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By the time they unplugged him and pulled out the intestinal snake, Martin was incoherent with the constant not-orgasm. His whole body tingled. His nipples, balls, cock, and hole were like separate entities—or at least he had to think of them as such, less he went mad. A part of him still didn’t believe he could endure all that and not cum once.
His tears had dried, and now—around that horrid plug in his slick, hot throat—a tiny sound thrummed. Martin breathed with it and around it, mind stuffed full and floating.
Some alien grazed his puffed nipple and—had he not been bound—he would’ve jumped out of his skin.
“Hmm. It came out nice,” said the alien in a dry, scratchy voice—one of the insectoid traders from the main floor; even when fully coherent, Martin couldn’t distinguish between them. “Its new owner agreed to pay for the extended treatment,” he continued. “Luckily for you.”
“Hmph. He’s a qivaq,” said the lammea, who had tormented Martin so thoroughly. “What were you expecting? I figured that, in his case, it was better to edge on the side of more and ask permission later, instead of doing less and disappointing him.”
The insectoid alien click-trilled something in a falling tone, then said in Intergalactic, “Good call.” He ran his quick, segmented digits over Martin’s arched back, then tweaked—like a silent implosion—Martin’s inflamed nipple again. “Now pack it up. From what I understood, that qivaq’s trip back is going to be about a standard month. It’s at the limit of what’s recommended for a full-use packaging, so be thorough. We don’t want it to arrive damaged.”
“Of course,” the lammea said, then huffed something in their own soft language when the manager was out of sight and hearing. Their tentacled fingers spread Martin’s buttocks; one rubbed over his hole.
All four of his limbs still embedded past the second joint in the box under him, Martin trashed.
The lammea hummed. They lifted Martin’s heavy, thoroughly beaten balls and unclipped the temporary cage which kept Martin’s cock obediently flaccid. They had put the cage on immediately after they pulled out all the sensitizing devices—from Martin’s throbbing cock, prostate, and bladder—robbing Martin of even the slightest opportunity to harden. Now they let Martin’s cock fill with an aching pulse.
They stroked him.
Martin almost blacked out, but he didn’t cum.
“Good, good,” huffed the lammea. “The nerve control agent works as expected…”
Martin hung his head and struggled to breathe around the plug in his mouth.
It turned out he still had tears to spare.
He couldn’t do this!
“I’m going to open the box,” the alien enunciated the words loud and clear, so Martin knew they were talking to him. “If you don’t behave, you’ll regret it.”
Martin couldn’t imagine what else they could do to him that could make him more miserable than he already was, but he wasn’t stupid; he wasn’t willing to test them.
When the sides of the box separated from the middle—freeing Martin’s arms and legs, and letting him slump over the remaining part still under his torso and between his thighs—the lammea held Martin’s hips up so Martin’s stone-hard, oversensitive cock wasn’t squished under his limp body. As they lowered his hips, they pulled his cock down and to the back, and let it drip over the side of the remnants of the box and onto the floor. Then they took the two no longer necessary side parts and rolled them away, leaving Martin free for the first time in ages.
Forget escaping, forget resisting—Martin couldn’t even move.
He imagined touching his cock, but couldn’t make himself do it. Instead, he just lay there, on his still slightly plump belly, and fantasized about stroking himself and cumming. The way the tension would build; the way it would break. Scalding cum gushing out. The relieved shivers, after.
He cried, knowing he could have none of it.
His throbbing cock dripped, forever certain the release waited, vast and good, just a mere touch away.
The lammea returned and patted Martin’s twitching thigh. “Good slave,” they praised.
The large, six-handed alien approached soon after.
“Ah, you’re here,” the lammea addressed him. “I’ve already prepared the packaging. Over there,” he gestured to the far side of the room. “Come on, lift it.”
With his abundant arms, the hulking alien gathered Martin to himself, princess-style.
Martin couldn’t help but curl into him.
The alien was warm. His skin was dry and surprisingly delicate, and he smelled vaguely of musk and grass. Martin buried his face in the muscular chest and tried to ignore the wide palm on his ass and two thick fingers framing his puffy nipple. He closed his eyes and breathed in the unexpected comfort.
He knew it wouldn’t last long.
“Here, put him in the box,” the lammea said, and Martin felt himself being lowered onto his back.
They folded him into a tight space, barely wide enough for his arms. The top dug uncomfortably into his shaved head, and the bottom pressed into his buttocks. His legs dangled out, and he had to pull his hands to his stomach and chest—avoiding the nipples—because the box wasn’t long enough for him to straighten them.
“Looks too small,” said the bulky one in a gruff voice.”
“Nonsense,” said the lammea, and pulled on something at the bottom side.
The part of the wall pressing into Martin’s ass opened, and his buttocks bulged out. The lammea pulled Martin more into the round hole, then rearranged Martin’s hands so they were crossed above his stomach, in a position similar to that inside of a straightjacket. They pushed his palms into something clingy and malleable. Immediately, Martin’s fingers were separated and swallowed, then whatever it was enveloped his wrists.
When the lammea placed wet suckers on Martin’s sore, swollen tits, Martin looked pleadingly at them, but the alien ignored him.
“The mouth plug can stay in. It has a feeding function, see?” The alien attached a black tube to the end of the impossible thing filling Martin’s mouth and throat. “And more stretching will do it some good—even with all we’ve done to it, it’s still not ready to swallow a qivaq.”
“A month of stretching?”
The lammea’s jointless shoulders rolled in a shrug. “There won’t be more damage than a single qivaq can deliver during one enthusiastic fuck. Nothing the nanomachines shouldn’t be able to heal, anyway. Besides, it’s important that the slave gets familiar with the taste of cum, and this model can ooze it onto the tongue the same way it had delivered the sensitization drug. You just connect it here”—there was a click—”and it’ll randomly saturate the slave’s taste buds with one of the samples.”
In Martin’s mouth, something sleek and sweet bloomed.
“I managed to secure seventy-five different kinds,” the lammea said. “Should last him till the end of the trip, and then some.”
“What’s this for?”
“The breathing apparatus.”
“But hasn’t it had its respiratory paths fixed?”
“Yes, but it’s going to be stuck in here for a while, and something could still go wrong. Better safe than sorry.”
With one tentacled hand, the lammea covered the top of Martin’s face, and two slippery, wiggly tubes touched Martin’s nose, then pushed in, simultaneously.
Martin choked for a moment, and the other alien had to catch and lift his flailing legs, but then fresh air filled Martin’s lungs, and the taste in his mouth got richer.
“There.” The lammea patted his cheek. “Turns out that the humans experience food using both their mouths and their noses, so with the air being delivered directly where it’s needed some of that cum can safely penetrate the nasal cavity beside the tubes. And it makes them get really quiet, too, which is always a plus.”
Martin closed his eyes. He sucked and swallowed around the plug.
The taste changed—now bitter and hot, with a hint of savory musk.
A month of this.
Oh, fuck.
“The anus should be able to withstand a month of use without emptying—even if it’s a qivaq, it’s only the one—but the bladder has to be allowed to drain.”
“But its belly was so big before.”
“Indeed, that was impressive. But usually even a qivaq can’t pump a hole this much. It’s rare that they don’t fuck multiple times a day, and the nanomachines in the belly should help the slave process most of the cum if it’s delivered in reasonable amounts, even if the intervals between fuckings aren’t long.”
A fat urethral plug speared Martin, but, with his face so full, he couldn’t even whine. He tried to trash as it went past the blazing ball of his prostate, but the huge alien held his hips down.
“Let’s get him flaccid now.” Coldness touched Martin’s tender cock, and with a tingle, all blood left his rapidly softening flesh. “Oh, look at that. Great reaction time.”
Aching pressure enveloped Martin’s now pacified penis, and something squeezed the base of his sore, sore balls.
“Remember,” said the lammea, “when you’re handling a male human, urethral penetration should always be done when the penis is hard. It can be more difficult that way, but their sensitivity is far greater when erect, and sensitivity is the most important thing for a slave. On the other hand, you should cage it as soon as you’re done stimulating it. Unless it’s in use, a slave’s cock should be caged at all times.”
Martin looked down, but over his crossed and bound arms, he couldn’t see his groin. He stiffened when there was a burst of suction and his bladder throbbed, but the sensation was short, and was immediately replaced by growing fullness, warm and almost pleasant.
It didn’t stay pleasant for long.
“We’re filling it with special granules for the trip. They grow to ten times their size once in the bladder but allow for the waste fluid to drain out between them. They’ll also stretch it. Some species enjoy using the narrower hole inside the penis instead of the anus, so the bladder has to be ready for being filled. Qivaq like to share.”
A now-familiar hot throb rolled through Martin’s underbelly, the bloated too-muchness of it pressing into his skin and guts. He wanted to pee but couldn’t, all the muscles in his urethra pulsing with denied need.
Big, heavy fingers pressed into him. “Nice.”
“Isn’t it?”
The big one rubbed Martin’s belly, and Martin wanted to moan.
“Hmph, there’s no way you could do the front hole, no matter how much we stretch it. Not with that club of yours.”
“I know.” The alien sounded almost forlorn.
The lammea folded Martin’s knees beside his chest. “There are some formalities I have to take care of in the office, after we’re done here,” they said after a moment of meaningful silence. “It’s regrettable that I won’t be here to supervise its conveniently open back hole the entire time. So regrettable.”
“Thank you, chief.”
“Oh, shut up. Just remember to clean up after yourself.”
“Of course, chief.”
Martin shuddered, staring at the low, indistinctly gray dome of the ceiling of whatever room they were in.
He’d seen the impressive bulge between the big alien’s legs, and his freshly sensitized ass was so not ready for it. He hasn’t had his kind yet, and a part of him wondered—
“Pass me the eye guard.”
Martin’s world went dark.
Something warm and wet tickled Martin’s back.
“What’s that?”
“The safety fluid. It seeps into every crevice, then jellifies, and then the nanomachines in it keep the body healthy despite the unnatural position. A pretty new invention—the version we can use on humans, at least. It’s thanks to it that long-term, full-use packaging is even possible.” The wetness reached Martin’s ears, and the lammea’s voice became muffled. “It could be used for more than a month, despite what the managers say, but by then the hole will need a full cleanup, and most passenger ships…”
The alien’s voice faded slowly, and silence enveloped Martin like a warm blanket. He was sure it would become unbearable before long, but, for now, he welcomed the quiet. The reprieve.
The box shook slightly—they must’ve put on the lid.
Time passed.
He knew his inviting, defenceless ass would be fucked soon, and he was anxious for it, but the emotion was surprisingly detached. When a huge, hard shape speared into his aching hole, he tensed but didn’t struggle.
At this point, struggling was useless.
It had been useless from the very beginning.
No matter how much he tried to deny it, this was his new role.
He’d become a fucktoy.
The cock inside him wasn’t as big as the cock of his new qivaq owner, but it had a hard, unforgiving core, and didn’t shape to Martin’s body one bit. It was Martin’s flesh which had to accommodate it, deeply, achingly; Martin’s hole which took it like a beating with a foreign object. At least the horrible thing took him slick—was it lube, or was the alien secreting something, Martin didn’t know. The thrusts were uncomfortable, and much too stimulating, but bearable.
Until they became fast.
Martin tried to fight it then, both the box and his impossible bindings, but he stayed perfectly immobile, and his ass stayed accessible to any and all attacks. That damn alien probably didn’t even know what he was doing to Martin, believing the desperate spasms surrounding his battering ram of a cock were only there to bring him more pleasure. Relentlessly, he bruised Martin’s insides, bruised the bottom of him, bruised his swollen, throbbing prostate. Martin’s cock twitched in its confines, but it was mostly pain, and he wanted to scream.
He had no idea how long it went on.
When the fucking finally stopped, and long, disconcertingly pressurized shots of hot cum filled his belly, Martin was exhausted. He felt a wet cloth brush his ass. Something shiveringly soft and vibrating slid into his hole, then back and forth. Vaguely, he remembered the lammea taking about cleanup, and he figured that’s what it was.
Then he was left alone.
Open and empty.
Fuck.
A part of him hoped they’d at least push something into him, some sort of plug. It was shameful, but over his stay at the slaveshop he’d gotten used to constantly being filled, and now, with nothing in him for whoever knew how long, he felt sort of… bereft.
Almost unsafe.
Like he was ready for the next time someone deigned to use him. Forever tense, forever waiting. Hole slick and plump in just the right way, anticipating eagerly the moment it could swallow another cock.
The opportunity arrived soon. Much too soon, in fact, and the sudden and overwhelmingly deep penetration startled Martin out of his mind.
He recognized that cock, oh, he recognized it just fine. Pumping through him back and forth, wide like a fist. The hard knobs and ridges near the base digging more bruises into his already throbbing walls. Tormenting his prostate.
Out then in, out then in.
New tears filled Martin’s eyes, then were absorbed by the soft eye guard.
His owner fucked him.
Martin wanted to moan, but the plug in his mouth wouldn’t let him.
He hated the bastard so, so much.
He hated himself even more—for enjoying it.
Because he was enjoying it, no way of denying that. Waves of intense, blood-melting pleasure mixed inseparably with all the pain. The soreness first throbbed, then sunk into flesh as molten warmth. The ever-present ache confused his nerve endings. Something surrounded the alien’s groin, hordes of miniature fingers of some sort, smooth but strong and lively; they massaged Martin’s rim, his perineum, and his swollen, tortured balls.
His balls hung outside the box, Martin realized, unlike his caged, inept cock, and whoever used Martin would have all the access to them they could want. His new owner didn’t squeeze them the way some of the shop’s customers had done; he just pressed his groin to Martin’s skin, cock pistoning, and stimulated him. Ephemeral pleasure flared there, on the surface, then slid and prickled. It pooled under the tender skin, heating him. The rolling waves of cock joined the sensation and turned his senses inside out. It should feel terrible—it felt terrible—being fucked like that. Yet, in the dark, lonely space of his box, Martin couldn’t get enough.
From now on, this monster owned him; he could fuck Martin all he liked.
The cock in him thrust faster and even deeper, then thickened, stretching Martin’s sore flesh till it seared. The tip started vibrating, so far inside Martin could feel it in his heart, then waves of cum exploded in.
Martin’s guts filled. Hot. He wasn’t as bloated as that first time, so long ago, when he was bought, but the volume was still substantial enough to compress the gel in the box. His hole spasmed on the cock still in him, already preparing to hold in the thick alien cum.
As all about being fucked by a qivaq, it felt both terrible and good.
Martin’s groin pulsed.
Even after all that, he didn’t cum.
He couldn’t cum.
He cried.
The alien tugged his cock out, and Martin’s hole squeezed it desperately, then puffed around the withdrawing tip. The outer part gaped and winked, but Martin’s gut clenched, artificially, and he knew there would be no relief for him—all that cum would stay stuffed in.
Fingers investigated his rim, then inside, and Martin tensed, afraid he’d get the same treatment as before—a cruel massage to the gland which really could take no more; he’d be forced to endure it, and now he not only couldn’t protest, but couldn’t even react. Of his entire self, only his ass was visible—it was the only important part.
Two thick fingers slid in—wiggled, pressed—and Martin despaired.
His cock throbbed in its confines.
His full belly ached.
A month of this.
Fuck.
Infinite years after that…
The alien’s fingers flicked, jostling all the sane thoughts out of Martin’s head.