Soccer Mom, Sex Gladiator

Hello! I'm Tina. With my hubby gone to work and the kids dropped off at school, it's time to start processing the truth of what I've been through. Time to start putting it all down. This is one story I'll never tell my husband. And you'll never believe it! I know that's for the best, but still, I need to do this. All I can say is, thank God for the internet, for giving me this outlet and the freedom to be honest that comes with anonymity.

I wish there were a saner way to say this, but fuck it: aliens abducted me. I spent a long time with them, months or maybe years, and yet, when they returned me, only minutes had elapsed here on Earth, not even an hour! I don't pretend to grasp how that's even possible, but there you have it.

They let me keep the memories. I wasn't sure they would. The irony is, during my time away, I had to do a lot of things I could only permit myself to do in the belief that I'd never remember them if I were ever reunited with my family.

When the time came for my return, however, I'd been through so much, and my experiences had been so intense and deeply personal, that I just couldn't stand to let it all be wiped away. I knew they'd make it much more difficult, maybe impossible, for me to reassimilate on Earth, and it broke my heart to think of how they'd complicate my feelings for my husband. With my eyes wide open to these dangers, I begged and pleaded to be allowed to keep my memories. I angrily protested I'd earned that much, at least. For better or worse, the aliens agreed.

Even more surprising, they tattooed my ankle, as I requested. It's tiny and discreet, unlike the much larger tattoos they insisted on removing from the front of my right hip and the back of my left shoulder. My next strongest desire, after keeping my memories, was that my body should bear some mark, as a kind of trophy, even if only I would ever know its meaning.

Otherwise, physically, they tried to fix me up exactly as I'd been at the time of my abduction. I think I overheard them say the muscle tone I'd gained wasn't conspicuous enough to warrant reversal. Well, I've always kept in great shape if I do say so myself, so I guess that's not surprising. I'd lost a little body fat. My breasts, already small (but perky!), had shrunk by some miniscule fraction, and they didn't bother correcting that either.

They cut my straight brown hair to exactly the same medium-short length, and perfectly rebraided my two little pigtails. My blue eyes, of course, were just as blue. I've always been a bit on the pale side, but they said I'd lost too many freckles and looked too washed-out, so I spent some time in a kind of tanning bed. I couldn't believe it when they returned my original clothes to me. I'd been so long without them, they looked and felt strange when I put them on again.

But all of that's getting ahead of myself. To begin at the beginning:

My grandmother's health is failing, I'm afraid, so I'd made a trip out to see her for a few days. In case you were wondering why a thirtysomething woman had her hair braided in pigtails, I'd done it rather absently, in a fit of fidgety nervousness, and maybe nostalgia too, at having to leave my grandmother when she was still in such poor health.

I was driving home in my red Jeep through some backwater areas (she's definitely a country girl!). Having said goodnight to the kids on my cell phone, I was just telling my husband I loved him and would see him soon, when the reception went bad and the call dropped. That would have been okay, since we'd pretty much finished talking, but my phone seemed to have stopped functioning altogether. That was alarming enough, but then my engine died, out there all alone in the middle of nowhere.

Since I've been back, I've naturally done some reading up on alien abductions. At first, mine seems pretty typical--the lights, the thin grey aliens with big heads and huge black eyes, and all the rest. But then my story diverges from anything I've read before.

They took me to another world. They must have kept me sedated, because I have only vague, dreamy snatches of memory about the journey. We landed in a city that was incredibly futuristic, yet appallingly run-down and seedy, sort of like the one in Blade Runner. It must have functioned as a major spaceport or cosmic crossroads, because a truly mind-blowing variety of alien races populated it. All my time on that planet was spent in that city, and I didn't even get to see much of that.

I was a slave, you see, and had no freedom of movement beyond what Master permitted.

The little gray aliens turned me over to Master, and that's the first thing I remember clearly. He looked just like the devil (and a handsome one, I must admit)--horns, red skin, slim and well-muscled. That must be where the image came from, not a supernatural creature, but one of our neighbors in the natural universe. Sadly for me, he lived up to the mythic reputation for cruelty, the bastard!

He informed me that he'd won me in an auction, and wasted no time impressing on me that I was his property to do with as he pleased. By which I mean he tortured me. To my surprise and relief, at least he didn't rape me. I was afraid at first he'd bought me to be his personal fuck toy, but he had other plans for me. Specifically, I was to earn him a fortune as his Sexual Gladiator.

The first order of business was a costume. All my clothes had been removed on the UFO, so we were starting from scratch. He gave me a pair of boots. That's it. From that moment forward, they were my only clothing for the whole rest of my time on that world. I'm not even kidding. Above the knees, I was always completely bare-ass naked. So it's a good thing these boots rocked out loud. They were super-groovy, futuristic combat boots, nicely worn and broken-in (no doubt bought very cheaply at one of that world's answers to a Goodwill or army surplus shop), heavy enough for serious romping and stomping, but not so heavy they'd slow me down. I won't lie to you--just putting them on made me feel like one hot little badass.

Next, Master took me to some filthy, low-rent salon that nevertheless was more advanced than anything on this world. They permanently removed all my body hair, with particular attention to my whole "down there" region. Right this moment, I feel perfectly confident in boasting that I have the absolutely smoothest, baldest pussy, ass, and everything in between, of any woman on Earth. It's a good thing that's how my husband likes me! It would have been a shame if I hadn't been sporting the hairless look already at the time of my abduction, because then they would have had to somehow reverse the procedure. Ugh! This is so much more convenient.

Master took me, then, to a giant, sci-fi-esque stadium complex. There, he registered me with the Sexual Gladiator Commission. Oh yes, that really is its name! It was truly shocking to me how comfortable these "more advanced" civilizations were with the whole concept and all it entailed, like slavery and explicit public sex. Chalk it up to decadence, I guess.

After I cleared my physical exam and got the okay to compete, one more detail made me an official, regulation Sexual Gladiator. Master had submitted and received approval for his logo, a custom professional design. They stamped a big tattoo of it in bright colors on my front (hip) and back (shoulder).

That logo is the tattoo I now wear on my inside left ankle. Although I like it there, and have lied smoothly to everyone about what it means, I must admit to some guilty pangs over my hubby's fascination with it. He kisses it at one point or another whenever we make love now. What would he say if he knew it's the personal logo of an alien who tortured me mercilessly, shared my bed for many a night of passion, and forced me to fuck literally hundreds of other aliens? He'd probably drive himself crazy trying to decide which of those things bothered him the most. I doubt he could live happily with me if knew any one of them.

Don't get me wrong--my husband loves me dearly, as I do him. Even so, I wouldn't dare trust any man to understand the full extent of my sexual experience on that other planet. At the time I was going through it, I was literally in another world that had nothing to do with my suburban world of school and soccer and being a good little wifey. Like I said, there were a lot of things I had to do that I couldn't have done if I'd given much thought to my husband or kids, so in my mind I put up a wall between them and what was happening to me. I had so little hope of ever seeing them again, and believed that if I did, my alien adventures would all seem unreal, like a dream. I was wrong on both those counts, but no matter how sexual I was with all those aliens, I don't believe I was ever unfaithful to my husband, because none of that had anything to do with him.

Of course, if I were him, that's not how I would see it. I'd see me as the sluttiest skank in the history of the universe, whose infidelity could only be measured on a cosmic scale, and would furiously reject the rationalizations I've just offered. Which is why I'll never tell him. We're happily married with two beautiful children, he doesn't even know about the few minutes I went missing, and my cool new tattoo really turns him on. Yep, I can live with that.

Anyway, considering that Master told me in so many words that I was his ticket to big money and the big time, one might think he would, you know, PREPARE me for what I'd be facing in the ring. Nope! With the logo tattoos still fresh and stinging on my skin, he motioned for me to go with two SGC robots.

I followed them through a maze of corridors. Along the way, they rattled off all these rules and regulations, policies and procedures, and I don't know what else. Through the disorienting mumbo-jumbo of fine print they were inundating me with, they kept coming back, again and again like a drumbeat, to the brutally simple heart of the matter: in the ring, I'd face the male of some other race or species, and whoever brought the other to orgasm first, won. Did I understand that? The more I got the message intellectually, the less I was able to process it emotionally. If I came first, I lost. If I got him off first, I won. I figured at least I had the advantage as a woman. In my experience, guys always got off easier than I did.

Speaking of experience, I might as well explain here how much (or little) I took into that first match. My sexual history, prior to that, consisted of my hubby, obviously. I'd been perfectly faithful to him since we started dating. Before him, there were two serious boyfriends, about three less-serious-but-still-sexual affairs, and a measly few one-or-two-night-stands.

That was all the sex I had "under my belt" when a special elevator dramatically lifted my escorts and me into the ring.

Oh my God, the stadium was HUUUGE!!! The dome seemed as vast as the cosmos itself. If I had to take a wild guess, I'd say the seating capacity was infinity. I got dizzy turning around, taking it all in. If there was an empty seat in the house, I didn't spot it. What I did see were hundreds of thousands of aliens from thousands of races--all staring at me. The roar they sent up when I entered the ring was deafening. I suddenly became acutely conscious that I stood before them, nude down to my boots! My whole body blushed. You know that dream where you realize you've gone to school (or work, or whatever) naked? This was the reality, baby, to the nth degree.

Even more alarming, there were massive screens in circular formation high above the ring, and even bigger ones above that, angled toward the nosebleed sections, and from what I could see, I was displayed on every one! Instinctively, I looked around for the cameras and tried to cover myself as best I could.

It all hit me like an icy shower. There was no way I'd ever come under those circumstances! I was thinking they might as well declare me the winner and be done with it, when another robot wheeled over a small tray of medical-looking paraphernalia. From the assortment of items, he picked out what appeared to be a large, square adhesive bandage, and was just about to tear the wrapping when one of my escorts stopped him and said, "No, no. First time. She's nervous."

The medic (or whatever) reached instead for another bandage-thing several times larger than the first. He unwrapped it, and slapped it on my shoulder.

"What's that?" I asked.

After a minute or two, he peeled it off and answered, "Aphrodisiacs."

Another deafening roar filled the dome, and I figured my rival must be entering the ring. I prayed he'd at least be humanoid. You know--two arms, two legs, one head . . . one cock of humanly manageable shape and size. I took a deep breath, and looked around.

What rose to meet me was a GIANT BLUE MINOTAUR!! His head wasn't exactly a bull's, but it reminded me of one at first glance, mostly, I think, because of the fearsome horns and the bestial savagery of the face. He wasn't furry at all; his smooth skin was deep, dark blue. It occurred to me that he might be from the same world as Master. But whereas Master had a lean muscularity, this guy was a beefy, hulking bruiser.

And I do mean hulking! And I'm so little. I stand just over five feet--in my favorite heels. He was fully twice as tall as that. I gulped, and stole a glance at the part of him that most concerned me. His cock was mammoth, even in proportion to the rest of him. Don't get me wrong--I wasn't afraid it would kill me or anything, but neither did I relish the prospect of having to accomodate it. I expected to be sore as hell and bow-legged for a week.

I looked around helplessly, already knowing escape was impossible. I tried to resign myself to what was about to happen. Although I knew in my head it would be a gruelling ordeal, I felt bizarrely calm. I think my emotions simply refused to accept the reality of it all.

I watched them plaster his shoulder with those aphrodisiac patches. I guess he required higher doses for his body weight. And then I noticed mine taking effect. My breathing changed subtly, my heart thumped a little harder, and I began to feel distinctly warm and moist between the legs. Oh God, I thought, this can't be happening.

All too soon, the ring cleared, leaving me alone with my partner-to-be. The ring, I guess I should mention, was a floating black disc. Instead of ropes, an invisible energy field contained the action. The "corners" along the edge were clearly marked--mine with Master's logo, for example. The corner sections were actually elevators that could raise and lower, and therefore points of entry and exit.

While the announcer introduced us, and the screens above listed our statistics, I prayed to my husband that he'd forgive me for this sexual encounter I would gladly have avoided. When the holographic ref-bot gave us the go-ahead to get it on, I had no clue how to even start. I forced myself to take the first few trembling steps toward Gorx. That was my opponent's name--Gorx.

Four objects I can only describe as large, flying, streamlined, high-tech eyeballs swooped into the ring. Cameras, I realized. They hovered around us, getting in position, zooming in on body parts, showing us from every angle for the screens.

Gorx looked me up and down, and let out a bullish bellow of delight. That cock was standing straight up now, and had swelled to a yet more daunting size. The screens displayed the exact measurements, and side-by-side with them--I was shocked to see--the maximum capacities of my various orifices. Helpful animations showed that anal penetration was absolutely out of the question as far as that cock was concerned; vaginal intercourse would be very snug but do-able.

He raised a hand, as if to slap. I would have been extremely worried if we weren't still separated by about half the distance of the ring. One thing I remembered from the rules was that violence was strictly prohibited. Even so, I had no way of knowing then how firmly they enforced that.

He swung his arm. To my utter, drop-jaw astonishment, his hand turned into a writhing mass of TENTACLES, and they were whipping right at me!! In the blink of an eye, they coiled around my legs, plucked me off my feet, and dangled me upside-down so high above the mat that for a heartbeat I was terrified they'd drop me. I think I screamed something like, "Oh Jesus!" The crowd went wild.

Even crazier, tentacles grew and sprouted all over his torso! Of course, every single one of them had my name on it. They bound my wrists behind my back and pried my legs wide open. Naturally, one of those eyeball-cameras zipped right over for a full-on gyno-shot. There's a little mole to the right on my perineum (my "taint," to put it crudely). I've always considered it a special secret for lovers to discover in an intimate moment. Now there it was for all to see, enlarged on the screens to ridiculous proportions. Everyone in the universe was gawking at it. That and my labia, open and dewy like a blossom in the morning.

All right, you know what happens next, and so did I, and believe me, IT HAPPENED: tentacles slithering all over my body, my breasts, multiply penetrating my pussy and bottom. It's a good thing my hubby had been so persistent about trying anal sex (it had actually become a fairly regular part of our lovemaking), because this would have made one startling introduction to it. Those tentacles rubbed me in ways I've never dreamed of being rubbed. For a long time afterward, I wanted to blame the aphrodisiacs, and yes they had something to do with it, but I'm woman enough now to own my sexuality, and honestly admit to my body's erotic responses.

Gorx held me face-up, the better to expose me to the crowd and cameras I suppose, so I got to watch my undoing on the screens. My swollen nether lips glistened and turned red from the fucking as two, then three, and finally FOUR tentacles plunged in and out, slipping and sliding over and around each other. My little starburst of an anus gradually gaped open to accomodate two.

My O-face was captured in all its glory. I should say "faces," as I'm sure I showed every last one of them that night--every possible expression of orgasmic agony and rapture. My moans and love-cries were amplified for everyone's amusement, and let me tell you, once I passed a certain point, I lost all control and vocalized every damn thing he made me feel.

Even less politely, they really amplified the sloppy wet sex sounds of my pussy. I was lubricating like crazy, and orgasmic contractions shook me hard, fast, and in constant waves for what seemed like an eternity. "Squish! Squirp! Squarp! Squarsh!" echoed through the dome.

I'd long since lost the bout. Why didn't they stop it? Because, Master explained to me later, the only thing hotter and heavier than the sex in the ring was all the betting that surrounded it. Not only who won, but also number and strength of orgasms and things like that were all part of it. As long as Gorx could keep me coming, huge sums of money were still being won and lost.

Speaking of keeping me coming, I felt myself building to a crisis of particular intensity. He turned me upside-down again, so that when I lost control, I positively erupted in a spectacular fountain of female ejaculation straight up in the air. The way I wiggled sent the spray in all directions. A sheet of droplets splashed across the lens of the nearest camera. Now, I'd released fluid when making love before, but never with, um, PROJECTILE FORCE. It earned us an enthusiastic standing ovation.

I bucked so hard in the bondage of the tentacles that I actually yanked one foot out of a boot. He just tightened his grip everywhere else and wrapped another tentacle around my naked ankle. A camera dashed over for a tight closeup. I have to say, I never realized before how expressive a bare foot can be of sexual pleasure. It tells the whole story all by itself. While I squealed and writhed and wet down another camera lens with another squirt (really, I never knew I had it in me!), my toes were flexing and curling, my whole foot arching and tensing and quivering and wagging all over the place.