Outpost Bisexual EditionChapter 3 Charity
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Outpost: Bisexual EditionChapter 4: Excursion free porn video
Once again, Schaffer awoke to a face full of fur. Sometime during the night, a pile of aliens had crept up on him, burying him at the bottom of another dogpile. They were so damned heavy, their oppressive weight squashing him down into the mattress. He was learning to identify the pack members by their unique markings now. Like a fingerprint, each alien had subtly different spots that patterned their coat. He recognized Osha lying beside him at the bottom of the mound, she had one long, fluffy arm draped across his torso. A few other pack members enclosed them in an impenetrable barrier of fluff. His face was pressing into the soft cushion of Osha’s bust, he had almost mistaken it for a feather pillow. His eyes lingered on them in the gloom for a moment. She wasn’t wearing anything, the aliens rarely did when they slept. Even during their daily routine, clothing seemed to be optional. Her warm breath ruffled his hair, its smell surprisingly not unpleasant, her chest rising and falling gently as she slept. Her breasts were as large as his own torso, smothering his face in a landslide of squashy fat lined with silky, inviting fur. She smelled ... good. Maybe he was just getting used to the aliens now, but there was something about her scent that tickled the back of his brain, it was confusing. They were aliens after all, completely distinct from humans, and yet similar in so many ways. Two of which were very obvious to him at that moment.
What if he just ... touched them? She was asleep, and even then, the aliens had no concept of personal space. He doubted that she would have cared. He delved his hand into one of her boobs gingerly, feeling the flesh give way and spread around it. Osha shifted softly, her breathing still regular. He dug a little deeper, his fingers sinking almost up to the knuckle, the warmth of her body goading him on. It was like sticking his hand into putty, or maybe warm dough, fresh out of the oven.
He withdrew, noticing the heat that was rising in his face and loins. Damn it Schaffer, what are you, some kind of xenophile? A couple of months without shore leave and this is what you’re reduced to? He banished the indecent thoughts from his mind, struggling to drag himself out of the pile. His thrashing woke Osha up, who tightened her hold on him in response, curling her arm around his torso and pressing him into her bust in earnest. The yielding globes encompassed his head completely, molding around his cheeks like melting wax. She blew warm air into his hair as he was buried in her cleavage, nuzzling the top of his head affectionately.
He grunted and complained, trying to slip out of her grasp and escape down her body towards where he assumed the foot of the bed to be, but she just hugged him tighter. Apparently, she had figured out that if she trapped him for long enough, he would eventually exhaust himself and stay still. She wasn’t wrong, and after a minute he relented, letting her manhandle him.
Osha was annoying, he would have to teach her some boundaries at some point, and yet it was hard to be angry with her while buried in her sweater meat. She was warm, and it felt good to be held, her powerful heartbeat and rhythmic breathing had a hypnotic quality. Might as well go back to sleep. It can’t be helped, he thought to himself as his eyelids began to droop.
The next time that he opened his eyes, most of the pile had begun their day, leaving him alone with just one alien. His head was resting on its soft belly like a pillow. He rose to a sitting position, yawning and stretching, then turned to see who it was. It was the short male, the runt. Schaffer felt a little weird about that. Sharing a bed with the females was one thing, but the cats didn’t seem too preoccupied with gender lines, the males were just as happy to join the mound as the females were.
Why should that be weird, though? These were aliens. He wasn’t attracted to them or anything, there was nothing sexual about this, right Schaffer? Right?
He slid out of bed and onto the dirt floor, his stomach growling, setting off in search of food. The meat hanging from the hooks above the fire pits was too high for him to reach, so he tracked down Zagza in order to enlist his help. The imposing alien was currently cleaning a rifle with a rag. It was long and ornate, it looked like an elephant rifle or something of the sort. It must be a very powerful, high caliber weapon suited to bringing down creatures like the one that he had seen them butcher the night before. It was decorated with intricate, finely carved patterns and figures along its length, depicting scenes of hunting and maybe war. The stock was wooden, but the barrel and the mechanical components were all made of pressed metal.
His curiosity became suspicion. Hang on, these aliens didn’t have the industrial capacity to make this kind of weapon, they didn’t have forges or factories. Their clothing was made of leather and bone, their fuel source was animal fat, and they lived in an archaic wooden longhouse. Where had they obtained these guns?
Zagza noticed that he was staring at it, seeming disturbed, his expression darkening as he covered the gun with the cloth that he had been cleaning it with as if it were a dead body. Schaffer was puzzled, did Zagza think that he wanted to steal it and use it on his hosts? He hoped not, although Zagza lacked the language skills to understand any explanation that he might give for his innocent interest in the gun.
Odd that the alien had been happy, almost gleeful to show him the other elements of their lives and daily routines, but that the weapons were seemingly off-limits. He’d worry about it later, right now he wanted breakfast.
“Zagza, food?”
The alien seemed relieved, exhaling and leading him back over to one of the fires. He reached up and sliced off a strip of smoked meat with his claws, passing it down to Schaffer.
“Thanks, big guy,” he said as he dug in. Zagza returned to his cleaning, while Schaffer sat beside the fire, finishing off his meal. After a few minutes of staring into the crackling flames while he ate his breakfast, the runty alien from the bed sidled up next to him and took a seat. It watched him for a while, until it became obvious that the creature was hungry.
“What do you want? There’s plenty of meat. Look,” he said, pointing at the flesh that dangled from the rafters. The runt looked at the meat longingly, then rose to his feet, demonstrating to Schaffer that he couldn’t reach it. He was too small, all of the other pack members were a good foot taller than him, and the hall seemed to have been constructed with that in mind. Perhaps he was a child, not fully grown yet? Or maybe he had just lost the genetic lottery. His fur was colored a little dirtier than many of the others, more grey than white, and he had tightly packed spots concentrated on his back and his limbs that almost made them appear black. He was still over a foot taller than Schaffer, but he was noticeably slight when compared to Zagza or Osha. In fact, every other alien that Schaffer had seen were giant, hulking beasts of fur and muscle.
Why didn’t he just fetch a larger pack member to help him? Schaffer looked around, the few aliens who weren’t out foraging or hunting did seem to be pretty busy. He finished off his food, rising to his feet and brushing soil off his pants. This one didn’t seem very talkative, and he needed a name, so Runt would do for now.
“Alright, I have a plan.” Runt watched him curiously as he gestured. “Lift me up,” he said, moving towards the alien. Runt seemed perplexed as Schaffer hopped on the spot, gesturing to the meat. After a moment, he seemed to get the picture, hooking his hands under Schaffer’s arms and lifting him into the air. Even though Runt was not dramatically larger than a human, there were basketball players as tall as he was, he was still exceptionally strong. He hefted Schaffer without difficulty, angling him towards the hooks, and the human pulled a hunk of meat loose. Runt lowered him to the ground and Schaffer passed it to him, the relatively small alien beginning to chew into it happily.
Runt seemed preoccupied now, and so Schaffer wandered off to see what else there was to do. He wasn’t used to being bored. The Pinwheel had a recreational facility with games and a bar, along with a lively social climate. Anywhere that he went on the station there was a touch screen or a computer monitor nearby, diversion only a few taps or clicks away. He had none of that now, and he didn’t seem equipped or capable enough to help out with any of the chores, Zagza had abandoned that idea pretty rapidly after the kindling episode. There must be something that he could do to make himself useful and to pass the time.
Zagza was cleaning guns, Runt was feasting, he didn’t see Osha or any of the males around. The two females who had made his fur suit were sitting at a table that had been pushed up against one of the walls. It would have been gloomy so far from the fire pits, but they had some kind of metal lamp in which a familiar, bright flame burned. It must be fueled by the same animal fat that they used for the pits. This was another item that Schaffer was certain they could not have made themselves, where would these simple people obtain the shaped glass that shielded the flame? They certainly had no glass blowing facilities in their hall. Glasswork, metallurgy, these techniques should be beyond them. They hadn’t salvaged these from the outpost either, these were not human designs. They must be trading with someone, perhaps the more developed Borealans who he had occasionally seen in human space? Did the traders come to the hall, or did the pack travel somewhere to barter? Perhaps the traders might have a way to help him, but it was going to be a pain in the ass to communicate what he wanted to Zagza.
He peeked over the edge of the wooden table, which was almost at head height to him, startling one of the women who then nudged her friend and pointed to him. They were doing crafts, apparently. At least these two seemed to like being clothed. Their garments were finely decorated, and they wore necklaces, ornate belts and all manner of jewelry.
They were making more, fashioning shells, beads and animal teeth into necklaces and bracelets. They worked diligently to fill a woven basket with completed trinkets, resting to one side of the workspace. They used their sharp claws to carve patterns into the softer materials, perhaps they were runes with some cultural significance, he couldn’t speculate. These were definitely not for their own use, there was enough jewelry here to deck out the pack three times over. These were intended for trade, had to be.
“What are you fine ladies up to today?” he asked, knowing well that they couldn’t understand him but wanting to be social all the same. The one nearest to him reached her long arm around the table, scruffing him by the neck of his furry suit like one would a kitten and lifting him off the ground.
“Hey, what gives?”
She placed him on her lap, her fluffy thighs soft and squashy beneath him, her bosom pressing against his back like the headrest of a plush armchair. She wasn’t as big as Osha, but her bust was still far larger than any human could have carried. Even though they were secured in her leather sling, the weight of them was still apparent as they pushed against him.
These damned aliens really had no respect for him, they threw him around as they pleased, like some kind of toy. He was sure they meant nothing by it, but he couldn’t help feeling ridiculous, sitting in the lap of a creature twice his size and fuming impotently in his alien onesie.
She seemed to want to demonstrate her craft to him, directing his attention towards the bead necklace that she was in the process of assembling. She held the beads and shells in her claws, slipping them onto the string to create repeating patterns. Emboldened by his boredom, Schaffer leaned forward, taking a string of his own and a handful of assorted beads. He began to copy the sequence, the alien who was serving as his seat looking over his shoulder curiously. Her neighbor was delighted by this, beginning to laugh as she watched him work. Schaffer tried to do it as quickly as possible, his small fingers less clumsy than those of the larger aliens, and the women seemed surprised by how quickly he mastered the process.
Before long he had made his own pile, outpacing his work partners and dropping the finished necklaces into the woven basket. They seemed grateful, the alien whose lap he was sat on beginning to groom him, dragging her sharp claws through his hair. He flinched away, but she wrapped her other arm around his waist, keeping him seated as the curved talons pricked his head. He began to protest, then relaxed as the sensation became enjoyable. Her touch was light, gentle, not enough to break the skin but enough to send pleasant shivers up and down his spine. His eyelids fluttered as she massaged his scalp, combing his hair. He leaned into her, exhaling happily as she crooned in his ear.
“Shoofa,” she whispered, followed by something unintelligible. Her low hisses and purrs were meaningless to him, but her voice was somehow soothing, low and deep yet distinctly feminine. He was starting to feel strange. The rhythmic sensation of her claws in his hair, her placating mumbling, the warmth and softness of her huge body as his hands found purchase in her downy thighs. He relaxed against her, her bust making a fine pillow, feeling as if he might fall asleep. As a combat engineer serving on a military space station, massages were not part of his daily routine.
The second female leaned in, rubbing her large head against his like an oversized housecat, pressing her pink nose into the nape of his neck. He felt her fluffy hand creep up on him, tracing his lips with the fleshy pad on her thumb, her fur tickling his cheek. He was zoning out, his mind becoming mushy and unfocused as his breathing grew heavier.
He felt heat on his neck, followed by the prick of sharp teeth pressing into his skin and the rough, wet texture of a tongue. He was jolted to his senses, pulling away from the alien’s exploratory mouthing. He slipped under the arm and down between the legs of the first alien, sliding under the table to make his escape. He reemerged on the other side near the wall, wiping the thick, warm saliva from his neck with his furry sleeve and eyeing the two women warily. One was laughing, the other seemed puzzled by his reaction.
“Schaffer is not food,” he insisted, wagging his finger at them. “Not food, no.”
His face was burning, he felt dazed, oddly aroused. These things just didn’t care about ... had no concept of...
Unable to formulate a coherent complaint and distracted by a guilty bulge in his suit, he made his way towards one of the fire pits, muttering to himself under his breath. You couldn’t just lick people, touch people without consent. Surely even their primitive, stone-age society had some kind of rules and boundaries that dictated social interaction. Yet as he sat by the fire, his heart still beating rapidly and his blood flowing to places that it shouldn’t, he looked back at the two females. They had left their seats at the table and were making their way towards the cots, shedding their clothing as they went.
Schaffer’s face turned red again as he watched the pair tumble onto a cot, not much more than a mass of shadows in the gloom. Their limbs were entangled, their hands roving, flashes of pink tongue visible between their locked lips as their bodies entwined.
He looked away and stared intently into the flames, his eyes wide as beads of sweat began to roll down his face, unrelated to the heat of the fire.
“What the fuck?” he muttered under his breath. What the hell was this? What were they doing? Were those two women a couple? A mated pair? Why would two females engage in that kind of behavior? Had they attempted to involve him as well? He couldn’t think straight, unable to process what he had seen and was now hearing as their soft, sultry vocalizations floated across the hall.
Why was he so intimidated by this? They were just aliens, after all, animals from his perspective. If he saw two dogs going at it during a walk in a park on Earth or one of the more verdant colonies, he wouldn’t look twice, and he wouldn’t be offended. They were so like humans, however. He was naturally inclined to apply human standards of behavior to them, but that was illogical. They were not human, they had their own set of behavioral standards, their own culture that apparently had nothing to say about public sex.
The sooner he got out of here, the better.
Zagza and his cohorts returned not long after, this time bringing back what looked like large, white rabbits with too many legs. It wasn’t quite the haul of the previous hunting trip, but they seemed content with it, and a few of the aliens set about skinning and preparing them. Schaffer was still a little on edge, unsure if what he had seen was normal behavior for the aliens or some kind of deviancy. Even if he had been able to ask about it, he probably would have been too embarrassed. His feelings were hard to justify, he had no right to apply his own standards to this alien culture, yet he couldn’t help himself. His own biases were so deeply ingrained, and his own sensibilities were set in stone.
He decided to occupy himself with trying to communicate with Zagza instead. He must formulate some kind of plan, a method to inquire about who the pack traded with and to explain that he wanted to meet them. He had a suspicion that this concept would be harder to convey than simply drawing shapes in the dirt and prodding them with sticks. Perhaps it was worth trying to teach Zagza more simple phrases, the giant alien seemed receptive to the idea. He also spread what he learned to the rest of the pack, which was incredibly convenient for Schaffer.
He approached the group of aliens, but he seemed to have caught them at a bad time. They were taking up seats around one of the fire pits, some of them dragging tables across the hall and placing them around the flames in a rough circle. The pack appeared to be gearing up for a feast. As if on cue, Osha and a handful of other females entered the hall through the main door, hefting the largest cuts of meat that Schaffer had yet seen. It was rigid, it looked frozen. This wasn’t a fresh kill, they must have a store of some kind outside. He knew from experience that the chilling air would be cool enough to refrigerate the meat and stop it from spoiling.
Osha dropped a particularly large hunk of flesh onto one of the tables with a crash, then looked around the hall, as if searching for something. She spied Schaffer, making a beeline towards him. Oh God, not this again. She hooked him in her arms before he could scurry away, and lifted him, carrying him over to the tables and setting him down on a wooden stool that was far too high for him.
The first chunk of meat was already being turned on a spit over the fire. The other pack members took up seats around the circle, eyeing the dripping, glazed food expectantly. The whole pack seemed to be in attendance, about fifteen of them, not including the one who was manning the spit. The meat roasted as it turned, browning attractively over the flames that licked at it like hungry tongues. Osha was sat beside him on his left, and Zagza was to his right. He felt like a dwarf, sandwiched between the two furry giants. He wondered if the two largest aliens were a couple, but he hadn’t seen any indication of that so far. There were more males than females around the table, although not by a large factor. Most seemed to be an average of eight-feet tall, with a few outliers like Osha and Zagza who were taller, and Runt who was shorter than any of them. The two females adorned in decorative jewelry were present, although they were sitting apart now, their previous romp apparently forgotten. There were two aliens with remarkably similar, no, identical patterning on their coats. Were they twins perhaps? They peered at him across the table, whispering to each other behind their hands.
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