Prince of the Thirtieth Dynasty
Copyright© 2026 by CreepyUnclePete
Chapter 1
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Prepare to laugh so hard it hurts. Detective Vexa Nulveen is a highly educated and serious crimefighter. Her new partner is Prince Glorp, a weird but irrepressibly cheerful alien shapeshifter. About half of this sexy, silly, and dramatic future detective story was written by AI.
Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic Fiction Crime Humor Mystery Science Fiction Aliens Oral Sex AI Generated
I was a cop, a Senior Detective, but in my free time I volunteered at the Children’s Hospital, helping disabled boys and girls learn to walk again. People who didn’t understand called me sad and depressing for doing it, but a kid smiling as they take their first-ever step touches me like nothing else can. I’d done the same for my little sister, before she passed away far too young. That and rare boyfriends were the extent of my softer side.
I also studied martial arts on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings, and practiced with nine different weapons at the firing range monthly. I spent my professional life cultivating an aura of toughness and untouchable precision, a fortress of logic built from two PhDs and a pathological adherence to rules and protocol.
My fortress didn’t crumble, it was dissolved by a sentient puddle of fruit-scented gelatin.
Lieutenant Hallowes summoned me to his office with the demeanor of a man preparing to execute a prisoner. He didn’t look at me; he looked at the semi-gelatinous blob attempting to merge with the coatrack.
“Senior Detective Vexa Nulveen,” Hallowes sighed, his voice sounding like sandpaper on glass. “Meet Prince Glorp of the Thirtieth Ameboid Dynasty. He’s been ... assigned to us. Your new mission is to teach this royal weirdo the basics of police work. Try to ensure he doesn’t accidentally eat someone.”
Glorp, who was currently assuming the shape of a very enthusiastic human man, beamed at me. His elbows seemed to bend in directions that defied Euclidean geometry. His eyes were shimmering pools of genuine, overwhelming, insufferable glee.
“Oh, a partner!” Glorp exclaimed, his voice a melodic warble. “I am simply delighted to meet you, Vexa! I can feel it already! We are going to get along splendidly! Perhaps even transcendently! Copulatorily!”
I didn’t smile. I didn’t even blink. His outrageous positivity tempted me to slap him. I simply turned on my heel and signaled for him to follow. As we navigated the precinct, I began a clinical briefing on the fundamentals; laws, chain of custody, the Constitution and Amendments, the necessity of corroborated evidence, and the strict prohibition against eating witnesses or evidence.
Glorp didn’t seem to be listening to the words so much as he was studying the way my hips moved under my trousers. “You are a marvel, Vexa,” he murmured, drifting closer to me than any sane colleague would dare. “A true genius. And breeding someone so exquisitely sexy ... That much pleasure would almost be a crime in itself!”
I stopped dead in my tracks and looked him in the eye. “We are professional associates, Glorp. Furthermore, sex with coworkers is strictly banned under Section 4 of the Employee Handbook. Please maintain a distance of at least a meter. Three meters would be better.”
“Rules are such quaint little fences, so easily overcome.” He chuckled, his form shimmering with a soft iridescent glow.
I marched him across the street to show him the city jail, hoping the somber atmosphere would have an impact. We walked past dozens of dreary holding cells full of sullen inmates. I explained the human approach to punishment, the philosophy of deterrence versus rehabilitation.
Glorp remained distracted, leaning against a wall, staring at my backside. “You know,” Glorp said, “I’m confident I’ll be much more successful here on Earth. My track record on the game show circuit at home was ... admittedly dismal. Thirty-one losses in a row is a statistical anomaly, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure it was,” I replied dryly.
“I often wonder why my family saw fit to exile me here,” he mused, his expression momentarily clouding. “Was it the incident with the royal gardener’s prize orchids? I thought they were a salad. Or the time I rewrote the dynasty’s tax code as explicit limericks?”
“They exiled you, Glorp, because you are so relentlessly happy nobody can be near you more than an hour without screaming.”
He beamed, unfazed by my bluntness. “And yet, here you are. Attracted to my radiance. Admit it, Vexa, you’re fascinated by my fluidity. My flexibility. My sheer libidinity.”
“I’m fascinated by the prospect of a quiet shift,” I snapped. “You are an irritating, offensive, and profoundly distracting complication to my workday.”
Glorp grinned, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous light. Suddenly he leaned in, his face inches from mine. “Tell me, Vexa ... how many Human men can lick the back of their neck?”
Before I could process the question, a half-meter long, pale-pink, muscular tongue whipped out of his mouth. It curled to the left, all the way around his neck, wetting the fabric between his shoulder blades!
The next morning, sunlight filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of a hotel room, casting a golden hue over the discarded remnants of the previous night. I woke up. I didn’t wake up to the sound of my alarm or the sterile silence of my apartment. I woke up to the sensation of something warm, soft, and slightly damp pressed against my side.
I shifted, and the sheets slid away, revealing my own nakedness to the cool morning air. Beside me, Glorp was fast asleep, his form having partially reverted to a translucent, shimmering blob in his slumber, though he still maintained the general shape of a man. He was snoring, a soft bubbling sound that would have been annoying, if my brain wasn’t screaming in shame.
As I stared at the ceiling, the memories of how we got there collided with the memories of how we started, playing back like a corrupted data file. It had all begun in Lieutenant Hallowes’ office. The Lieutenant had looked at me with a mixture of pity and professional hatred, the kind of look he reserved for people who corrected his grammar. He had summoned me to deliver a sentence, not a partner.
As I sliently dressed and left Glorp sleeping there, I remembered him strangely insisting on using a condom when he licked me. The ridiculously pleasurable way he’d massaged me with his mouth, all the way inside me, my entire vagina, even most of my uterus!
The oral sex had been great, but the rest of him was ... chaotic, repulsive, irritating. Thankfully, he didn’t ask me to do anything to him.
I was glad I was only Glorp’s orientation officer. With any luck, he’d be assigned to another precinct and I’d never see him again.
The announcement came during a Tuesday briefing that felt like a funeral for common sense. Lieutenant Hallowes didn’t like me because I had two PhDs and the tendency to use them to point out the structural flaws in his strategic planning. He didn’t like Glorp because Glorp was a sentient blob of ameboid gelatin from the Thirtieth Dynasty who once reorganized the precinct’s filing system by eating the file chips and spitting them back out in alphabetical order, covered in smelly orange goo.
We were the two most inconvenient people in the room, which is exactly why the Lieutenant paired us, and assigned us what seemed the least important case.
“Nulveen, you’re with the blob prince,” the Lieutenant had said, his voice dripping with the kind of relief usually reserved for the end of a war. “You’re investigating the Governor Sacket erasure. Since neither of you can find a friend to have dinner with, you can spend your nights chasing a void.”
The case was an anomaly that defied every logical law of data persistence. Governor Trina Sacket had been the beloved heart of the Outer Rim for three decades. She negotiated the Treaty of Caelum and fed ten million starving refugees. Everyone remembered her, her laugh, her excellent speaking skills, the way she held court, but the data was gone. Not deleted, but excised. Every digital record, every holographic archive, every scrap vanished. It was as if the universe had a cosmic eraser and a criminal we called “The Editor” had decided Governor Sacket was a typo.
I stared into space, my mind already calculating the three most likely vectors of such a breach. I had already planned part of my debriefing notes for the Lieutenant, evaluated four different theories on the breach’s origin, and mapped out a schedule for the next seventy-two hours.
“Isn’t it just wonderful?” a voice bubbled.
I didn’t look up. I didn’t need to. I could smell him, a scent like overripe limes or mangoes. Beside me, Glorp was currently maintaining a human shape, though he was leaning so far to the left that he looked like a melting candle in a cheap suit.
“It’s a tragedy, Glorp,” I said, my tone flat. “Someone is rewriting the fundamental architecture of our history. It is not ‘wonderful.’ It’s a data security nightmare!”
“But the mystery!” Glorp exclaimed, his eyes widening with an enthusiasm that felt physically aggressive. “The thrill! The chase! The possibility of finding a secret hideout filled with velvet curtains, secret doors, and hidden treasure!”
“There are no velvet curtains in cloudserver forensics,” I replied, finally looking at him.
He beamed at me, his form shimmering slightly at the edges. He was an idiot, but he was an optimist. In my experience, the two usually went hand-in-hand. As we walked toward the hoverport, I noticed he was humming a tune that didn’t exist in any known scale.
“Vexa,” he said, his voice suddenly dropping an octave into something softer, more intimate. “You have such a focused brow. Such a logical gaze. I feel a kinship between us. A spark! A cosmic collision of souls!”
I stopped walking and stared at him. I felt the familiar prickle of discomfort in my chest, the one I usually categorized as ‘hormonal noise’ and ignored. “I have filed HR paperwork,” I told him, my voice devoid of emotion, “form 12-B, explicitly denying any romantic or emotional entanglement with you. Please refer to the digital copy I sent to your handscreen an hour ago.”
Glorp didn’t look discouraged. He never did. He just leaned closer, his non-human skin smelling faintly of the jelly he actually was. “You can file all the papers you want, Vexa. But you can’t file away our great chemistry. How many orgasm did I give you last night?”
He winked. It was a clumsy, exaggerated movement of the eyelid that caused his entire left eye to migrate downward slightly.
His comedic motion dulled my rage a bit. I couldn’t count them on a single hand, but exclaimed, “Shut up! That doesn’t matter! We have a job to do! A crime to solve!” I sighed, grabbing his arm to steer him toward my hovercruiser. “We have a ghost to find.”
Glorp paused, his gaze drifting toward a nearby street vendor selling donuts. With a movement so fluid it was almost hypnotic, Glorp’s arm elongated three meters, whipping out and snagging a donut before snapping back to its usual shape.
I stopped. I looked at the donut in his hand. I looked at Glorp’s face. “Did you steal the donut, Glorp?”
Glorp looked at me with wide innocent eyes and a streak of cinnamon sugar down his chin. “What donut?”
He attempted to hide the remaining half behind his back, but returned to the cart when I frowned and ordered, “Go pay for it.”
I watched him stride back to the vendor with a beaming smile, paying five times the price written on the cart, just to avoid the social friction of an accusation. It was an inefficient use of currency, but it served as a reminder that Glorp operated on a compass skewed sixty degrees to the left of normality. He was a chaos variable in a world of constants, and as a logical and intelligent being, I detest unnecessary variables.
We spent the next four hours scouring the Sector 7 data-nodes. The erasure of Governor Sacket wasn’t a simple delete command; it was a surgical removal. The Editor hadn’t just wiped the files; he rewrote the surrounding data to fill the gaps, leaving the history of the Outer Rim feeling like a book with pages neatly excised by a razor blade. It required a level of sophistication that made my skin prickle. It was an intellectual challenge. For a brief moment, I forgot that I was partnered with a man who occasionally forgot how to use stairs.
“Vexa, look!” Glorp exclaimed, pointing a translucent finger at a flickering terminal. “A clue! Or maybe a very shiny smudge. Actually, it’s probably a smudge.”
I leaned in, my eyes scanning the code. He wasn’t wrong; it was a smudge, but it was a smudge of residue. A ghost-trace of an encrypted signal that shouldn’t have existed in a wiped system. I began to trace the signal, my mind already mapping out the three most likely coordinates for the source.
“You’re so intense and pretty when you’re thinking,” Glorp murmured, his voice vibrating with that irritating, affectionate quality. He had shifted back into a more stable human form, though he was leaning into my personal space with a lack of boundaries that bordered on the criminal. “It makes your pupils dilate. Did you know that? It’s very provocative.”
“My pupils dilate due to the low lighting of the archive, not excitement,” I replied, though my heart hammered once, hard, against my ribs. I ignored it. “And please step back. In our culture, people want at least a meter of personal space.”
“My heart is beating for you, Vexa! Can’t you feel the resonance?” He leaned in further. For a moment, the scent of overripe mango jelly became overwhelming. He didn’t just lean; he drifted, his body becoming slightly more fluid, his shoulder melting into the edge of the console to get closer to me. He looked at me with those wide, shimmering eyes, his expression a mixture of genuine adoration and a hunger that was purely physical.
Suddenly, he shifted. Not a full transformation, but a subtle ripple of his anatomy. He didn’t use his hands; instead, a long, slender, pale-pink appendage, his tongue, emerged from his mouth. It wasn’t the clumsy movement of a human; it was a precise, half-meter of sentient muscle that flicked out with the speed of a whip, tasting the air an inch from my lips.
The sensation was a jolt of electricity that bypassed my logical centers and went straight to my groin. I felt a sudden, traitorous warmth bloom between my thighs, a visceral reaction that no amount of academic training could suppress. I hated how much I liked it. I hated that my body recognized the utility of his excessively long organ before my mind could categorize it as ‘icky and unprofessional.’
“Stop that,” I whispered, though I didn’t move away.
He withdrew it long enough to say, “You’re breathing faster. The logical Vexa is fighting the hungry Vexa. Which one wins?”
“The one with the PhDs,” I snapped, though my voice lacked its usual conviction.
He grinned, a slow hungry expression that looked far too sophisticated for a man who once tried to eat a coatrack. “How many humans can lick their own back?”
Before I could respond with a scathing remark about the biological impossibility and irrelevance of the question, he flicked the tongue again, this time tracing the line of my jaw lightly, with a precision that made my toes curl.
“I am going to file a second report,” I gasped, my eyes closing as I leaned into the touch despite every rule in my handbook. “An addendum to the HR paperwork.”
“You can file whatever you like,” Glorp murmured, his form beginning to ripple as he shifted his weight, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us. “As long as you let me lick the stress out of you.”
The mystery of The Editor could wait.
In the dim light of the archives, surrounded by the ghosts of erased history, the only thing that felt real was the unbridled pull of the handsome idiot beside me, and his sexually impressive tongue.
“Vexa,” Glorp whispered, his voice a wet, vibrating rumble that seemed to echo in the marrow of my bones. “I can smell it. The scent of you. May I taste what’s under that skirt?”