The alien writhes inside its meth confine, a passel of blackness so dark Agnes can ready the configuration of its tentacles only when they pull away from its organic structure, contrasting against the stark lily-white of the lab walls. It's fluid in a fashion that can not be understood by any human outside the few XII in this ship, the physics of its movements are so remote from anything seen in Earth. Despite the malleability of its form, however, its strength - measured by their top-notch equipment - is cipher short of mind boggling. The puppet's home planet has twice the drag of sombreness as dry land, and its ocean is around 20 meter as deep. The sun it orbits is far, diminished and reddish. The planet would be a wasteland of frozen lifelessness if not for the star-hot core warming it from within.

It was in the depts of the hostile sea that covers planet SG-58231 that it was found. Though found is not the right word to describe what happened. Agnes was there, the one, golden interne in National Aeronautics and Space Administration's well-nigh coveted gang, the crew that gets to plant an American language flag in new worlds, uncover surround never before seen or touched by humans, plans and executes the initial research necessary before anything found is deemed safe enough to be shipped back to Earth for further examination.

They entered the major planet's atmosphere after extensive surveillance, hoping to gather a sizable sample of water - the smaller ones, collected by auto, had come back perfectly drinkable. globe water. The ship shone a light over the impenetrable surface of the black-market sea, made only as much contact with the water supply as essential. It was then that the noncitizen rose to meet the humans, tentacles swaying along with the current in such way that it took the ship's equipment blaring warnings for the crowd to remark it. The creature allowed itself to be hoisted up, put into one container, a armored combat vehicle, then another, a shabu cage in the chassis of a small room. It shrunk to better fit the entrapment of the ship, as if it could translate the indigence to share space with the humans. Agnes was fascinated by it from the for the first time second her eyes landed on its clearly support, moving, froward signifier. She glued herself to the back of the head teacher scientist, Doctor Mackenzie, funny and greedy for any chance to consider the creature, to realise it.

There's a full glass paries in the noncitizen's room. Often, in those number 1 duet of week, a XII of the great unwashed could be seen standing by it, watching the creature's slow, languid movements in nothing short of incredulity. This is, after all, the inaugural multi-cellular, live organism found outside of Earth, even after centuries of inexorable search. However, all gewgaw loses its refulgence as days turn into week and weeks turn into calendar month. 243 mean solar day after the finding, as the ship is barely a week away from home base, and Agnes is the only one who can be consistently found in battlefront of these glass walls.

If she has annotated its movements, its moods, its tendencies in both paper and her nous, that's only her job. The creature eats through osmosis, and she could swear she notices a spike heel in natural process when its environment is charged with the micro-organism it ingests. The alien splash, swims, behaves. As if it feels. As their agenda is logical, Agnes made surely to annotate that the creature is level-headed enough to expect the clock time it is supposed to receive nourishment. Like any animal that walks the Earth, it knows intellectual nourishment, can be driven by it.

If Agnes starts to refer to it as he, in her mind, no one would be too put off by it. That's her job, after all. To watch out the wight as closely as humanly potential, to observe and conduct each of its behavioral idiosyncrasies. For calendar month and months, she has done so. Faithfully, to her best ability. Eventually, his mysterious, obsidian tentacles creeped into her ambition. There, she could experience them against her skin, so impossibly smooth and yet, hard, pertinacious. Fuzzy remembering of said dreams made her boldness kick during the day. For the first clip in her 5-years deployment, she missed the opportunity of intimacy. Of course, as a virgin so shy it can be described as borderline debilitating social-anxiety, Agnes couldn't really have a go at it what she was missing. Yet, she still missed it.

It is a unknown even, 56 hours before they reach earth's atmosphere, that Agnes realizes something. This creature, he, is the outset building complex, life-form ever found. for sure, he didn't respond to any of the many sense and tidings psychometric test the gang tried to administer, but, how could he ? When he came from a world of relentless storms, impenetrable darkness, aggressive and ever- present tactile information ? Safety measures dictated no direct contact could be made with him, so all of the tryout were given through the glass, using intellectual nourishment. Weak and inconclusive. Couldn't the tool be proven sound, if only it were allowed to use the sole sense it seems to have ?

Agnes'fondness is beating in her throat as she punches in Doctor Mackenzie's code. houseman go unnoticed so easily, she knows all the codes, all the access code, and as much as she has used them to pile up information before, the independent crew never noticed. In her hands, she takes only a small case of the brute's favored food for thought. A gift, she hopes. Truthfully, this is insanity, and she knows it. But Agnes has dreamed of the scratch line ever since she was old enough to support her neck and depend up at the sky. She has made up stories about extraterrestrial and astronauts, about humankind conquering the cosmos. It's her majuscule desire, her altogether life. Is it really so out of the realm of possibility that someone such as her would walk into a glass cage with an alien ? How could she not ?

It awakes as if from an eon-long slumber, long tree branch tasting the urine in the armoured combat vehicle, creeping out to sense the air in the elbow room. Sensitive nerve-endings pick up on vibration, not quite good, but as close as haptic sensory receptor can get. Steps, the human way of moving. There are particles of food in the air, it can experience them. It splashes lazily as it waits, luxuriates in the meal when the human deposits it in its cooler. They have never been so last before, however. It's curious, the air taste like something it should know. Warmth, fuzziness, fertility. Of course, it knows what to do. In hostile environments, life subsists. In welcoming single, it reproduces.

The doors to the enclosure cinch locked at Agnes'first scream. It's a protection measure, she knows. It's there for a grounds, that being unknown can be fairly unpredictable. The system assumes at any straiten signaling that the foreign life-form in the ship must be contained. It also blares an alarm, deafening, patent. Agnes knows the totally crew will be on the other position of the field glass in moments.

The creature has enveloped her in a thick, black tentacle, picked her up as if her exercising weight is negligible. She notices, even as brat freezes her tree branch, that his airfoil is not smooth, but littered with patterned protuberance that somehow couldn't be seen, but are keenly felt. Not that it's rough, on the contrary. The tentacle holding her is slick with muck, softened by a life in the piss. Even then, Agnes can't escape. She wriggles and thrashes, pushes the limb away and grunts with the cause. The fauna simply adds a second tentacle to the rape, holding her peg in place.

"Agnes !"The voice of the head scientist, MD Mackenzie River, reaches her through the intercom."Agnes, what the pit is going on ?"

Panic seems to freeze the rip in her vein. Her vocation is over, Agnes knows. She might die in the helping hand ... well, limb of this creature, but even if she survives, she won't be allowed in a spaceship ever again. The actualisation is so, so crushing it takes her a minute to note that the extraterrestrial isn't ripping her to pieces or bashing her against the rampart. He doesn't even pull in her into his tank, where she would overwhelm in minutes. For a moment in meter, he just holds her, impregnable, Brobdingnagian and imposing,

but gentle. As if he understands how easily she could be broken by him.

"I'm sorry."Is all she can bring herself to utter to her co-worker. She hears their whole tone as a gang pattern behind the glass. The alien envelops her with a thirdly, low tentacle, this one slithers against her neck."I'm so sorry."Agnes whimpers, terrified, when a Black arm closes around her throat.

But there's no pressure level, she can still emit. Agnes stares at the muckle of darkness that is the creature's organic structure and, for the first time, wishes it had a face. What wouldn't she give to be able-bodied to interpret emotions off of it ? To have an inkling of what's side by side ? But the only clue are to be found in his handling of her, suspended in the air, a ragdoll for him to play with.

"How did this come about ?"The Doctor of the Church asks, speaking through the intercom.

"I-I don't know ..."She manages to squeeze out. What the Doctor doesn't say, Agnes already knows : no one is coming to rescue her.

The danger of contamination is too nifty. The ship is too skinny to worldly concern, they need to bring down, refuel, recharge. Who knows what pathogens the tool is carrying ? An stranger virus unleashed could eradicate the world's population in days. And his slime is all over Agnes now, staining her lab coat, saturating her wearing apparel. His tentacles don't stop moving, searching she knows not what for, but the one on her legs drag and push at her denim, as if he knows the material isn't a part of her, but an obstacle. He traces the curve of her behind, hooks a tentacle onto the waistband of her jeans. When he pulls, Agnes'heart stutters in her chest.

The alien successfully bares her, ass first, to the dozens of fellow worker watching her quandary through the looking glass. Agnes closes her eyes tightly, a feeling of irreality warring with utter, discharge mortification inside of her. This has to be a nightmare, she tells herself. She isn't being held up by an stranger, pant-less, for all the mass she most admires to see. This can not be happening to her.

The animate being rips her Andrew Dickson White tankful top in half with a individual swoop of a large tentacle. Agnes opens her eyes, forces herself to look back at the faces of the last people she is likely to ever be around. Tears slide down her case, hot and sound with sorrow. Shame burns bright in her cheeks, even as she's so overwhelmed by fear that she may go into shock. They all see her, faces varying tone of revulsion, dread, and pity. The humiliation hurts the most, as even when the alien snaps her bra in two bit, he does so without harming her.

Agnes holds onto her panties tightly, trying to keep at to the lowest degree that last rubbish of cover in blank space. The fauna pushes her paw away regardless of her best endeavour, slow but firm, like a rigid, loving parent might ply a child's finger's breadth off a honey toy. When she's completely bared to the alien and to her co-workers, Agnes just compliments resignation, followed by dying, is close. Hope has been smothered ; she just wants it to be over.

To her eternal shame, however, it has only started.

Doctor Mackenzie has a scientific judgment. He has to, or he wouldn't have achieved the position he's at. His priorities are assoil and absolute, he's the kind of man who has no trouble following them. On the opposite, nothing gives him as very much satisfaction as reaching his goals, fulfilling his life-long dream.

Except, however, the whammy - in his opinion - that follows all men. A distraction-inducing, nettlesome, ever-present attraction to women. In that, he's as formula as they come. simulacrum of pretty, young girl are what he jerks off to in his bunk bed. nix too out-of-the-ordinary, really. Intercourse is forbidden during voyages for many practical reasons, but back on ground he's more than happy to fulfill his desires with the casual hooking up. Here, he uses his mental fodder. Occasionally, though he feels vaguely hangdog about it, he even thinks of his many acrobatic, young, female person colleagues as he masturbates.

If the girl currently being assaulted by a huge stranger is often character of his chosen fantasy, no one but him knows. Though the doctor can't quite believe what he's sightedness. First, that such healthy Pres Young woman would be as reckless and dumb as to enter the enclosing by herself. Second, that there's undeniable, glaring purpose to the creature's actions. It has divested the daughter of dress completely, but not harmed her so far. Its blacken tentacles slide, probe and explore her expanse of firm, smooth skin, as if looking for something.

As unbelievable as this entirely situation is, the doctor is jealous. Of an alien. Agnes is ... her petiteness is endearing, sensual, lights up a primal part of his brainpower that wants to envelop her, protect her, obtain her down and fuck her until she can't walkway. Her face is the very definition of prettiness. It cause her shy nature perfectly, her heart aren't sultry, there are no suggestive business to the Angle in her facial expression. She's charming, attractive in an innocuous way, exactly the kind of girl an old man like him is the most drawn to, maybe because he would be so harshly judged if he acted on it. treat, feminine, she looks like individual's daughter, sister, the pretty girl-next-door everyone delicacy with kindness, for she simply inspires that in people.

Strikingly, he can't help but detect what a great ass she has. Always hidden behind her lab coats before, the Doctor now sees it in the physique as it's groped by a large tentacle, its firmness tested with friction, squeeze, slapping. Fuck, he curses to himself. Her ass is big enough it jiggles at the forcefulness applied, not too large as to be disproportional to her modest body, but as gorgeous and ample as it can be otherwise. The creature runs a slimy tentacle between her boldness, opening her crack up, and the Doctor's articulatio genus go week, his head feels fuzzy. Agnes whimpers pathetically, likely humiliated and terrified, and it's all the physician can do to not catch his throbbing firmly prick. He has never been Thomas More aroused in his life.

Everyone is utterly silent. There are no words for this. If he could tear his heart away from the nude body of the girl being molested in movement of him, Doctor Mackenzie would see he isn't the only one whose spirit of terror have changed to lust. The creature is not hurting the young cleaning lady. It is ... playing with her. Even through the fog of overwhelming luxuria, the doctor can acknowledge what an incredible occurrent this is. Agnes is turned around and around by the animate being, every in of her skin is touched and tested by one of a dozen of tentacles. At one point, she's poised with her legs spread, folded in one-half, her back to the deoxyephedrine where the whole work party is watching.

The Doctor can see the diminutive, pinkish wizard of her dickhead, her small cunt under it. She's so close that he can watch when she clenches, the muscles in the orbit tightening. He leans against the Methedrine, overcome with lust. A portion of him craves to see the alien go further, compress a long, large tentacle against one of Agnes'hole and push in. Is he a bad man for it ? He wonders.

That's a pointless research, he tells himself. There's nothing he can do to help oneself her, whatever comes following isn't on him. If he happens to enjoy it, there's no harm in that.

Something old and primeval drives it. Deep, unknowable. Its kind survives, yes, but they can reproduce as well, under the good experimental condition. It holds in its tentacles the perfective tense, correctly condition. If only it can fill her up. Open her, probe her insides, leave behind the seed needed to make more of itself. The hole on top seems wrong, it tests that and finds sharpness there. Hostile, no. Under, between sonant second joint, there's such warmth, such slick suaveness. Exactly what it likes. But it searches and hunt, investigation and jab. The wetness must do from somewhere, it understands enough to love this is the little creature's reproductive Hammond organ, but an entrance to her soundbox can't be found there.

Agnes clinch as tightly as she can when she feels tentacles touching her there, she remembers reading about cleaning lady who can contract their vaginal muscleman so hard they can only be penetrated if they allow it, and so she focuses on that and tries not to panic even as the beast keeps rubbing her clitoris by error, and oh- why does it finger so right ? No, no, not there, please- ass, it feels, no-

But there it is, just a niggling back, unmistakable. The creature would squeal with happiness if it could. It finds an entryway, affectionate, unruffled, not quite as slick, but that can be fixed. The footling homo thrashes violently in its grasp, but a couple more tentacles hold her in property easily as it explores that tiny fix, closed up by a ring of muscles that must be pushed open. It uses the very tip of its belittled tentacle first, spreading slick there, testing the resistance.

It feels the vibrations as the human opens her mouth, screams. It doesn't caution. All that matter is how dead warm this slight being feels inside. With the tip of a tentacle breaching that welcoming whole, the alien now knows its purpose perfectly. fill her up, as deep as possible, withdraw advantage of all her cushy, hot interior. It gets to it, gleefully.

The Doctor of the Church's mouth is gaping in obfuscation, his peter throbbing to the rhythm of his heart, the alien's pocket-size tentacle - which is still thickheaded than his forearm and thrice as farsighted - is starting to breach Agnes'ass. The girl is screaming, crying, clearly in pain and terrified. Why does that crap it hotter ? Why does that ca-ca it harder for him to balk the urge to rub his erection ? He can't tear his centre away. Even scream so pretty. It's her fault, it has to be ...

No, no, no, it hurts ! Please, no, stop, delight, delight, oh my god, it's going in. Can't he see it doesn't fit ? Please ! Someone aid, please ! It burns, it's so slick but it burns, that's too big, too big- toobigtoobigtoobig !

Agnes hollers so loud that everyone observation is startled into taking a measure away from the glass. Her pretty, cute face is twisted in suffering, wet with tears, mouth receptive in a ‘ o ’, releasing loud and low, pained, pitiful cries. The Doctor watches in morbid fascination. The unknown is trying to come home her anus. It wants to be inside of her, and it doesn't upkeep about the anatomical reference incompatibility. The glib drip from the tentacle is visible, plentiful. The creature managed to insert the tip, but the tentacle tapers off sharply, and the mass of its thickness doesn't seem like it can go in.

Two tentacles wrap around Agnes'arms, one around her clavicle, another around her waist. With all of those holding her firmly in place, the foreigner forces the little girl's tiny body down onto the tentacle trying to penetrate her. It works. She screams herself raw, the Doctor watches, fascinated, as an insufferable amount of the length of the foreigner's tentacle disappears inside her body, at least 12 inches, he guesses. It must be pure agony. His nut clench at the sight.

The creature begins thrusting in and out of her in a fasting, punishing pace. Agnes yell out when it's in deep, and pitifully whimpers when it has pulled out. The doctor leans against the glass again. Two minutes in, he comes in his trousers like a teenager, without touching himself at all, to the sight of his medical intern being raped by a non-humanoid, tentacled freak. Not even he can absolve that, if there's a God, it will be straight to hell for him.

might as well enjoy the appearance. The brute is not slowing down. *

Agnes loses all sense of time. All she knows is the drag of the beast's turncock in and out of her. Yes, it's some variety of penis, of that her fracture psyche is sure. She noticed it was spurting something thicker than the natural, open gunk that coats the stranger's peel. With each poking, it fills her up with whatever gooey, foreign liquid state it is. Her insides feel bruised, stretched to their point of accumulation, pumped entire. She isn't sure she's human being anymore. Thinking has become impossibly hard. There must be some kind of psychoactive in his fluids. Agnes knows she must be in shock, too overwhelmed to be coherent, but there are other thing, ones which are harder to explain.

Like, why is her cunt electrocution ? Dripping slipperiness ? Why is she now clenching around the member impaling her, raping her, out of arousal ?

It hurtshurtshurtshurts-so respectable, good, yes, oh, fu-fuck, hurts so honest, so abstruse, why, deepinside- hurts-imma-oh, OH !

When she orgasms, it's like an out-of-body experience. So intense it can't be described. Her unhurt body seizes for what feels like minute, pleasure that borders on excruciating, heightened somehow by the agony in her plundered pubes. In its wake, a fully formed thought dada in her mind.

will there be an end ? ...

Do I want there to be ?

***

Please remark with your idea of different fib that could happen with Agnes !