Both men leaned in at the same time to kiss along her throat and nibble under her ear lobe. Her breath caught in her throat and her body began to tingle. In unison, their hands moved over her body. Van touched her breasts and Caleb slid his hand up her thigh under the water.

"I-I thought you guys wanted to bathe me."

Van gave a throaty laugh. “We'll get around to it ... eventually.” He played with her nipple, gently brushing his fingers across it until it responded and hardened. “Tell us you don't like this. I dare you,” he murmured.

"Uh. It's true I feel very good around you both. I feel safe and not at all self-conscious and very, very

horny."

Caleb took her hand and placed it on his erect cock. “It's the chemistry between us. You're not the only one feeling it."

She closed her fingers around him and pumped. Caleb let out a groan that made her cunt pulse with pleasure. He forced her mouth to his for a possessive kiss.

At the same time, Van slid his hand down from her breast to her stomach and then to her thighs. Gently, he urged them apart and slipped up to touch her. Her breath hissed out of her, heating Caleb's mouth, and she shivered despite the warmth of the water. Van found her clit and rubbed. It responded instantly to his touch, growing swollen and exquisitely sensitive.

Caleb sealed his mouth over hers once more and also slid his hand between her thighs. While Van stroked her clit, Caleb found the entrance to her cunt and slid one, then two fingers inside her. She moaned against his tongue, feeling the stretch of her most intimate muscles as her body adjusted to his invasion. Having both their hands on her at one time was beyond delicious. Van seemed to know just how to touch her, just how to tease her clit to the edge of orgasm. Caleb eased his fingers in and out of her in a perfect rhythm. It was almost as if the two men were communicating in some way to make sure they timed their movements in the best way to drive her crazy.

If the tube's a-rockin', don't come a-knockin'...

Close Encounters

© 2009 B.H. Dark

Odilia is a nice planet. The sky is purple, the grass is yellow, the property prices aren't that bad. But reproduction is painful, solitary, and asexual. Which is why the Odilians find the recently discovered

“X-rated” disks from Earth so fascinating. And why the money-making scheme they're hatching is so brilliant.

The plan is simple: abduct four Earthlings and juice them up on a heady pheromone cocktail. Then plop them in a variety of titillating holographic scenarios and market the results as reality entertainment—for vast profits.

The four chosen humans are strangers to each other, but not to life's disappointments. Leandros, a lounge singer who's never committed to anything longer than an Elvis medley. Eve, an interior designer who's living a life much more beige than bold. Beau, a laid-back car mechanic who wants more from life than oil changes. And Cassandra, an innocent debutante who's learned most of her sexual know-how from self-help books.

As unwilling—okay, sort of willing—stars of the Odilians’ budding intergalactic porn empire, the four of them consider their options. Relax and enjoy the ride? Try to escape?

How about fall in love?

Warning: This book contains voyeuristic aliens, hologram cowboy orgies, big dildoes, disco, and gratuitous use of the word “baby".

Enjoy the following excerpt for Close Encounters:

"Oh my."

Cassandra blinked and stared around her. Somehow, she was in a perfectly square room, sitting on a heart-shaped bed. Thick red shag carpeting covered the floor and walls. And there was a...

A mirror on the ceiling?

She wasn't at home. This was most definitely not Foxborough, Connecticut. People in Foxborough didn't tend to go for red heart-shaped furniture.

Was it real? She gingerly touched the satiny bedspread. It felt real. She got up and looked through the open door, which led to a rather lavish tile and chrome bathroom with a heart-shaped tub. That looked real, too. Tacky, but real.

Unless this was a particularly lifelike dream. She'd had some very lifelike dreams lately, dreams where when she woke up she had to lie in bed and catch her breath for a few minutes before she could remember where she was and who she was. Dreams that were populated by strange, shadowy people, and weirdly intense feelings.

This could be one of those dreams. Except it appeared that she was alone.

Experimentally, she gave herself a hard pinch on the arm. It hurt.

"Wake up,” she told herself. Nothing happened.

"I'm Cassandra Mary Elliot, of 46 Maple Street, Foxborough, Connecticut, USA,” she said aloud. Her voice sounded flat, its loudness absorbed by the shag carpeting. “I'm twenty-one years old, and I am probably dreaming right now."

Well, she knew who she was, anyway. That was a step up. Unless she wasn't really Cassandra Elliot of Maple Street, Foxborough, and she was only dreaming that she knew who she was.

Cassandra shook her head. It didn't do to think too much in dreams. She'd read a book about it recently. You should relax and enjoy and forget about logic and reality.

That decided, she sat down on the heart-shaped bed and looked around her. There was something weird about this room, besides the fact that nobody in Foxborough would be seen dead in somewhere like this, and that she shouldn't be here either. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, though.

Instead, she tried to remember what her last waking thought had been. She'd read that sometimes when you fell asleep your brain kept on going over what you had been thinking about and your dreams reflected that.

But the last thing she could remember was sitting in her bedroom, at her desk, half-heartedly studying because she couldn't sleep. Cassandra looked down at herself; she was wearing her cream satin nightgown and her green Chinese silk bathrobe. Well, she hadn't been wearing that before. She'd been in

flannel pajamas. And there was no way on Earth that she would be wearing this outfit in somebody else's bedroom; she practically blushed every time she put in on in her own bedroom, where nobody could see her.

So she must be dreaming. It was good she'd got that settled, anyway.

"Hey, hi there."

A deep voice, slow and drawly and masculine.

Cassandra's head shot up. And immediately she knew what had been weird about the room on top of its general weirdness, because there was an open door in the room and there hadn't been any doors before except for the one leading to the bathroom.

But now there was a door open in the wall across from her. And a man standing in it.

Cassandra scrambled further onto the bed, as if it would give her protection. The man was tall and strong-looking. He had long straight brown hair that tumbled over his shoulders and a goatee around his mouth. And he was wearing—this got worse and worse—faded jeans, a black leather jacket, and a black T-shirt that had some rock band's name printed on it.

"Who are you?” She couldn't keep the fear out of her voice.

The man regarded her evenly. “My name's Beauregard B. Bryson, but you might as well call me Beau because everyone does. Is this your place?"

"I—I'm not sure. If it's my dream, I guess it's my place. But it's a little strange."

Beau nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Well, I'm glad I'm not the only one who feels like they're having an acid flashback.” He stepped forward and Cassandra retreated a little further back on the bed. It might be her dream, but she wasn't so sure that he wasn't a psycho rapist. She'd seen a photograph of a psycho rapist one time in the newspaper and she was pretty certain he'd been wearing a leather jacket and a rock band T-shirt. It might even have been the same rock band he was wearing.