Waking up this morning, Sabine thought she’d never be horny again, but here she was, not twelve hours later, taking the Metro home from work and feeling like a bitch in heat. This guy ends up in the seat just behind her—in jeans and a white T-shirt, the sexy Marlon Brando type from Streetcar Named Desire.

She thought about her dream, instead. Wow, what a dream! So weird and kinky it embarrassed her.

No special prelude. Just a quiet evening in her apartment—one glass of wine, she hadn’t smoked anything, and was pretty much out like a light when she hit the mattress. And usually, if she heard some voice in the darkness, it scared crap out of her, even if it was female and coming through the wall. This one had been male and right in the bedroom, but was so soothing and mellow, mesmeric, really, that she hadn’t felt afraid at all.

“You don’t know me Sabine, which I regret, because I’m sure we’d get along. It’s why I asked to be sent tonight.”

“Sent?” she said. “By who?” This seemed real but couldn’t possibly be.

“We have a bunker in the mountains and our disguises are good, but moving after dark is still much safer.”

“Bunker?” she parroted, dumbly.

“Yes, an exploration party. Our home planet orbits the star you call Bellatrix and a key strategy is mating with selected women here. DNA research shows it should work, and your name intrigued our cultural historian. You’ll be handsomely paid, too, don’t worry.”

“Not interested.” Dream or whatever, she should be screaming by now, and more so if it was real. Except for the continued calming effect of his voice.

“You’ll in no way be harmed,” he went on. “I daresay you’ll even like it. Ironically, we’re better constructed to please the women here than to please our own.”

She blinked and blinked, but her blackout drapes kept him invisible. “Because of my name?”

“No, mainly your phenotype,” he said. “The genes of a slender, well proportioned brunette such as yourself will be dominant over those for our greenish and somewhat scaled epidermis. I can see you perfectly right now, and I’m thought to be rather handsome myself.”

“Who cares what it looks like! And forget money! I’m not raising an alien baby.”

“We don’t want that. We’ll harvest any fertilized eggs...there are usually several...in a few days with a tiny suction device. You won’t even know we were here. Then $1,000 per egg will show up in your bank account. The problem is that our sperm degrades immediately with any exposure to your atmosphere, so it must be delivered directly.”

“This has to be a dream.”

“But it’s not,” he said.

She heard a rustling in the dark, and before she could flinch aside, an atomizer of some kind released vapor into her nose. “What was that?”

Alien Dreams continues...
Share: 
Share on Facebook
Share on Twitter
Share on Reddit
Pin It
Embed

About Bill Pieper


Follow
Bill Pieper is a voyeur and exhibitionist, perfect skills for writing fiction. To inspire novels or stories, he eavesdrops and spies on everyone he encounters, soaking up words, gestures, physical features and behavioral tropes. Then he writes it down, flips open his raincoat and exposes the whole sordid lot to...read more as many eyeballs as possible. So far, he hasn't been arrested for this, but everyone in his Northern California haunts agrees it's a matter of time. Links to all his published titles can be found at: http://www.authorsden.com/billpieper
6 comments
Discussion
  1 month ago
Fun read
  4 months ago
Fascinating story!
  7 months ago
Really good stuff
  12 months ago
Good stuff.
  2 years ago
Freaky. Kinky. Creative.
  2 years ago
Sexy and cool

People who liked this also liked

The Co-Ed with One Arm

Poem of the Week

Who Is Heat?

Story of the Week

BOMB

Poem of the Week

Who Is Heat?

Story of the Week

BOMB