Chapter 3

The Bubble ceased its forward motion just outside Jupiter Alley, the artificial gravitational field installed there by the Space commission. Commander Moorman, the sole occupant of the bubble, radioed to the Space Brothel for permission to land.

"Permission," replied the code computer beeper, and Moorman began sending mental instuctions into the Bubble's intricate machinery.

He had been space for three years, three years without sight of another human. His mission had been to collect samples of galactic dust from a strange floating planet that had somehow appeared in the furthest reaches of the Milky Way. The mission had been successful and in one corner of the space bubble rested a small black container, lined with lead, which contained the samples.

He felt himself shaking with anticipation as the bubble slowly ascended Jupiter Alley and made its way toward the Space Brothel. It was a spider-like platform, covered with an ionized plastic shell. As he moved toward it he could see the lush fauna of the Brothel, designed to resemble certain garden spots on earth. His Bubble ceased its forward motion and hung over the shell.

"Prepare to grapple," the code computer warned him.

He hunched himself up and braced for the shock. The tentacles of the station grasped the Bubble in a huge suction cup and pulled it through the plastic shell. The hole was immediately plugged by bombarding plastic pellets which melted upon contact and reinforced the shell even more strongly than before.

The heat coming from the tropical atmosphere almost strangled him, so used to the artificially contrived temperate climate of the Bubble.

He walked toward the control shack which was situated in a lovely glen, surrounded by a small stream and rows upon rows of hanging vines.

There was a white-clad woman behind the desk and she greeted him warmly:

"Welcome, Commander Moorman, we've been expecting your visit. In fact, you were scheduled about two weeks ago."

Moorman explained the delay; a brutal shower of meteorites which had damaged the Bubble and forced him to shut off power for at least seven days.

"There are just a few questions I have to ask you; it won't take more than a few moments. First: when was the last time you engaged in sexual activities of any sort?

"Including masturbation?" he queried.

"No," she replied, "I mean prior to your mission."

"It's been about three years."

"Do you have any special tastes?"

Moorman grinned:

"I don't know what you mean by special tastes."

"Well, you know that our function here is to provide sexual solace for space explorers like yourself. We are equipped to handle arty type of perversion."

"Yes, I realize that," he replied, looking at his hands. The questions were beginning to bother him.

"For example," she continued, "we have a wide variety of aliens who are here for short periods of time."

"You mean the plant aliens?"

"Yes."

Moorman had heard of them. They were bizarre vines which seemed to exhibit intelligence and which were used with some success for sexual purposes.

"I would like a little of each," Moorman finally said.

"Excellent," the woman retorted and stood up, signifying that the question and answer period was over.

He was escorted into a gleaming tile room where he showered and placed on his body certain lotions which would restore the elasticity of his skin, grown thick and unresponsive since he embarked on his mission. After this cleaning period he walked naked into a numbered glade. He was alone except for a small pond and thousands of plants and flowers. The brilliant color of the place hurt his eyes and made him dizzy.

Moorman heard something in the underbrush and he stiffened. A young girl appeared in the clearing. She couldn't have been more than sixteen. Her hair was cropped short and she was wearing only a multi-colored sheet which she kept draped over her shoulder. As she breathed, he could sec the brilliant outline of her succulent breasts.

"Are you Commander Moorman?"

He nodded. The palms of his hands were wet with sweat.

"I am Felicia."

A moment after she spoke her own name she dropped her sheet to the ground and stood naked in the clearing. His eyes roved over her body hungrily. He saw the firm but gentle upsweep of her nipples, like twin cherries waiting to be plucked. He followed the line of thigh into the mysterious triangle of her womanhood. He fought to control himself; he wanted to rush to her and bury his face in her steaming sex.

He closed his eyes and his head swam. It was too painful even to look. He remembered the months, without stop, month after month of tedium and loneliness, month after month of collecting specimens. He remembered the darkness which seemed to cover the universe like a shroud.

When he opened his eyes again she was standing beside him.

"We must go slow at first," she cautioned, "you have been away too long."

He reached out and touched her naked breast. It felt as if a shock of electricity had raced through his body. He took the hand away and he shivered.

"Poor man, poor hero," Felicia murmured.

"I don't want your sympathy," he said, suddenly and savagely and turned away from her.

She knelt down beside the pool of water and scooped some up in her hand. Then she applied it between her legs.

"You are hot, you are disturbed, here, drink from me, drink the cooling water."

Felicia fell to the ground and lay back, her hand curled toward him in a gesture of supplication.

He knelt beside her. A thousand conflicting thoughts raced through his mind. He remembered his home, his wife, his family. He tried to recall what they looked like but only a blur came to him.

"Drink," she said again, her voice like an erotic stream that saturated every limb.

The dark patch was like a magnet. His eyes seemed to bore into her. She spread her legs, inviting him. Suddenly, he could no longer constrain himself. The passion seemed to engulf him. He thrust his face into her sex, gurgling with joy as the wet hairs caressed his face. It was like life itself, and he buried himself deeper. His mouth opened and he bit her, tasting the wetness and the heat. Felicia squirmed and began to call him endearing names. His mouth was on fire and it sought her out, it grasped the delicate lips of her vagina, sucking on the trembling gates. She cried and laughed and called his name again and again.

"Into me, into me," she repeated.

His lips spread her open. She was wet and glorious and mysterious, filled with the juices of a child and the maturity of a woman. His tongue snaked out and pierced her. In a response of joy she crushed him with her thighs and his tongue went deep, flicking her from side to side, spiking the steaming cauldron of her flower.

Felicia began to roll in the grass, her tender body cutting a swath through the fauna. His face stayed with her, and each movement of her body sent his tongue into her deeper, with more nerve, with greater skill, until her whole body was alive with thrusts of the snake.

He sucked on her, extracting the tenderness of her body. Each deep suck caused her to groan as if he was extracting her life itself.

Moorman felt the pressure of her thighs on the side of his head. He felt himself exploding but he would rather die than remove his tongue from the flower of moistness.

Suddenly, she broke away from him and stood at a distance, smiling mysteriously. He came toward her again, his maleness erect, the point accusing her. He reached her. She grasped the column and ran her tongue over it and began to send streams of spittle toward the globes. Moorman could hardly stand, every inch of his flesh was trembling.

Then he saw it coming toward him. It was neither human nor animal. It was a vine, but the substance of the body was more like life-substance, the vine seemed to be alive, to be twitching, to be filled with human protoplasm.

It moved like a snake along the ground, screwing itself up before every movement and then releasing itself in order to cover ground. It began to crawl up Felicia's leg.

She smiled at him.

"Don't be scared," she said, "take my hand."

The moment he took her hand, the vine transferred to his body. It felt cold and unfriendly, it moved down his body until it was wrapped securely around his column.

"Don't be afraid," Felicia said again and began to stroke his face, occasionally letting her delightful nipples play along his lips.

Suddenly Moorman felt something so ecstatic that he cried out. The vine had contracted on his column. It contracted only for a second and then loosened itself. He opened his eyes as if he had seen the Godhead. He opened his eyes as if he had felt the devil. The vine had sent its protoplasmic energy into his column. It was like a jelly, filled with the most powerful aphrodesia.

Again and again the vine began to contract and loosen. It was a rhythm of hell, a rhythm beyond anything he had ever experienced in his life. His maleness burned, froze, received new signals, became a living piece of ecstatic flesh. He cried out for her to help and then cried out for more.

To ease his pain and joy she gave him her nipples to suck. He bit the points but she did not cry out. He sucked them dry, until they trembled with the fever of his mouth. But still that vine continued and burned him forever, sending his globes cascading against one another.

Felicia saw that he had enough. His column was purple and trembling, its great size now double any erection he had ever experienced before.

She pulled the vine away from him and dropped it gently on the ground. At first it seemed to lose all sense of direction but then it began its obscene yet strangely beautiful system of locomotion into the underbrush. A few seconds later it had vanished.

Moorman was weeping. He held his hands out, unable to understand what was happening to him; unable to understand the raw lust which his organ had experienced.

"Help me, Felicia."

She took him by the hand and led him deep into the glade. There was a natural bed made from a series of ferns.

Just before she lay down on it, she kissed his fiery tip and sent her shivers into his body. Her legs were spread wide and he could see the flower winking at him, calling to him. Suddenly, everything was forgotten, the vine, his fear, the long years of heroism. He wanted her body, totally.

He was on her. She murmured to him, to give him courage. And then he rammed his column into her waiting flower. It sank deep, deep, into the beauty of her body. This was what he wanted. He used her body to rid himself of hate, of loneliness, of desperation. She was the sponge for his psyche. She rolled and twisted under the terrible entry of his flesh. He tried to pin her like a butterfly, to pin her to the ground. For a moment he had her and then he began the cruel grind, tormenting her body but at the same time giving it glory and splendor and the total joys of his penis.

She began to bring up her child-like thighs to meet his, and soon the glade was filled with the noises and screams of love. He kissed her as he was pumping and thrust his tongue deep inside her delicate mouth, using his tongue as an instrument to meet the rhythm of his flesh. He felt the explosion coming, in his body and in her body. They were being transported on great waves, gliding and then plunging into the mysterious wetness of her vagina.

She cried out a long, terrible, animal cry and he knew that she had reached the threshold. He eased up for a moment and then rammed once, using every bit of strength that remained in his body. She exploded and her body filled with the warmth of orgasm. A second later he shot his seed into her, and then pulled his organ out and let the warm seed coat her naked body. He rubbed the seed into her flesh, between her breasts, into her armpits, into her lips, anywhere she could see his momentary love for her.

They rested a long time in silence.

Finally, she said:

"Again?"

He smiled and patted her head.

"No. I think I've had enough."

"But we could use the vine again; there are many more possibilities."

At the thought of that creeping, erotic alien, he shivered and held the child to his body.

"I have to go," he said suddenly.

Felicia became business-like.

"You must shower and disinfect before you leave."

He started to walk away and then returned in an attempt to plant a kiss on her cheek. It was an impulse of affection and of love.

She pushed him away.

"Don't insult me with your cloying paternalism. You're not my father."

He started to protest that he was not being paternal, but she was gone, slipping away like a wood nymph.

Moorman followed the procedures for cleanliness, signed the log book that he was there, and re-entered the Bubble.

Sitting in the tiny cockpit, waiting for instructions to break through the plastic dome and re-enter space, he felt like a man who had seen the sun and was unable to explain it.

All he knew was that he felt purged. The computer spoke and the thoughts were buried in the take-off. Only two more years and he'd be home.