Sci-fi Fetish Come to Life [m/f, alien/human, kink]

**Unidentified Fetish Object**

Sometimes, it really sucks being female.

You wake up feeling lethargic and lazy. Your body sore, you want nothing more than to snuggle up next to your boyfriend and fall back asleep.

But you can hear your alarm ringing next to you and can feel a hard length push into the small of your back.

Sigh and think. You have options; you always have options.

If you don’t get out of bed to deal with one of them soon, you’re going to *have* to deal with the other. You could stay in bed. Roll over to him. Or roll onto him. You could spend the morning touching every inch of him, trailing your fingers over taut, teak skin, before taking that pressing length inside you.

Or you could hit snooze. You could cuddle close and just sleep for ten more minutes. Then maybe ten more.

Both of which would definitely make you late. And you do not have time today. You wish you did. But you already know, with your cycle starting and the vote happening, that today is going to be hell.

So get up. Turn your alarm all the way off. Stretch. Light a candle. Maybe two. And take your first shower of the day.

Turn on the water, but not too hot. The steam—the heat and the comfort of it—will just call your boyfriend to you, not to mention make your shower completely useless. You’re trying to not smell like yourself today.

Not that you smell bad.

That’s actually the problem.

You stand beneath the lukewarm water and try hard not to feel disappointed. Even disappointment can make things worse. Any heightened emotion will do it, even extreme boredom. So get yourself under control. Remember, in the great, grand scheme of things, having an uncomfortable week every two months or so isn’t the worst thing in the world.

But that doesn’t mean you have to like it either. It’s infuriating—or really would be, if you weren’t keeping such a tight lid on your feelings right now—that, six times a year, your body doesn’t feel like yours. That it belongs to your biology.

You reach for your strongly scented, cycle soap and scrub. Hard. Especially around your neck, armpits, wrists, groin, and feet, anywhere near any scent gland. As you do, you can smell yourself on the air around you. It doesn’t smell like anything on this planet, nothing native to it anyway. But it always reminds you of a dish you just barely remember from your childhood on Pixis, warm and homey and rich. You can’t even remember the last time you ate it, much less the recipe to make it—not that you could on Earth, the ingredients a galaxy away—but your memory can still taste the savory luxury.

Every time, it makes you a little homesick for a place that feels more like a dream than anything. It makes you wonder what your life would have been like, if your parents hadn’t decided to join The Great Migration. Hadn’t looked at the way overpopulation and pollution and war was destroying their planet, their lives, and given up.

You wonder if this scent—your scent, the scent of your people—would make you hungry instead of queasy. If nostalgia wouldn’t twist with anxiety the way it does here.

“Morning.”

Your boyfriend. You twist under the now floral-scented spray, grateful to see the bathroom door still shut. “Morning.” You bite your lip guiltily. “Did I wake you?” You tried not to. You sniff the shower, but smell mostly soap. Don’t you? Sniff again to be sure. The cloying scent of chemically-created rose clogs your senses.

You hear him yawn. “No worries.” The sound of him shuffling behind the door seems loud, even muffled by the shower, while he waits. For permission. Biting your lip, you hold your breath. And wait. Until you almost feel his shrug. “I’m just going to go downstairs and start the coffee.”

***

Hypnotized by the sound and smell of your girlfriend showering, your feet feel stuck to the carpet. You can’t stop imagining her on the other side of the wood, wet and naked. You don’t want to leave that door. Not with the smell of her wafting out through the cracks. Inhale. God help you, nothing smells like her. It’s literally out of this world. It’s like smelling a feast with your every favorite food right in front of you laced with the most addictive drug.

Inhale one more time. One last, long drag through your nose that fills your lungs and stirs your body.

Then do what you promised. Leave the room. Close the door. With determined steps, go down the stairs and head to the kitchen.

Grit your teeth and, with shaky hands that would rather be touching something else, measure out coffee grounds. Turn to get the water pitcher out of the fridge.

Turn back around, when you find yourself instinctively heading toward the stairs.

No. Stop. Go. To. The. Fridge. Get the water. Pour. And push the coffee machine’s power button.

Feel a little helpless, when you have nothing else to do but wait. Grip the counter and try not to think about the fact that you’ve just fulfilled your promise. You started coffee. Obligation complete. You could go back upstairs now.

Plant your feet and grip the counter harder.

You want her. So much. But she’s not in the mood right now. And, while you love making love to her, you only want it if she wants it. You only want what she wants. Remind yourself of that.

Lean in and smell the coffee brewing. Let it fill your senses and clear your head.

You only want what she wants. Because you would never want to hurt or scare her. You’re more than your desire, more than your lust and an erection. You’re not some kind of monster who can’t control himself. Your pleasure isn’t worth more than her fear.

So, for God’s sake, breathe deep and control yourself.

Before the Pixisos came to Earth in The Great Migration, you remember reading and seeing fantasy stories about alien invasions. Nerd fantasies of sexy aliens coming to Earth to seduce and mate with humans. Even then, even as you read them and guiltily enjoyed them, you wondered what the aliens got out of the deal. Leave their home, travel millions of lightyears, land on some weird, insignificant rock, and all they want is to selflessly pleasure the planet’s population? What sense did that make?

After The Great Migration, the frequency of those stories skyrocketed. Twisting themselves with old sci-fi tropes and new scientific discoveries. You remember seeing snippets of what the world was learning in the news about the Pixisos sneak into these stories. Suddenly, every sexy alien was petite and silver-haired, with skin like the sun’s sheen over the surface of a bubble.

And, when news of the mating cycle female Pixisos experience hit the planet’s consciousness, this pocket of the internet went wild. Suddenly, every story was obsessed with this week-long period every sixty days where their fantasy alien women went into heat, needing sex and male seed like breath.

Stories of cum-hungry extraterrestrials who beg men with wet sexes and open, eager mouths cropped up like literary weeds. Every one of these arousal-altered aliens were amazed and impressively afraid of the size and shape of the nude human form. And the men in these stories, like the benevolent, superior creatures they were, graciously gave them what they needed, making the women moan with the taste and thrust of their cocks, giving these women unimaginable pleasure by taking their own on them.

You wish you could say that you hadn’t been a fan of those stories. But you’d read your fair share. Had even, with eyes closed and your cock in your hand, created a few fantasies of your own in your head.

But it was when the stories began to turn that you stopped being turned on by the tales. Once the Pixisos were let out of governmental quarantine and given refugee status and homes among humans, public opinion changed. Now, the sex in the stories felt owed. A payment for humanity’s generosity. Or, sometimes, a punishment for it. Suddenly, the stories seemed to be less about the human’s pleasure, and more about the Pixiso’s humiliation. Their subjugation.

You’d quit reading those stories then. Stopped visiting those sites. Finding the fantasy different now. Tainted and wrong.

After meeting and dating your girlfriend, you can’t believe you ever enjoyed those stories. After seeing her struggle with the reality of what other’s fetishized, that looked absolutely nothing like either the fiction people wrote or the so-called news being reported, it kinda killed the fantasy entirely.

You asked her once what her cycle is like for her. You couldn’t believe what she has to deal with. She said it’s like her body’s betraying her, making people think something about her that she doesn’t feel. It’s as if her genes are sending out secret signals to strangers that she doesn’t understand or want. She told him she can feel it work through her, worm and waft through her pores, like some huge, ancient power inside she can never hope to contain or control. It makes her feel raw, ripped open and bleeding, while the world licks its lips.

You hunger for her. You wonder if part of you always will. But you won’t—refuse to—be just one more person tearing away at her whether she wants it or not.

So instead grip the counter, let its edge cut into your fingers. Lean in so close to the machine you feel its heat on your face, the strong scent of coffee in your nose, in your lungs, in your soul, and breathe…

**READ THE REST [HERE](http://sonnidesoto.blogspot.com/2017/11/sci-fi-fetish-come-to-life-part-two.html)**

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/7gowvx/scifi_fetish_come_to_life_mf_alienhuman_kink