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 eye-level in front of him. An alien lifeform 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’d rather talk to it. “This is the sixth time I’ve been abducted,” he complained, “and I’m starting to get pissed off.”

The first three times had been interesting, fun even. The cold probing was offset by the warm and fuzzy half-hour of fame: guest appearances on the television shows Unexplained Unknowns and PSI: Oregon, guest-of-honor spots at science fiction conventions and NASA fundraisers, a ghost-written bestseller entitled ET Loves Me.

But the celebrity had faded after the fourth abductgion like the prospects of an ALF reunion movie anytime soon. 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 and moved into an abandoned Airstream trailer on the edge of an acid lake in the middle of a clear-cut. He only had his hand and a satellite dish to keep him company, and he only had freelance chainsawing and trimming and hauling logs to earn 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 – kiddie cars?” Joe grumbled.

Kazar grinned, then scuttled over to an inch-high instrument panel, peered out a BB-sized porthole, and pressed a button to correct the trajectory of the flying saucer. However, one of its limbs inadvertently triggered the hyper-light drive, sending Joe and the alien flying.

Kazar struggled back up, shut down the drive, and apologized. Joe climbed angrily to his feet. “The others were merely ... exploratory vessels,” Kazar 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 and ran a rugged hand through his shaggy, blond 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, ogling 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 once-every-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 wandered over the wondrous woman’s swollen breasts and jutting nipples, rappelled down her plump butt cheeks and along her lithe, golden legs, then scaled 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.

The lumber visible in Joe’s tight jeans was his universal response as he hardened like an eight-foot length of green spruce in a fired kiln. 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 honored, and he was 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 onto 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.

And 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 animal 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 dead weight 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 ala 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 allows the both of us to function. No man can. That’s why we needed a man of your ... special abilities, Joe. For to impregnate the one we call Jenny, much of your Earthly seed was required.”

“Impregnate!?” Joe yelped, coming back to his senses, his atrophied sense of responsibility.

Kazar grinned. “Yes. I said this was the ‘mother’ ship, Joe. And thanks to you, Jenny can now give birth to another universe, just as she did fifteen billion of your years ago.”

Joe gave his head a shake, his penis now as shriveled as little Kazar. “You mean ... I’m ... ”

“Yes, you’re free to go.”