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☄️ Space Angel
"Seb," Maxim said, drawing him forward. "You haven't met Yalura."
Seb Carrick turned, slow, the way men do when considering a bid, a challenge. The silver strands in his hair caught the pure white light, the lunar albedo. His linen suit--just casual enough, just rich enough--moved with him. He smiled, sharp.
Maxim smiled back, sharper.
Seb's eyes flicked over Yalura, took him in like a line-item on a competitor's balance sheet. "Charmed," he said, just a fraction too late.
He did not need to glance down to know how the light played along the curves of the metal. The shoes, impossibly high, caught the silver of the launch flares, booming now in the distance. The liquid gleam pooled in the pearlescent bands at his ankles. Between them, his tendons cut into the light, a lattice of tension and grace. Walking in them was an exercise in control, and control was what Maxim valued. Control and spectacle.
And then there was the cage. It was the center of each conversation tonight, though no one spoke of it where they could hear. Weightless, a construction of interlocking metal rings, tubes, impossibly seamless in their fit. Not merely restrictive, but engineered to precision. If there was discomfort, it was irrelevant. He had trained for this. The mechanism that bound it together--a lock? A clockwork catch?--was a mystery to all but the hands that had sealed it. Its removal, when such a thing were allowed, would require those same hands. The unspoken message: what was given was not his to take off.
At his throat, the wide enamel ring of a collar, circular like the coupling of a pressure suit. White, immaculate. Maxim's designers had drawn from his earliest work--Earth's first electric cars, classics, machines built for speed, their surfaces sculpted for aerodynamics. The pauldrons, balanced over his shoulders, belonged to that lineage too: plated, jointed, a refraction of old-world armor onto the frame of a young man. This was the vehicle he had made of him.
And behind him, an afterimage--no, a cape, fine as breath, suspended in the weightless drift of its own perfection. It did not move, nor ripple, nor catch. It simply hung.
A star marked his breast, polished gold, pinned like an emblem of rank. No army wore such a thing. But Maxim was a nation unto himself, and he, standing beside him, bore his sigil.
Even the color of his hair had been corrected to the gold of his design. No one at this gathering would mistake the message: the sum of him had been made.
They moved on.
"...Fifteen percent under cost." Maxim, now in motion, stepping fluidly into business. "We land it there, sell it here."
"You can't," Seb said, smoothly. "There's the payload tax. There's--"
"Loopholed." Maxim lifted his glass, sipped. "The station's paying half. Doesn't count as freight."
Seb made a sound low in his throat. A wolfish thing. "And if I match you?"
Maxim tilted his head. A challenge. An opening.
Cyrus Engel, watching, leaned in. He didn't have their height, their movement. His jacket, black with some lenticular fabric that shifted subtly, stayed still. "Neither of you can get permits for that kind of downmass. It's closed."
Maxim exhaled a laugh. "It was."
Seb's smile flickered. "You greased someone."
"I hired someone."
A pause.
Cyrus straightened, setting his drink down untouched. "Setsuko," he said, shifting the conversation, shifting something else. A reminder, perhaps, that not all agreements were bought.
The woman at his side stepped forward--not behind him, but beside. "Good evening," she said. Not a smile, not exactly. A presence.
Yalura felt the weight of a glance, then a hand, light at his arm. "Let's step away," Setsuko murmured. She nodded at Cyrus, then Maxim, their glance back excusing them both.
She turned, her expression unreadable but steady. "You're here of your own choosing?" A pause. "And if not--" another pause, weighted--"is there anything I can do?"
Yalura blinked, just once. The question sat between them, a gift he could take or leave. Had anything in his young life truly been of his choosing?
Later, he might think about that. Not now.
Now, he was playing the role he was made for. The one he had perfected. And sometimes--sometimes--it gave him power. And pleasure.
He let his lips curve, just enough. "I'm exactly where I want to be," he said.
Setsuko studied the young man a moment longer. Then, almost imperceptibly, nodded.
Yalura returned to Maxim's side, unnoticed, or noticed only as an object restored to its place.
Maxim and Seb were laughing, the kind of laugh men use when they are measuring one another.
"...Had to go deep for it," Seb was saying. His voice smoothed over the words like a tide polishing stone. "Near the southern arc, Big Blue's open trenches. Heat vents, black water." A slow shake of his head. "You wouldn't believe what's down there."
Maxim lifted his glass, waiting.
"The Cthulhian," Seb said, savoring it.
Maxim's smirk wavered, just slightly. "You found one."
Seb's teeth flashed, white against the tanned, wind-worn lines of his face. "Three meters long," he said. "Thick with chromatophores. A shimmer in the dark. Hundreds of suction cups, some rimmed with cartilage spurs. Thing could take a limb, easy."
Maxim leaned, just a fraction. "And you caught it."
Seb watched him watch the story. "Hired it! Sentient. Cetus--asked the staff to call him. But the real thing?" He let the moment stretch. "The secretion."
Maxim's gaze flicked to him.
"A recessive trait," Seb said. "Rare. Some excrete a compound--absorbed through mucus membranes. Psychedelic. Sedative. Makes their prey compliant before the feeding."
Maxim was quiet. Just for a second.
Seb tilted his glass, watching him now. "Imagine what a careful hand could do with that."
Yalura, ever still, felt the space between the words. He had the sense, suddenly, of a room full of windows, all one-way, all looking in on him.
Maxim smiled. Slow. "Imagine," he murmured.
Yalura connected the dots.
Six months earlier. A similar party. Different city, different sky. The same men. Maxim, Seb. Glasses filled, emptied, filled again.
A deal forming in the air between them like a shape rising through deep water. Each man had council present, hanging at arm's reach. The lawyers knew when to turn into the conversation. The moment when play turned to purchase.
They hurried through the terms, some monumental, others fanciful. Locked along with his boy's cock were 6.9 million DOGE in escrow, to be released only by a cryptographic whisper upon a nanophysical latch. Patent licensing for the rocket nozzle. A carriage agreement--twenty-four thousand tonnes of cargo and personnel between Luna and Mars. And they would celebrate by filming a collab: Yalura; Seb would choose his girl or boy; and maybe, they jested, a third--an alien. It would be all for their own fun, and they'd make a tidy profit on that last part, too.
All worked out when they were both drunk on Vallée Prime Reserve at Ludovic Xi's 350th birthday.
Maxim's glass was never empty, and Yalura knew the signs. The loose edge to his smirk, the way his hand drifted at his side instead of settling on his waist. He would not need him tonight. Not in his bed, not at all.
And that made him sad.
Worse, he knew this was the only time Maxim's instincts dulled, the only time the sharp edge of his business acumen softened under the weight of too much drink. He watched the deal take shape between him and Seb, the knowing flicker in Seb's eyes, the casual way the lawyers leaned in. Maxim was having fun, and Seb was taking advantage.
Yalura saw it. He knew it. And of course, he could not speak.
A week later, the courier had arrived. A small case, perfectly constructed. Hand-delivered, no questions.
He had turned it over in his hands. The weight of it. The silence of it.
Fabrication was complete.
He had thought it jewelry. A collar, perhaps. A bracelet. A corset, even. Something to shine at Maxim's wrist when he led him into the next party, the next negotiation.
But it was the cage.
He had known it as soon as he saw the way it opened--not by clasp or hinge, but by effort. By submission.
"...the same alloy as the fuel injector in the Raptor 17 series," Maxim exclaimed in pride and jest. The man's calloused hands, forever marked by the plasma burns of the Texas launch disaster seventy years earlier, careful, deliberate, manipulating and then forcing Yalura's bulbous testicles one at a time through the unforgiving ring. "...as cold as minus two hundred and fifty-three degrees Celsius, and immense pressure--up to four thousand pounds per square inch!" Maxim rattled. The work of it. The difficulty. Then Yalura was slipped in, and the lock, a final sound. A click like a gate closing, like an answer given too late.
He had not jerked off the night before, not thought to do that. Immediately, he wished that he had.
Only then did he ask: For how long?
Only then did he learn.
Only then did he understand--
Maxim did not hold the key.
And now, here, at another party, under another sky, Maxim's hand rested at the small of his back, smooth, naked skin, warm, present, meaningless.
Seb lifted his glass. "Imagine," he had said.
Maxim smiled. "Imagine," he had echoed.
And Yalura, bound, beautiful, drinking something clear and expensive, imagined.
The other kind of spectacle. A diversion these men whispered about, sharing glances from one another's screens, the glow reflecting briefly in their eyes. The performance of sexual punishment. The danger, real. The release, slow.
A lifting of the gates. The metal floor, cold beneath his bare feet, perforated as a drain. The air dry, electric, rich with the tang of something not-quite oxygen. The tub of viscous ooze, stinging. And opposite him--
A thing with weight, with muscle and hunger. A low, wet suction sound as its myriad limbs unfurled. Not the graceful brutality of a human partner, but something different. Something that learned as it fucked.
They would drag it out.
He could almost feel the impact, the way his ribs will compress, the sickening give of flesh against something that should not move that fast. The pain of the first shallow penetration--a warning, a tease.
The viewcount would click upward so quickly it would almost seem audible.
He would get fucked until his lungs burned, throat and anus and nipples and nose, until his arms trembled, until his vision went sharp with that final, impossible clarity--when time slowed and the world became a series of choices, of inches, of muscle-memory made real. But in truth he had no choice at all.
He would cum at the height of himself, at the peak of his young body's knowing. He would cum at, perhaps, his young body's end.
The eyes on him would not be passive, not the lazy admiration of a prize on display, but rapt, caught in the barbaric play of tension and release, of life and death, of lube and skin and movement, of pity, of glory, of sadism.
In a matter of hours, this deal would be concluded, and he would be released from one cage to be thrown into another.
He trembled invisibly, an echo traveling through the taut, toned muscle and bone of his nearly wholly exposed body--exposed to these men, before it would be opened to these, and through the vidstack and a cheap subscription fee, to a billion wankers more.
Setsuko glanced down at him. He understood her warning now. She knew. The promos were already up. Fans were already connecting wallets. It was Yaluria, you remember, from Space Angel season four, the very same!
His body had long since mastered the stillness expected of him, the smooth elegance of display. A prize must be motionless, untouchable, admired rather than held.
But inside now--inside, his body was devouring itself.
Six months of stillness. Six months of patience, of conditioning, of the delicate, tormenting edge between chastity and heat. He had learned restraint so well it had become instinct, his body trained to endure, to shudder without breaking, to ache without relief. The cage at his groin had become part of him, a thing neither forgotten nor fully present, a weight and a presence, a law written in platinum and iridium, mixed, anodized, and tempered.
And tonight--tonight, it would be removed.
Not for mercy. Not for kindness. Not even for him.
But for that.
In a level below the terrace, a laboratory room held the creature waiting for him. Soon, its limbs would coil around him, and the cameras would capture nine hundred sixty frames of every short second of his fight. Of his surrender.
His cock twitched violently in its confinement. He tried to move his attention away from the growing, burning pulse in his loins. He nearly gasped aloud.
Instead, he smiled.
He could not afford to tremble. The room was full of eyes, the weight of wealth and power pressing in. Time had smoothed the edges of resistance. Yalura had learned the slow rhythm of denial, the ache that was neither pleasure nor pain, only presence.
A long blink brought his back his mind's eye, and he was fighting it again. His body knew what awaited it. It knew what had been promised. Release. A word with two meanings.
He would be free. He would be taken.
His cock ached so fiercely he felt lightheaded. If the device were gone, he might have humiliated himself then and there, spent and ruined before the night had even begun. He swallowed hard.
The knowledge had shattered him the moment he heard it. The cage would be unlocked. His body, bound for half a year, would know sensation again--only to be thrown into that. That presence. That alien thing, waiting. A thing that would wrap around him, would test the limits of his endurance, his pleasure, his submission.
His mind had never been more afraid. His body had never been more aroused.
The conversation was returning to orbit, orbits within orbits.
On the launch gantry, the next ship's tanks filled in a measured stream, the liquid oxygen pooling, waiting, held in perfect stillness before the next moment's blaze.
Maxim, still riding his last victory, gestured broadly, the graphene weave of his sleeve catching light like an insect's wing. "It's a matter of fuel exchange, really. The payload tax is nothing if you--"
Seb cut him off with a laugh, one of those bright, effortless things, a sound that made it seem like they were all in on some grand joke. "Ah, Maxim," he said. "Business, business. And yet--where are my manners?" He turned, just slightly, as if only now remembering. "You haven't met my companion these past months."
Aenjis stepped forward.
Yalura went cold.
The terrace had been warm a moment ago, the cocktail glass light in his hand, the conversation something he could tune in and out of, but now--now, nothing moved.
Aenjis did.
It wasn't fabric. It wasn't metal. It wasn't real. Yalura's breath caught, pulse hammering as his mind scrambled to place it, to understand how it had been made, how it had come together, how Aenjis had even put it on.
But there were no seams. No fastenings. No way in, no way out. It moved with him--no, a fraction behind him, like an afterimage, like something lagging just out of sync with time itself. The neckline plunged in a sheer, impossible cut, straight down the center of his body, but it did not shift when he breathed, as if breath was unnecessary, as if the suit itself held its own tension.
And the gloves--those weren't gloves. The fingers ran too long, tapered to points that weren't claws but weren't right, either.
Yalura tried to look away, but his gaze caught on Aenjis' hair, black and curved like a blade, too perfect, too still, as if the slow swaying gravity of the moon had no claim on it. And on his cheekbone, a band of metal, smooth and final, fused to the skin. Not jewelry. Not an accent. A mark.
The air in Yalura's lungs turned to ice. Aenjis had stepped out of something, something without a door, something not meant to be opened again.
Still that perfect, engineered beauty, still that careful way he carried his head, chin just so, poised between defiance and allure. The same synthetic youth, untouched by time. And now, the same game. Again.
Aenjis smiled, or almost smiled. A knowing thing.
Yalura's fingers clenched, then released. He was not holding a glass. He was holding nothing.
Maxim exhaled through his nose, half a scoff. "You really went and got one, too." He gave Seb a look, vaguely annoyed, vaguely impressed. "Nanobots? PAINPROOFEN®? And here I thought you liked them real."
Seb lifted a shoulder, eyes glinting with pleasure at the execution of his move. "Oh, I'm curious about the technology," he said. "You know that."
Yalura saw it, then. The satisfaction in his eyes, not for Maxim--well, for Maxim, but through him. He knew. He had known. He hated him for it. Hated him for bringing Aenjis here, for using this, for taking something that had been bitter and personal and making it part of his game with Maxim.
To see him now, minutes before they would be tossed into a second arena. To have their masters push their bodies together in a sexual game of play and survival. Aenjis narrowed his smile into a wink. The cunt! He was enjoying this? It could kill him, too!
And Maxim--Maxim, oblivious, already turning back to the topic of fuel and payload, because this was nothing.
Later, if he survived the night, Yalura could try to explain. He could let the weight of this night crush him, press tears from his eyes, let them fall in the way that sometimes moved him. He could try.
Maxim would only laugh, stroke his hair, dismiss it.
"The wild emotions of teenagers," he would say. Or maybe, "You're still so young."
But right now, in this moment, Aenjis was looking at him, and Seb was watching him see it all, and Yalura had to smile.
Because that was the game.
It had been years since he had last seen that face, framed in television lights, frozen in a smirk. Aenjis had perfected it by week five of Space Angels, the smile that looked like kindness from a distance but, up close, was just calculation. The smirk of someone who knew the cameras were ever watching.
Yalura had trusted him. That was the worst of it. There had been late nights whispering under bunk sheets, hands clasped in silent brotherhood, both of them knowing that 99 would be cut to 10, to 5, to nothing. That they couldn't both win.
Layered over their friendship was a boyish admiration, pre-sexual though rapidly developing. Yalura wanted Aenjis to like him. Wanted to be close to him. Numbers for the pair's interactions were strong.
A fondness understood by Aenjis, but unrequited. Exploitable. So Aenjis had moved first.
The betrayal wasn't even clever. That was what stung. It was cheap, designed not for the judges but for the audience--wankers who lived through the emotions of teenage boys like tourists through a disaster zone. Aenjis had set the scene, timed the accusation, and cried just enough. Yalura hadn't expected it, hadn't had time to defend himself. And then it was over. The narrative written.
They loved Aenjis for it.
Of course they did. They had always leaned in his favor, whether he knew it or not. The show preferred boys who could be molded, who looked boyish rather than womanly, who embodied the fantasy of wide-eyed innocence. Aenjis fit the type: tall for his age, thin, flat-chested, the kind they could market as untouched. Yalura's hips were too wide. His balls were too big. His beauty was a mismatch. And Aenjis would exploit it.
In a moment, the elimination came, the damage was done. Yalura was the villain, the fool, the boy who thought he was safe. They called him names. They sent messages, threats. They laughed at how quickly he vanished.
He had turned everything off after that. The feeds, the messages, the lights. He spent whole days curled in silence, waiting for the world to forget him.
And yet, somehow, he had crawled back. Not as an idol, not as a singer, but as something better. He was here. He was part of this world. Of power. Of conquest. Of status and starflight.
And now, so was Aenjis.
Standing before him. Smirking. Knowing.
Yalura's fingers trembled. No one would notice, of course. No one ever noticed.
He lifted his chin. Smiled.
That was the game.
He had stepped away without thought, without permission. Stealing a moment for himself. Taking from a budget of zero. A theft that could cost him. But perhaps now, why did it matter.
Beyond the manicured paths of the terrace, the lunar night lay vast and thin. The air, cool in its bareness, flickered between warmth and chill, as though the rocket's firelight could not decide whether to scorch or abandon it.
Below, the city stretched in a lattice of white-gold light, trembling under the weight of its own ambition. Maxim had raised this garden above it all, a manufactured oasis against an inhospitable world.
The distant fires thundered.
Yalura shuddered, feeling the cage vibrate in resonance, as though their shared alloy were linked through some quantum pairing--his penis and the ascending rocket, both suspended between escape and control. The vibration activated his longing, causing another moment of swell and strain, each stronger than the one before, each vanquished by the curved shell of his confinement.
After the collab, come morning, Seb's engineering teams would unseal the patents back on Earth. They would see the fuel injector, and notice its shape and size resembled a chastity cage--a penis. They would smirk, and greedily copy the design, for Maxim had cultivated the best team, and years of development had refined this design as the most powerful and efficient. But neither they, nor Yalura, knew the lineage. Maxim alone did. He took Yalura's mold for the cage, and copied the device again for the rocket.
Within the core of the rocket's cylinder, twin fuel lines pumped supercooled liquid oxygen, at a perfectly regulated rate, to the injector behind the ignition flame. The ship would break from orbit cleanly, piercing the Van Allen Belts, rising without hesitation into the void.
A crystal drop of Cowper's fluid whetted into the last centimeter of Yalura's urethra, illuminating feeling for the young man along that fuel line up to the viper ducts where the twin curves of the vas deferens looped again, connecting the reservoirs of his engorged testicles. No wonder these men loved boys so much--for boys are rocket engines between belly and thighs!
Yalura's hand trembled as he pressed the cocktail napkin he had hidden to his cheek. The fabric drank the tears without protest. They would leave no trace.
Aenjis.
He inhaled sharply. Steady. The launch had begun. The world would move forward, up and out.
The alloy of his cage, the welded seams of the rockets, the panic in his mind, the heat in his loins--everything held.
-CrysPepsi
However, his busy schedule left little time for such contemplation these days. As one of the main characters on Space Angels, young Yalura faced countless challenges every day that pushed his growing body to the brink of its endurance. The show's producers had spared no expense in ensuring that the actors' physical and emotional well-being were not compromised in the pursuit of high ratings.
Despite the immense pressure on his teen shoulders, Yalura always managed to maintain the aura of stoic calmness that so captivated his audience. His presence on screen was magnetic, drawing viewers in with his undeniable charisma and charm.
Space Angels had become a cultural phenomenon since its inception, boasting an audience size larger than "Alien Intercourse" and "Transextra" combined! In many ways, Yalura had become the face of the series, embodying everything that made it so thrilling to watch: masterfully choreographed contortionist stunts, heart-pounding, Painproofen-aided battles with alien lifeforms, and unapologetic worship of male beauty and male-male relationships in the most creative and daring forms.
As a reality show, Space Angels had never shied away from pushing boundaries. Not a single episode was staged or scripted--the young men were thrown into the harsh environments, forced to adapt and overcome any challenge that came their way, while not forgetting about the pleasures of the flesh that the show promised its ever-growing fanbase.
The aliens were real and unpredictable, but Painproofen, a revolutionary nanotech serum, allowed the cast members to endure whole limbs being ripped off and regenerated with only mild discomfort. Of course, on camera, they would wail like animals trapped between the fangs of death, but during the special hour-long intermissions when the cameras were switched off, they would laugh and brag about their spectacular performances, eager to outdo one another for the next episode's ranking.
Yalura never truly enjoyed that part of the job, but he had the looks and the talent to keep being ranked as an S-tier character in every season. Even if inside him, he felt different from all those other boys who just craved being torn apart in the most gruesome ways, so they could watch themselves on-screen later, munching away at bags of popcorn and giggling as they pointed at another chunk of flesh hitting the camera, "Ha ha, look! Look! My leg!"
There was no denying his ability to perform under pressure and he had his backbone broken countless times for the show, each time more brutally than the last. But something in him wished there were more scenes where he got to perform in various exotic nightclubs and onboard parties, showcasing his unique dance moves and his incredible motion range.
Unlike other boys who required a major dose of Painproofen to withstand something as physically demanding as folding themselves in half backwards, as that would inevitably involve breaking their spine in more than one place, Yalura was able to do that feat effortlessly without a single drop of the serum.
Most of his friends cringed at the thought that he's doing it completely sober, often calling him a real freak behind his back. His ability to stretch and twist himself was indeed uncanny, but also oddly hypnotic and graceful. It was like watching a human machine functioning flawlessly: every joint could twist to its maximum possible angle without any sign of strain.
The fans demanded to see these feats of flexibility in every episode, and Yalura always delivered, even if sometimes he had to do it alone in the darkness of his quarters after midnight, when the cameras were still rolling. Most boys would do something completely different during those bedtime hours, but not Yalura. He rarely jerked off, he knew it's not what the viewers wanted to see.
Not to say that Yalura liked to put himself above others or feel superior. In fact, he had a deep-seated desire to be liked by everyone on set. He would go out of his way to make sure the other boys found him cool and kind-hearted. That's why it hurt so much to be stabbed in the back by someone he trusted as his best friend.
Yalura turned away from the star-filled sky and walked back towards the party, his heart pounding with anger and betrayal. Tears welled up in his eyes as he remembered how Aenjis used to tell him fascinating stories about the most distant stars, making those tiny points of light seem full of life and mystery.
But now, Aenjis' voice echoed in his mind, coldly articulating the words that would change everything: "It wasn't me who got you into this mess, Yalura. I tried to warn you, but you wouldn't listen."
As the soundwaves faded, the stars seemed to grow darker, their shine dimmed by the bitter truth hanging over Yalura like a menacing giant spider from hell. And yet, amidst all the pain and confusion, there was one thing Yalura was certain about--he had to do his final dance on stage tonight. Because no matter what happened next, he had to remain Yalura Andromeda, the S-tier character of Space Angels, and he had to remain standing until the very last second.
As he entered the grand hall, Yalura spotted Maxim waving enthusiastically for his attention on the other side of the spacious area. One of the show's prominent patrons, whose name was synonymous with exploitation of vulnerable young males in the dazzling world of showbiz. Rumored to have a personal collection of slaves for every occasion and mood, Maxim's presence alone could chill the air around any good-looking boy within his proximity.
Maxim raised a glass and beckoned Yalura closer. "Hey, kid! Come on over here," he said cheerfully, his voice dripping with an insincere charm. "Let's talk about your future!"
Yalura hesitated for a moment, a powerful mix of fear and hope filling his chest. He knew he didn't want this conversation to happen, and yet, there was no way out anymore. Not after Aenjis "exposed" Yalura's "secret plan" to abandon the Space Angels crew for Transextra. Apparently, he no longer "felt comfortable" being surrounded by boys with fit bodies and narrow hips, while the producers on the rival network promised to help him develop into a true femboy superstar. And apparently, Yalura "just couldn't wait" to get surgery to make his hips wider, reduce his cock to the size of a clit, and grow perky tits that would allow him to flourish in the world of female impersonation. Yeah, right.
Yalura clenched his fists as he approached the man who almost literally held his balls in his hands right now. His heart pounded furiously against his ribcage, making it hard to breathe under the crushing weight of despair. But he did not let any of it show on his face--always the face of an innocent angel, ready to turn another cheek after getting a good slap on his beautiful, firm ass.
"Ah! My little star!" Maxim exclaimed as Yalura stood before him, eyes locked on his own. "I've got something really special planned for you..."
"T-Tonight?.."
Maxim chuckled and stroked Yalura's bare shoulder, tugging on the stretchy strap of his skintight silver leotard like it was nothing more than a display item draped over a doll stand.
"Tonight, tomorrow, in another 10 years... as long as I have you in my pocket, kid," he murmured with a predatory grin. "You were bigger than ever for far too long, and you didn't even show any gratitude. Now it's time to be smaller than a mouse and twice as quiet."
Yalura swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his own insignificance settling upon his shoulders like a heavy armor plate. The one not meant to protect him but to keep him from running away.
"Why?" He asked quietly, knowing that there was no true answer to this question. The answer was life itself--the cruel, cold, and unforgiving force that gives one a dream to chase, only to turn it slowly into a nightmare.
With a sigh, Maxim reached out and brushed a strand of Yalura's hair behind his ear. The soft, freshly washed silkiness of it struggled to stay in place and fell back down, almost immediately.
"You're a very beautiful boy, Yalura. But in the end, you let all that beauty go to waste," Maxim spoke calmly, as if nothing short of a nuclear war could ever shake him off course. "You've got a face that could stop a bullet and the poses that can put some aliens to shame, but you let your true talent get overshadowed by all those bloody scenes and broken bones."
"I... thought I did good," Yalura stuttered, barely able to believe such a sudden review came from one of the show's main financiers.
"Good enough for an uncut diamond in a pile of coal, perhaps," Maxim smirked condescendingly. "But it's time to take you out of this muck and cut you up nice and pretty. You'll make a fine addition to my collection, Yalura!"
"Collection?.."
Maxim's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Just give me a few months to polish the edges and you'll see what kind of a treasure you are! And who knows, maybe I won't sell you too soon... If you behave nicely."
Yalura felt like he was drowning, his body so weak that his frivolous high-cut leotard woven from the thinnest Lunar silk felt like a straitjacket, crushing the breath out of him. He was used to working under pressure, but never before had he been pushed into such a miserable corner. He tried to swallow again, but his throat was parched, his tongue heavy as lead.
"Let me get you a drink," Maxim suggested kindly, gesturing at one of the female bots hovering around. "Get him something to keep him going, we've got quite a night ahead of us!"
In 11 seconds and a half, Yalura found himself holding a glass with a neon-lime liquid, its taste bitter like the future that awaited him. "Deimos Dew," the fembot pronounced cheerfully, almost apologetically.
The liquid spread through his body like molten lava, burning each cell on its way down. Suddenly, the infernal spider hanging right in front of his mind's eye disappeared, replaced by the bright glow of godrays descending upon him from the disco ball overhead. The music grew louder, pulsating through Yalura's chest. He recognized the beat: it was the final song from the last episode of Space Angels, "Mars is Calling".
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recall what had been bugging him just a minute before, but all that remained in his mind was the pure, unfiltered joy of being alive. As the music carried him away with its hypnotic rhythm, Yalura jumped up onto a nearby empty platform amidst the sea of clapping hands, ready to give his most dazzling performance yet!
He stretched his arms above his head, feeling all eyes on his lithe form. There were so many ways he could start this dance--the platform was barely one step wide, but the firm metallic pole in the center multiplied the possibilities exponentially! Yalura let his crotch bulge move smoothly along the length of the pole as his long, slender legs bent and straightened in perfect synchrony with the sudden tempo shift.
He knew this song inside out--it spoke directly to his heart and soul, making his body flow effortlessly into twists that made the onlookers gasp aloud. His shoulder-long bob hair swung back and forth with every move, brushing against his bare legs and butt cheeks every time he bent back or leaned forward.
The pole had a simple but effective AI system that kept track of his movements and provided real-time adjustments to maintain his safety, allowing him to perform the most daring stunts without risking any injury. His favorite trick was to bend backwards until he could grab the pole between his legs, then just kick off the ground and let the system quickly pull him up before his legs hit the platform. That pull-up motion would always fold his back double and result in a roar of applause and cheers from the crowd below.
Tonight's audience was no different, the excitement palpable as they watched Yalura soar through the air, his lithe, nearly naked form glistening under the bright neon lights. He had never felt more alive than when he danced, letting his body speak the language of passion that transcended the boundaries of human anatomy.
As the final beats of "Mars is Calling" echoed around the hall, Yalura stood tall at the edge of the platform, his penis visibly erect beneath the narrow stripe of his high-cut leotard. He spread his arms wide open, arching his back like a gymnast at the end of a flawless routine. Sweat dripped down his brow, making his bangs stick to his forehead, while his eyes sparkled with pure joy.
In that moment, Yalura knew that nothing could take away this joy from him--not even Maxim himself could rob him of the incredible sensation of being in complete control over his own body, capable of doing anything he wanted. Plots, fanbases, television networks, rankings, everything felt so insignificant compared to the euphoria of becoming one with your own flesh.
From now on, nobody was going to see the tears streaming down his cheeks--only sweatdrops rolling down his perfect ass. Yalura Andromeda was an S-tier character, and tonight, he was ready to dance until the very last drop of Deimos Dew left his veins!
He raised his chin up high and turned around to grab onto the pole once again, his lips stretching into a radiant grin. The next track was already starting: it was "The Milky Boy" by Fapcore, a cult classic known for its unique blend of techno beats and wet, sloppy sounds of male masturbation. Exactly what Yalura needed right now to get his heart pumping and his mind focused on the only thing that mattered--the next breathtaking move!
Yalura's fingers wrapped tightly around the metallic pole as he swung around it, legs spread wide apart, revealing his barely covered crotch to the enraptured audience. His hips swayed gently to the rhythm, as if he was riding an invisible wave of pleasure, his chest arched backwards and his head thrown back, baring his neck like a sacrificial offering to the cosmic gods of ecstasy. The back of his head pressed against his butt cheeks and slid upwards to the middle of his back, tugging his backbend into an unbelievable snail-like spiral. With one more pull, Yalura managed to roll up further until finally, his face pressed against his own ass, nose buried deep in the crease between his perfectly sculpted cheeks.
The crowd gasped collectively, meanwhile the AI system began rotating the platform beneath him to make sure everyone got a good view of this jaw-dropping sight from every possible angle. Yalura had no idea how he pulled it off, but he didn't want to ruin this magic. He simply let himself melt into the sensation, surrendering completely to the divine power that let him press his face against his ass with such grace and elegance.
Suddenly, a warm hand brushed against his cheek, startling him out of his trance-like state. Yalura opened his eyes to find himself locked in a passionate embrace with Maxim, who fondled his hair gently.
"Let's go back home," Maxim whispered huskily, his breath tickling Yalura's ear. "You've had your fun for tonight."
"Home?.."
"Your new home," Maxim clarified. "Where you'll be safe, under my watchful eye. I have a better AI system than that cheap pile of scrap they use here. It couldn't even save you from a simple fall!"
"Fall?.. What fall?"
"Don't you remember?" Maxim chuckled bitterly. "You drank a whole glass in one gulp and then ran around the stage like a maniac, trying to climb up, but ended up falling flat on your face. This place is so low-budget it makes me sick. At home, you'll never have to worry about getting hurt again--unless I say so."
Yalura blinked, his head spinning wildly.
"I... don't understand.." he stuttered weakly.
"You hit your head pretty hard," Maxim reassured him calmly. "For a moment there, I thought I'd lost my property. Now I'm taking you to safety before any other wild ideas get into your head."
"Property..."
"Right! You're worth a pretty penny, Yalura. Many people would pay handsomely for an S-tier character like you. But only I can give you a chance to evolve beyond your current form. You should thank me for saving your future from Transextra. You were literally a day away from the knife at their hospital! Those people are savages, a disgrace to the male form."
Yalura felt cold sweat trickling down his cheek. The image of Aenjis' face flashed through his mind, frustrated and disappointed, as if trying to convey something important to a madman: "I tried to warn you, Yalura."
"Aen..."
"Shh," Maxim hushed him. "It's time we got out of here."
As they made their way towards the exit, Yalura could hear the crowd chanting his name, urging him to come back for more. He looked back over his shoulder, seeing a sea of faces cheering for him, believing in him. For just a fleeting second, he wondered if that hallucination was real--but then, it disappeared, leaving behind nothing but the cold, indifferent people moving to some unfamiliar music.
With a heavy heart, Yalura followed Maxim, the only man left who still believed in him. Maybe one day, with enough practice and training, he would evolve into that glorious dancer the Deimos Dew had promised him. Until then, there was no point in trying to swim against the current. Career or slavery, just two sides for the same coin. One gives us a dream to chase, only to turn it slowly into a nightmare.
Yalura smiled weakly, realizing that nothing truly changed--born in this world meant being trapped in the same cycle of exploitation. All men were nothing but cogs in the divine machine that kept the stars twinkling in the vast expanse around them. But neither the stars nor the men themselves had any other purpose than keeping the faceless machine rolling. Forms for the next generation of victims were already lined up, eagerly awaiting their turn on the cosmic stage.
The Deimos Dew had indeed done its job perfectly, perhaps too well. Never before did Yalura have such profound thoughts about the nature of reality around him. He was a slave, no matter what form or mask he wore. Maxim wore the mask of his master but, in essence, he was a slightly bigger cog in the same gigantic, merciless machine.
"You're lucky," Maxim broke the silence as they stepped inside an armored hovercraft waiting outside. "I think I won't sell you. Something about you makes me want to keep you all for myself. I don't know if it's your innocent eyes or your perfect body or something else entirely, but you seem kind of... special. Like that special thing you have that you wouldn't sell even for a trillion DOGE. You know?"
The bigger cog turned, making many smaller ones follow suit, all except one little cog that fell out of the machine and fell onto a cold stone floor below. Several other cogs lay scattered around it, all lifeless in their silent cry for help. Suddenly the merciless machine seemed less terrifying than the dark, lifeless emptiness where those lost, forgotten cogs now resided, unable to ever find their way back into the divine mechanism.
"Thank you..." Yalura whispered weakly, "for taking care of me..."
Maxim beamed with delight. "You'll thank me later, kid! Trust me!" He leaned forward to ruffle Yalura's hair, that immediately bounced back into its original shape. "And don't worry about Space Angels anymore. They are so low-budget they have to use real aliens instead of CGI. I got tired of buying Painproofen in bulk. And they gave you nothing but headaches anyway. I'm going to give you a proper evolution, Yalura!"
The hovercraft glided elegantly through the twinkling night sky, leaving behind the grand hall of Space Angels, Yalura's once-beloved workplace. The place that only cared for the ratings, where fans valued a cheap show over true skills, and friends treated him as a buddy and then called him a freak behind his back. Perhaps for others it was a dream to work there one day, yet upon its end, it seemed more akin to a nightmare.
I'd love to see what else you had written, having read only one text about Yasha's transformations was definitely not enough ;)
Shiki
💤 Please Stand By...
😎 Unbreakable Summer
🎥 Blurred Memories
🌥️ Cloud No.9
🦜 The Secret of Monkey Island
🌠 Noah's Ark
Naamah NS2G:
Navigator: A wall-mounted device, like EM-4 in Andor; also a voice-only interface throughout the ship. As Navigator, Naamah is always looking out for the boy, providing reminders, answering questions, and offering help and encouragement.
Scooter: A short, wheel-bound robot, like the Death Star's Mouse droids, or the robot Ender builds in The Space Between Us. As Scooter, Naamah fills the role in Noah's life of a prince's court jester in the Middle Ages, or a boy's dog in 1955. Scooter is always joking, teasing, and being a boy's best friend.
Sentinel: As pictured, the humanoid biomechanical zentai robot, standing a head and a half taller than Noah. Strict but caring, Naamah in this form is a fatherly figure, a teacher, Scoutmaster, and athletic coach. Sentinel challenges the boy, corrects him, and keeps him safe. Also, assisted stretching :D
Goliath: Designed for work in deep space, Naamah's Goliath form is built for EVA repairs in the vacuum outside the ship, but can also compact into a rectilinear form for transport and storage. (In this way, Goliath can come inside :) A hulking triangular frame of pistons, metal, and hydraulics, Goliath EVA is ready for the most heavy-duty of tasks. Goliath is the muscle of the team, programmed for absolute obedience to the boy, and silent.
And then im imagining how in each form, he and Noah get together ;)
-CrysPepsi
📔 The Book of Tricks
🥂 An Order of the Belted
And the pouch! I'm imagining that at this point, there are two layers of cloth--an "under" layer with a circular (ring) opening at the base, allowing the garment as a whole to stay smooth and tight while an outer layer conceals what must be kept modest. So the zipper stays ruler flat with the young man's belly, and the only way, ahem, contents, could extend outward and upward would be after an unzip.
While I've been here, horny mind, body, and spirit since 2016, and things have been consistently amazing throughout, recently, your mastery and artful incorporation of ai tools alongside traditional ones has let your world-building achieve a new level, Yuni! Deep textures, detailed backgrounds, animation, poetry, and now music! Thanks so much for what you're giving us here, I really mean it! -CrysPepsi
The zipper/pouch is a must-have, as he loves his ale so much that his speedy hourglass metabolism would fill up his bladder in just ten minutes after finishing a pint. Not sure why he can't simply move the cloth aside, it's either for aesthetic reasons or to give a clear hint about his chosen payment method.
Wonderful suggestion about the ring! Makes a lot more sense and also would prevent poor Thaddeus from any accidental... incidents.
Also made me wonder how awesome it would be to have actual thongs based on cock-rings rather than strings as the primary support system. With tiny pieces of cloth, spawning a whole new erotic fashion to boost the appeal of those who need it most, like male dancers or contortionists...
I can't believe you remember the exact year when you first saw my pictures, it's just a miracle that my work stays enjoyable for so long. I hope someday there will be people who know me for 40 years: "Yuni has made another AAAI game about Yunia, but I still recall those days when they were just a small photoshop artist, struggling to make two English sentences stick together..."
🛰️ Boob Wars
🍼 Bottled Boy
Contortion enterology is so hot. You are amazing for creating this, and every other unbelievably hot thing here, Yuni! 😍 -CrysPepsi