They came from outer space!
They wanted our women!
Well, almost…

Sissygeddon
by Bryony Marsh

“I need information!” the President bellowed for perhaps the twentieth time.

There was very little that his staff could tell him, however. After its initial, dramatic ‘de-cloaking’ seven thousand feet above the White House, the vast alien spacecraft had done nothing.

“Reports are still coming in,” Chet Grossweiner said, again. He was Acting Secretary for Homeland Security: the President had fired another one just last week and the replacement had yet to be put in place. What a time to be covering the job, with it all hitting the fan!

“What sort of reports?”

“Well, mostly reports of nothing unusual,” Grossweiner said, squirming.

“Imbecile,” the president muttered, and turned away. Perhaps somebody else had a better idea.

The Chief of Staff, Norbert Sackrider, was channel-surfing. Say what you like about Air Force One: the old girl had subscriptions to all the best feeds. Incongruously, amid more news channels than you could shake an intern at, there was a Portuguese bukkake channel called ‘Spuuurt!’ Legend had it that this dated back to an administration sometime in the 1970s, but nobody had bothered to cancel it.

Sackrider flicked past Russia Today (something about the export of tractor parts) and on to 9News from Australia (where it seemed everyone was getting over-excited about something called “ball tampering”). He wanted to linger and find out what this might be, but there were more important things afoot. Next up was Al Jazeera World, where a newscaster was showing shaky footage of a city street, shaded by the monstrous alien spacecraft hovering above it. People were running.

“Wait!” the President commanded. “What’s that towel-head saying?”

He had Sackrider turn up the volume and everyone listened. It only took a few seconds before they understood that the newscaster was reporting on the Washington UFO – not a new arrival.

“In some ways that’s a good thing, Mister President,” a tall man in Air Force uniform said.

The President turned on him. He didn’t like surprises (and was, in consequence, not having a good day). He didn’t like being spoken to by people he hadn’t been briefed on: they tended to make him feel (and all too often, look) stupid. And why the fuck would one of the crew of Air Force One presume to offer an opinion? But then, he noted, this one had a fancier uniform than most, so maybe…?

“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded.

“Major General Edward Grallenpoe, Sir!” the man snapped himself to attention.

This served to annoy the President further, since he was sure the man’s ramrod precision made him look short, poorly-dressed and generally out of shape in comparison.

“In what way could this be said to be a good thing?” he demanded. “I’ve got a motherfucking alien battleship the size of Rhode Island hovering over the White House lawn, and that’s a good thing?”

“Sir,” the airman was determined to explain himself, despite the withering scorn from his Commander-in-Chief, “it’s a feather in our cap that we got the aliens. It seems they came to visit us – not the Chinese, or the Russians.”

The President chewed this over. He began to look for an angle – and he started to feel just a little bit better about the situation. For the first time since that desperate, headlong ‘tactical withdrawal’ where he had been bundled aboard a chopper by his security detail and hauled out to Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, he was thinking like a statesman again. A petty, small-minded, vindictive, under-educated and cowardly statesman, to be sure… but such was the type that appealed to the modern voter, who didn’t think that their leader ought to be anybody better than the “man in the street” – whoever that was.

“Hmm,” he spoke at last, “you may have a point there!”

But how best to play this? On the plus side, nobody could act all pissy if he decided to use nukes: it was his own territory, after all. But people weren’t going to remember him as the great and bestest president of all time if Washington got crushed beneath the flaming hulk of a monstrous alien ship and he irradiated half the continent. Voters were bound to remember that kind of thing, and even when you were in your second term that kind of thing didn’t poll at all well.

At last, he remembered his voters.

“Wait!” he said. “What about the conspiracy nuts? Surely they’ve noticed the enormous ship hovering above Washington?”

Dr Heinrich Winkel decided that this was his big chance to show his stuff. A political analyst with a PhD in media and its manipulation, Winkel had come to the White House for a job interview. He’d been swept up in the chaos of the evacuation and while nobody present knew who he was, everybody assumed that somebody else knew why he was there. Since he didn’t have bug eyes and green skin, he’d been herded on board Air Force One with all the other hangers-on who had managed to gouge or claw their way onto a helicopter when the White House was abandoned.

“The conspiracy believer segment is super-happy,” Winkel explained. “We injected a story that the cloaking device failed on one of the machines that we use to convert swamp gas into chemtrails. They’re more than satisfied: we won’t have any trouble from the ‘truthers’ for a year or more – although I’d stay off Facebook for a while, if I were you.”

“And the National Rifle and Heavy Ordinance Association?” the President asked next.

Winkel made a few stabs at the screen of his smartphone, and smiled.

“They’re buying bottled water, ammunition and such. Should give the economy quite a boost in the south: they love having something to fret about.”

“Young mothers?” he asked next.

“Looking to the establishment for strong leadership,” Winkel reassured him.

“Hipsters?”

“Congratulating themselves, saying they knew there had to be aliens all along,” Winkel reported after a single swipe. His confidence was growing.

“Veterans?”

“Grumbling that their games of Canasta are being disrupted, at the older end of the spectrum,” Winkel shrugged.

“Catholics?”

Now Winkel smiled.

“In for a shock,” he said.

The President nodded, his face appearing thoughtful – although an appearance was probably all it was. He was not a man given to thoughtfulness. In any event, he next turned to his Chief of Staff.

“Who’s the nerd?” he asked.

The nerd heard the whisper. (They probably heard it all the way to the flight deck.) The nerd was satisfied: he’d made a positive impression, he decided.

+++

They were flying toward Homestead Air Reserve Base in Florida, for no particular reason other than that it had the obvious advantage of being a long, long way from Washington.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. The United States of America was supposed to set the agenda, not to find itself reacting to somebody else’s plans. America farted and the world inhaled: thus it had been for the best part of a century. Not since Pearl Harbour had an entire administration been caught with its collective dick in the poodle to this extent.

Anxious and self-conscious, the scratch team of people who had happened to be in Air Force One’s conference room with the President strove to look useful.

“Who the fuck are these aliens, and what do they want?”

The President’s question may have been phrased inelegantly, but much the same thing was being asked all over the world.

Soon, those aboard Air Force One were to find out.

There was a shimmer in the air, like an intense heat haze. Those in the conference room instinctively moved away from this strange effect, pressing themselves against the bulkhead.

Within the shimmering air, two forms faded into view: humanoids with bright red skin. Each wore nothing but a gold kilt, a jewelled belt and sandals. They stood at least seven feet tall and they sported ripped, masculine musculature of the kind that only a full-time narcissist can attain, even with steroidal assistance.

The aliens, it seemed, never did anything by halves.

The newcomers felt that their looks were nothing unusual: they had simply chosen the bodies that they inhabited to suit the atmosphere and gravity of Earth – although if you were going to choose your body, they had reasoned, you might as well look impressive.

The two aliens grinned smugly. It seemed that they had mastered human body language.

Three agents of the President’s security detail charged into the compartment, guns blazing. They were equipped with special subsonic ammunition that couldn’t puncture the skin of the aircraft, and thus felt that they were at liberty to hose down anything that moved, as long as they didn’t hit their Commander-in-Chief. Fortunately, the aliens were so distinctive that on this occasion none of the agents felt the need to shoot any of the other, merely human occupants.

Hollow-point rounds thudded into the aliens, each punching a neat circular wound in their red skin and leaving an exit wound that you could have placed a cantaloupe in – although this would be a strange and distinctly unhygienic thing to do with a melon of any kind.

Strange and unhygienic, the two aliens still stood as they dripped gore and bone fragments. Their facial expressions suggested contempt, rather than outrage or pain. One of them attempted to speak, although he couldn’t be heard above the gunfire.

At last, the agents paused to reload.

“As I was saying…” the alien resumed – but a fresh bullet struck him, this one shattering his jaw.

Again, the two aliens endured a hail of bullets, their impassivity perhaps more confusing and frightening than any counterattack might have been. When the gunfire died away the one that had spoken didn’t have much of a face left, but somehow he managed to convey disappointment, even boredom.

Now we’re in for a shellacking, thought Sackrider.

How do you kill something that doesn’t fear bullets? Grallenpoe wondered.

Oh, Jesus, I’ve got a kidney in my lap! the President thought. Jesus!

In this, he was quite wrong. The wayward organ that the fortunes of war had torn from an alien’s body and deposited wetly in the lap of the President was, in fact, an indecently large testicle.

A great deal of alien gore had splashed on Robin Woodcock, Jr., Secretary of the Treasury. In part, this may have been because there was so much more of Robin Woodcock upon which to splash alien entrails: he had at least twice as much skin as the next person in the compartment.

To the blood and brains on his ill-fitting suit, the horrified fatty now added splashes of vomit.

The alien who had spoken gestured with his remaining hand, and everything was restored. Their bodies were whole again; the walls were no longer spattered with gore; business suits and uniforms were clean; the ammunition was back in the agents’ guns.

The Secretary of the Treasury was momentarily surprised to find himself pristine – and then vomited again. This was the kind of thing that he did: he had always been a kind of lightning rod for human misery, which was the main reason why the President liked to keep him close – although not too close.

Hauling himself up from the undignified position where he had slumped against the wall, the President rounded angrily on his security detail.

“Hold your fire Goddamnit!”

Reluctantly, the agents secured their weapons.

“Shall we start over?” The alien was grinning smugly again.

“Who are you?” the President demanded.

This was meant to show that he was taking control, but once the words were out he knew that they sounded feeble. It was difficult to play the alpha male in the presence of these supernaturally powerful, confident beings.

“You may call me Bilgamach and this is my brother Arjenwoop,” the alien shrugged as if the question was foolish.

“Where have you come from?” Grallenpoe demanded.

It was clearly a breach of protocol to join the discussion in this way: the President shot Grallenpoe an angry look, not least because he’d been about to ask the same thing. Not that it mattered: all this was information that the alien had intended to give, before the fools with guns had burst in and made a fuss.

“We come from another star,” the one called Bilgamach intoned.

“Although we are also using Uranus as a base,” Arjenwoop added.

Someone snickered.

This distraction, coming from among his staff, seemed to derail the President’s train of thought. Eventually, he managed: “And what are your intentions?”

“We want your women!” the aliens said in unison.

There came a gasp from the corner of the conference room, where Annette Kirton cowered. She’d been spattered with alien stomach contents a short while before and while no trace of the foulness remained, the memory lingered. She hadn’t fully surrendered to the horror, but she felt that a screaming fit was still a distinct option.

Now the aliens turned as one, regarding her with a gaze that was ruthless and predatory.

“Meh,” they both said, after several seconds.

Ms Kirton habitually dressed in a frumpy manner, as did many of women who worked in proximity to the President. His eye and sometimes his hands were known to wander: few of the girls enjoyed the experience and still fewer were prepared to endure it when it became clear that the First Lady was no lady when it came to those she saw as rivals.

“You call that a woman‽” Arjenwoop exclaimed.

Among those in the compartment, even the ones who lacked any knowledge of typography could hear the interrobang – and had to concede that its use was valid.

The President winced. He enjoyed a good interrobang but he’d never expected to be on the receiving end of one: that wasn’t the way he rolled.

“How dare you!”

Annette Kirton was the Deputy Director of Strategic Communications – a role that was particularly difficult in an administration that demonstrated daily what can happen when a dumb person is allowed access to a smartphone. Right now, though, she was a petite parcel of outrage.

Arjenwoop gestured and a tool that looked rather like a hairdryer appeared in his hand. This emitted a pale green beam as he pointed it at the resentful woman, wafting it up and down. In the light of the beam, Ms Kirton had no secrets at all: her skeleton, internal organs, blood vessels, skin and underwear all became visible at once, all somehow translucent while retaining their natural colours.

Everyone present stared at the unfortunate woman.

“What are these things supposed to be?”

Bilgamach, it seemed, was either confused or repulsed by Ms Kirton’s pantyhose.

“Such neglect,” Arjenwoop wailed. “Such dereliction! Why is the creature permitted to wear this… thing… in place of garters and stockings?”

“Seamed stockings!” Bilgamach said, dreamily.

“With Cuban heels!” his brother added, apparently in rapture.

“Corsetry!” Bilgamach exclaimed. “Waist cinchers!”

“Girdles…” Arjenwoop moaned reverently. He tugged at the golden material of his kilt, apparently uncomfortable. There was a noticeable swelling beneath: not a full erection, but certainly the beginnings of one.

“Frills…” Bilgamach whispered.

“Lace…” his brother said, mournfully.

Their attention was drawn back to the here-and-now. Arjenwoop switched off the pale green beam and the tool vanished, restoring to Annette Kirton some semblance of privacy – although all present now knew that she had a tattoo of Curious George the cartoon monkey on her thigh. What George appeared to be curious about, he really had no right to investigate.

“We are not interested in this… travesty,” the alien said. “Where are the real women?”

“The… what?”

Not for the first time, the President wished that Vlad were present. Vlad was smart, and really generous: he might come from a pissant country that was about three quarters tundra, but he understood diplomacy.

Proper diplomacy: Vlad knew that anybody who could thrive in the American political system was basically a businessman. That he would want to find an upside, for himself personally, in any deal that might be struck. Vlad always took care of things: for some reason it seemed that he enjoyed details, so the President was happy to let him take care of all the details… as long as he always got a little on the upside.

What would Vlad do?

The aliens were speaking again: any wishful thinking about letting the Russians figure everything out had to be shelved.

“We think, perhaps, you are… holding out on us,” said Arjenwoop.

“What? No!” The President was horrified. “Take a look around the ’plane. Take any women you want!”

Several people looked horrified, but this was the President in full ‘save my ass’ mode. The staff had seen this before, when any of them might be sacrificed to ensure that the President himself wasn’t impeached or compromised.

“There is no woman worthy of the name on your vessel,” Bilgamach said.

Chet Grossweiner was surprised to hear this pronouncement as there was a hot little blonde from CBS News in the press corps that he’d been trying to bang for days. For some bizarre reason, the little slut hadn’t yet succumbed to his charms…

“There’s no hot women on the plane?” Grossweiner demanded, incredulously. His personal philosophy of “any port in a storm” had led him to berth his battleship in a few questionable havens over the years, but in general he thought that anything in lipstick was probably worth a try.

“We have scanned the entire vessel,” Arjenwoop said. “Where are these women, then?”

The two aliens looked puzzled. They conferred for a moment, in voices somehow reminiscent of the farting of an octopus.

Bilgamach gestured and a gadget like an electric shaver appeared in his hand. He muttered into it: more octopus-fart sounds could be heard.

“Women,” the gadget said. “Women.”

Another gesture and in his other hand he held something that might have been a screwdriver. This he jammed it into the side of the first gadget, twisting this way and that.

“Chicas. Dames. Fillies. Concubines. Mares. Bitches. Wives.”

The alien kept on twisting, and grunting into the box.

Grallenpoe edged closer to where the President stood.

“How about a little germ warfare, Sir?” he whispered.

“How’s that?”

“We could, you know… slip them an unclean woman, or two. The skankiest girls we can find!”

“Uh… why?”

“It sounds like they want to get pretty close to our women. We should let our invisible allies get to work on them…”

“Invisible allies? What’s that supposed to mean? The French?”

“No Sir! Bacteria. Viruses. The aliens may have no defence against our diseases. Even a sneeze could be lethal, in time.”

The President could see it now: all they had to do was give the aliens what they wanted, then wait until they succumbed to gonorrhoea. He could send a team up to their ship and get his hands on all their technology.

“Grallenpoe, you’re a genius!”

“It’s not my idea, Sir,” the Air Force officer explained. “It was H.G. Wells.”

“Huh. Well you tell Wells from me that if his idea works, I’ll give him a fucking knighthood!”

“Uh, thank you, Sir. But Wells is dead.”

“Already? These bastards have a lot to pay for, Grallenpoe,” the President whispered. “We will avenge him!”

“Uh… yes, Sir,” the Air Force man replied, deciding that he really didn’t have the energy to set this particular misunderstanding straight – or not right now, anyway.

The alien’s squawk box was still translating: “Better halves. Doxies. Sluts. Ladies. Girls. Girls. Sweethearts. Girls. Hot patooties. Cumdumpsters.”

Bilgamach gave up in disgust, crushing the gadget in one huge fist.

He looked apologetically at the other alien, who shrugged.

“That,” he growled, indicating Ms Kirton, “is not a woman!”

Ms Kirton looked ready to disagree – possibly quite forcefully – so the President had his security detail arrest her.

At least they were good for something. The not necessarily unfortunate Ms Kirton was carried off, forward to the security station.

“I’m sorry you don’t like our women,” the President began. He was somewhat distracted by their rudeness as it seemed they were barely listening to him. Perhaps this had something to do with the flight of small flying saucers that launched from their mothership, dashing this way and that in the skies above Washington.

In just a few minutes, both aliens were grinning triumphantly.

“You thought you could keep a hot piece like this for yourself, did you?” Arjenwoop demanded.

Where he pointed, the air began to shimmer – and within, something strange faded into view.

It was a nightmarish creature – or perhaps a nightmarish machine. It looked as if somebody had given the job of designing a forklift to H.R. Giger (or possibly H.P. Lovecraft) along with a big hit of LSD and the instruction that the thing had to be made entirely from the body parts of a giant squid.

Its large, slug-like body sucked at the floor, leaving a sticky trail as it advanced. Dull, unintelligent eyes (five of them) adorned the structure, demonstrating that the apparition was both vehicle and crew, in one. It had two many-suckered tentacles upon which it balanced its load, these wrapping up and around to hold fast its cargo.

A cargo that was human.

A cargo that gibbered helplessly, driven all but insane in a nightmare of alien abduction.

“What, then, do you call that?” The alien demanded.

A man who had seen some of the worst horrors of Falujah, Kabul and a Black Friday sale at Target, Major General Ed Grallenpoe was less easily shocked than the others in the compartment. He was the first to come to terms with the new arrival, and thus the best equipped to answer the alien’s question.

He regarded the pitiful creature, mewling to itself and apparently unable to comprehend that it was back among its own kind.

It was a man, although perhaps not one that wished to be described as such. This was a man who wore all the items of lingerie that Arjenwoop and Bilgamach had listed. He was in a dishevelled state, with only one stiletto still in place, and rents in his expensive, seamed stockings. A bruise was beginning to show, despite the heavy makeup on his face, and he was panting breathlessly against the constriction of his corset.

One might reasonably assume that the poor fellow had been fighting for his life against some kind of alien squid-forklift monster.

“I’d call that some kind of Goddamned faggot,” Grallenpoe said, at last.

“Good! Yes! Bring us more of these ‘Goddamned faggots’!” the creature demanded.

Robin Woodcock and the President conferred, briefly.

“Do they add much to the economy?”

“I would imagine they buy a lot of plus-size shoes and the like,” Woodcock speculated. “Feather boas. Butt-plugs, maybe.”

“Are those imported?” the President demanded.

“Almost certainly,” the Secretary of the Treasury replied.

“OK, so they’ve got no real value to us?”

“I think it depends who they are,” Dr Winkel joined the conversation. “I mean… they walk among us, right?”

The President scowled.

“Are you kidding me? I’ve never seen a person who looked like that on Wall Street, or in our great armed forces…”

“Oh no, Sir,” Winkel sought to explain. “I imagine that they dress this way in private, Sir – or perhaps only in secretive gatherings.”

Grallenpoe had also joined the conversation and he looked at him, hard.

“You seem to know a lot about it,” he observed, archly.

“Oh, no, General,” Winkel hastened to correct him, “I’m merely speculating.”

Grallenpoe turned to the alien instead.

“You do understand that this is not a woman, don’t you? This faggot has man-parts, tucked away.”

“Indeed,” the alien beamed, “but it is most feminine! And what the people of Earth call ‘man parts’ are hardly worthy of such a name! Your species has a most dainty organ that does not detract from the femininity whatsoever!”

Grallenpoe looked ready to raise an objection, but the President interrupted.

“How many do you want?” he asked.

“Two,” said Arjenwoop.

“Hundred!” amended Bilgamach.

“Thousand!” Arjenwoop put in.

“Two hundred thousand?” Grossweiner was aghast.

“Per year,” said Bilgamach.

“What are you going to do with them all?” The Acting Secretary for Homeland Security felt very insecure indeed.

“The nights are… cold on Uranus,” Arjenwoop not-quite-explained.

“And long,” his brother added, with a shrug.

“Two hundred thousand…” the President appeared to be thinking it over.

“Sir, you can’t possibly condone this!” Norbert Sackrider often despaired when he thought of the President’s legacy, but seldom more than now. “You don’t want to be remembered as the first President since Jefferson Davis to endorse the notion of people as property!”

The President was hazy on the whole ‘American History’ thing. Back in the day, he’d spent most of that class trying to get a glimpse of Penny Bunn’s panties: an endeavour that had ultimately been successful. It was surprising what you could achieve with a small mirror and a wad of bubblegum. Angle of incidence equals angle of reflection and physics beats history, every time.

So who the fuck was Jefferson Davis? The President couldn’t remember seeing a portrait of him anywhere in the White House. Maybe he was one of those old geezers in a faded oil painting from the days before photography? Fuck that. Who cared?

“Whatever,” the President decreed.

“Let us begin,” Arjenwoop said.

He gestured and at once a blob of pink material appeared in his hand. It was about the size of an apple, but very soft. It clung stickily to his hand, but he flicked it deftly toward the pitiful transvestite in their midst. The blob struck with a sickly squelch, expanding on impact and continuing to spread over his body.

Where the pink material touched clothing and body hair these sloughed away, leaving nothing but a mess of fibres on the deck. Not a single gram of the pink material was lost: the blob stayed in one piece even as it spread to encompass the victim, who gasped and squirmed.

The faggot seemed particularly dismayed when his false breasts were released from a shredding, dissolving bustier: one after the other they plopped onto the floor, partially dissolved by contact with the pink goo.

The onlookers acquired the distinct impression that the pink material had penetrated the sissy’s anus, although by that point the victim was unable either to confirm or deny this as it had invaded his mouth as well.

When the process came to an end, the victim was encased in a pink, shiny second skin that covered everything below his nose and ears.
It wasn’t merely a coating of the skin, however, but a fetish garment. It was somewhat like a space suit, if anybody had ever made a space suit from shiny latex, with ballet boots and a tutu. One might also question the usefulness of an astronaut whose stride was hobbled by a series of straps running from the thighs to the knees – and whose arms were bound neatly behind his back in a monoglove.

Where a space suit would have been surmounted by a helmet, this ensemble featured only a posture collar and gag. The pink, rubbery cock that stuffed the helpless sissy’s mouth was only somewhat realistic, being rather large and having a scrotal sack that featured no less than four testicles.

(The aliens had heard of always going one better… and had decided to go one better.)

The victim was picked up by the weird, tentacled ‘forklift’ and positioned upright. It would have been all but impossible for him to get to his feet unaided.

“Not a bad start, Arjenwoop,” his brother commented. “But do you mind if…?”

“Be my guest,” the other alien grinned.

Bilgamach gestured, producing from thin air a short, fat rod that (in a more primitive culture) might have been a flashlight. Given what had just taken place, the President thought it might be a dildo.

It was a flashlight, of sorts: it emitted a cone of blue light and made a humming sound. Bilgamach played the light hither and yon over the glistening pink surface of his captive and where the light lingered, the masculine characteristics of the sissy melted away.

The ‘forklift’ twirled the sissy around, unbidden but clearly doing exactly what Bilgamach wanted. Those present could see the pink-clad body change where the beam played.

Bilgamach was a brutal, kinky Michelangelo sculpting an angel – or perhaps a succubus – from a humble block of stone. The sissy’s frantically wiggling fingers became more slender; his arms lost muscle and his waist was reduced to ‘Jessica Rabbit’ proportions. His body became shorter; his legs longer.

His new breasts were a marked improvement on the pair that lay, half dissolved, on the carpet.

When at last Bilgamach paused, several witnesses found that they had to fight the urge to applaud.

It was only a pause, however. Next, the alien focused the beam on the sissy’s head. Features softened; bones rearranged themselves and the whole became far more feminine. The lips, already stretched to accommodate the gag upon which they were sucking became plump, and glistened.

There was a psychological change in the victim as well. Some internal changes that those watching could only speculate about seemed to make the sissy calmer; more accepting of the violations that had been wrought upon him. His eyes still conveyed fear, but it was the rightful, non-specific fear of a submissive in the presence of her master… overlaid with more than a little lust.

Grossweiner, in particular, felt very conflicted. Although he would never dare to admit it, he was aroused by what he saw.

Several in the compartment snapped a photo on their smartphones at this point.

Winkel, deciding that his instincts had served him particularly well all day, immediately uploaded a picture to Instagasm. It was a well composed photo, framing the President and the strangely-clad victim together. He gave it the hashtag “Spaceforce”, and in the days to come it would cause quite a stir – among admirers and detractors of the President alike.

Sackrider’s picture was more closely focused on the victim. It was for personal consumption only: he felt a powerful urge to slip away and join the “half a mile high club”, although he wouldn’t have wanted to examine his motives too closely.

Ed Grallenpoe cleared his throat, but the Alien held up a hand before he could speak.

“We’re not finished yet,” he said. “It would be a shame to waste all that absorbed masculinity…”

He switched on the tool once again, although now it hummed in a higher pitch and the cone of light that it projected – from the other end, this time – was red.

This time he pointed the beam only at the sissy’s crotch.

The tight pink material bulged, leaving nothing to the imagination. The sissy’s penis took on enormous proportions, coming only partially erect but growing far larger than a human penis had any business being. The glans, in particular, now swelled beyond the size of a satsuma and the coiled length of the monster was perhaps twelve inches.

The sissy’s pretty eyelashes wafted as he swooned, suffering the effects of a sudden loss of blood pressure – it being diverted to his newly-augmented organ.

Bilgamach clicked off the tool.

“I don’t want to make it into a large one,” he explained. “It’s best left at this small size, for aesthetic reasons, but her sexual appetite will be greatly improved now.”

“Wh…?” said the President.

“Hnh…?” said Grossweiner.

“Small?” said Woodcock, biting his lip.

“There’s no point making them hot if they don’t have the stamina to match,” Arjenwoop sought to explain.

Bilgamach nodded.

“We know that human males need time to recover after coitus, and that maintaining even a tiny erection can prove difficult. This one will never disappoint us. She is… augmented.”

“That’s… interesting,” said Grallenpoe, transfixed.

“Yes,” the President mused. He had endured a certain amount of what he called Trouble with the Department of Home Affairs in recent months. Then and there, he decided that no price was too great for the American people to pay, if it would give him an impressively proportioned and wholly reliable Lyndon Baines Johnson.

“Tell me,” he said, “Would you gentlemen consider… a trading arrangement?”

The aliens both grinned, needing no great experience in the use of humanoid bodies to recognise such naked avarice.

“Such as?” they asked, together.

It was time to strike a deal. There would be critics, of course: there were always some people on the fringes who thought that they knew better… but the President knew how to create doubt; how to play factions off against one another; how to wade through the horse apples and come up with the gravy.

No doubt Vlad would have secured a better deal, but so what? Vlad wasn’t here. The aliens hadn’t chosen to visit Vlad’s B-list nation.

“I’m thinking that we have a product you’re basically interested in,” he began, “but that we ought to customise it, to ensure your complete satisfaction.”

“What does that mean?”

The President spread his small hands, trying to look reasonable.

“I’m sure you’re busy people. You’re like me: you don’t have the time to oversee all the minor details of day-to-day operations. So how about we procure your supply of these… faggots… and get them ready for you?”

“Ready for us?” Arjenwoop queried.

“Yes, you know… transformed, just they way you want them.”

“But I like transforming them,” Bilgamach objected.

“At the same time,” the President cut in, in some desperation, “I’m proposing a broad range of stimulus for associated industries: companies that make the finest lingerie. Waspies… fishnets!”

“Frilly panties; long-line vintage bras,” Grallenpoe suggested, seeing that his President was floundering.

“Crotchless bodystockings!” Sackrider exclaimed.

The aliens’ pupils had become dilated and they were breathing hard.

“Oh, I like the sound of that… stimulus,” Arjenwoop admitted.

“Locking wet-look spandex bodyshapers with zip access to the sexy bits!” Grossweiner belatedly tried to join the discussion.

All eyes turned to him.

“Sensory deprivation hoods with a pony bit?” he hazarded. “Leather hobble skirts with spanking panels?”

“You are one fucked up sonofabitch,” Grallenpoe opined.

“Yes!” Bilgamach agreed. “We like him.”

“He’s in charge of all off-world exports,” the President said.

The details were worked out quite quickly. The President had always exhibited the attention span of a whelk on cocaine so his staff knew that any arrangements must be completed at once.

When it became clear that the aliens were agreeing to the idea that the President would be given a supply of the wonderful rods that could transform a person, he was happy. Everything else was just details, for his underlings to wrangle over. He longed to play with one of those doohickeys. The First Lady would be in for a surprise… or maybe her sister would.

The President thought that he had done very well, buying time as well as finding a way to deflect the aliens from targeting anything that was actually important. This was statesmanship at its finest!

He would start with the prison system, he decided. Who could possibly object to a policy that saw worthless jailbirds transformed into jailbait?

Nobody that mattered, that was for sure.

He might have trouble with some of the more opinionated women of the USA… but then he’d always felt that the whole “votes for women” thing was ready for an overhaul – unless they proved that they were able to vote the right way.

The President could see it now: he would invoke memories of the happier, simpler times when the United States had nothing much to worry about, back before Sputnik. Year-on-year economic growth and a chicken in every pot. Black and white movies at the drive-in. Blacks and whites segregated, too. A time when nobody had ever heard of that ridiculous “global warming” conspiracy theory.

The Korean War: that had been fun, hadn’t it? Vietnam was a less comfortable conflict for him to contemplate, as that brought with it whispers about how he’d dodged the draft… which was ridiculous because wasn’t dodging the draft precisely what rich kids were supposed to do?

So forget Vietnam, but a fresh Korean War might be neat. He’d liberate the North – and make them all into sissy slaves. Especially the fat one he’d met: the one who apparently didn’t understand even the fundamentals of diplomacy. He’d turn that one into a man-whore personally.

The aliens would understand, he was sure. Practically every line that they spoke came out of a 1950s movie, anyway. Good times!

Perhaps he didn’t need to infect these visitors with an STD after all, he decided – although it had been a neat idea. Belatedly, he remembered where he’d heard of it before: thoughts of old sci-fi movies had brought it back to him.

“The War of the Worlds!” he ejaculated.

No doubt this Wells fellow that Grallenpoe had been bleating about had simply seen the same movie: it wasn’t his idea at all: it was Hollywood!

“Huh?” several people said at once. It was never clear quite what would happen next, when the President blurted. Even the most experienced of his staffers hadn’t gotten used to it.

Resurfacing from his reverie, the President tried to look as if he knew what the fuck he was doing. If the aliens misunderstood him, they might interpret ‘The War of the Worlds’ as a declaration of intent.

“Er, I’m thinking,” he improvised, “it doesn’t have to be like in that film, The War of the Worlds!”

“Oh, I couldn’t watch that,” Bilgamach lamented. “Ever since somebody pointed out how Tom Cruise has this weird central tooth thing going on, I just can’t enjoy his movies anymore.”

“I know, right?” said Chet Grossweiner, now on familiar territory.

It had been a tense moment, but the danger was past.

At last, the deal was done. For the aliens, though, there was one last sticking point. It seemed that one Goddamned faggot, however sexy, did not represent a sufficient show of good faith.

This, the President understood. Two aliens had negotiated, and each (like himself) must be looking for a person angle in all this. They couldn’t be expected to share, so a second sissy had to be located. But where might one be found? It was early afternoon on the western seaboard and few sissies were likely to be dolled up – according to the nerd’s analysis, anyway.

“I’ll do it!”

That was Robin Woodcock. He surprised even himself, when he spoke… but his own reaction to the transformation of the sissy in their midst had been more complex than that of the other human males.

The others had looked upon the creature with nothing but lust, whereas the Secretary of the Treasury had found that in his case the quite understandable lust was blended with more than a little envy.

He’d never been sexy. For as long as he could remember, he’d been a bumbling fatty and the butt of just about every joke. All his life, he had been miserable; had felt inadequate; had found solace in food. He’d watched the aliens sculpt their captive into an object of desire… and now, he realised, he wanted to undergo the same process.

“Are you insane?” The President could think of almost nothing worse.

“But… Sir! You’ll need a man on the inside,” Woodcock improvised. “I… I’ll find a way to get messages to you…”

“No, you won’t” Bilgamach said, almost gently. “I’ll change your loyalties forever.”

Woodcock swallowed nervously, but said nothing.

“Still want to come?” Bilgamach asked.

“Yes, please,” the Secretary of the Treasury answered, in a small voice.

The blob of material that Bilgamach conjured this time was lilac. He didn’t flick it at the Secretary of the Treasury, but held it out, inviting the man to take it.

Hesitantly, he did, and the soft material engulfed his hand before crawling up his arm, presently spreading to cover his whole body.

Again, fibers were strewn on the deck as clothing dissolved. In less than two minutes, the man was smooth and naked save for that shiny pinkish-purplish covering. This costume was a little different to the other, with a hint of a skater dress about it. There were textured features in the rubbery material that looked a little like the straps of garters.

“Oh, bravo!” said Arjenwoop, clearly delighted. “Now, my turn to sculpt!”

Again, the blue cone of light played upon the body of a human male, dissolving and reshaping it. Those present learned that Bilgamach, for all his artistry, was a mere beginner compared to his brother. Either than, or Robin Woodcock, Jr. had a body that particularly leant itself to feminization.

The resulting creature was magnificent: never again would anybody refer to him as “Round Robin”, although he retained just enough wobble in his breasts and his ass to be very interesting indeed.

When the beam was directed at his head, the result was a stunning beauty who would have delighted any TV network or film studio – although they might have a hard time explaining some of her more unusual characteristics. The new sissy had her tool augmented, just as the other had been… and then had to have her hands strapped behind her back because she couldn’t stop stroking it.

A look into the vacant, lust-consumed face of this latest victim revealed that there was no real likelihood of her conducting any espionage on behalf of the people of Earth.

Also, the United States of America was going to need a new Secretary of the Treasury.

+++

At last, the deal was done. The President shook hands (mystifying the aliens) and then they departed, along with their nightmare forklift and their two sissy toys.

The President sat down at last, toying with one of the transforming tools. Per the agreement, the aliens had left a hundred and eleven of them.

“That went about as well as could be expected,” the President smiled.

“You think so?” Grossweiner, Director of Off-World Exports asked.

The President felt nothing but relief: initially he had been trying to figure out how to build a wall around the Earth and make the aliens pay for it. This was much better.

Even so, his remaining staff were concerned.

“But, Sir! Two hundred thousand! Every year!” said Dr Winkel.

(The President was thinking seriously about making him the Secretary of the Treasury. After all, he was a nerd and that job was kind of nerdy, right?)

“I didn’t say they’d all be Americans,” the President explained. “We can make this a NATO matter. Europe is full of sissies that we can export! And if that doesn’t work out, all we need to do is start another war.”

And that was how it began, with the United States exhibiting a new posture on the world stage as expeditionary conquerors of all who stood against them, seizing any opportunity to declare war… and to transform those that they defeated.

Canada threw in the towel, once they saw what happened to Mexico. Greater North America was ruled by a cabal of men, all of whom were ridiculously well endowed with stolen masculinity. They satisfied their enormous appetites among the prisoners that they took as nation after nation fell to their onslaught – all pretence of democracy abandoned.

This was Sissygeddon: the end of the world, or as near as made no difference.

There was some consternation when the aliens didn’t return after a year, to take their first two hundred thousand slaves in tribute. Then somebody pointed out that the aliens may have meant a year on Uranus – which is some eighty-four Earth years long. Thus, the Greater North American Empire had procured the slaves far too soon.

Upon discovering this, they ought to have reconsidered their strategy, perhaps… but that would have harmed the economy. The American fetish lingerie industry was a world-leader, and nothing could be allowed to interfere with that.

For the first time in his life, the President had set up a business that didn’t go bankrupt. And besides, he liked having a harem of sissy slaves about the White House.

The newly-enhanced Department of Home Affairs took a lot of attending to.

+++

Far, far away, Arjenwoop asked his brother a question:

“Do you think we should actually go back and collect all the chicas in tribute, next year?”

“We’d better get on with our chores,” Bilgamach said, “or I doubt Mom will let us use the ship.”

- ENDS -

7,420 words © Bryony Marsh, 2019

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