On Alternia, being able to get off quickly and efficiently with a range of partners was a high level survival skill. Genetic material didn’t last forever, so when the news came that the Imperial Drones were on their way a troll had better be able to produce a bucket of the stuff with whoever happened to be convenient. Vriska considered herself a master of this ability, and her secret lay in a certain forbidden technique.

Vriska liked to practice getting off by herself. She had trained her body to be able respond within only a few short moments of initiating a rut with another troll, no matter which position she took in a mate. Thanks to the power of imagination and practice, it didn’t matter if it was her own blue, squirming bulge invading the body of a struggling partner, getting her nook stretched and her pistil milked from inside as another troll pinned her, or both of their bulges locked in writhing and pumping embrace– one way or another a bucket would be filled, and quick.

Of course, the very idea that she’d work on this ability alone was what was highly illegal. Alternian society considered genetic material too precious to waste, and pumping it out without a partner secreting any mating hormone to activate it was by definition, wasteful.

Vriska dumped the useless stuff into her recuperacoon’s waste pump when she was done.

Like many of her crimes, Vriska had gotten the idea for this one from her prized possession; her ancestor Mindfang’s journal. The book contained many long, steamy passages detailing the pirate’s intimate encounters and eventually Vriska had simply been unable to resist opening the zipper on her jeans and letting her bulge snake out and wrap its way hungrily around her fingers.

The first such passage to do it to her was one detailing her ancestor’s treatment of some captured slave.

*

I grab her by the collar and lift her whole body with my strength, feeling her struggling and squirming for a moment as her feet leave the ground and her full weight tugs the collar against her breathing tubes making her choke and gasp.I let the fear in her mind entertain me for a moment before pressing her against the curved wall of the ship, letting the pressure on her throat ease. The other prisoners are watching as I tear off her clothes, leaving her naked, the heat of her low blood palpable in the cool of the hold. Despite her terror I can see the tip of her bulge peeking out from from the pad of her nook. She knows what I’m about to do.

Still fully clothed from my hat to my boots, I lock her wrists in chains secured to the wall, letting her hang there, miserable and deliciously vulnerable as my gloved fingers undo the laces on the front of my trousers. I do not pull them down. It’s not an intimacy that a captured slave is owed; certainly not in the first flower of my passion. My cerulean member curls out from the small opening, coaxed by my fingers like a shy serpent to its full and magnificent coiling length. It’s an almost arm length bastard of a bulge, my pride, thicker than a fist as it exists the nook and narrow as a whip at the tip. Despite her brave face her mind betrays that it intimidates her. She is horrified to be milked by such a thing– and in full view of her fellow captives.

I press my mouth to hers, invading it with my tongue in a pale reflection of the way my writhing bulge seeks out her nook, slithering up the hot flesh of her thigh, and over the pad of her nook as it searches for her entrance. I bite hard at her mouth, spilling hot blood as I feel my coil find its sheath, the narrow end of it beginning to slither into the hot, slick passage of her body. She moans, quivering beneath me and my nails dig into her flesh as my length buries itself in her soft insides. Hip to hip my bulge stretches her open as the end of it seeks out the delicate and pliable length inside her, and curls around it, embracing her pistil in a mating squeeze.

She becomes putty in my hands as I grip her inside, my bulge starting to writhe and pump at her pleasure stalk. I can feel her own bulge fully descended now, slick and half limp as it gropes weakly at my thigh, desperate for the purchase that I deny it. It amuses me for her to tie herself in knots while I pump her– part of the reason I have bound her delicate wrists over her head.

She makes small, desperate noises as I ravish her, her body slipping, arching her closer to me as if she can’t possibly get enough of my bulge inside of her. I am almost still, save for my mouth and nails, biting and clawing at her as my coil works its wicked way inside her, the desperate pumping and squeezing working the both of our bodies into fever pitch.

She screams raggedly into my mouth when my bulge finally forces her pistil to release its flood. The sheer animal desperation of it is enough to drive me over the edge as well, and my bulge squeezes hard around her quivering organ releasing its own torrent inside her. I can feel her naked belly bloat against me with the swell of our union. My own body flooded with passion, I have just enough presence of mind to nudge a nearby pail beneath her before my bulge releases, and the intimate infusion is released from her still quivering body, painting her thighs….

*

Vriska had been painted blue herself after that first solo escapade. Her bulge had crawled all the way up to her forearm, tightly coiling and pumping it uselessly as she read on, breath heavy. The clean up afterwards had been arduous and embarrassing. She was just glad– and lucky– she had avoided getting any on the journal.

Embarrassing or not; illegal or not; it had been the best release of the cerulean’s young life, and she intended there to be more like it; both in the realm of personal fantasy, and actual pailing. Thus she began the chronicling of her own journal; the Intimate Encounters and Erotic Fantasies of One Vriska Serket.

Vriska Serket never passed up the opportunity for melodrama.When the idea occurred to her to start recording her personal fantasies, it was unsurprising that she aimed right at the most scandalous of taboo reveries, daydreaming up a passionately flushed encounter with the very empress of the troll trace, tyrant of star systems, Her Imperial Condescension.

Vriska’s pen scratched at paper while her off-hand was otherwise occupied.

*

I wasn’t expecting a summons from Her Imperious Condescension on the evening before my initiation trials, but I decide it is an honor. Some grubs might think the empress planned to eat them or something, but I walk the way with curiosity, not terror.

The imperial drones allow me to pass onto the great ship that returns to Alternia so rarely. I am given directions to Her Condescension’s chamber, and every crewman who sees me on my way looks at me in awe. I am too young, and too dashing, without a uniform on. Who is this presumptuous troll?

I arrive at the massive double doors near the heart of the ship, and I put my hand on the comm to tell her I’m there. It buzzes, and I hear her sultry voice command me to come in as the doors part.

Her personal boudoir is striking and handsome, all organized around a large central pool At first I don’t see her, but then there’s a great swell of blackness in the pool, her hair, which comes together as she rises from the water, naked except for the shroud of her dark locks. The curve of her body is on display, her vibrant fuschia gills fluttering gently on her long neck and along each side of her torso. The soft pink nubs of her wiggler marks are prominent in four pairs down her chest and stomach. Her golden eyes are fierce and her grin is a fiendish slice of razor sharp teeth across her face. She towers over me, looking down from my height plus half.  For just a moment I entertained the idea that she maybe does plan to eat me.

The Condescension beckons me forward and tells me she’s been waiting for me. She’s heard of my exploits and she’s impressed– very impressed. My trial is to be a personal one. I’m already glowing with pride when suddenly she commands me to strip.

My trial is to be personal, and intimate.

I’m troll enough to admit to myself that this command is both thrilling, and mystifying, and a little demeaning, but of course I obliged her. You don’t say no to Her Imperial Condescension in her own chamber. I start to strip for her, shedding my jacket first, and then the black shirt with my blood sigil on it.I can feel the weight of her gaze on me, appraising my body as I bare it, young and narrow and strong. Her eyes linger on the ragged pale scar tissue where flesh joins the metal of my robot arm. Does she see my survival as a sign of strength, or my prosthetic as a sign of weakness? I can’t read her, and it makes me feel uncertain. 

I pull off my shoes and my pants and I stand there naked in front of her, wondering what she’ll do with me. Does she have flushed intentions? Caliginous? Even pale perhaps? I consider the possibility that she can read my mind as she snickers and beckons me closer to where she’s standing on the edge of the pool. 

Unused to obedience I step forward nonetheless. She’s radiant, and intimidating. Nothing she wants to do to me would rape; I want to give her whatever it is she desires. I find myself thinking of all the atrocities I’d be glad to commit at the word of this dark tyrant.

She grabs my chin in her claw like hand, sharp fuchsia nails biting into my cheeks and jaw. I guess she must paint them with the blood of her fallen heirs. I look up at her, opening my mouth, ready to dare to speak when she loops her other arm around my waist and pulls me suddenly into the water with her. 

I gasp in surprise- the water is cold enough that it will take a moment for my body to adjust. Cold enough that it might outright kill a lowblood who stayed submerged too long. I’m shocked by the sudden gesture as well as the water, and shocked again as the empress pushes me up against the side of the pool and hungrily presses her mouth to mine. 

We’re kissing before I can even begin to think about it, our lips and tongue entangled as her smooth, strong body pins me pins my wiry form. Her nails dance down my back and shoulders rather than tear and I realize with heady embarrassment that she wants me flushed. Her Imperious Condescension has deigned to turn her red attentions on me. I feel a swell of tender pity of my own as her hungry, eager kisses tell me how lonely it is to rule the stars.

Gentle as her attention may be, comparatively, the enormous seadweller hardly gives me a moment to breathe, and I suck in air between kisses like a drowning sailor bobbing above the waves and down again. Her torso’s gills are submerged, my lover doesn’t need such trifling luxuries as breath. 

I dare to put my hands on her, careful, and ready for any hint of objection. My fingers trace gently over the delicate pink gill ridges; careful not to block them or dig in my nails. I can tell the touch excites her as her lips leave mine and start to bite and suck at the curve of my neck. It is a feat for those razor teeth not to draw my blood, but she manages it, and I squirm against her in pleasure.

I feel a tease of something only slightly warmer than the cold water press against my thigh, squirming its way down my leg and realize that the Condesce’s bulge has emerged. I can feel my own, throbbing just at the edge of my nook as if shy to show itself before the grand guest. As her vivid fuchsia member squirms against my flesh I realize that its underside is covered in a dense mass of short, slightly firm bristle-tendrils somewhat like those of an anemone. They tickle as they slide over my leg and up my stomach and I wonder if they are a seadweller trait or exclusive to a fuchsia. I wonder too if they would sting me if our union were black. 

As we kiss and caress one another in the water, her bristled bulge slithers lower and pets the nook between my legs, teasing it and urging out my own shy, squirming member. She pulls me lower in the water, almost up to my jaw, but I’m too busy and too aroused to protest. I cling to her body as my bulge curls through the water seeking out the faint heat of her body. Its tip curls around the base of her throbbing coil and I am startled by how thick it is. The hot desire for her to split me open with it passes through my mind and I am sure that she can read my mind when the fingers-thick tip of it presses against my quivering nook, my own bulge even now wrapped in a complicated tie around the base of it. The flexible coil slithers deeper and deeper into my body, tickling the bottom of my nook with its soft bristles, the smooth top of it massaging the underside of my extended bulge’s sensitive base. The whole experience is nearly overwhelming. 

I wrap my legs around her torso, just below her gills, stretching to allow her massively thick coil into my soft, desperate nook. It is not often that I allow myself to be invaded this way, and I can feel my body strain to accommodate Her Imperious Organ. 

I’m moaning in her arms. My body already feels as full as if she’d emptied her torrential load into me with just the squirming member of her bulge inside me.  I feel it latch on to the sensitive stalk inside me, curling languidly around it before tightening in a way that choke with the sudden, squeezing pleasure. I wriggle against her, arching my hips for every bit of her length as she takes me and I hear her chuckle softly in my ear. 

Suddenly, she pulls me under the water. I stiffen and struggle for a moment in shock, but she presses her mouth to mine again, and passes me air from her gills through out kiss. 

Beneath the water the Condesce uses my body completely, her coil throbbing around my swollen pistil, pumping and stroking it as it fills. I feel my pleasure swelling and my mind blanking. I have no concept of time or how long she keeps me in our sunken embrace, the desperate pleasure of it overtaking me absolutely as she holds me against her towering form. 

She releases first, her massive bulge squeezing me inside like a vice grip and flooding my belly with her imperial genes. The hot, swelling flood is the final sensation it takes and my stalk unloads, dumping my own flood into bloat my insides further as my body shakes and arches stiff with the sudden, almost backbreaking heave of pleasure. 

After a moment of quivering languor through our long moment of pleasure, she drags me up for air and I let her pull my limp body onto the tiled floor of her boudoir. She snaps fingers and a drone appears to offer a bucket. Its solid gold and jewel clad. After I’ve filled it, she lets me lay for a while in her arms. What will happen afterward, I’m not sure. But I’m not worried either. 

*

Flushed was certainly how one would describe Vriska when she managed to get to the end of her writing. This time at least she’d managed to remember a bucket for herself, and cleanup was noticeably easier. It seemed to her that this was an excellent way to start a very bad habit.