The Coupling Chamber

by Allen Baker

I had ripened. It was time for my next coupling. A time of dreaded ecstacy. Exquisite pain and intimacy. The mystical mingling of two becoming one to provide our species with a new being.

It is rumored that some among our historians have uncovered records of legends that speak of ancient ancestors on the mythical planet Earth. But you never meet anyone who's actually seen the evidence. Always a friend of a friend who met someone who knows someone. And on and on. It's hard to fathom such ancient creatures, so primitive, so crude.

It is said that they were unable to share thoughts. How bizarre. That they made noises, sounds to share experiences, events. But it was awkward and inexact, causing many misunderstandings and, eventually, caused enough chaos to destroy those ancient beings along with their entire planet. Only a few escaped. Into space. Into modern times.

But most everyone knows this. But few know that those ancient creatures were divided into two types: mals and emals. How bizarre to have a being split into two different forms, each depending on the other to produce young. Perhaps few rumors of this exist because it is too unbelievable to bother repeating. But I sometimes wonder, all the same.

At any rate, I am ripe. Heavy with my seed. Engorged and ready for mating. So ripe that the need is fully on me. The desire drives every thought. In a couple of hours, I will head to the Coupling Chamber. In the meantime, I lie here and fantasize. It makes my rod tremble with excitement to anticipate the months ahead. The months of ecstasy. And I fantasize about those ancient ones who could only experience pleasure in short spurts, just seconds. How deprived. How I pitied them.

The time has come, and I head to the Chamber, wondering if I will know who I will be mated with. Who, at this time, is also ripe? Who will be the match for this coupling? And which of us is the more dominate? Which will become the receiver and which the giver?

And which, this time, would I prefer? I've been both many times. Both are states of erotic joy. But the giver dominates while the receiver is passive, is possessed. Both linger endlessly between pleasure and pain. Pain for one is the other's pleasure. Pain causes bliss, bliss causes pain. They are one and the same.

By the time I reached mid-ship, my anticipation has become overwhelming. My need to mate is all-consuming. At last, I reach my destination and merge through its wall to the heart of the home ship: the Coupling Chamber. It's empty; I've been the first to arrive. At first, my desire causes immediate disappointment. But then I'm grateful for the time alone here to adjust. The Chamber is central to the ship and doesn't spin. The sudden change to weightlessness needs acclamation time. It's a rare luxury to float. To expand. Weightless, my rod bobs and weaves against my bulk and expands to a rigid length of just over half my overall form. It fills with my blood and bloats to obscene, exciting proportions, making me giddy with need. It flaps against my seed pouch. Inside the pouch, my two tender seeds react to the slap by throbbing. Ah, pain is bliss.

I'm alone too long. Where is my mate? He should be here. I'm impatient. And, just by chance, I happen to be facing the exact section of the wall where he emerges. He causes a mental smile as he enters, rod first through the membranous wall. He's already elongated and hard. He, too, is ripe with both development and desire. His pouch is heavy with two ponderous orbs that stretch his skin shiny tight. I've rarely seen such size. I moan with anticipation. At last he's fully in and I can see his face. It's Tumar! Long-time friend. Ah, a mental pairing of equally strong minds.

And so the sparring begins. We circle, the tips of our rods occasionally touching, sending sparks of need through their lengths, setting them into vibration. Our minds meld, showing ourselves. Blending. Exposing the urgency. Vying for dominance. The stronger mind pushes and contends to possess. He's grown since we last met. I try to gain the upper position: I want to overpower his mind and thus control his body. But my power wavers, and it's all the edge he needs. Suddenly, his mind encompasses mine, and I've lost control.

For a millisecond, I hold regret to not dominate. But just as quickly, he controls that thought, and I willingly, joyfully submit. He mentally triggers the changing fluids in my body. I can feel them speeding through my bloodstream, spreading through my rod and pouch. I tremble with sensations as my rod's wall expands outward and thins, causing the inner tube to dilate, expand in preparation for his entry.

Tumar's rod anticipates the change and pushes into the opening at the tip. As it slowly expands, he pumps his mammoth member into mine. His friction diminishes as my pouch sends forth clear lubricant to help ease his entry. It takes time for me to enlarge enough to take his full length into me. When we're finally there, he lingers, holding the position. Delighting in having bested me. I no longer care. I luxuriate in the feeling of fullness, of the slightly degrading notion of being overpowered, of submitting.

Now it has begun, now that he's been victorious over me, he can afford to be tender. His foot-long tongue vies with mine. Then he uses it to caress my face, excite my ears, and bathe my nick in delightful flicks and circle about my chest and navel. Mentally, he soothes me and shares his excitement at our joining. We both sigh in contentment.

Eventually, his need to move within me takes over, and slowly he pulls back. My inner tube uses its millions of miniature, hairlike filaments to grasp and caress the length of his monstrous rod. He shudders and plunges back in. He slowly begins to rhythmically pump in and out, artfully controlling his urges to plunder. Controlling his energy, knowing this stage will last for days. Our minds experience both our own and the other's sensations. The circle of feeling, experiencing, endlessly builds hour after hour. For days the anticipation of the culminating ecstacy builds within us.

His seeds grow firmer, and his pouch slaps again and again against my own. Each plunge of pleasure is accompanied by the slap of our pouches. His hardening seed pulverizes my own. Tenderizes and emulsifies my seed into a pulpy mass being readied for fertilization.

By the end of the third day, my lubricant glands have dried up. The friction of his movements have rawed us both. Even the smallest motion causes pain for us, and still he increases the movement's velocity and force.

And then it begins. His mind suddenly contracts to a small dot of consciousness in a far corner of his brain. It pulls mine along. He bucks and gives out a psychic scream that echoes about our skulls. His seed begins to move. We are beginning to orgasm. The seeds move toward the base of his tube in anticipation of being expelled. They've become tender and pliable. Now they are being painfully compressed, squeezed to fit the confines of his small tube, less than a fourth of their original diameter. The pressure is exquisitely enormous. This is his/our climax: we share it, experience it together. We both feel the endless pain. Endless pain, endless bliss. It takes a full lunar month for each of his two seeds to travel from his pouch to mine. Two full months of orgasm! Two months of endless/mindless exhausting thrill. Then finally his orgasm ends.

At last the seeds are deposited into my pouch, leaving it stretched and bloated. Leaving his empty and, for the moment, useless.

The first seed to enter is always too traumatized by the stressful journey to be suitable for fertilization. It lodges itself in the lining of my pouch, attaching itself to serve as an energy source for the second seed to feed on. The second seed's journey was eased by the stretching caused by the travels of the first. This one nestles into the pulpy remains of my own seeds. The mass coats it in layers and begins to penetrate its hard shell.

We lapse into exhaustion. Mental overload. We float between worlds, between bodies, barely conscious for nearly another month as our seeds develop this stage.

Suddenly, Tumar's mind expands and pushes mine back to its own space. Finally, the mush has penetrated and implanted his seed with new life force. A new being exists. The growth begins. And now is the instant for us to momentarily break apart and reunite. During the month of inactivity, Tumar's rod had become lifeless and atrophied. We both know the necessary pain he's about to endure. But I hold still, knowing he needs to make the next move of his own free will. I brace myself for the shared pain.

A swift twitch of his hips, and his plank, still lodged deep in my own, breaks free from his body. His agonizing scream reverberates in my head. I clutch him close and caress him, soothe him. Eventually, our breathing eases. We look down with wonder. His empty pouch hangs below an opening where his rod had been attached. I shudder as his separated member now slides totally inside me to be absorbed as nutrients for the growing one.

My rod returns to its glory and pleads for its own release. Urgency is now on my side. And dominance as well. I probe my tip into Tumar's new opening. It's muscular lips suck me in, pull me inward until I am fully engulfed. And now it is my turn to pleasure us both. Again, days of purest carnal joy. No other thoughts or needs beyond the feeling of my plundering his cavity. With each passing moment, the one in my pouch grows. With each swing, the weight increases. As he grows, the pouch gets tighter, thinner, more stretched. The weight of the swaying pouch pulls on the base of my prod, making it throb all the more with each lunge. Day after glorious day.

Finally, the pouch can expand no more, can support no more weight. With a tearing rip, it splits and flings the new gestated being free to lodge in the nurturing walls of the chamber. The pain of the rupture triggers my/our final orgasm.

Another month of endless, trembling thrill. On and on and on the mental fireworks explode and rocket throughout our shuddering bodies. Day after day, Tumar and I soar. Day after day, until at last a tender kiss and sigh ends it all.

We stare into each other's faces as I give the final twitch that painfully detaches my rod from my groin. I cry out as we watch its base end disappear into Tumar's body. After all these months, we are alike again. Neither of us have rods. They will grow anew. We both have empty pouches. They will ripen and grow new seed. We are prepubescent once more. Entering the cycle again. We stare at the new one growing in the lining of the chamber. Our new one.

Tumar turns to me in thought, "Maybe you'll mate with him one day." A rush flows through me. "It's a great experience, son, to mate with your offspring. We were more in tune than most couplings." I had to agree that he was right. It had been a wonderful pairing.

We eased apart and merged out through the walls, leaving our new one to grow and mature in the care of the Coupling Chamber.