it all, and now my fantasy Flash Gordon is acting it out for my viewing pleasure—or viewing horror.
Flash starts moving his hips, sticking his cock up and rubbing his balls from beneath. “You want this, baby?” he says in that strange accent as he clumsily dances around the room with that monstrous horse-cock bouncing, those heavy balls swinging, his hard, glistening body gyrating as he bucks his hips like Elvis—an Elvis who can’t dance very well.
“Absolutely not,” I say, my eyes going wide as I put my hands on my hips and shake my head. “Please stop before I wake up screaming from the trauma of seeing a naked nine-foot-tall Flash Gordon who can’t dance.”
Flash stops his ridiculous mating dance, and he turns to me and cocks his head. Those green eyes of his narrow, clouding over as I gasp and feel a wave of heat pass through me.
“Why do you speak words that you do not mean?” he says, frowning with a strange innocence.
“Sorry?” I say. “What are you—”
“You said please stop. But you do not mean that. You do not want me to stop. I see it inside you.”
I blink as that wave of heat invades me from head to toe, making me uncomfortably warm in my white bunny-suit. “Are you calling me a liar?” I say.
“Correct,” he says after a split-second hesitation like he’s looking up the definition of the word liar. “Liar.” He points at me, slowly lowering his arm until he’s pointing at my hips, right at the intersection of my thighs, right at my damned crotch! “Your receptacle is hot. It is wet. You are ready to mate. Come. It is time.”
“My receptacle?!” I say, swallowing hard as I desperately try to convince myself that this is a dream, this isn’t real, this is just my brain matching random things and creating something ridiculous from my memories. “Wow, you have a lot to learn about what gets a woman hot and wet, Flash.” I try to roll my eyes and smile, but I can’t do it. And then I feel the wetness between my legs and I blink in shock. What’s happening? Is my body really responding to this creature? Does it know that my body’s responding? Is it actually going to . . . to . . .
Flash takes a step towards me, and I take a step back as I look up into his green eyes. This isn’t funny anymore. It’s time to wake up, Fran. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up!
But I’m wide awake already, and I stagger back as the creature’s shadow falls over me, as his massive frame dwarfs me, his green eyes stare into me like he knows me, like he owns me!
“Your arrival awakened me, Fran,” he whispers as he gets closer, so close I can smell him now, his scent clean and thick, intoxicating in a way like nothing I’ve experienced. He smells like the earth after a rainstorm, like the salty sea lapping up against a pristine beach, like fir trees in late fall. Thing is, I shouldn’t be able to smell him. I’ve got my helmet on, and I’m not exposed to the outside atmosphere.
This only confirms it’s a dream, I tell myself firmly as the creature reaches out and touches my helmet, running his long, thick fingers across the thick glass. A ripple of arousal goes through me even though we haven’t touched, and I blink as I feel the heat between my legs, the wetness roll in beads down my soft inner thighs, my toes curl up in my boots.
“You awakened me,” he says again. “Just like the Arganian prophecy decreed. The God will awaken when the Goddess arrives, and only when she arrives. She will give him the gift of language, of speech, of touch. She will open her womb and take his cosmic seed deep into her. Together they will create a new race, a race that will survive through the eons, bring the universe into the Age of Aquarius. She is his, and he is hers.” He pauses as he runs his finger down the curve of my helmet, his touch somehow making my body react so strongly I can barely see straight. “It is time for your womb to take my seed. Open for me. Open for your mate. Open for your God. Open for Flash Gordon.”
My mind almost snaps in two at the madness mixed with pure nonsense that’s happening here. This creature is clearly spouting some mythical crap that feels like it’s from those dramatic fantasy novels I used to read as a precocious pre-teen. Also, if I remember my New Age phase correctly, we’re already past the Age of Aquarius, so Flash Gordon is a like a hundred years too fucking late. And finally, why doesn’t he just use his real mythical God-name instead of something he plucked out of my swirling brain?!
“Because my name cannot be spoken,” he whispers, his voice sending vibrations through me that rock my body like an approaching earthquake even though he isn’t touching me yet. “My race began like yours, primitive and vulnerable, crawling in the mud, digging in the dirt, wagging our tongues like beasts to communicate. But we evolved beyond language, evolved to where we no longer needed physical bodies, evolved to where we became pure energy, the stuff stars are made of.”
“Sounds great,” I say, backing up slowly from this creature who’s stepped out of some twisted combination of a comic book, a fantasy novel, and a goddamn porno movie. “So if you evolved past needing a sweaty, filthy body, why are you in a nine-foot-tall mountain of hard muscle, pointing your oversized pipe at my, um, receptacle? Also, you look nothing like Flash Gordon, by the way.”
“My body is a manifestation of who I am, not who you want me to be,” says Flash. He slowly tilts his head back and takes a long breath, exhaling and sending a strange mist into the still air of the dark space station. “And you are who you are, not who you want to be.”
I close my eyes and wince. “OK, that makes no sense and it’s giving me a headache. Can I please wake up now?”
“You will indeed wake up,” says Flash. “When our joining is complete, you will awaken to what you are, to who you are, who you really are.”
I blink as a sudden flash of imagery whips through my mind’s eye. It’s a vision of me, glowing with light, the same sort of light I thought I saw flashing in the window of the space station when I docked. The same sort of light that came from
the room where Flash Gordon the porn star and intergalactic God “manifested” his body and woke up with a boner the size of Stonehenge.
“Who . . . I . . . really . . . am,” I mutter, the words coming out slowly, like everything’s suddenly gone into slow motion. “I’m Fran Fisk. Senior Flight Commander,” I force myself to say, more for my own sanity than anything else. That image of me glowing with light is getting stronger, and now I see that the light is coming from my belly in that image. My belly that’s bulging out in a breathtakingly beautiful curve. Full and pregnant like the moon at its peak.
“That is who your brain thinks you are,” Flash says. “It served its purpose on Earth, in your three-dimensional world, where time ran in a straight line from past to future. But it is no longer useful to you. You must shed it like a snake sheds its skin. Prepare to awaken to the Goddess inside you. Prepare to awaken to the God that is your cosmic mate. Prepare to awaken to me. To me!”
He shoots out the last word like it’s a solid object, a projectile of pure sound, and I gasp as I see a thin crack appear in the thick glass of my helmet—my helmet that’s built to withstand a vast amount of pressure. I watch as if in a trance as the crack snakes its way across my helmet, spreading like a spider’s web until I can taste the dry outside air flowing in.
I know the air is breathable in the space station, and so I force myself to breathe deep and slow to stop from panicking. I try to shut off the part of my brain that’s screaming Ohmygod, he just cracked your helmet with the sound of his fucking voice! You’re going to die, you dumb bitch! Do something!
But my body is locked down, a heat whipping through me in a way that can’t be real, can’t be right, just can’t be!
“Mine,” comes his voice again, and as I stare Flash reaches with his big hand, his fingers stretched out wide, his span so vast he simply palms the cracked glass of my helmet and pulls it off me. Then he grabs me by the throat, his fingers going all the way around my neck because he’s so goddamn big.
“Mine,” he says again, and then he yanks me right off my feet, lifting my body with one hand like I weigh nothing. The artificial gravity is weak in here, so I don’t weigh as much as I would on Earth. But it’s certainly not zero, and I can feel the weight applying pressure on my throat as he holds me up like I’m a doll or a goddamn toy!
He’s holding me with surprising gentleness, but I can still feel the pressure on my neck. Maybe this alien idiot who’s evolved beyond the inconvenience of a body hasn’t figured out that I need air and I also need to not be dangling from my fucking neck, but the road to hell is paved with innocence and ignorance. Fact is, Flash Gordon is slowly choking me without realizing it, and I’m gonna fucking die if I don’t do something in the next thirty seconds!
“Flash,” I mutter as I reach up and grab his wrist with my left hand. “I need to breathe. You need to put me down.”
But his eyes are misting over as he stares at my face, and he just keeps staring as he pulls me closer. “This feeling . . .” he whispers, cocking his head at me and then looking down at his body like he’s feeling something he doesn’t understand. “What is it? There is nothing like it in modern Arganian experience, but yet it feels old, familiar, ancient.”
“The feeling of being a psycho murderer?” I gasp. “Welcome to humanity.”
“This heat in my body. The way the energy is humming inside me like music, flowing through me like a cosmic river, twirling inside me like the universe’s infinite dance,” he whispers, turning his head to the left and smiling with an almost childlike delight. “Every cell in my body is buzzing, singing, swaying! It is . . . it is . . .”
I stare in muted shock as a tear slowly trickles down the side of Flash’s lean, smooth face, and I almost forget for a moment that this alien asshole is in the process of inadvertently killing me with his overdeveloped paws.
“It is . . . it is . . .” he’s still whispering as I watch that solitary tear flow down his cheek. Then suddenly he whips his head back towards me, his eyes flashing with a green so bright I scream in shock! “It is you!” he roars, his voice like thunder, his grip tightening to the point where I’m certain he’s about to snap my throat like a goddamn twig.
“You!” he roars again, squeezing my throat as my eyes roll up in my head.
But just as I’m about to pass out, Flash hurls me backwards, sending me flying through the air like a snowflake until I crash against the far wall of the empty mess hall. The shock jolts me to my senses, and suddenly I realize that all this while I’ve been holding my weapon in my right hand!
Flash’s eyes are blazing with green fire, and I honestly don’t give a fuck what’s happening to him. This has gone on long enough, and if it really is a dream, then I’m never closing my eyes again.
“Figures,” I mutter, shaking my head as I tighten my jaw, raise my weapon, and squeeze the trigger. “Even in my fantasy dream I end up with a loser who can’t make up his mind. Eat this, Flash. And happy travels back to the land where you don’t need a body.”
I watch as a beam of white-hot laser-focused energy blasts Flash right in the chest, sending him flying backwards with such force he knocks over every table in the room—tables that have been nailed down to the metal floor! I stare in shock as his massive body slumps to the floor against the far wall. He shudders and exhales with a sigh as the green light in his eyes fades, flickers, and then goes out.
Suddenly the room is quiet like a graveyard, and I blink and move my lips in shocked silence. I should feel relieved, but I don’t. I feel . . . feel . . .
“What have I done?” I whisper, frowning as I look down at myself like it’s my turn to be clueless about the energy surging through my body. I hold my breath and squint as I try to see if Flash is dead, if I really killed him. I can smell burned flesh in the air, and it almost makes me sick. “Oh, God, what have I done?”
Suddenly I realize I’m crying, that big fat tears are rolling down my cheeks. I don’t understand it. Yes, it’s the first time I’ve fired my weapon at a living creature, the first time I’ve killed anyone or anything. Certainly that’s a traumatic, earth-shattering experience. But that’s not what I’m feeling. I’m feeling an inexplicable sense of grief, sadness so overwhelming that it can’t possibly make sense. Yes, I was clearly in danger, possibly just a few seconds away from being killed. It was absolutely the right decision to blast this alien back to his fucking planet. So why do I feel like it was wrong? Like I was wrong? Like this whole thing suddenly turned wrong?
What happened when Flash pulled me close and looked deep into my eyes? What was he feeling that was so surprising? Why did it make him cry with joy at first and then lose his shit like a fucking psycho? Isn’t he supposedly some alien god in complete control?! What was he saying about the feeling not existing in his race—not for a long time, at least? What doesn’t exist in his race?
“The body,” I whisper as I stare at Flash’s perfect body slumped and broken against the wall, a smoldering crater in the center of his chest. “Oh, shit, he was experiencing the joys of the body for the first time, physical arousal for the first time! Yeah, he popped into this world with a big hard cock, but he wasn’t aroused then. He just came prepared to put his seed into my ‘receptacle’ like he was a machine, like we’re both machines. He wasn’t prepared for the experience of arousal. Wasn’t prepared for . . . me.”
I sit in silence for I don’t know how long, leaning against the wall, that odd mournful feeling enveloping me like a cloud of darkness. In my head I can see that image of myself pregnant and vibrant, glowing with that brilliant light that I know came from the father of that child, those children. But the image is just a memory, not a vision the way it was when it came to me when Flash told me I was his, that he was mine, that we’re cosmic mates.
What sounded so hokey and unreal then now makes me want to cry, and I wonder if this is what a traumatic experience does to you. But
I’ve had many brushes with death over the years flying at the speed of light, and this ain’t just me being a wimpy chick. I’m not a wimpy chick. Never was. I’m Senior Flight Commander Fran Fisk, dammit!
“I’m Senior Flight Commander Fran Fisk,” I say out loud, slowly getting off the floor and trying to shake off that sickening feeling like I’ve fucked with fate, diverted destiny. “I’m—”
“You are mine,” comes the voice from behind me just as I turn to head back to my ship and get the hell out of here. “You are mine.”
“No,” I whisper, slowly turning as I almost choke again but this time not because an alien Flash Gordon is choking me. “No!”
I stare in shock as Flash stands up where I put him down. His chest wound is healed—though judging from the lack of any marks whatsoever, I suspect he’s simply regenerated his body. If he could create the body in the first place, certainly he can just re-create it no matter how many times I blast the shit out of him, right? Great. We’ve just gone from comic books to pornos to epic fantasy to the goddamn Terminator. I wish I’d spent less time in front of books and TV as a kid.
“Sorry, Flash,” I mutter, shaking my head and raising my weapon once more as I eye the hallway to the airlock outside which my ship is docked. “But I don’t think we’re a match.”
Then I blast his alien ass one more time, turn on my heels, and get my big butt the hell out of Dodge.
2
FLASH
I stare down at my beating heart, wincing as my burned flesh sends signals that I suppose is what humans call pain. It does hurt, I will admit. But not as much as a different sort of pain, a pain that flows within me, a pain not of the flesh but not of the mind either. I do not understand it. We Arganians evolved beyond the flesh to where we were all mind, beings of pure energy, shining creatures of starlight. If we manifested in our true form on Earth, the humans would call us angels or perhaps gods!
Curvy for Him: The Astronaut and the Alien (Curvy for Him Series Book 6) Page 2