Little Spittle: They Are Not Here To Help Us, Part 1

Little Spittle lands on a glowing blue deck, torn out of their clothes and stuffed into a thin latex bikini and boots. They scream for Earth. A voice without a body answers: do what the aliens say and you go free. They straddle a sybian, thumb the dial, strip the slick bottoms, and grind cunt and asshole over the brutal hum until sweat blinds them and spit ropes from their open mouth. Their body jerks, coming so hard the platform shakes. Next test, they line the huge probe at their asshole, crank the machine to a brutal stroke, and mash a vibrator on their clit. The cock slams deep, the speed climbs, and every fresh orgasm is logged by unseen eyes. Then pain. Clamps bite their nipples. The flogger cracks across their tits, the zapper kisses their ribs, the violet wand traces burning lines down their belly. They work left to right, beat and shock themselves raw, pinch and twist the clamps until agony flips into need. They come again, yanking the clamps hard while the zapper sparks the soft skin of their inner thighs. Trembling, they mount the last machine, slam the dildo into their cunt, and ride it until they gush across the deck, collapse in their own wet mess, and lie still.