Alien Dress
By Mr. Scade
Gary was lying on a bed, staring at a ceiling that kept disappearing from his sights as the drugs coursing through his veins stole it from him. He wavered in and out of consciousness, and every time he woke and remembered falling asleep his sanity wavered.
He felt hands on his body, touching, prodding... experimenting. Oh, the experimenting. Sometimes the touches were like a velvet caress, other times they were like hot coals in his throat. But he could only feel the hands, could only remember their touch, and so he learned to love them.
Then, one day he felt something different. His eyes opened and he looked and looked until he remembered how to see. And he could see; the darkness was gone and everything looked so clear. Too clear.
Gary found his body moving, pushing him upright on a soft, soft bed of white. His eyes roamed where he was and saw a light shinning blindingly white light upon him, a bed where he laid and nothing more. He was amazed he did not collapse into a drug-induced sleep.
It was then he realised he was wearing a dress.
He frowned and reaching to touch the pink fabric. It felt... good, but still, he didn’t want to wear it. When Gary reached to remove it he heard an ominous giggle behind him.
Abruptly he turned and saw the dark silhouette of a woman. She was sitting on a chair, something in her hands, and light reflected off a pair of glasses. Gary’s heart started beating faster.
He opened his mouth to speak a question, but the voice that came out was not his own, nor were the words that sounded what he intended. He fell back on the bed, pulling away from the woman, scared. What was happening? Where was he?
There was another giggle behind him, and Gary turned to face the silhouette of another woman. Only her grinning teeth and bespectacled eyes were truly visible.
His dress kissed his body, distracting him. He shook his head and asked what he was doing here, cursed them for bringing him here. But he didn’t say that, no. His voice betrayed him; his tongue backstabbed him. He had made a pleasant noise, something very nice that would’ve made you smile and caress his cheeks. A ripple of giggles crashed down on him, drowning his thoughts.
He reached to cover his ears, but his hands wouldn’t move. He looked down once more and realised they were attached, chained to his thighs. He could move them but two feet all around.
He started to trash and scream.
At that second a series of lights turned around him. The sudden glare blinded him, and the next thing he knew he was lying on the bed, feeling refreshed. He felt very good, very peaceful. He heard his not-voice repeat something. Perhaps he heard someone tell him something and he replied to the question.
Gary slept once more.
Gary rose and was greeted by a hundred pair of eyes. Female eyes. He could feel his cheeks gaining colour as his embarrassment escalated.
He tried to hide, to pull the covers he knew the bed had over and cover himself. But his hands touched empty air and he realised he was not on a bed but a chair, strapped down and being slowly gyrated as a piece of art in a gallery. He was being shown off, in his tight-fitting blue dress.
He squealed and trashed but it did nothing to deter the woman walking towards him. Under the light he could see her features, notice that her hair seemed to be made of plastic, that her skin was a tone between grey and red, than her eyes were big and friendly and utterly black, that her body was covered by a similar dress to his.
Gary didn’t linger on her alien features, on the strangeness of his situation. Gary lingered on her eyes, lingered there and felt himself sinking into those shimmering black pools as she walked towards him.
When the alien woman stood before his chair, Gary was completely awash with happiness, arousal, and calmness. The woman leaned closer and whispered something in his ears.
The room was filled with the sound of pencil on paper as the rest of the women took up notes.
The alien woman pulled away from Gary, lips moving in what was a smile to her species. Gary sighed happily and started to speak, to say something that aroused himself. A tent formed over his dress and his hand found the pole. He started to stroke, stroke, stroke; bring himself pleasure as his own words emptied his thoughts.
The women kept taking notes as the human boy fucked himself silly. The alien woman leaned closer, whispering pretty things into his mind.
It was hours, hours and hours later when the scribbling sound stopped and Gary was drugged back to sleep.
Gary woke once more. He was happy, he was excited, he was in a perfect place.
Gary’s smile seemed unnatural, and his body felt tingly all over. He would’ve looked down to see why his body felt different, but a pair of black, black eyes kept them from wandering.
The woman said something, and Gary answered in delight.
The woman then moaned and pressed herself harder against Gary’s body. Gary felt something tight and wet and heavenly wrap around his pole. He giggled in delight, a sound that was met with the scribbling of pencil on paper around him.
He made that sound again as something wet and tight started to move up and down his pole. He tried to reach with his hands and discover what it was, but they were held tight by something. The woman on top of him said something and he looked deeper into the black eyes and thought no more of it.
He could feel nothing but the pleasure around his pole, the pleasure shutting his brain off. He liked it, relished it. It felt good, tight and right. Whatever was wrapped around his pole moved this way and that, sucked him dry and did several other things he could not describe.
Gary passed out with a scream of need.
The Artist jumped awake at the sound of someone screaming in delight. She jumped to her feet and looked around the room, startled. When she finally realised where she was and how she had gotten there did she calm down.
Yawning and rubbing the sleep away from her eyes, the Artist made her way through the strange house and found the owner where she had left him last night. The Artist had met Gary at a pub where she had decided to try some fancy tricks on him, but got drunk instead. The two seemed to have hit it off, judging by the fact she had woken up the following morning in his bed.
The Artist walked around the chair where she had placed him, and smiled as he pumped his hard cock with one hand, played with his nipples with the other, as he stared intently into an improvised painting she had done with markers Gary kept in a drawer.
The image was a loop of tiny stars. Your eyes would follow them, go deep into a spiral and then come back out only to repeat the motion again. It kept Gary in a loop of fantasies, which the Artist couldn’t know of. He could be experiencing a memory, a daydream, or simply a hallucination.
Smiling, the Artist undressed. She had enjoyed Gary for a couple of days, using his body as much as she could, and as much as he could. Slowly she climbed on top of him. She showed him the fires painted on her body and he sighed in delight as she rode him with the strength of a dinosaur.
Not once did Gary react to the naked lady upon his body.
Finally it was time to leave. Her body was covered in sweat, her sex ached in a most wonderful way, and she could not keep her breathing under control. The Artist was refreshed, and ready to take upon herself the strain of her search for the Museum.
Now, more than ever, she had to stop taking detours and escapades. She had started long ago, planting the seeds of something bigger than countries. The plants must be grown by now, and she had to tend to the garden if she didn’t want it to wither and die. Only caring for the garden could she harvest the fruit of her efforts.
She found her coat crumpled on a chair, forgotten. She had not thought about it, about covering her body for days. It was fitting that she had decided to forgo responsibility for a while, and had also forgotten about the only thing she had worn since truly listening the lyrics of that song.
The Artist lifted her coat, airing it as she twisted it around her back to soundlessly slide her right arm through the long sleeve. As she buttoned it up, an envelope slid out of a pocket. The Artist picked up a letter she didn’t remembering receiving.
There was a frown upon her brow as she saw the letter, and then there was the look one would have if you saw a rhinoceros stampede running towards you as she saw the wax seal on the letter. Her hands started shaking as she tore open the envelope.
The Artist felt dizzy. She sat down. She missed the chair. She hurt herself. She didn’t care.
Her eyes saw the image, her eyes read the words but she could not believe it. She just couldn’t believe it.
Somewhere in the house a man cried in delight just as the Artist cried in sadness.
This has been an interesting experiment. I once read that you know a writer loves to tell stories when he or she writes stories within stories. I do not know how accurate that is, but I just love to write stories. Here I wanted to try something new, something fresh. We know the Artist, or we think we know her. She has been around for a long time, and like her many works of art there are many stories about her adventures, deeds, and evils. She is a folk hero, with folk tales that are not entirely fictitious.
If you are kind enough, reader, please tell me what you think of this little experiment.