Famous For My Parts
I was an alien porn-star.
I got paid big money to fuck well-paid bitches from other galaxies, other solar systems. Worlds full of strange young things who were paid to smile happily up at me, as I did my thing.
I grew a scaly eighteen-inch cock to pleasure a super-intelligent colony of beetles in zero gravity; they saved my sexual fluids and refined the stuff into their honey hives, where it was sold online, with pairs of well-worn school girls’ underwear.
I got invited to exciting parties full of rich and famous people. I was expected only to be interesting, and to fuck. To fuck, interestingly. I told anecdotes about my various experiences as I plowed the host’s daughters in the ballroom. “The funny thing about Arcturian women,” I said, adjusting my angle of entry to make the girl squeal, “is that their middle cunt is actually the most sensitive of the three. The outer-holes are good for warming up, but when you really want results…”
I had a sickeningly thick lizard cock spliced overtop of my own for a season; I stuck that thickness into things that would’ve destroyed an ordinary piece. Strange fanged maws, and anal cavities dripping with caustic acids.
Having been rendered impervious to all diseases for a twenty-four hour period, I got it off with a whole star once, sinking a cybernetically-enhanced system deep into the molten surface of the thing. It devoured me, took me all the way in, like a perfect slutty sun. The fire encompassed me, and I lost myself, blissfully, into it.
My adventures were recorded, and sold in stores around the universe.
The fame wasn’t bad.
But the fucking was a professional level good time.