The Big Bang

When Joe Coup saw the bright lights on the dark, lonely
logging road up ahead, he stomped the brakes and banged
the steering wheel.
‘Hell’s bells!’ he growled.
The brilliant, vertical beam of pure, white light swept
up the dirt road towards his battered pick-up truck. He
slammed into reverse, stomped the accelerator. The
vehicle shot backwards, jouncing crazily over water-filled
potholes, Joe’s head ricocheting off the bare metal roof,
clamping his hardhat down like a bottle cap.
The speedometer needle quivered up to fifty then fell
like a tree. The beam of light had suffused the truck,
capturing it and the cursing lumberjack, stopping the both
of them dead. The roof peeled back like the lid on a
sardine can, and Joe was airborne. His indignant profanity
filled the pine-scented night air, startling wolves and
shocking chipmunks.
‘What’d you want this time?’ Joe groused, cantilevering
his fingers under his hardhat and popping it off, freeing up
his brains.

He was standing in a spaceship miles above the Earth’s
surface, glaring at a glowing orange sphere hovering eyelevel
in front of him. An alien life form of pure energy, he
grudgingly assumed.
‘I’m over here,’ came the reply, in perfect, if squeaky,
English.
Joe looked down, way down, at a green, two-inch long
centipede-like creature on the metallic floor of the
spacecraft.
The creature arched its head, waved ten or twelve arms
or legs in universal greeting. ‘That’s our light and heating
unit,’ it explained, pointing still more appendages at the
orange sphere. ‘My name’s Kazar.’
Joe looked back up at the glowing ball, like he
preferred it. ‘This is the sixth time I’ve been a*****ed,’ he
complained, ‘and I’m starting to get pissed off.’
The first three times had been interesting, fun even, the
cold probing offset by the warm and fuzzy half-hour of
fame: guest appearances on the television shows
Unexplained Unknowns and PSI: Oregon, guest-of-honour
spots at science fiction conventions and NASA
fundraisers, a ghost-written bestseller-in-the-Nevada-Area
51 entitled ET Loves Me.
But the celebrity had faded like the prospects of an
ALF reunion movie anytime soon, after the fourth
a*****ion. And by the fifth, the ‘kook’ label had been
firmly affixed. He lost his long-suffering girlfriend and his
plum job at her father’s sawmill, moved into an abandoned
Airstream trailer on the edge of an acid lake in the middle
of a clear-cut nowhere, only his hand and a satellite dish to
keep him company, chainsawing and trimming and
hauling logs, freelance, for a living.
He was the guy who cried ‘Watch the skies!’ once too
often, Chicken Little in a spacesuit, and now no one was

listening – except the tiny green centipede with the
Mickey Mouse voice.
‘This will be the final time,’ Kazar assured him. ‘For
this,’ it gestured expansively with almost all its limbs, ‘is
the mother ship.’
‘And what were all the other spaceships – k**die cars?’
Joe grumbled.
Kazar grinned, then scuttled over to an inch-high
instrument panel and peered out of a BB-sized porthole,
pressing a button to correct the trajectory of the flying
saucer. One of its limbs inadvertently triggered the hyperlight
drive which sent it splatted against the porthole. The
sudden speed sent Joe flying.
Kazar shut down the drive and apologized, as Joe
climbed angrily to his feet. ‘The others were
merely…exploratory vessels,’ it said, continuing their
discussion. ‘Equipped to search for the man who will
serve our peoples’ purposes – serve the place purposes of
peoples in all…uh, serve the purposes of all places and…’
Joe snorted, ran a rugged hand through his shaggy,
blonde hair.
‘And you are that man, Joe,’ Kazar said, ‘and this ship
contains the most precious of all cargoes.’
Joe defiantly spat a line of black tobacco at the floor,
splashing little Kazar in the wash. ‘I’m not doin’ nuthin’
for you guys! I’ve had it! I’m all sampled and
studied…out! You guys can go crawl back into your black
hole and pull it in after…’
He stopped his tirade when Kazar snapped its limbs and
a being as beautiful as a billion sunsets suddenly appeared,
naked as the break of day. ‘Mother!’ Kazar squeaked
triumphantly.
Joe’s fists unfurled and he gulped his chaw, ogled the
woman with the stars in her eyes.

‘She’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of, Joe,’ Kazar
piped, standing up on its hind limbs and gesturing at the
heavenly creature. ‘A composite of your ideal woman
come to life, assembled from mind probes of your onceevery-
ten-seconds sexual fantasies.’
Joe had to admit she was built, alright. He brushed
splinters off his dirty Hard-On Wood Products t-shirt and
finger-combed his scruffy beard.
Kazar glanced at a data screen the size of a pinkie
toenail. ‘She has, uh, Diane Lane’s feet and legs, Jenny
Lopez’s rear end, Pamela Lee Anderson’s…uh, Pamela
Anderson Lee’s…’
‘Pamela Anderson,’ Joe breathed.
‘Right, yes. Pamela Anderson’s chest. Jenny
Connelly’s face and Jenny Aniston’s hair. And, uh, Paul
Newman’s eyes?’
Joe’s sunburnt face burned a deeper red.
Kazar twitched its limbs as if in a shrug. ‘For your
purposes, we shall call her Dijepa Coanman – or Jenny,
for short.’
‘Jenny,’ Joe exhaled. ‘Is she an alien?’
‘At her core, yes. But you won’t be seeing her core.’
Joe was seeing everything else, though, his eyes
wandering over the wondrous woman’s swollen breasts
and jutting nipples, rappelling down her plump butt cheeks
and along her lithe, golden legs, and then scaling back up
her legs, resting briefly on her strip-shaved pussy before
ascending to her globular tits again. He glanced quickly at
her shining face and ‘Friends’-era styled hair. He avoided
her eyes.
‘You will fuck her multiple times,’ Kazar squeaked
without compunction. Then he slithered into an opening at
the bottom of the instrument panel, like a silverfish oozing

under a refrigerator, leaving Joe and Jenny all alone
together.
‘Do you like what you see?’ the celestial body spoke,
eternity in her Kathleen Turner husky voice.
Joe hardened like an eight-foot length of green spruce
in a fired kiln, the lumber visible in his tight jeans his
universal response. He blessed the satellite dish back
home, the space age technology that allowed him to watch
all the shows and movies from which his best-of-the-best
dream girl had been fashioned.
Jenny glided towards him, her tanned, toned body
rippling and jiggling in all the right places. ‘You were
chosen because of your stamina, Joe, your ability to spill
sperm early and often.’
Joe was honoured, horny as hell. He tore off his t-shirt
and flung it aside, unlaced and kicked off his steel-capped
boots, unbuckled and unzipped his faded blue jeans and
shoved them down and off. Jenny looked at the man’s
very tighty-whities, and smiled.
She pushed her lush chest up against Joe’s hairy trunk,
and he grabbed on to her like a born-again tree-hugger,
crushing her hot body against his. His cock pressed
urgently into her flat belly, a sticky wetness already
staining his underwear. She gazed up into his gaping,
brown eyes and kissed him. He hungrily devoured her
soft, moist, Angelina Jolie-like lips, and she gripped the
sides of his Jockeys and yanked down.
After inflaming each other with their mouths and hands
and sundry other body parts, Jenny fought her way out of
Joe’s hairy, blond arms and fell back onto a padded
platform that had arisen as quickly and surely as the man’s
erection. ‘Fuck me, Joe!’ she hissed, spreading her slender
legs and pulling her pink, Jenna Jameson, petals apart,
urging him to dock his rocket.

Joe was on her like gravity on a Jovian. He pressed his
bony, lanky body against her soft and cushiony one, his
lips against her lips again, his sweaty hands rummaging
around for her impossibly upright breasts and finding
them. She slid a Gene Simmons tongue into his mouth and
moaned like she meant it, Joe not-so-dry-humping her
stomach.
‘Fuck me, Joe!’ she repeated.
He fumbled between his legs and grabbed hold of his
cock and zipped its mushroomed hood right over her slit
and into her Britney Spears bellybutton. It’d been awhile
since he’d done this sort of bush work. She took his cock
in her hand and pressed its boiled-up head into her juicy
cunt, grabbed onto his pale buttocks and slammed him
home.
‘Yeah,’ Joe mumbled, tonguing a Scarlett Johansson
ear and pumping his hips in a rhythm as old as all creation.
Jenny gripped Joe’s shoulders and urged him on with
some Ginger Lynn dirty-talk. His thick cock sawed back
and forth inside her with an oiled ease, faster and faster,
until he was pounding her pussy with an a****l intensity.
Her Elvira-like fingernails bit into him, and he tilted his
head back and howled at the moon, white-hot sperm
launching from his balls and into her silky pink space.
‘More! More!’ she urged, as Joe shot his payload.
He collapsed on top of her, gasping for air, bathed in
the sweat of his efforts (his first bath in quite some time).
‘Fuck me up the ass, Joe,’ she whispered in his ear,
before pushing his deadweight away and doing a log-roll
on the platform. She jumped up onto all-fours and wiggled
her bold, bronze bum at him.
He responded like a bear to honey, possessing that rare
ability of almost instant sexual recovery and semen
rejuvenation. He reared up on his knees and trundled in

behind her, steering his still-hard cock into her puckered,
Nina Hartley asshole. His pole slid inside her like greased
doweling, plunging right to the hairline. Then he gripped
her Shakira hips and started banging away.
And only a minute or so after penetrating that taut,
gripping bottom, watching those split-peach cheeks
shudder resplendently as he smacked them repeatedly with
his body, Joe went supernova a second time, shooting for
the stars all over again. He tilted his head back and
bellowed loud enough to register at the Arecibo
Observatory, spraying sizzling spunk deep into Jenny’s
chute, into her core.
He toppled over on top of his out-of-this-world lover,
sliding right off her sweat-dappled skin and landing with a
thunk on the platform.
‘More! Fuck me more!’ she implored. She encircled his
shaft with her Palmolive fingers and sealed her lips around
his cap and sucked like a black hole.
They had hot star sex in every position imaginable,
every Joe-brain-inspired orifice offered and explored. He
leaked semen like his pick-up leaked oil. Until at last,
when he was as spent as a white dwarf, Kazar reappeared.
It squeaked at the woman to wake up the depleted, dozing
woodsman, and she squirted milk into his face á la slut
number four in Breastpumpers III, rousing Joe back to
consciousness.
‘Human, thank you for all your help,’ Kazar shrilled.
Joe rolled off the platform and hit the floor pleading.
‘No problem. I can do more,’ he gasped. He staggered to
his feet and stared at Jenny, picturing her with Eva
Longoria’s body for a change of pace.
‘Unfortunately, you cannot stay long – and hard,’ Kazar
added with a smirk, ‘in this atmosphere.’ It gestured about
the ship with a multitude of limbs. ‘An atmosphere that

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Posted by KDG
2 years ago    Views: 439
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