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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Sci-Fi and Fantasy Erotica  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group

Two people who are literally from two different worlds. Intrigued by her biology and enamored by her soul, a man finds himself longing to submit himself to the woman he loves: Luna. A genetically engineered servant who was striving to start a revolution amongst her people, Luna has crash-landed on Earth and is rescued by Whittaker, whom she calls, endearingly, "Earth-Boy." Her longing to bond with Whittaker in a way that's somehow more intimate than the sex they've already had leads him to experience what it's like to be a Lunarian, one of the People of the Moon.

This could be the start of another novel, but I'm not sure. I'll see what the response is like! I've still got to finish Sadi and Mari!

She was Lovely. She was Starlight. She was nebulous sighs and exotic skies. It seemed he half-remembered her from a dream he had as a boy, but that couldn’t be right.

That couldn’t be right because he didn’t believe in prophecies and predictions.

And yet, here she was.

“Earth-Boy,” she whispered to him, lulling him with her voice as he lay there in the bed, “Earth-Boy, how I do love you…”

She came to him in a meteoric streak of light six weeks ago like an seraphim plummeting in a chariot of fire. The craft she’d been piloting—an old maintenance tug, barely fit for its original purpose, let alone atmospheric re-entry—had buried itself in four feet of swamp water and six feet of peat bog muck.

She was serendipitous. She was trepidatious. She was Luna.

“I love you, too, Luna,” he said to her, and watched as her eyes roved over him, taking in his features.

“You’re handsome,” she said to him in her lilting, Lunar accent, “You’re handsome in ways that are more than just your eyes or your hands…”

A surveillance craft banked outside their window, its running lights casting shifting bars of light across the bedspread.

She looked outside briefly—the fear she’d cultivated from years of trauma riven in every line of her lovely face.

Her features relaxed as the craft vanished just as quickly as it had come, diminishing in the distance like some kind of vassal of the late night, beholden to startling lovers in bed.

The haze of distant rocket motors aglow in the low-hanging cloud cover made the night seem ephemeral and full of the fevers of impending spring. The sounds of their sonic booms as they passed Mach 1 carried like thunder as the rockets themselves—bound for places beyond the Moon—didn’t so much lift up into the sky, but seemed as though they were being pulled into it.

“Think we’ll ever get there?” Earth-Boy asked Luna, and she ran her hands along either side of his face, cupping his cheeks as she held his gaze.

“With every breath we strive, lover…Earth-Boy…”

And she kissed him deeply, her palms rasping against his beard stubble.


His name was Whittaker and he was, indeed, an Earth-Boy. Never having been afforded an opportunity to board the rockets bound for the outer worlds, he was content to stay Earth-bound and eke out his living in the assembly plants that built the spacecraft.

He called her Luna, because her name he could not pronounce in her native tongue, though he loved the sound of it nonetheless when she whispered to him. Her language was not a vocal one—it was a whispering, sibilant language that reminded him of wind sighing through a sieve or shallow water passing over limestone bedrock.

“It’s from the time when my people were housed in incubators,” Luna explained, “And all we could hear for the first years of life were the sounds of the respirators with their diaphragms moving like bellows…swish…swish…swish…”

And then, she segued into the nuanced, lilting whisper-language that was a comingling of sighing sounds and whistles. And each sound with its own separate meaning, its own separate semantic.

It was as though her very breath was imbued with meaning.


“Love. Earth-Babe,” she said low, as she stood naked at the foot of the bed. Her body, bared to the light of the late night bustle of traffic beyond the window, writhed. She ran her hands up her hips, up to her chest, and held them there, her arms crossed over her bare breasts.

“Was it awful?” Whittaker asked as he saw the scars along her hip line, the needle tracks up her arms where so many intravenous lines had been placed over her lifetime.

Like a sorrowful child, Luna dropped her head, cut her eyes up to him and nodded slowly.

“I don’t get why,” he told her, “I just don’t get why.”

“They made us,” she said, “Beings conceived beyond the womb are owned by the Parlate. We are no more natural than the machines they use to carve out the caverns in the regolith.”

She indicated a vine-like length of scar tissue that bisected her lower belly.

“They take it out of us…every year, they take it out…” she said. There was shame in her voice.

“What?” he asked her, “What is it that they take out?”

She whisper-swish-spoke a word, light as a breeze passing over cobwebs. He shook his head. He didn’t understand, of course.

“Uterus,” she told him flatly, the word foreign on her lips, “Uterus.”

God, he thought, enraged at the inhumanity of it.

“That way,” Luna continued, “We don’t make our own babies. That would mean that the babies would grow up and have rights. A population without rights is easily controlled…”

Her careful, child-like enunciation betrayed the inner intelligent that she possessed.

“It grows back after ten months or so. And then, they do it all over again. They tried, once, to make us so that we didn’t grow them at all…but those ones…”

She stepped towards the bed. Sat on the edge of it, her back to him. He could see the little spicules of color tracing the musculature along her spine. Human, but not quite.

“Those ones didn’t live long. But they weren’t what I would call alive…”

Overwhelming sorrow crept into her voice. She shuddered. He could only imagine what she witnessed.

“I want to say I’m sorry,” he managed to tell her at last, “But I don’t think that’s enough. And I think you know that.”

She laid back, her skin rasping against the silken sheets. She writhed. Rolled over onto her stomach. Crawled up until she was alongside him.

“It’s called The Merging,” she whispered.

He had been curious about it—had heard what it entailed. Had heard about how the Lunar-Folk had been engineered to breed.

“It’s called the Merging and I have to take all of you. All of the time,” she told him. She switched her eyes back and forth, looking from his face to his bare chest, down the length of his naked body and back up again.

“How long does it take?” he asked her because he yearned to know.

“You’ll be…”

She searched for the word.

“In Middle-Sleep,” she said at last. He loved the little idiosyncrasies of speech that arose from her translating on-the-fly from her native tongue to English. It took creativity. She had been a writer before she had come here. One of seditious writ, sowing the seeds of an uprising. Inciting the other Lunar-Folk to fight back.

“Awake,” she continued, earnestly, “But not all the way…”

He nodded. A rocket’s hot exhaust flared up like candleflame beyond the window. Another lancing, gleaming needle to pierce the hide of night and cloud and diffuse moonlight.

“Alright,” he said, concurring, “Alright, then. I want you to have this. To have me.”

She smiled dreamily.


She ran her tongue along his inner thighs. He shut his eyes and let her. Listened. Felt one of her pendulous breasts brush up against his leg as her eagerness made her pant. She caressed him, raked her fingernails across his skin. Flattened out her hands and inched them up his abdomen.

He shuddered, erect.

She countered by massaging his hips. Cupping his scrotum. Breathing hotly on the head of his cock without touching it.

“I’ve got to get you hard,” she whispered, “I have to have you deep inside of me for it to take.”

A fleeting panic set in—what if it hurt? What if the peculiarities of her unusual biology hurt him?

They’d made love before, but she’d held back. Had suppressed the fullness of herself.

But it couldn’t hurt.

This felt too good.

Her hair dragged across his pelvic area, bristling. Dragging across his untamed, wild, wiry tuft of pubic hair. Precum oozed, dripping on his lower belly. He felt it, and this redoubled his sense of pleasure. She savored it, taking her tongue and raking it across the tip. Sampling it like a syrup.

“Too much for me,” she muttered, teasing before taking in a mouthful of him.

She huffed around his shaft, exhaling before tightening her lips and sealing skin-to-succulent skin. She sucked deep. He felt himself pass over her tongue, deep into her throat which contracted against his stiff penis.

He hardened to the point of it being painful. Felt the pinprick of something on the underside of his cock as the tiny barbs in the back of her throat pricked his skin.

He knew what it signified, but it didn’t terrify him in the least.

She had explained it all to him beforehand. Already, the chemicals in those glandular sacks along either side of her throat were pumping chemicals into him.

“You’ll be hard for the three days,” she told him, “And you’ll make more sperm to the point that I’ll have to milk you every four hours.”

“And if you don’t?” he’d asked her.

“I don’t know. But I wouldn’t want to risk it…”

There was a spreading warmth that moved from the tip down to the base of his shaft. Subdermal. Coursing. Flowing with his blood.

She lifted herself off of his shaft, trailing prodigious amounts of seminal fluid from her lips. She swallowed. Hummed in delight.

Another rocket went off, casting bursts of orange across her breasts. As she moved up the length of his body, he could see the oily secretions trailing from each nipple.

It both excited and intrigued him.

“Here,” she said, taking both of his hands and encircling her areoles with his fingers. She used his hands to massage her breasts for a beat, before reaching down and stroking him.

He kept rubbing, kneading her pliant breasts. The oily secretions warmed under his touch. In his groin, he noticed a building pressure along with the warmth, and the warmth gave way to a fever.

“Do you feel it?” she asked, salacity and mischief agleam in her eyes, “Can you feel what I’ve given you pulsing deep down in you?”

He nodded. She reached even further down. Caressed his ballsack. In spite of the fever of passion in her body, her hands felt cool to the touch against his throbbing flesh.

“Oh yes,” she said with a sexual voraciousness he’d never seen before, “Yes. That’s it. You’re getting there.”

And in one swift movement, she grabbed hold of his cock, slipped it in between her sweet-silk labia, and slid down on him till his tip—attuned to every sensation, hyper-sensitive and bobbing with his heartbeat—pushed against her cervix.

He was deep. He was hard. He was erect almost to the point of pain. But her inner warmth and fluid walls soothed him. He didn’t want to pull out.

It was more than just sexual desire. It was comfort. It was being pulled up into her and squeezed all at once.

“It won’t take long,” she whispered to him, “And that’s okay. Because I’ll make up for it over the next three days.”

He felt the writhing tendril of sensation as more tiny barbs in the face of her cervix hooked into his foreskin.

“Jesus!” he said, shocked, but she pressed her hands on his chest as he tried to rise up. Shook her head as she bobbed in rhythm with her gyrations.

“Don’t,” she said, “It won’t take long…”

And he succumbed to this fresh batch of chemicals as they made their way through his bloodstream. This was more than the sex they’d have before in the past. This was frighteningly powerful. Deep. Unsettlingly intimate.

And, he had to admit, it was entirely alien to him.

He felt the barbs hook deeper, but it didn’t hurt. A scintillating ripple of glacial coolness settled into his testes.

“Yes. You’re getting bigger. That’s it. That’s what I need,” she moaned, and he felt his girth pushing against her vaginal walls. Swelling. Engorged more than his human side could have ever hoped for. It was the pinnacle of his raunchiest wet-dream fantasies. The culmination of every sexual longing and desire. All condensed down, brought out, the basest part of his animal self dragged to the forefront.

The trickling oily substance from her erect nipples became a sluice. He ran his hands down over her hips, the secretions having the aroma of hazelnut and cinnamon. Starbursts of pleasure touched off in his brain as the pheromones triggered feelings of nostalgia, lust, love, and hunger.

“Wont. Take. Long…” she said, punctuating each thrust with her words.

His body, wreathed in ecstasy, bound by bands of penultimate pleasure, twisted and bucked beneath her rocking hips as she rode him.

“Wont. Take. Long. Won’t. Take. Long.”

It became her mantra, the metronome by which they ground into one another. When before, climax for him had been something that slowly built, right now it was as though his very biology had been hijacked.

She broke her gyrating rhythm just long enough to lean down. Stare him in the eyes—soulful and willful and deep and ravenous—and kiss him.

Those tiny barbs. Those microscopic miniscule barbs. They rasped against his tongue. Pricked the back of his throat. Hooked into the roof of his mouth.

It was an electrical shock that shot straight into the base of his skull. As she lifted herself up, she thrust three more times before he came.

It was a fountain of white, sticky substance that filled her up, trickled out, coursed in viscous rivulets over his inner thighs and scrotum. He bucked against her.  

He emptied himself into her. Hard. It reminded him of his first orgasm with his first girlfriend. Unexpected in its intensity. Unanticipated in the quantity.

His lower abdomen spasmed and his cock jerked inside her.

She let out a satiated growl. Said something in her whisper-speak language that came lilting to him like billows of white frost in the stifling confines of the bedroom.

He lay there, thoughtless, lost in the bobbing, fluidic rise and fall of his own contented cognition.

She leaned forward, placing her head on his chest, his swollen member still inside of her as his semen continued to drizzle out in profusion.

“It starts,” she said, “It starts.”


He was in a kind of delirium as she carried him into the bathroom. Laid him down in the tub of solution that she’d prepared.

“You’re not a Lunar man, so I’ll have to give you this. Just like we talked about…” she said to him as the warmth that had begun in his groin was spreading rapidly like hot glass to the other parts of his body.

Whittaker had gone out and bought the intravenous setup from his cousin, who was a nurse practitioner, for this very purpose. And now, as he watched Luna, he fell in love all over again with her lithe fingers, her lily-white skin, the semi-circles of pink along her cuticles and the mottling of color along her navel and spine.

She stood, and he could see his semen glistening on her legs. She didn’t seem to mind. She hadn’t wiped it off.

As he let himself slip deeper into the bathtub, deeper into the immersion, she located the vein in his arm and quickly pricked the IV in, slipping in the small, hair-like plastic tube.

“This’ll keep you hydrated,” she said, “Just make sure you eat what I bring you. Even though you’re not gonna want to. All you’re gonna want do is fuck and sleep…”

He chuckled numbly.

“Then not much different than my normal self,” he joked. She smiled down at him, genuinely warmed by his humor.

“I hope they don’t find us,” he told her.

Her warmth faded, replaced by the stark realization that reality—and, indeed, those who were searching for them both—lay just outside the walls of this tiny apartment.

“They won’t. I promise…” she said with all the reassurance of a mother with her child.

She leaned down, her breasts dangling over the edge of the tub, flesh touching the cool ceramic lip.

“I’ve always wanted a child, my Earth-Boy. Always,” she said, “And we’re going to have one. I assure you. I promise. And no one in this universe will stop us. I love you. And you love me. And that’s all we need…”

With that, Luna patted her lower belly as though there were already something gestating down there.

And who knew? Perhaps there was. But she would still take him in every four hours for the next three days. The gentle lovemaking of before had gone, replaced by this raucous, head-pounding, sex-hungry fucking.

He was vulnerable. He was exposed. He didn’t feel like his normal self.

In fact, he felt better. Sleepy. Dreamlike. His semi-erect cock perked itself up above the surface of the solution she’d made to keep his body from overheating. The pumps whirred softly, stirring the liquid in swilling currents against his naked skin.

And somewhere, in that sound, he could almost hear the whisper-speak. The fluttering, breezy, breathless language that she spoke. And he could see just how, in those solitary hours, as her people sat stewing in vats, just how lonesome things could be.

And how lovely the company of another was.

He waited with longing for her to return.



Submitted: January 22, 2023

© Copyright 2023 Aurora M. Soleado. All rights reserved.

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Amy F. Turner

I am intrigued by the scifi-spin of this tale because it is so rarely seen with this degree of literary sparkle. However, anything you care to write has a prose that easy and delicious and you, of course, only crave more of it. As for the story, I am curious to know how they met and what sparked their love affair. Why does he want a child with the alien as much as she? With so much danger abound why take such a monumental risk? She sounds like a freedom fighter and such a life does not sound like one conducive to a family or children. However, the heart wants what it wants, I suppose, no matter the species. The premise here is a tease shiny on snippets of truly a thought-provoking theme and I love those. Would love to learn more of this futuristic realm where humans have taken to the stars and live off-world while others remain behind. To what end? Has society changed so much? So many questions. :)

Mon, January 23rd, 2023 1:30am


I agree with Amy. This was a wonderful tale and it brings many questions to mind. How did they get together and how long has it been? Did she seduce him with anything but her body and her beauty? What would their child be like - human or lunar? Does she feel the same euphoria with his climax as he does?
Is the purpose of producing more semen just to facilitate pregnancy? And how will she go about "draining" him every four hours? What if she doesn't? Can't wait for more...

Mon, January 23rd, 2023 3:09am


Wow! What a super creative way to imagine sex with an alien, or sort of alien. It could be a scene from the Expanse, if you've ever seen the show. I think this has the potential to be made into a book. I'd read it. Nice job.

Tue, January 24th, 2023 12:28am

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