Streams of
Dominance
Bill
Compiled
and edited by Susan Strict
Copyright 2006 Strict Publishing International
Cover
artwork by Brendan M Baker
Brendan is the Founder and Lead Artist
for Virtual-Domination.com. He has been active in the 3D erotica
community for over 12 years now, starting out with a copy of Poser 1
back in 1996. His non adult / fantasy work can be found on his
Renderosity.com gallery under the username BrendanBkr.
Nefarious
Aliens. There are many kinds of them in the imaginations of science fiction writers. There are the ugly, aggressive and hostile, or there are the beautiful, loving and friendly. Sometimes the beautiful may also turn out to be hostile, but only rarely do the ugly turn out to be friendly.
Anyway, it is really not too important how the fiction writers see them. What matters to those of us with an interest in such things, is whether the females are the slightest bit sexually compatible with human males. Being sexually attractive would help too, of course.
Perhaps these aliens arrive in huge spacecraft, hovering over our cities threateningly. Perhaps they arrive in a fleet of smaller vessels, zipping here, there and everywhere leaving chaos behind them. Or perhaps they are already here.
For the science fiction writers it really does not matter. As long as it is exciting, different, and somewhere along the line vaguely plausible, then they write it. It might make money. It very often does make money. Someone turns it into a movie and it makes lots of money, and then into a computer game and it makes even more money.
So can you imagine what it would be like when one of the more attractive alien females decides she wants a human? Of course you cannot imagine it, not until the science fiction writer has told you a little more about this alien female and what is going on.
She has to be angelic, white with wings, amazingly tall and beautiful. Yes I know it has been done before, but bear with me for a while before you give up and go on to the next story.
She came into the room, flowing with grace and sensuality. Already the man was unable to move, because the mental powers of this alien were so strong that she could not go near a human without disrupting his brain impulses. Naturally, the brain impulses that she disrupted were only the ones that controlled movement and speech. He was still able to feel, to hear, to taste and to react sexually.
As she stared at him, he was swept from his feet and found himself in a lying position about six feet from the floor. Slowly he floated towards the bed at the side of the room, sinking down towards it until he was flat on his back on it and still completely helpless. Wise and alien as she was, thousands of years in advance of the human race and hundreds of times more intelligent, she was surprised. She had not meant to move him. Her desire had taken over from her conscious mind.
He wondered whether he would pass out. He had heard that being too close to these aliens invariably made humans lose consciousness. The experience of being contacted by an alien brain was too much, too intense, for the human mind and it simply shut down until the alien moved away, but her mind, her subconscious desire, refused to let his mind shut her out. It wanted him fully awake and aware of everything that was about to happen to him.
When she touched him, he felt not her thoughts but her feelings rushing over him like a flood, not sweeping away his own but mingling with them in a terrifying first meeting of two completely dissimilar species.
She was naked. Her white robes had disappeared. She no longer wore them, yet they were nowhere to be seen in that room. She appeared human, yet not human. Her skin glowed golden with a sheen that seemed to cover her whole body and expand to several inches away from the surface of her skin. The glow brightened as she touched him.
What did she do?
Do you need to ask?
Why did she do it? Is it not stretching the credibility of the readers too far to tell them that this alien from somewhere billions of light years away on the other side of some other galaxy has a fetish for facesitting human males?
OK. It is not a fetish. It is the need to demonstrate the immaturity of the human race. She has set out to prove that even something as basic and essential as reproduction has been twisted. She has a theory that humans have only reached an adolescent (“adolescent” in terms of universal maturity of the whole human race) phase. She has no interest in sex or sexual contact for its own sake. She only wants to show that humans cannot, for the moment, move past an exuberance for physical sensation, much like a human teenager who has just discovered his sexuality and cannot leave it alone.
So she facesat him, and there was not a damn thing he could do about it. He was paralyzed by her mind. She stared, fascinated, at his throbbing hardness as she sits on him, almost forgetting that humans need to breathe from time to time.
She told herself she was collecting valuable data, so she wiggled and squeezed and made sure that her own sexual centers were stimulated to the maximum. It was all necessary just to be certain that the human had the full experience and therefore that the demonstration of her theory, the proof of her theory, was as valid as it could possibly be.
Have you ever heard an alien scream in orgasm? Have you ever heard an angel scream in orgasm? And when she had finished after many hours, she held his head between her legs, pressed against her while she stroked his hair gently. What a pity she forgot to turn on the data recording. Now she would have to do it all over again.
***
Convenience
A dynamic free-spirited and successful woman stared across the sofa at her once lover. What was he now? Hardly a lover, although sex was regular not unpleasant. There was no spark, and no likelihood of finding a spark now that he was inextricably tied to her life like a ball and chain around her ankles. She saw her future stretching ahead of her, unchanging, unexciting, boring. It was a future she did not want to accept.
Something was brewing in her mind, something unpleasant and something impossibly wicked. She stared at him with thoughts jostling for position, the unthinkable fighting for position with the fantasy that she was sure she could turn into a reality if only she had the courage to do it.
There were alternatives, of course. She could leave him. She could tell him to leave, she could shout, she could scream, she could make his life so unpleasant that he had no alternative but to pack his things and find somewhere else and someone else. She could kill him, and dispose of him where he would never be found. Oh yes, she was quite capable of doing that, but the wicked ideas bubbling and stewing in her head were far more wicked even than that.
It did not have to be him. She could get rid of him and go out to find another man who would be far more desirable and far more suited for the project that was now beginning to take a firm hold of her mind. It would not be difficult to find someone else. She was attractive and desirable, she was well aware of that, and any single man as well as a good many married ones would jump at the chance of being with her if she gave them the opportunity. No, it did not have to be him, but he was here, he was familiar.
He was convenient.
“Let’s make love,” she said quietly.
He opened his eyes wide in surprise. She used to be impulsive, but it had disappeared years ago. These days sex was a fumble and a groan or two under the sheets on those nights when neither of them were feeling particularly tired and not inclined to sleep.
“And let’s do something different,” she continued.
Now he was really startled. Even at the beginning of their relationship when everything was hot, passionate and urgent she had never wanted to do anything different. Oh, sure, there was plenty of variety in those early days, but nothing that either of them would have described as different. Suddenly, and inexplicably, he felt decidedly nervous.
“Different?”
She did not explain. She just stood and beckoned him to follow her upstairs.
He never came down those stairs.
He did not die. She just took the rest of the world from him and gave it to herself. She made him into what she had always wanted, without a thought for him and without a twinge of conscience. He became a prisoner, a toy, a plaything for her pleasure, and without the slightest regard for his anger that turned to pleading, begging, sobbing and, finally, humiliated acceptance, she never once let him out of that room or down those stairs.
How did she do it? She never explained to anyone. It was her secret, and it worked for her. The spark was back, and she went to work with a spring in her step and a glint in her eye.
His suffering was her new life. And it was so convenient...
***
The Confession
"I've never seen anything like it." The doctor stared at the photographs and x-rays on his desk. "It appears to be a..."
"Can you fix it?" Dee said, crying.
The doctor stopped and turned to take notice of her. She was clearly distraught, fiddling with her hands in her lap and sitting up with her back stiff and straight like a nun. Fresh tears rolled down her face.
"I don't know," the doctor said.
Dee’s face wrinkled up, releasing terrible emotions. "I'm tired doctor," she said quietly, and then it burst out of her in an explosion of emotion. "I don’t want to kill him."
"Kill him?"
*
He was so beautiful, sound asleep and his face a glow of subconscious contentment. Messy blonde hair against her pillow, and still he looked so irresistible. He had his night, and she pretended to have hers. But now? She stared. Sound asleep and quiet by her side as her gaze drifted, wondering, wondering right down to his lips, plump and fresh. Oh yes, his lips.
Her quivering fingers hovered hesitantly above his face, gently tasting the warm breath from his nostrils. Her mouth dried and her larynx became tight. It was all she could do, pulling every little vestige of effort inside her to restrain herself. It was too much, her diaphragm pushing against her throat as she slid up, positioning herself, lifting a naked leg like a dog about to pee. It was now. It had to be now, and without so much as a moment of hesitation she relaxed her torso onto his sleeping face.
He awoke.
Her steaming vagina wrapped around his mouth and nose, those beautiful green eyes opened wide and innocent, and he stared. He stared up, as if trapped under a leviathan, he stared up to the bottom of her chin to where she looked down. He stared as far as her eyes, but no further.
“What?”
And then she let it go, like a snake.
The jerk was immediate, and every muscle in his body flexed in extreme fear. Release, and he was silent. And SHE screamed.
*
"Miss Wilson... did you say you will kill someone?"
She was quiet at first, until the doctor walked around his desk to sit beside her and took her arm gently.
"I can't help myself. It will kill him, I know it will,” she tried to explain. “And it feels so good."
She turned away in disgust or embarrassment, or perhaps so that he could not see the excitement in her eyes. She stood, walked, away from him to the far side of the room. She spun round, rapidly, forcefully, threateningly.
"Can you fix it?"
The doctor was terrified at what she was telling him, but his professionalism kicked in, needing more information.
"It's a birth defect?"
"Yes."
"And what do you mean by ‘killing him’? What does it do?"
"It tries to kill him." She started sobbing like a kid. "It will kill him."
But the doctor was distant and confused. He too stood and went back to his desk to examine the high-resolution photographs.
"It protrudes?"
"Yes." She stared at the wall.
"Down their throats? Or what?"
There was a big sigh, but no words.
"Please, Miss Wilson. Help me to understand."
*
"You have to stop picking on Brandon."
"Or what, bitch?" Dee was on top of him. She had grabbed hold of his shirt a second time and flung him, but for some reason she never let go and fell down to the ground with him, landing on top of him.
Staring at him only inches away from his face she said: "You like to pick on people, don't you?"
He managed to surprise her, and tossing her off to the side he threw a punch that hit her square on the lip. He stood up and backed away. He was not going to be beaten up by a woman, but neither did he want to hit her again. That did not seem right even though she had proven herself to be quite capable of beating him many times over in their struggles. He backed away, and tripped over a branch. As he struggled rapidly to his feet he was afraid...
She wiped the blood from her lip.
"I'm going to beat the shit out of you."
It was not said the way a woman might have said it. From her it was more the way a warrior might have spoken, and already she was on her feet with her camouflage pants flexing tight as her muscles underneath them tightened. When both her arms went to a boxing position, Troy too raised his fists. This was not what he wanted or intended and, unsure of himself, he threw a sloppy punch that like a dead weight hurled him towards her. She blocked him easily, countering with a solid punch to his cheek.
That was when it all started. Troy had been the first, although she never really understood what she was doing until very much later when there had been many, many of them. And she had not actually told the doctor everything. There were so many, many of them.
It had been with her since birth, and it had matured during puberty but this was the first time she had told anyone anything about it at all. There were men who knew, who had experienced it, but all they really knew was that something very bizarre had happened, something that they neither understood nor asked about nor told about. It was something so horrible that they hardly believed it themselves, and it slowly faded from their memories like a bad nightmare they wanted to forget. She told the doctor about them all, forcing herself to recall all the details even though until now she too had never really accepted that any of it was really happening.
Sex was always good, and she had quickly found out there was no shortage of men who wanted her. Somehow, it was not those that she really wanted, and there was far more pleasure to be had in taking a man by surprise and knocking him down, wrestling with him and sitting on him. She learned quickly, discovering the buttons to push that turned a simple conversation with a male friend or acquaintance into a argument and from an argument into a wrestling match or even a real fight. She learned the physical moves quickly too, and few men would be able to beat her in any wrestle or fight even though she was much smaller and lighter than most of them.
It was a while before she understood her need for this physical domination of those men. The tingling deep inside her as she knocked them down and held them there spurred her to more and more conquests of that sort. It was not until one of them was struggling particularly violently and she sat on his face to try and subdue him did she start to realize she needed more.
She sat on his chest, grasping his wrists as he squirmed and twisted, determined that this young woman would not beat him. He was strong, and she knew she would not be able to hold him for very long. The tingle inside her was particularly fierce and she did not want it to stop. She gripped his wrists with all her strength and slid forward, her short skirt riding up and her smooth, white panties pressing onto his face. She squeezed with her knees, and pushed down hard onto him in an effort to subdue him.
What happened next was completely unexpected. He was struggling to breathe underneath the clinging smoothness of her panties now damp with her excitement and covering his mouth and nose, the contours of his face pressing deep into her resilient flesh and into all those places that gave her pleasure. For her, the sensations running through her seemed merge and explode in a burst of ecstasy, the deep, indefinable tingling joining the physical pressure and movement of sexual arousal to produce an orgasmic eruption more powerful than anything she had ever experienced. For him, despite a definite arousal from having his face pressed deeply into her between her legs, he was smothered. He was completely unable to draw in any air at all however much he tried to move his head and find even the smallest gap for his mouth or nose from the suffocating pressure on top of him.
With her orgasm came something else. Deep inside her there was a movement, a pushing, almost a slithering, down and from her. It came from her womb, or where her womb should have been, and it headed straight for his mouth until it came up against the impenetrable barrier of her panties and at that point it stopped as though it had found its destination. There was a dull pop, a burst of something, somewhere, and she screamed. There was a mist, a white cloud of fine droplets rising from where she made contact with him, and in an instant his whole head was soaked, wet, dripping. Whatever it was retreated far back inside her, leaving her gasping and crying as much with post-orgasmic rapture as with the force of the thing from inside her.
She let him go, not straight away, but as soon as she was able to move from him. She arose, dripping and exhausted, looking down at the almost unconscious man beneath her in disbelief.
“What have you done to me?” she screamed.
He blinked, staring blankly up at her not understanding what was happening. The moment he was capable of climbing to his feet he fled. She never saw him again.
For several weeks she stayed away from men. She had no idea what had happened but the experience, whatever it was, had been so intense and so ecstatically erotic that she was driven to try it again.
She found the man she wanted, the one she knew was exactly right. There was no particular logic in her choice, and as it happened he was not the sort of man she would normally have found particularly attractive. It was as though something inside her was telling her who to choose, and this man was the one.
She was trembling as she prepared herself. She bathed, soaping every crevice most carefully, drying thoroughly and applying no more than a trace of her most discreet perfume. She dressed in a crisp white blouse and a short, loose black skirt. She considered carefully before deciding on underwear. She knew very well the effect that the right bra and panties could have on a man, and she toyed with the idea of putting on those that she considered to be her most alluring. Finally, she decided against it. Instead, she wore nothing under her outer clothes.
It started much as she expected. A pleasant evening out finished, as usual, with her invitation to him to “come in for a cup of coffee before you go.” It was far from original, but that did not matter. She knew what she wanted and she knew how to get it.
It worked as she knew it would, and he was in her bedroom. Almost automatically she went into the usually routine, aiming at provoking the familiar wrestling match that would end with him underneath her. No more than thirty seconds later there he was, flat on his back on her bed with her kneeling astride his chest and holding his wrists as firmly as she could. Slowly she slid herself forward towards his face with the now-familiar tingling mounting inside her.
He seemed to relax as that dark, damp area between her legs beneath the shadow of her skirt approached him, his eyes wide and fixed on the nakedness of her body under there.
His mouth opened and his tongue poked out from between his lips, ready and welcoming. There was no fear, no concern. He knew what she wanted, what he thought she wanted, and he was quite ready to give it to her.
She screamed the moment she touched him. Before even she had pressed on to him, covered his mouth and nose in her soft flesh and felt all those physical, sexual sensations exploding through her. She screamed, loud and long, as the thing inside her, already awake, tingling and ready, sensed the closeness of what it wanted. It moved, rapidly, from where her womb should have been. It engulfed him, and as it did it gave her the most powerful climax she had ever experienced, rapidly, repeatedly and with such force that she could neither hear nor see anything around her for many minutes.
If she had been able to see, she might have screamed for quite a different reason. He screamed, a scream that was cut off, muffled, turned to no more than a distant gurgle that might have been coming from miles away. Held underneath her, between her strong, gripping thighs, he could do nothing to prevent it. His body twitched and convulsed in desperation, and his arms fought to break the grip she had on his wrists.
It was useless. The thick, balloon-like membrane covered his head and gripped around his neck, filling with a viscous fluid and sealing him inside it. With an audible snap it detached itself from the thing inside her that retreated back into her, and as a totally independent entity the balloon around his head set about the serious job of incubating its new contents.
By chance, or perhaps by inexperience, she lost her balance and fell backwards releasing him. In panic he rolled sideways away from her, clawing at the liquid-filled balloon over his head. His fingernails seemed to make little impression on its surface, although as if it were itself a living entity it contracted away from the scratching fingers, tightening around is head, squeezing and crushing harder and harder the more he clawed at it. The tightness of it around his neck was now choking him, and still it tightened.
He was becoming weaker when finally he managed to break it. Whether it was his persistence that paid off, or whether he managed to hit a weak spot in the thing that was simultaneously suffocating, drowning, choking and crushing him, he had no idea. All he knew was that it exploded into a mist of airborne fragments and tiny droplets, and he could breathe again.
He did not wait. Without even looking at the woman who lay on the bed with her eyes closed and gasping, he stagger from the room and away, as far away as his unsteady legs would carry him. He ignored the stares from men and women on the street who saw his disheveled appearance caught a glimpse of the reddened raw skin on his face. He never looked back.
*
The doctor consulted another doctor and then another. It was like nothing any of them had ever seen before. Although they did not quite believe her tale of what it did to men and how it seemed to be forcing her to do it over and over again, they agreed that it was a deformity and that an operation was possible.
She spent over ten hours on the operating table with six of the leading surgeons and a small army of support teams attending to her. When she awoke, they told her it had been a successful operation and that they had managed to remove the abnormality without doing any other damage. They recommended she should stay for three weeks in the hospital to recover and for fairly intensive therapy to restore her physical and mental health. Then they all rushed off to examine the strange growth they had removed from her, only to find that even in its deep frozen state they had placed it as soon as they had removed it, it had deteriorated to not much more than a pile of mush.
Three weeks later she saw the leading surgeon again.
“Are you ready to go home?” he smiled at her.
She nodded, smiling back and folding her arms, holding herself.
“No after effects?”
She shook her head. “I’m fine,” she told him. “I’m just fine.”
“All right then. You can go whenever you are ready. I’m very pleased we were able to help you.”
There was something just a little odd about her expression, he thought. He had seen all sorts of abnormalities in all sorts of people, some of whom he was able to help and some of whom were completely inoperable. The unusual and the bizarre no longer surprised him, and yet there was something about her particular deformity and something about the way she had reacted to it that worried him. There was nothing he could put his finger on, but there was something.
“You’re sure you are all right?” he asked again.
“Oh yes,” she assured him with a warm smile. “We’re going to be quite all right.”
She watched him as he left, her hands crossed over her belly with her palms flat against the warm skin of her lower abdomen. She would dress soon and leave. She rubbed her hands over her body. Yes, she would be quite all right. And in not more than a week or two it would have finished growing back inside her.
Oh yes. They would be quite all right...
***
Gary
"We don't know what it is."
"Oh my God! What's she trying to do?"
"All we know is that it picks certain people who do this... usually females."
"She's smothering him!"
"Yes. She will smother him with her vagina until he is dead, and even then it will take hours or sometimes days for her to realize he's dead. And if she were not here? She'd go out and do this sort of thing again and again like a machine. As she is here, we can stop it before it goes too far."
"And she's linked?"
"Yes."
"Why her and not others?"
"We don't know..,"
Dr. Ronald Wilkins was given the task of his career, of his life, when he was given access to the secret chambers of the Department of Defense and to an alien corpse they named "Gary" who, even in death, had specific influence on weaker human minds all over the world.
His brief was to investigate, and to find out why tens of thousands of woman in almost every country had suddenly started to facesit men and to smother them to death.
*
"What are you doing?"
The doctor had to wipe tears from his eyes. He had no idea why he was suddenly crying. He only knew that he was. He knelt down by her side like a father would, his face full of concern and saying ‘talk to me’. She turned her shoulder to face him, drips of perspiration falling from her long, curly blonde hair and beads pouring off her shoulders and down her naked breasts.
She danced, out of breath. "What?" she asked.
"What are you doing to him?"
"I have to teach him." Her eyes closed before she turned her stare back downward, reaching another climax.
"Teach him what?"
"Leave me alone."
Ron put a hand down on the cold concrete floor to keep his balance in his squatting position. The muscles in his calves were straining.
"Please talk to me, Mrs. Faraday."
"Leave me alone,” she whispered. “Oh... I have to teach him! OH! It's so beautiful... so beautiful..."
She grabbed tight hold of the man’s hair between her legs and pulled, rubbing hard and violently, letting the orgasm come, and releasing as it released her.
"I'll wait until she's done," he thought, and he watched in amazement. Surely this woman was insane?
And that little gray alien sends out a distress call with his mind (even in death), yelling for help from his fellow psychics. It has the effect of driving women insane.
The doctor discovered that this species had adapted the primitive parts of its brain into a kind of amplifier, which accounted for the primitive aspects of the message the women were receiving. Even so, its message was clearly visible and its message was easily understandable. Maybe it was like watching a DVD without having the DVD decoder. You might know the story and you might see it playing on the screen, but not one single frame of it makes any sense. This was the same. It was no more than psychotic gibberish, but it was sexual gibberish; a pure, raw, unadulterated sexual stream from beginning to end with a clear message.
The doctor gave up, not because he found the answer or because he found that he could not find the answer. He gave up because he found out why he was engaged for this unique research. He realized that the only interest the government had in the investigation was a military one. Telepathy and telekinesis would make wonderful weapons...
***
King Of The World
Jimmy is not the brightest young man on the block. In fact, his IQ is so far below the average that if it were not for him being an exceptionally nice and likeable person he would undoubtedly have become the target of abuse and unpleasant pranks that the more obnoxious youngsters tend to play on those less fortunate than themselves.
As it was, Jim was particularly fortunate. He was amiable, good looking and hard working, all of which more than made up for being somewhat lacking in the brain department. Everyone liked him and, eventually, that was the problem.
It all started when a new family moved into the old Wicker farm, a man, his wife and his sister. It was not more than a few days after they had settled in that Jimmy started to disappear for long periods, only turning up at home for meals and even then missing some of them altogether.
It went on for months, with Jimmy being totally vague (which was not unusual for Jimmy) when asked about his long absences. No one liked to question Jimmy too much about it. He always became upset and confused when asked to explain anything, and he was too much of a nice person for anyone to want to upset him. It was only when his elder brother, Donnie, turned up for Christmas and his mother mentioned it to him that anything started to happen.
Late at night, well after they had eaten and the rest of the family was in bed, Jimmy left the house. Donnie followed, on a mission to get to the bottom of where Jimmy was going and what he was doing. Out of the back door they went, Donnie moving silently and making quite sure that Jimmy had no idea he was being followed. The crisp, white, new snow crackled under their feet as Jimmy headed straight to the Wicker farm. Donnie crept around the back of the old building, peering over the window ledge into the lighted room.
"No, Jimmy. That's not the way I showed you."
"Huuuuuh?"
She pulled up her long summer's day skirt to reveal a bare naked and oozing woman's crotch.
"There," she pointed, and the skirt fell around him like the closing of a curtain.
Donnie watched, not quite believing what he saw. For hours his brother was used by this woman while her own brother and sister-in-law slept upstairs. Donnie shivered in the cold, but he was unable to tear himself away from the unbelievable scenes in that room.
Jimmy was happy, happier than he had ever been in his entire life. He had found something that he enjoyed, and more significantly he had found he could give pleasure to this woman in a way that she could have from no one else. He felt useful, important, and for once he understood completely what he was doing and why he was doing it.
Donnie, on the other hand, was heartbroken.
***
Persilla's Womb
Persilla was not a woman. She was not even a human. She was a creature who lived on a barren planet in the Feccece system somewhere around four hundred light years from Earth.
In her natural state, she was not a particularly pleasant creature. She buried herself in the desert sand and waited for someone falls down the sloping sand into her trap where the unfortunate victim was slowly digested.
But Persilla was also a changeling. She was able to assume other forms, and when food became scarce on her planet she started to look elsewhere and to examine the possibilities.
She had always been fascinated by what might lie beyond her own sandy domain, and for many years she had been listening to radio transmissions from distant planets. She knew there was technology out there far beyond her own purely biological capabilities, and that there were undoubtedly creatures – food – who had created that technology.
She sent out a distress call, hoping she had managed to make it believable, and she waited for her next meal to race across the vastness of space to “rescue” her from the wreck of a spaceship they would think had crashed on that dusty planet.
*
The man awoke in a panic, leaping from his bunk on the spacecraft.
“Where am I?”
Jim came running. “It’s OK. We found your ship and rescued you.”
“Where is she?
“Calm down.”
“Are you crazy? Where is she?”
“Where is who?”
“Persilla, of course. Where is Persilla?”
*