Contributor: Dusty Wallace
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It didn’t surprise me that the two little green men probed me, but I expected it to be with some sort of scientific tool. The long slimy green fingers did teach me one thing though, they’re cold-blooded. Very cold. My asshole was so frosty I barely noticed the smooth sounds of Lionel Richie. I’m not sure where it was coming from, didn’t see any speakers. No matter, even the velvety tones of “Say You, Say Me” couldn’t have warmed such a coldness.
Earlier that night, 7pm to be exact (Leave it to Beaver had just ended), there was a knock at the door. I rose from my couch for the first time in hours with a yawn and a stretch. Both legs were tingly from a day of marathon masturbation so I shook them out one at a time and started for the door. Before I made it halfway there was a huge flash. I knew it couldn’t have been lightning, it lingered too long like a fart in an elevator. The windows went dark again after a few seconds but not all had returned to normal. Glowing like a hot coal was the brass knob that opens my front door. I immediately grabbed it with my bare hand. As I suspected, the metal was extremely hot and skin was left behind, sizzling after I pulled away.
Hours of sitting combined with a sudden scare left me with an urgent need to urinate. Just as urgent was my desire to cool the flaming-hot door knob. Any half-wit could see the logical course of action and I’m nothing if not logical. So I used my unburned left hand to unzip and aim the golden stream at its fiery target. After nearly a half-bladder’s worth, the urine still boiled and steamed instantly when it contacted the brass knob. Only after I had been fully relieved was the metal safe to touch.
When I tugged on the door I realized it was already cracked open so I didn’t need to turn the knob after all. Outside was my corn field, illuminated by the full moon. It looked normal except for the enormous pattern of circles dotted throughout. A shiver of fear ran through my bones when I realized I’d have to pick the trampled corn by hand. To relax, I decided to sit back down and rub one out while watching “The Brady Bunch”. Oddly, an hour had went missing during my brief, yet eventful, trip to the front door. The gears in my head started turning. I knew exactly what this meant. “I Love Lucy” would be on.
The rich chocolaty voice of Ricky Ricardo lulled me to sleep. That was on the couch, but I woke up in my bed, paralyzed. My muscles were clenched, head aching. I fought hard to regain movement, but stiffness overwhelmed me as if I had an intravenous Viagra drip. Eventually I tired of the struggle. No, honestly I just got bored and fell back asleep. My dreams turned strangely erotic before being roused by frigid violation.
As the slender green digits slide in and out I couldn’t help but cursing myself for missing all the subtle clues. If only I had seen the hints I could have avoided this fate altogether.
The pencil and notebook I’m recording this with was supplied by my abductors. Their motives for this gift are unclear, but I’ve found it steers my mind from the constant humiliation of defilement. As I write, the two aliens have ended their probing and now stand in the corner of this square room. They must be having some kind of non-verbal conversation, communicating through touch, thrusting and rubbing their pelvises.
When the conversation is over they both light a cigarette. I’m floated back down to my bed in a bright beam of light. The first thing I plan on doing now is pulling my pants up. Next I’m going to grab a beer and head to the den. I’m pretty sure that episode of “The Brady Bunch” I missed is coming on again soon.
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It didn’t surprise me that the two little green men probed me, but I expected it to be with some sort of scientific tool. The long slimy green fingers did teach me one thing though, they’re cold-blooded. Very cold. My asshole was so frosty I barely noticed the smooth sounds of Lionel Richie. I’m not sure where it was coming from, didn’t see any speakers. No matter, even the velvety tones of “Say You, Say Me” couldn’t have warmed such a coldness.
Earlier that night, 7pm to be exact (Leave it to Beaver had just ended), there was a knock at the door. I rose from my couch for the first time in hours with a yawn and a stretch. Both legs were tingly from a day of marathon masturbation so I shook them out one at a time and started for the door. Before I made it halfway there was a huge flash. I knew it couldn’t have been lightning, it lingered too long like a fart in an elevator. The windows went dark again after a few seconds but not all had returned to normal. Glowing like a hot coal was the brass knob that opens my front door. I immediately grabbed it with my bare hand. As I suspected, the metal was extremely hot and skin was left behind, sizzling after I pulled away.
Hours of sitting combined with a sudden scare left me with an urgent need to urinate. Just as urgent was my desire to cool the flaming-hot door knob. Any half-wit could see the logical course of action and I’m nothing if not logical. So I used my unburned left hand to unzip and aim the golden stream at its fiery target. After nearly a half-bladder’s worth, the urine still boiled and steamed instantly when it contacted the brass knob. Only after I had been fully relieved was the metal safe to touch.
When I tugged on the door I realized it was already cracked open so I didn’t need to turn the knob after all. Outside was my corn field, illuminated by the full moon. It looked normal except for the enormous pattern of circles dotted throughout. A shiver of fear ran through my bones when I realized I’d have to pick the trampled corn by hand. To relax, I decided to sit back down and rub one out while watching “The Brady Bunch”. Oddly, an hour had went missing during my brief, yet eventful, trip to the front door. The gears in my head started turning. I knew exactly what this meant. “I Love Lucy” would be on.
The rich chocolaty voice of Ricky Ricardo lulled me to sleep. That was on the couch, but I woke up in my bed, paralyzed. My muscles were clenched, head aching. I fought hard to regain movement, but stiffness overwhelmed me as if I had an intravenous Viagra drip. Eventually I tired of the struggle. No, honestly I just got bored and fell back asleep. My dreams turned strangely erotic before being roused by frigid violation.
As the slender green digits slide in and out I couldn’t help but cursing myself for missing all the subtle clues. If only I had seen the hints I could have avoided this fate altogether.
The pencil and notebook I’m recording this with was supplied by my abductors. Their motives for this gift are unclear, but I’ve found it steers my mind from the constant humiliation of defilement. As I write, the two aliens have ended their probing and now stand in the corner of this square room. They must be having some kind of non-verbal conversation, communicating through touch, thrusting and rubbing their pelvises.
When the conversation is over they both light a cigarette. I’m floated back down to my bed in a bright beam of light. The first thing I plan on doing now is pulling my pants up. Next I’m going to grab a beer and head to the den. I’m pretty sure that episode of “The Brady Bunch” I missed is coming on again soon.
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Author:
Dusty Wallace
