Page 9 of Monsters in Love: Lost in the Stars

Twyla

In all my years as a galactic trader, traveling to the strangest little corners of space, I’ve seen a hell of a lot of things. But this is unusual, even for me. Then again, it’s not often I get dispatched to the Outer Rim, aka the aptly-named sex trade corner of the galaxy.

The building in front of me is low and long, the sign on the front a pulsing neon pink. It reads “PROBE” in block letters, though the right leg of the R is extended through the O and ends in the shape of a phallus. Just in case you aren’t sure what this place is, I guess. Nothing like a dick on the sign to indicate that PROBE sells sex.

A block away is a place called Orion’s Belt, a fetish club for bondage and spanking enthusiasts. Not far from there is a joint called The Black Hole, and I really have no idea what happens there. I’m not sure I want to, and I think I’m just grateful that it’s not called The Pink Hole. Though, there is a popular spot not far from here called The Pink Peach, which is another club for all things spanking. I guess that’s all the rage in these parts. If I had the time, I might check it out, just to see what the fuss is about.

None of that has anything to do with my job tonight, though. Tonight is all about PROBE.

Inside is dark and smoky, with pulsing music. A shiny veil to cover the dirty activities that go on here. I reckon in the daytime, it’s not so pretty and probably requires a hell of a lot of cleaning and sterilization. But right now, at night, I can see the appeal, exactly as I’m meant to.

I slink in, pay the charge, and lean against the wall, taking in the surroundings. The women working here are nothing like me; they’re soft and curvy, their pretty heads topped with long hair, tendrils, and tentacles. They’re all silky flesh and come-hither eyes, and I stick out like a broken leg in my beat-up leathers and hair that’s barely long enough to pull into a stub of a ponytail. I’m too tall, too lean, too muscular. Nobody ever made the mistake of calling me feminine, that’s for damn sure.

This part of PROBE is the sex club, where anyone willing to pay the cover can mix and mingle to their heart’s content. Couples can come here to play, and singles looking for a partner are basically guaranteed to find someone to hook up with. It’s stocked with toys and tools for every conceivable kink, and as long as no money is exchanged, basically nothing is off limits.

Music thumps from hidden speakers, a sultry beat that I guess is perfect to fuck to. Hanging incense burners create a haze in the air, perhaps a nod to privacy, which is sort of laughable. No one here cares about that. The heady, sweet scent of the smoke mingles with the smell of sex, creating an interesting—and not entirely unpleasant—aroma.

A hostess in ethereal white floats up to me. “Care for a drink?” she asks, and I nod. The scents, the sights, the sounds…I’m surrounded by sex, and I need something to distract me from it all. That’s not what I’m here for, technically, but it’s impossible not to be affected by it. I’m just glad the leather of my sleeveless top conceals the fact that my nipples are already hard.

“Whisky. Double. Neat.”

She nods and glides away, literally hovering a few inches off the ground (what species can do that ?), and I resume my perusal of the club. There are chairs, benches, beds, wall shackles—anything and everything you could need for any possible sexual position. Some females are cuffed to the wall as men pleasure them, the women’s feet locked open by spreader bars. There are men reclining on sofas as women ride them, males fucking other males, females licking females, threesomes, foursomes…the sounds of pleasure, soft moans and loud groans, rise over the throbbing beat of the music.

It's…a lot.

None of it seems fake or performative. Just people who are desperate for pleasure, soaking up ecstasy anywhere they can find it. If I were less busy, or perhaps less uptight, I might consider joining in. But that’s not why I’m here.

I could stay and watch if I wanted—they cater to voyeurs the same as everyone else—but my business is elsewhere. I collect my drink from the hostess as she floats by again, and make my way to the other half of the club. This area is deemed “Escort Exhibits,” but that’s just a fancy name for a brothel. A lavish one to be sure, though. It’s set up like a natural history museum, but the dioramas are real, each with an alien lounging within a glass enclosure that mimics their natural home.

The music here is softer, a gentle beat like the patter of rain. Absent are the censers and haze, along with the sharp, musky odor of sex. In fact, there’s virtually no scent here, because this isn’t a feast for the senses. This is all for the eyes. A place to look, shop, take your fill. And then make your purchase.

It’s designed to be beautiful, and it is. It’s nearly breathtaking, both in its variety and in its subjects.

An iridescent-purple amphibious male preens in a rainforest setting, while a cat-like humanoid basks on a rock in a desert habitat. Something pink and unidentifiable—but gorgeous—with tentacles floats in a water-filled chamber, undulating seductively. I pass a huge green male with tusks and three enormous cocks jutting out, proud and pulsing. I don’t know how anyone, male or female, regardless of species, could possibly handle those. Each one is as big as my arm. But I guess they do, because there are three aliens in line at his enclosure. From something sparkling silver and amorphous to a pair of beguiling humans, each creature (or creatures) in the exhibits is a perfect representation of their species, the best their kind has to offer.

But only one catches my interest. His skin is vacuum-black, the kind that makes it hard to see exactly where his edges are. A living singularity with his own personal event horizon. His eyes shift from red to orange to gold, fiery jewels that stand out against the ebony skin. Under my scrutiny, he solidifies slightly. He’s nearly twice my height and double my width, with muscles stacked on muscles. His dark hair is twined back from his face and spills down his shoulders in a series of knots and twists.

I may not know every alien species out there, but there’s no mistaking what he is: a Void Lord. Void Lords are an unusual type of alien—extremely powerful, particularly with their given gift, and from a planet that is deadly to most other lifeforms. It’s rare to encounter one, and even stranger to see one in a place like this.

I walk up to his enclosure, curious about the way it mimics his homeworld. Much like him, it’s hard to really see anything. Just a heavy blackness that slithers around as if it has a life of its own. He continues to shift forms, humanoid one second, amorphous the next. The only constant is his glowing eyes, which never leave me.

I lean against the glass wall. “Hello.”

He blinks his fiery eyes at me. “Greetings, human. What is your name?”

“I’m Twilight, but most folks call me Twyla. You?”

“Khymerion.” His voice is low and rolling, like thunder. It’s deep enough that I actually feel the vibrations of it in my body. The sensation is strange, but not unpleasant. On the contrary, I quite like it.

“Well, Khymerion, I must admit I didn’t expect to see one of your kind in a place like this. “Why do you work here? A Void Lord like you could go play next door and have all the fun you want.”

Not entirely true. I knew he’d be here, of course, but I still find it strange, and it was unexpected when I took the job. In fact, it was the reason I took the job. Why would a Void Lord of pleasure bother selling sex, when he could have as much as he could handle for free? Surely people would be lining up for a chance to play with him. Then again, maybe that answers my question. He probably rakes in the credits over here.

Despite the fact that I’m here on business, I can’t deny the fact that I’m wildly curious about him. He’s overwhelmingly attractive. I’ll do my job, sure, but when that’s done…I might just stick around for a while.