Future Osa in Space
Copyright© 2025 by Osa Oladapo
Chapter 7: Future Osa and Crew 3
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 7: Future Osa and Crew 3 - Osa and her brother explore a pleasure planet filled with various sentient aliens also seeking pleasure
Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Consensual Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Science Fiction Aliens Space Incest Brother Sister Group Sex Orgy Interracial Black Male Black Female White Male Oriental Male Oriental Female Cream Pie Double Penetration Public Sex Small Breasts
Olanke’s voice cut through the post-orgasm haze like a laser scalpel. The alarm in her tone was real, urgent. But the three bodies on the platform were still locked together, Vas’s seed a warm, heavy pressure deep inside Osa and Kichijō’s wombs.
Vas was the first to react. “Disengage,” Vas repeated, its voice now all business. A low, resonating hum vibrated from its chest, and the fleshy petals retracted from their cervixes, the fine filaments withdrawing with a slick, internal slide that made both women gasp. The suction released, It pulled out of Osa in a slow, wet slide. The twin cocks began to soften, shrinking and receding back into the Telchine’s shimmering flesh until only one, still semi-hard and dripping with their mixed fluids, remained.
Osa and Kichijō felt the same emptying of her well-used pussy as Vas withdrew from her. The sudden emptiness was a shock, a cold void where profound fullness had been.
Olanke didn’t flinch at the lewd display. Her blue eyes were fixed on the doorway. “I have a pulse rifle hidden in the null-grav chamber’s maintenance locker. The Subjugators are methodical. They’ll be moving room-to-room, disabling guests and staff. We have maybe three minutes.”
Osa pushed herself up on trembling arms. Her petite body was coated in a sheen of sweat and Vas’s cum, her small, pert tits heaving. Her pussy felt swollen, ruined, the delicate, neatly folded lips puffy, gaping, and wet. The feeling was incredible. A raw, satisfied ache that sang through her nerves. She looked at Kichijō, who was wiping her mouth, her sleek black bodysuit discarded at her feet, her cunt similarly messy and spent.
“Gear up,” Osa said, her voice surprisingly steady. The scientist was gone, replaced by a mission leader riding an adrenaline and endorphin high. She slid off the platform, her legs wobbling for a second before firming. The alien seed sloshed inside her with the movement, a visceral reminder. “We move fast. Olanke, lead.”
They didn’t clean up. There was no time. They simply pulled their clothes back on—Osa’s ‘star shine’ gown, Kichijō’s black bodysuit—over their slick, cum-smeared skin. Leaving the ghost of the scent, the memory of the fullness. Osa felt the tight embrace of the suit press against her pierced nipples, a constant, delicious friction.
Olanke moved with predatory grace, leading them out of the chamber and into a curved, softly lit corridor. The resort’s tranquil music was now interspersed with distant, guttural shouts and the sizzle of energy weapons. They passed an open door to the Sonovis chamber; inside, a Naharaim golden body lay still amidst shattered sonic emitters.
The null-grav chamber was ahead, its door slightly ajar. Olanke slipped inside, and Osa and Kichijō followed, covering the entrance. The room was a sphere, its walls lined with handholds, currently at half-gravity. Olanke went straight to a panel, popped it open, and pulled out a long, sleek pulse rifle and two smaller energy pistols. She tossed a pistol to each woman.
“They’re in the cerebral immersion suite next,” Olanke whispered, checking the rifle’s charge. “Two of them. They’ve got a pair of Telchine facilitators pinned. If we flank...”
A guttural click-hiss sounded right outside the door. Too late.
The door slid open fully. A Subjugator filled the frame. It was a mass of coiled, muscular tentacles, its central torso a hard carapace. Two tentacles held wicked-looking blade-weapons. Two more were wrapped around the limp form of a golden Naharaim hostage. It saw them.
Olanke fired first. The pulse rifle’s beam lit the room, scoring a line across the Subjugator’s carapace. It shrieked, a sound like tearing metal, and flung the hostage aside. It surged forward, tentacles lashing.