caressed his digit.
Crutchsump moaned again. “Oh, that’s so pleasant, so nice! But you—you’re getting nothing in return.”
Lazorg removed his finger and licked it. “It’s honey.” Then he started to remove his trousers. Crutchsump undressed as well, and soon they were both completely naked.
Lazorg cupped the weird growth at his crotch. “Crutchsump, look close. This is my sex.”
Crutchsump kneeled down and peered at the alien organ. It bore a superficial resemblance to an introciptor, but one permanently in the male configuration. And as she watched, it lengthened and stiffened and jutted out from Lazorg’s loins.
Lazorg said nothing, made no demands. He held his organ in one hand, rubbed it once, twice—
Her face at his groin, Crutchsump brought the tip of her larger female introciptor up against the head of his sex. The palps embraced it, drew it into the wet tunnel.
Now Lazorg groaned. He cupped the back of Crutchsump’s head and slowly delivered his whole length into her. They rested a moment, with locked gazes, one up, one down, then Lazorg made to withdraw, as if for some inexplicable reason to repeat the process of insertion. But Crutchsump gripped his sex implacably, so that to withdraw would require jarring effort.
“No, you do nothing now. Let me.”
Complex waves of peristalsis traversed Crutchsump’s introciptor, annular muscles milking Lazorg’s sex without gross exterior movements. He gripped the sides of her face, covering her olfactory pits, so that all she could smell was his skin. She clamped her hands on his backside, so as never to let him go.
Lazorg began to rock on his heels, his pelvis pumping in a short arc, as much as she allowed.
Crutchsump felt filled, replete. Milking the strange organ within her was bringing her to climax.
Lazorg bellowed, and flooded the upper reaches of her uterine tract with his spend. Crutchsump climaxed as well, slicking his loins with the female’s exudation.
Lazorg collapsed to the floor, drawing Crutchsump semi-awkwardly down as well. His breath came ragged, as did hers. They said nothing for a time. Lazorg gradually shrunk free of her.
When they moved to Lazorg’s pallet, Pirkle grudgingly made room.
7. Mansion in the Clouds
DURING THE YEAR SINCE LAZORG’S spectacular and triumphant debut into the rarefied art world, Crutchsump had discovered that she excelled at maintaining a home: particularly, at cooking. She had a positive talent for transforming raw ingredients into sophisticated meals. All her former life, an existence now removed into half-painful, half-nostalgic insubstantiality, she had subsisted on the cheapest of foodstuffs. Oftentimes livewater had been all she could afford. She had never possessed enough money to lay in and continually replenish a rich larder, full of choice meats, fresh vegetables, beans and tubers and grains, spices and dried roots and herbs. A nicely equipped kitchen, with a self-regulating sea-coal stove and plenty of cookware, had also been absent. And time, or lack of same, had played its role as well. Often, while out scavenging during the day or finally at home, weary to her last blood cell at night, she had defaulted to the cheap prepared food from vendors.
But no longer. Now, she was mistress of a fine, well-stocked galley and pantry that funneled its delicious creations into a large dining room that was often filled with guests—guests who praised Crutchsump inordinately.
But praise for her culinary creations, or because she was the mate of an ideation maker whose works they coveted at bargain prices?
No matter, and nothing she could do about the impulses behind the flattery. Despite any doubtful praise, this discovery of her innate skills gave her immense pleasure. Meal preparation was her sole way these days of contributing to the household economy—of sustaining Lazorg in his work.
Well, perhaps not the sole way—
Crutchsump reddened now beneath her caul, and momentarily froze while
Crutchsump moaned again. “Oh, that’s so pleasant, so nice! But you—you’re getting nothing in return.”
Lazorg removed his finger and licked it. “It’s honey.” Then he started to remove his trousers. Crutchsump undressed as well, and soon they were both completely naked.
Lazorg cupped the weird growth at his crotch. “Crutchsump, look close. This is my sex.”
Crutchsump kneeled down and peered at the alien organ. It bore a superficial resemblance to an introciptor, but one permanently in the male configuration. And as she watched, it lengthened and stiffened and jutted out from Lazorg’s loins.
Lazorg said nothing, made no demands. He held his organ in one hand, rubbed it once, twice—
Her face at his groin, Crutchsump brought the tip of her larger female introciptor up against the head of his sex. The palps embraced it, drew it into the wet tunnel.
Now Lazorg groaned. He cupped the back of Crutchsump’s head and slowly delivered his whole length into her. They rested a moment, with locked gazes, one up, one down, then Lazorg made to withdraw, as if for some inexplicable reason to repeat the process of insertion. But Crutchsump gripped his sex implacably, so that to withdraw would require jarring effort.
“No, you do nothing now. Let me.”
Complex waves of peristalsis traversed Crutchsump’s introciptor, annular muscles milking Lazorg’s sex without gross exterior movements. He gripped the sides of her face, covering her olfactory pits, so that all she could smell was his skin. She clamped her hands on his backside, so as never to let him go.
Lazorg began to rock on his heels, his pelvis pumping in a short arc, as much as she allowed.
Crutchsump felt filled, replete. Milking the strange organ within her was bringing her to climax.
Lazorg bellowed, and flooded the upper reaches of her uterine tract with his spend. Crutchsump climaxed as well, slicking his loins with the female’s exudation.
Lazorg collapsed to the floor, drawing Crutchsump semi-awkwardly down as well. His breath came ragged, as did hers. They said nothing for a time. Lazorg gradually shrunk free of her.
When they moved to Lazorg’s pallet, Pirkle grudgingly made room.
7. Mansion in the Clouds
DURING THE YEAR SINCE LAZORG’S spectacular and triumphant debut into the rarefied art world, Crutchsump had discovered that she excelled at maintaining a home: particularly, at cooking. She had a positive talent for transforming raw ingredients into sophisticated meals. All her former life, an existence now removed into half-painful, half-nostalgic insubstantiality, she had subsisted on the cheapest of foodstuffs. Oftentimes livewater had been all she could afford. She had never possessed enough money to lay in and continually replenish a rich larder, full of choice meats, fresh vegetables, beans and tubers and grains, spices and dried roots and herbs. A nicely equipped kitchen, with a self-regulating sea-coal stove and plenty of cookware, had also been absent. And time, or lack of same, had played its role as well. Often, while out scavenging during the day or finally at home, weary to her last blood cell at night, she had defaulted to the cheap prepared food from vendors.
But no longer. Now, she was mistress of a fine, well-stocked galley and pantry that funneled its delicious creations into a large dining room that was often filled with guests—guests who praised Crutchsump inordinately.
But praise for her culinary creations, or because she was the mate of an ideation maker whose works they coveted at bargain prices?
No matter, and nothing she could do about the impulses behind the flattery. Despite any doubtful praise, this discovery of her innate skills gave her immense pleasure. Meal preparation was her sole way these days of contributing to the household economy—of sustaining Lazorg in his work.
Well, perhaps not the sole way—
Crutchsump reddened now beneath her caul, and momentarily froze while
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