"Have you ever fucked a fish?"
Ennis Ezquerra chose to drop that little gem, casual-like, around the campfire during mess.
"Ezquerra, what the fuck are you talking about?" Donald Finney asked.
The whole unit knew Ezquerra was a completely disgusting fucker with few, if any, redeeming social graces. Picture the greasiest excuse for a building super you could think of. You know, the kind of lardass that spends his days squatting in the basement of a part-firetrap, part-cockroach breeding factory in a white string vest covered in yellow food stains and fuck knows what else. You can see him now, right? Lank greasy hair combed over a bald spot. Flesh broiled pink like a slightly off lobster.
That would be Ennis Ezquerra's slightly more presentable brother.
To anyone looking at him, it would be a mystery why the military admitted such an obvious slob as Ezquerra, but that would be because they weren't looking hard enough. Beneath that pudgy flesh Ezquerra had muscle. Slabs and slabs of muscle. He was a quick fucker as well. Finney knew from their casual pigskin games you did not want to get hit by Ezquerra at full speed.
Ezquerra had played linebacker for his college. He might have gone all the way to the pro leagues if it hadn't been for that unfortunate incident with the college mascot.
'She looked all purty with her long silky hair, ' Ezquerra offered as explanation to anyone who asked.
Everyone knew Ezquerra was a dirty fucking bastard who'd fuck anything so long as it had a hole. Alive and female preferably, but Ezquerra wasn't exactly picky.
Any hole's a goal, as he was fond of saying.
"Okay, Ezquerra," Jack Richter said. "Just how in the fuck do you fuck a fish?"
Did they really want the answer to that question? Finney thought.
"Well you catch it fresh," Ezquerra started. He was currently holding his combat knife. "So it's still wriggling like crazy. You get your knife and you run it down its belly just like this. Then you slide the little whore right over your boner. I tell you it feels fucking incredible with the little bitch wriggling away like a bastard, her guts sliding all over your cock."
The squad was shocked into silence.
"How do you know it's a she?" Finney asked.
"Well I ain't exactly going to picture it as a he am I," Ezquerra said.
Phil Sutherland, the new boy, looked like he was about to throw up.
"Not hungry anymore?" Ezquerra said, eyeing up the other man's canteen. "I'll take that then, Sonny."
W.D. Kaufman shook his head. "Ezquerra, you are one muthafuckin' disgustin' individual."
And that was how Fish Fucker came to be called Fish Fucker.
"Zat your girlfriend back home?" Ezquerra asked.
Finney hadn't heard Ezquerra enter the tent. He was staring at a photo of him and Brooke Cartwright. They were standing against a railing with Niagara Falls in the background. He'd dug it out to get a little reminder of home.
"Yeah," Finney replied. It was the easy answer.
The reality was a little more complex.
He liked her. She was sweet. She had a hot body. But...
She was his first and only girlfriend. They'd been high school sweethearts. They'd been together nearly four years now. He hadn't planned for it to last that long. It was school. Practise. Now she was starting to talk the serious stuff--marriage, kids, mortgages, that kind of stuff. Stuff that scared the shit out of him.
He stared at the photo.
He didn't think he loved her.
"Miss her?" Ezquerra asked.
"Yeah," Finney said.
Again, it was the easy answer.
"Or do you miss the ... oomph?"
Ezquerra didn't really need to add the fist pump for Finney to understand what he meant.
"Fuck yeah," Finney replied.
Now that was a truthful answer. He'd been out here for a month now. His sock had developed a crust no amount of washing would ever shift.
"Found something that'll fix that," Ezquerra said, displaying heretofore unseen levels of crypticity.
Finney looked at him with a puzzled expression.
Ezquerra tapped his nose and led him out the back of the tent. Finney shook his head. He was probably going to regret this. He followed Ezquerra as he led him a short way out of the small camp, up a short incline and around a rocky bluff. There was vegetation here, if it could be called that. This wasn't Earth.
Yeah, that was the biggest complexity of all.
He'd told Brooke he'd been stationed out in the desert for manoeuvres. That was all he'd been allowed to tell her. It was partly correct. The part he'd neglected to mention was the desert didn't happen to be on Earth. The scientists called it H-Space. It was some kind of weird alternate dimension they'd busted a doorway into.
It sounded more exciting than it actually was. Once the initial wow! factor wore off it was the same old lugging heavy packs through rocks and dirt.
"Where we going, Ezquerra?" Finney asked as they picked their way up a steep hillside.
"Sumfink I found," Ezquerra said. "It's fucking awesome."
Ezquerra's definition of 'fucking awesome' included a wide variety of things, some of which were totally gross and disgusting. Finney followed him anyway.
The sky was a constant reminder they weren't on Earth. It was a roiling mass of purples and pinks, like bruised flesh. It always looked like it was on the verge of a storm, but Finney had never experienced one, or even seen rain.
The vegetation looked like clumps of grass and small shrubs, but it was red--like blood--instead of green. It also had a disconcerting habit of moving when not looked at directly.
The scientists said it was an optical illusion. One of the theories was H-Space had weird magnetic fields that screwed around with perception. They certainly screwed around with the equipment. Nothing electronic worked correctly out here. It was like being back in the nineteenth century--grunts and shovels. They were about a week's hard slog from the entrance camp and they had to rely on guys on bicycles to courier messages back and forth. Crazy.
They rounded a rocky corner and Finney suddenly found himself looking down on an idyllic oasis. Pretty, he thought. A small waterfall emerged from about halfway up the sheer rock face and cascaded down into a small pool. Lush vegetation sprouted around the water. Again, it wasn't like Earth vegetation. The leaves and stems were coloured in fleshy tones rather than verdant greens. The colours leant a strangely erotic feel to the plants. There was something oddly sensual and sinful in the way the branches twisted and tangled over each other.
"Will you look at these beauties," Ezquerra said.
He stood next to a large bush. Large flesh-coloured flowers emerged from the dense tangle of vegetation on thick red stems. The back of each flower was bulbous and pinkish-red in colour. The petals were fused together into a circular shape about the same diameter as a soccer ball.
Finney wondered why Ezquerra had taken an interest in them. He didn't exactly seem the horticulture type.
"Don't you think it looks just like a sweet little cunny," Ezquerra said, turning one of the flowers to face Finney.
Finney suspected a lot of things looked just like a 'sweet little cunny' to Ezquerra. Surprisingly, on this occasion he was inclined to agree with him.
The flower looked like a woman's groin. The opening at the centre of the flower was a purplish-pink vertical slit lined with fleshy-looking flanges--like labia. It lay at the heart of an inverted triangle that curved down and into a fold which looked like two thighs pressed tightly together. The resemblance was uncanny--like someone had cut out the crotch of a life-size nude centrefold and attached it to a stalk. There was even what looked like a patch of brown fluff above the opening, about where the pubic hair would be on a woman.
Fuck, he really needed to get laid if he was seeing flowers that looked like women's privates, he thought.
"You know what," Ezquerra whispered. "Feels like one too."
Then, before Finney had a chance to look away or even steel himself, Ezquerra dropped his pants.
Fuck. That was a sight Finney didn't want to see. It was like a gruesome car crash. Finney couldn't look away. Ezquerra stood there with his stubby little cock growing from his crotch like an angry red mushroom.
"Dude! What the fuck?" Finney said.
"Gonna fuck the flower, what do you think," Ezquerra replied as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
He spotted Finney's disgusted expression.
"It's awesome, dude," he said. "It's like this is a magical sex toy plant or sumfink."
He grabbed one of the large flowers and steered it down to his crotch.
He noticed Finney was still staring at him. "No gawkers," he said. "It's a big bush. Go round the other side."
He turned his attentions back to the flower.
"Ooo, c'mere you slut."
Finney shook his head. He moved off. He really didn't want to see Ezquerra hump the plant. No amount of bleach would be strong enough to purge that image from his brain.
He walked around the other side of the large shrub. Ezquerra did have a point. The flowers did look a lot like sex toys.
Sex toys growing on trees. What a fucked up place H-Space was.
Finney ran a hand over one of the petals. Hey, that felt pretty good. Smooth--like soft skin--and warm too. He ran his hand over the curve of the flower and down under the inverted triangle. Weird. It really felt like he was caressing the private parts of a girl. It brought back memories of making out with Brooke, with his hand down in her panties.
"Ooo slut. You like it hard don't you, slut."
Finney stifled a giggle. Fucking Fish Fucker.
He ran a finger along the fleshy flanges lining the slit. Just like labia. His finger moved down into the groove and then slipped inside a warm orifice with moist walls. It came away covered in some kind of slippery secretion. He brought it up to his nose. That was different at least. The substance smelt sweet. Like nectar or honey.
Finney was surprised to find himself pulling down his trousers. There was a heavy scent in the air. He felt antsy. He was acutely conscious it had been over a month since he'd last got laid. He placed a hand around the fleshy bulb of a flower and brought it level with his already hard cock.
Was he really going to do this?
Why not? The flower was just a masturbation aid, no different from using a Fleshlight or other similar sex toy.
His doubts vanished the moment he pushed his cock into the orifice at the centre of the flower.
Okay, so that felt considerably better than he was expecting. The tube inside the flower was tight, long and moist with slippery nectar. It was also warm and stretchy, properties he hadn't expected in a plant. It looked like flesh. It felt like flesh. It fit his hardon like a snug glove.
Finney placed both hands on the bulb behind the flower to get a good grip and thrust his cock back and forth into the wet interior. The flower made squelching sounds as his cock plunged into nectar-filled depths. It was tight enough for him to feel a little suction on his cock every time he pulled back for the next stroke.
Oh fuck, this felt good. Really fucking good. Way better than a crusty old sock.
Pent up for weeks, it didn't take Finney long to start coming. The moment he felt his orgasm peaking he thrust his cock all the way into the soft squishy depths at the heart of the flower. He held it there and enjoyed the sticky clasp of the flower walls as his cock throbbed and pumped thick gouts of semen into the well of the unusual bloom.
Ahh fuck. He needed that.
He slipped his cock out and let the flower bob back.
"Told you it was fucking awesome."
Finney jumped. Ezquerra was standing behind him and staring at him with a shit-eating grin on his face.
"Dude," Finney said, scrambling to pull up his pants. "Didn't your folks teach you anything about privacy?"
Ezquerra shrugged. "Four brothers, three sisters. Small house," he said.
He rubbed a hand over a fleshy petal.
"Told you it felt like a woman's cunny," he said. "What did you call yours?"
"I named mine Veronica," Ezquerra said. "Reminded me of a big-titted slut back home."
Finney shook his head.
"Ezquerra, you are one fucked up individual."
They headed back to the camp.
As he cleaned himself off later that evening, Finney noticed the flower had left a yellowish-orange residue on his cock. He got most of it off and thought no more of it until he was woken in the middle of the night by a raging itch in his groin.
Fuck you Ezquerra, Finney thought. If that fat fuck had talked him into shoving his dick into the extra-dimensional equivalent of poison ivy he was going to personally kneecap the greasy bastard. He spent an uncomfortable night tossing and turning in his sleeping bag.
In the morning he was dreading finding his cock had picked up a rash, or had turned red, or purple, or any other fucking weird colour. How the fuck would he explain that to the medics at Camp Helmuth?
Uh yeah. I thrust my unprotected cock into an alien flower because Fish Fucker told me it'd feel good.
Thankfully, his cock hadn't broken out in a rash. Or turned an unusual shade of colour. The itch hadn't gone away though, and he had an uncomfortable day trying to manoeuvre his junk into an arrangement that gave less irritation.
Fuck you very much, Ezquerra.
The itchy sensation was still present later that night, setting Finney tossing and turning again. It was the same kind of itch Finney got sometimes if he'd gone a long time without sex or masturbation, only a lot more intense.
Well, he knew how to take care of that. He wrapped his cock up in a sock and imagined he was fucking a hot girl.
It wasn't Brooke, he thought with a tinge of guilt. It hadn't been Brooke for some time.
Instead he rubbed one out to the image of a heavy-breasted blonde porn star bouncing up and down in his lap. It felt empty, unsatisfactory. The itch was lessoned, but it hadn't gone away entirely.
Lunchtime the next day and Finney found himself standing at the edge of that secret oasis again. He stared at the bush with the unusual flowers. There was something really unwholesome and lascivious in how the stems and branches twined around each other. A kind of unnatural pornography.
The itch was back again and Finney felt like his whole crotch was crawling with restless ants.
He pulled one of the large flowers towards him. He inserted a finger into the fleshy crevice at the centre of the flower and twisted it around, scooping up some of the nectar lining the insides. He pulled his finger out and examined it. Nectar. Thick, syrupy, clear yellow in colour. He dropped his trousers and rubbed his finger against the mushroom head of his cock, smearing the nectar against the tip.
His cock immediately sprang to full attention. Finney felt really fucking horny.
Well, he knew how to take care of that, didn't he. Thanks Ezquerra, you degenerate fucker.
He plunged his erect cock right into the syrupy heart of the flower and shoved his hips back and forth until the pleasant friction took him over the edge. He grunted and spurted his cum right into the heart of the queerly-shaped flower.
Huh? That was weird. For a moment it felt like the opening had tightened around the base of his cock. Was that him? Had he squeezed down harder on the bulb during his ejaculation?
He pulled his cock out and looked at the bloom in suspicion. It was a flower--pretty, inanimate. Shaped like a woman's vulva maybe, but still a flower.
Finney looked down at his spent cock. It was covered in a thick layer of yellowish nectar.
The good news was he knew how to get rid of the itch.
The bad news was he knew how to get rid of the itch.
The itch was back the next morning, as was the horniness. Finney had spent the night dreaming about fucking that big-titted blonde porn star. He'd awoken with a rock-hard boner and it didn't show any signs of wanting to go away anytime soon. Finney absently clawed at his crotch while they cooked up breakfast.
"Any sign?" Richter asked Kaufman.
The other man was standing up and scanning the featureless plain down below them with a pair of binoculars.
"No," Kaufman answered. He put the binoculars down and sat down.
"That's two days now," Richter said. "Reckon something's happened to him?"
"What? There's nothing out here."
"That's not what I heard."
"All bullshit. Nothing but grunts winding each other up with scary stories around the fire. He's got a flat, that's all."
"Bullshit bikes. Mightiest military force on Earth and we're having to courier messages back and forth by fucking bicycle."
"It's a flat. What else would it be?" Kaufman turned to Finney. "Hey Finney, you think an H-Space monster has risen out of the dirt and gobbled up our messenger?"
"Uh," Finney said. He'd zoned out most of the conversation.
The other squaddies laughed.
"Look at him," Kaufman said. "I bet he's daydreaming about his girl back home."
Finney wasn't. He was thinking about those fucking flowers.
He kept on thinking about them during the day while the itch in his crotch grew and grew.
He thought about flowers back on Earth. They were brightly coloured because it attracted birds and bees, and the plants needed to use them for pollination. He thought about the flowers here. They looked so much like a woman's sexual organs, right down to the little fluffs of pubic hair. Could it be deliberate?