Squirters in Space: or 2000 and Number 1: A Space Odyssey

Posted: February 17, 2015 in Uncategorized

She was a squirter, that was the problem. She cummed real big. It was pee and he knew it. He knew it the whole time. He knew it when they were training together at space camp, he knew it in college, he knew it now, hurtling towards earth at 15,000 miles per hour, about to die. He checked his math, maybe 12,000 miles per hour, definitely more than 8,000. It felt faster than that, it felt like the fastest he had ever gone. It wasn’t, it was just the last time he’d go anywhere.

This was a bad way to die. He blamed Samantha, the squirter. Her piss was in the instruments. She said it wasn’t piss, but now it didn’t matter. They were going to die. They’d been in orbit 22 days. They’d been banging for 7. He probably deserved this.

Deon and Samantha had slept together years ago, a lot; both a lot of times, and a lot of years ago. They were sure it wouldn’t be an issue. They were going to live in space for 45 days, they were going to perform a number of tests, write about the mental effects of sleeping in space and regulating waking hours, and they weren’t going to sleep together. But they did.

She strutted around the Space Station with her own gravity. Her hips had pulled him out of orbit.

Had he known the sex would have killed him, he probably wouldn’t have done it. Probably.

She should have known too, about the piss and the dying. This was at least a little her fault.

The squirting was new, or else he’d never made her cum in college. He hoped that wasn’t the case. He was a virgin when he met her, and she was a goddess. He wasn’t certain which goddess, but not one of the nice ones; Hephestia, goddess of ingrown hairs or Regara goddess of plates thrown in anger.

She was every bit as beautiful today as she was then, but the years had not been kind to her insides. She’d gotten mean and sad, or meaner and sadder. It was weird how attractive mean and sad could be together, especially mixed up in a sexy glass. She was smart and driven too. She also had open disdain for him and a willingness to fuck. Those were his two favorite traits in a woman.

He was sure they weren’t the first people to have sex space. There is No Chance he was that cool, but that squirting looked like the early NASA videos, the ones he watched as little kid. In his head he felt important.

Now, he struggled to right the ship and not die. They were over the ocean, that was good. He’d pulled away from anything like a city, anything that could be people. They were maintaining a navigable angle of decent. They were going too fast. Their instruments were full of urine. They’d be dead in one minute.

He knew it was piss and he had said so. She screamed in his ear when he did. They say you can’t hear anything in Space. They’re wrong. She screamed at him forever. “It is not!” she yelled, “you know that right?!”

“No, I’m pretty sure it is,” he said

“It’s not.” She maintained.

She was a Doctor. It was rockets not pussies, but still, a doctor. She should have known. And she shouldn’t have gotten mad at him for knowing. Plus, the piss part wasn’t even the problem. Even if she just came real big, they were in space and it floated around the room and that was the problem. They weren’t the first folks to come in space, but maybe the first to come “into” it, to just leave it out there for the universe to deal with. When she first came, Deon lost his mind. It looked like a commercial for a non-cola soda-pop and he wanted to high five oblivion. He wanted to scream, “Look At Her Go!” and, “Do Something About It!”

The universe was going to. It was going to kill them both.

After the first time, he’d spent an hour with the vacuum, cleaning up her squirt.

He laughed and she got really mad. “It doesn’t bug me,” he said, “it’s great, it’s just p…”

“No, You KNOW that’s not…”

“I know it is.”

“It’s not the same stuff, it’s other stuff,” she yelled.

“Why would your body make other stuff?” he asked.

Why would you not know the name for other stuff if other stuff was real? Would have been a better question, but he didn’t ask that, it seemed mean.

He quit the argument, and it led to a second time they had sex. He probably didn’t vacuum as well the second time. He couldn’t tell if pussy made him stupid or lazy.

He was glad he was falling down and not out. He was crashing into Earth and going to die, and that was bad, but if they spiraled out into nowhere, he’d fuck her again, and he probably wouldn’t clean up anything. He’d walk around his flying coffin as it filled up with word balloons that totally said, “yeah, we’re urine” and “cumming’s gonna kill you.”

They were falling into Earth because she liked coming so hard she peed a little. OR they were dying because he fucked so well it broke the laws of physics and biology. He admitted to himself that her story sounded better. He manned the controls.

They were dying, and she was screaming again. Something about how she couldn’t believe that he didn’t clean everything up. He could believe it. he could believe in a lot of things. “It’s Piss.” He yelled, or spoke so deliberately, it landed like a yell. It could be his last words.

The radio crackling and cackling beneath him could record that. “You hear me?” he pressed a button and spoke into the microphone. “It’s piss.” They could scratch those words into the base of the statue they made for him. He wanted hers to be a fountain. He had no idea why it mattered, but he wanted to rub her nose in it, that he had rubbed his nose in it.

“You Know It’s Not!” She was yelling.

He grinned and sang Bowie lyrics. He strapped himself in. It was piss. He was a Spaceman.

  1. burphole says:

    “Why would your body make other stuff?” I laughed out loud. And, of course, audibly repeated it because that’s what you do when you laugh out loud. This was excellent.

  2. burphole says:

    Reblogged this on Burphole and commented:
    This is great. Squirters in space should be a show.

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