Pairing(s): Meenah/solo, Condesce/solo, Condesce/Meenah, Meenah/Aranea romance
Specific warnings: Pervasive language, xeno/tentabulge (, http://s1030.photobucket.com/albums/y366/T
Initial Prompt: "Meenah has the biggest troll ladyboner for her Imperious Condescension. Can we see something with her getting off to thoughts of the Condesce, or fantasizing that she herself is the Condesce?"
This story contains explicit sexual acts, as well as explicit descriptions of alien genitalia. If any of the above offends you, please do not read further. All characters depicted in this work are eighteen years old or older. Posted in response to http://homesmut.livejournal.com/17313.ht
Your name is MEENAH PEIXES and you have to admit, blowing the everglubbing fuck out of all your friends with a bomb provided to you by horrible tentacle monsters has been pretty much nothing but perks so far. The dreambubble, or whatever the shit it is, is actually pretty swank, a copy of your old digs on the moon right down to the wallpaper. You would never admit it, but it feels good to be home again. Damn good. (Dam? River puns are borderline.)
It also feels good to have Serket still hanging around, though you’d sooner admit to the home thing. After the weird-ass pink aliens vanished along with Nubs McShouty, Glowstick and Blind Girl, she’d just kind of stuck around. Pretty soon you were digging in the fridge for a snack, and it’d felt natural to offer her some too. She’d spent a few minutes kind of twiddling her thumbs before asking if you were sure. What, like you could say no to that blush of hers? So yeah, you caved. And then suddenly it was four hours later and getting brighter outside, and she was covering her prissy lipsticked yawn with a prissy delicate hand, and you caved again to spare her having to ask.
Now she’s passed out on one of the couches, sleeping quietly, her glasses folded up on the armrest. She looks different with her mouth closed, you reflect, tossing a blanket you keep lying around over her. She stirs, shifting a little, but then she’s right back out. She’d pretty much chewed your hear fins off over dinner, so maybe all the talking had tired her out, though it sure as hell never seemed to during the game. She’ll probably stay put, so you get up, turn off the light, and head into your own room.
Man. Even ignoring all the freaky time shit Serket was talking about (and ignoring what she says is kind of your default), it’s been a long fucking day, and you can’t deny it feels good to kick your shoes off and flop backwards into your good old husktop chair. (The real one got itself used as a club by an ogre at some point, and that shit hurt; you still haven’t forgiven it just yet, but the soft padding supporting – hell, practically cradling – your ass and back is definitely earning it some points back.) You relax for the first time in what feels like ages, closing your eyes and lying back to hook some well-deserved Zs.
…Nnnnope. Nope, fuck that. Your eyes are open again before the count of five and you’re vertical again by six, bouncing on the balls of your feet. Your body’s thrumming with energy, and you wander around your room in tight circles, drumming your fingers against your upper arm hard enough to sting. For whatever reason, it’s obvious you’re not getting to sleep anytime soon, so you start casting about for other things to do. Going on your husktop would probably be pointless, and Serket’s asleep in the game room… you sit back down in your chair, frowning. And then a thought suddenly occurs to you, and a slow smile spreads across your face.
You go about it slowly, taking your time, making sure you consider every motion and placement of limb. Back straight, yup; legs crossed one over the other, done as slowly as possible. (Your arms need work, since they’re just kinda draped on the armrests right now, but it’s a work in progress.) When you’re finally satisfied, you thrust your chest forward, chin up, and let out your best evil laugh. Fuck yeah. That’s right, beaches. Kneel before Her Imperious Fucking Condescension.
You still can’t help but kick your feet in excitement as you think back to Serket’s story. It’s been hours and her descriptions are still fresh in your mind, which, shit, never happens when she tells you stuff. But this… this is different. Yeah, death and violence and shit, whatever, humans and flooded planets and 8lah 8lah 8lah. More important, you did stuff. Cool stuff! Like stealing psychic powers from lowbloods and killing Megido’s smug spooky ass (okay, a second time) and turning into the Black Queen! You kick your feet a bit more, wiggling in your seat. Just imagining her – yourself! – in that skintight suit, just fucking dripping with gold, hair cascading down your back, people bowing down before you… while you revel in the stories, before you know it, your hands are sliding under the hem of your shirt.
Like you said, it’s been a long fucking day, and man do you need this. Your body reacts almost immediately to your fingers sliding across your stomach, and you smile. You push your bra up – useless fucking piece of cloth, you’re nine sweeps old and barely have anything to support – and palm one of your breasts, pulling and flicking your nipple. You don’t play around, never have, and the rough treatment, always just dancing along the line of pain, sends shivers radiating across your body. Your left hand casually falls to your waistband and rests there, your fingers atop your seedflap through your jeans. You start to rub idly – slowly, slowly. No need to rush. Except your bulge is already starting to extrude, the tip sliding through the sensitive folds of skin at its own damn pace, like usual. You slip your hand into your panties and spread your hand around your seedflap, nice and tight – you make your bulge fight for its freedom, pushing rough against your fingers. You rub the tip hard between your fingers, pinching it like your nipple, and can’t help but suck in a breath as the little purple nub twitches at your touch.
Without meaning to, your thoughts return to Serket’s stories, and after a moment you close your eyes, feeling a weird little kick in your chest. It doesn’t take any effort at all to imagine her, a tall, lithe female troll in the full flush of her adulthood. She’s tall – damn tall, like seven feet tall – and her horns are another two feet on top of that, arcing from the top of her skull smoother than the yellow-haired kid with the sick lenses. She’s fucking beautiful, too – her face is so, so familiar, but it’s sharper and older and cooler than yours, and her eyes are pure purple and she arches an eyebrow at you. A single perfect eyebrow. You feel your bulge pulse under your hand, and it slides out a bit more, wriggling gently against your palm, and she smiles, as if she knows exactly what the expression does to you.
She doesn’t say anything, but spreads her arms as if presenting herself, almost inviting you to study her body as much as you like – and boy, do you like. The suit is definitely skintight, and she fills it out a lot better than you would; her breasts strain against the clinging fabric, so tight it’s practically painted on. She runs her hands across her chest, displaying the shifting of her soft flesh under the latex, and you savagely pull on your nipple, digging your fingers into your own modest breast. She looks amused at that and turns to the side, pressing her chest out as she slides her hands down her chest and stomach. Her nipples are clearly visible and clearly erect, and you know just what that would feel like – your aching nipples stretching latex as you arched your back, rubbing and pressing against the sensitive little nubs as your breasts swung heavy with every motion. “Ah, fuck,” you grunt, the first words you’ve said in over an hour, and the vision of her smiles indulgently. She turns around slowly – your eyes trace the lines of her, the curve of her back and her hip, and she’s combing her long black hair through her fingers, pulling it aside, giving you tantalizing glimpses of even more curves hidden behind the rich dark curtain.
The fluted curves of her hips and lower back are a natural extension of the curves of the long muscles of her sides and her heavy breasts, and the round firmness of her ass is an extension of those. (This is how you would describe it if you were Aranea, but since you are not, you can only marvel. Older you has got junk in her tacklebox!) The suit fits as snugly here as it did above, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination - muscle moves under her skin as she shifts her weight, and all too soon she lets her hair fall back into place. She turns around to face you again, the amusement in her eyes made smoky by the pleasure of showing herself off. Her thighs are toned and shapely, leaving a small window of space below her bone bulge that practically invites your hand; you move past your own bulge and stroke the lips of your nook, imagining the warmth of her entrance as you force your fingers inside, stretching purple-stained latex up into the molten heat of her. Her bulge is peeking from her seedflap like yours, clearly outlined in her suit as she steps a bit closer. You unzip your pants and nearly rip them from your body, pulling your panties down to your ankles, and tease your own tip, tangling fingers in the carefully questing tendrils that begin extending as your bulge slides free of your body with a soft sound. You’re fully extended in an instant, the multiple fronds of your bulge curling and writhing against each other and your hands as you stroke them, and you look to her. I’ll show you mine…?
But no. She smiles coyly and nods, a slow, almost gauging nod that somehow feels like approval. Suddenly she’s right in front of you, and she seizes the base of your bulge with an iron grip. You cry out softly and squeeze harder, trying to match real sensation to fantasy, but the pressure is building up too fast to hold back as she runs her hand up and down your shaft, moving with the quick and easy confidence of long, long practice and ultimate familiarity. You look up at her, swallowing hard, as you screw your eyes shut tighter, feeling pressure building in your hips. “Glubbin’ hell, oh shit,” you manage, leaning forward against her chest. It’s just as soft as you’d imagined, and you quest around blindly with your tongue, looking for a nipple to suckle. Instead, a warm hand – stained lightly purple, your purple, her purple – touches your check and pushes your chin upward. Your face is inches from hers, and you can smell her breath. It smells like your favorite cherry candy, and when she kisses you, hard, harder than you’ve ever kissed anyone, she tastes like it too. And then she’s gone.
“Oh, fuck,” you moan, opening your eyes and squinting against the light. One hand is tangled in your bulge, stroking it hard and quickly, and the other is on your lips, your fingertips pressed there as if you could capture the feeling of her mouth on yours if you held it in place. As it fades, though, you stop pumping – hovering on the edge of something huge, your fingers slick and pre-cum dripping to your skinny boy hips – and ride the near-orgasm for a heaven of full seconds, paralyzed to keep from tipping over the ledge. After a few moments, it’s safe to move again, and you extract your hand carefully, twitching at the sensation. You flop back in your chair and take a moment to think.
You’ve never been one for rules or what society considers normal. (Nearby, relatively speaking, and at exactly that moment, relatively speaking, a forsaken Prince submits his own entry for UNDERSTATEMENT OF THE FUCKING SWEEP. Judging remains deadlocked.) Observe the runaway princess, abandoning her duties in favor of rattails, buzzed hair, ripped jeans, piercings. Even so, and even with rebellion itself having acquired its own special sexy kind of allure for you, there’s a part of you that wonders if it’s alright to want to fuck out the brains of someone who is, in fact, technically you. On the other hand, she’s emphatically not you - you can almost feel her breasts under your hands, soft and heavy and hot, her hips and rear, the shape of a mature woman, sliding smooth as silk against your body. And anyway, where’s there a rule against fucking yourself? You give your bulge another long, slow rub, and your hips buck up. That’s one rule you’ve broken a thousand times already, and one you’re gonna break again and again.
You decide that if you’re gonna do this, you’re gonna do it properly. Your shirt joins the small pile of clothes by your feet, and you sling your bra in some direction or another. You’ll find that fucker later, if you even feel like bothering. The bucket’s exactly where it always is under the desk, and you snag it with a toe, pulling it closer. Then you lean back in your chair, stretching out slow, digging the heel of your hand into your bulge with the roll of your hips. Your tendrils wrap your hand up nice and tight, twisting around your wrist and fingers and coating your hand in slick purple, and you let out a short breath. Now then… you were saying something about touching.
Details begin to float around your mind as you idly slip a finger into your nook, the digit sliding easily between the wet folds. Your bulge is staying active instead of just wrapping like it usually does, four or five tendrils wiggling and questing around your forearm, and you roll your hips again, slipping a second finger inside yourself as your hips come up. This one goes in easy too, and you brush lightly against your shame globes. They’re more sensitive than you’d expected, and your body twitches, drawing an involuntary gasp from you. Then, deeper; your nook is almost sopping now and your fingers meet only soft, hot, yielding resistance as you slip them in to the second knuckle. When you pull back, they slip from you with a quiet, wet sound, and your bulge pulses as you slam them back in. Your globes shiver as you stroke them, running your fingertips down your soft inner walls for as long as you can before the sensation gets too much, and you throw your head back into the padded back of your chair, reclining further.
Your thoughts turn again to the Condesce, and there she is again before you, stretched out on a reclining couch. You recognize the room – the little moonroom off the royal suite – and feel a little thrill as you realize you’ve probably used that same exact couch. For the same exact purpose. The Condesce has obviously just come from the bath: her hair is shiny and sleek, falling over the edge of the couch in a pitch-black waterfall to spread across the floor, and she’s wearing one of the soft terrycloth robes the bath attendants always liked to force on you. It sticks to her damp body in places and gaps open in others, and a generous amount of cleavage is exposed by the lazy way the robe is belted, falling open nearly to her stomach. Her breasts look bigger unsupported, and they roll from side to side under the fabric as she shifts and gets comfortable. Soon, she pulls one side of her robe open, exposing her dark purple nipple. She rubs idly at the nub, and you can almost see it harden under her long, graceful fingers. Her long legs are bare, and she stretches, pointing her toes elegantly at the first little ripples of pleasure. She slides her hands up her body, cupping her breasts, and pulls on her nipples; some things never change, apparently, and your nook squeezes your fingers in sympathy.
After a few more minutes of playing with her breasts, her hands go to her belt and she unties it, throwing the wings of the robe open. Her naked body glistens in the moonlight, and light dustings of freckles across her thighs and the deep valley of her breasts draw your eyes to the play of the muscles just under the surface of the perfectly smooth ashen skin of her stomach and sides. She runs her fingernails down her chest and the vault of her thoracic cage, then further, letting her hips fall open as she traces a long oval around her seedflap. The lips of her sheath flush a faint purple as her bulge begins to react, and a smile touches her face as her fingers start to move with more speed and purpose. Soon her tip is extruded, and she rubs herself with the pad of her thumb, staining her skin pale purple. She brings her hand up to her mouth, and her tongue darts out to taste the liquid.
You shift in your chair, tangling your hand in your bulge. The tips of your fronds trace across your skin, leaving wet trails behind them, and you give yourself a squeeze from base to tip and back, getting your entire bulge slick. The Condesce hikes her hips up and slips a pair of fingers into her nook; as she thrusts upward, her bulge extrudes more fully as she arches her back. You feel your own walls quiver around your fingers as you get your first good look at it, and you swallow hard – it’s about half again as long as yours, and her fronds are thinner and have some sort of soft barbs on them. Imagining what they would feel like inside you makes you short of breath. The tendrils cover her arm to her elbow, and she strokes them with her free hand. You do the same, and the sensation makes you suck in a breath, but she simply keeps the same slow pace, rubbing back and forth down her arm. When she does make a sound, it’s a quiet little gasp, barely loud enough to hear, but your bulge has an immediate reaction, rippling around your arm. You match her pace – dragging your fingers slowly over your globes, oh fuck – and soon enough she’s breathing harder too, one breath in three more like a pant, or a quiet moan. She sounds almost… vulnerable like this. Your nook drips as you imagine the same sound coming from your own throat, while your bulge lashes, seeking to overpower the source of that beautiful sound and fill her tight nook to the brim with tyrian purple.
“Ohhh, fuck, here we go,” you hiss, yanking details piecemeal into place. The tightness of your bulge around your arm, the wetness of your nook, those aren’t hard to do at all. The terrycloth is harder, a memory further back, but you manage. (You’ve forgotten entirely what the loveseat cushions feel like, though, so fuck ‘em.) You have more important things to worry about, like the warmth radiating down the length of your bulge, the quivering of your shame globes. You explore the strange, familiar body with your hands, roughly rubbing the tip of your – her – bulge, squeezing your breast with your dripping hand. The robe is staining purple with the genetic material starting to leak from you, but you don’t give a shit. You push your nipple up to your mouth and suck, hard, savoring the numbing heat every motion of your tongue sends spiking into your chest. Pressure’s building back up below your bulge, and thick, hot liquid is already starting to flow lazily from your nook; your fingers make sucking sounds as they hammer into you, your walls rippling as you slide a third finger in. “Oh, fuck. Glubbin’ fuck me…”
The orgasm starts in your globes. You dig into the sensitive organs and suddenly your nook explodes, sending a flood of material gushing around your hand. Your hips thrust up hard, arching your back, and you cry out loudly, completely unguarded. What do you care if the rabble hear you? They should be so lucky as to hear their queen in her throes of ecstasy. They should – fuck, they should be – the rest of the thought is cut off as your bulge spasms and tightens harshly around your hand, material spilling freely from the pores and spurting in little jets from the tips of your fronds. Your chest and stomach are coated liberally in thick, sweet liquid, and more continues to ooze from between your legs; you writhe on the couch as the hot liquid pools on your stomach and drips down your breasts, riding the waves of pleasure for as long as you can before they finally subside.
You open your eyes slowly, feeling pretty much wiped the fuck out - but in a deliciously shivery way. Your chair is soaked, the floor liberally spattered with purple, but hey, at least some of it got where it was supposed to. Your nook gives another contraction as you pull your fingers free, and you shiver, the sensation almost too much in your hypersensitive state. Your bulge retracts as you watch, softening and slipping through the puddle formed in the basin of your hips, and you sit up, literally dripping with your own material. You press your knees together to keep it all from spilling on the floor and snag the bucket as well as you can manage. You feel a bit of a flush come onto your face as the liquid pours in – shit, you nearly filled an entire pail by yourself! It’s definitely a personal record.
Finally, when you’re done skimming the rest of what you can off of yourself, you stand up and stretch. A quick shower later and you’re in pajamas – meaning your old shirt and the first clean pair of panties you grab out of the drawer. The chair’s clean again somehow, but the bucket’s still sitting there, nearly full to the top, and you look at it for a moment before settling on sliding it back under the desk. Either whatever freaky dreamshit will take care of it for you, or you can bother with it later. Right now, you’re too fucking tired.
For lack of better instructions from your think pan, your feet slouch you back in the direction of the game room. You slip in quietly and pad over to the couches, circling around to one in particular. Serket’s kind of kicked the blanket off in her sleep and she looks cold; she’s hugging herself, and her knees are drawn up about halfway. You roll your eyes and tug the blanket back over her, making sure her feet are covered and all that shit. As you’re tugging it back up over her shoulders, though, her eyes flicker open. She squints up at you, fighting darkness and sleep, and finally seems to remember. “Meenah…?”
“Yeah, it’s me,” you whisper, straightening up quickly. “Sorry. Go back to sleep, Serket.” You turn away, hoping in a general sort of way that you’ll trip onto one of the couches in a position that’s easy to sleep in, and Aranea’s hand moves like a scorpion, catching your wrist. Her touch is soft, her grip barely applying any pressure at all, but you stop dead. “Hey-”
“Meenah.” Her voice is quiet, but her tone is firm as she says your name again, and you turn back to her. She doesn’t let go of your wrist, and her fingers are hot on your skin; you feel your face flush a little bit, so it’s a good thing it’s so glubbing dark. “You know, I never really got to say how much it meant to me that you stayed with me during the game. I know it didn’t exactly make you popular with the others.” Now her fingers slide away, as she lets her hand drop. Her touch lingers, though, and you grab her thumb, taking her hand into yours.
“Why do you think I said everybody sucked silt but me?” you ask brusquely, looking away. Yeah, she must be able to see the blush now, since she squeezes your fingers gently. “Anyway, it’s not like I had a choice or nofin’. You kinda musseled your way onto my choice reel estate an’ all that...” Aranea rolls her eyes at the flurry of puns, but she slides over a bit on the couch, and after a moment you give in and sit down. You can feel the heat of her stomach through the back of your shirt and her dress, and it makes you sleepy. You squeeze her fingers back. “Fuck ‘em all.” It comes out as more of a growl than you intend it to.
Aranea laughs, the quiet sound catching at your ear, and her lips press softly on your knuckles. “Thank you,” she whispers. She holds your hand to her cheek, and you can feel the heat of her blush. The conversation lapses, and you sit there, rubbing Aranea’s knee through the blanket and trying not to fall asleep. After another few minutes of silence, you carefully stand up. She’s still holding your hand, and you try very slowly to retrieve your fingers... but her hand closes around yours the second it starts moving.
“Please... stay with me tonight,” she says quietly, pulling the blanket aside. You can’t help but look askance at her, and she blazes cerulean. “I - I won’t do anything untoward,” she insists, shaking her head. “Reely. I promise.” She tries to free her hand, presumably to show her good intentions, but those fingers are yours, beach. Brooking no argument, you slide under the blanket with her, suddenly feeling dam conscious of the fact that you’re not wearing pants as your faces end up inches apart. Her face breaks into a luminous smile, and she leans forward, pressing her forehead into yours. “I spent so many thousands of years looking for you...” she says, hugging you close, and you wrap your arms around her in return.
“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” you promise, awkwardly kissing her earlobe. She laughs - okay, no, she glubbing giggles - into your shoulder, and you can’t help but laugh in return. Pretty soon, her breathing deepens, and you let yourself drift off as well, warm in her arms.
It feels good to be home again.