[Aliens] Friday Special

You knew it wouldn't stop with just one night. A silly bet. Some fun. That's it. But no. You knew you wouldn't get away so easily. You knew that after the way that little bet turned out, for the utter delight of every alien in the bar, it wasn't going to end just like that. One time. Done and forgotten.

Yeah, no way.

The tips were insane, and the bar had never seen so many extra zeros after closing. Your co-workers ended the night with bras stuffed fat with kredits, and they slapped your back like you just hit the jackpot instead of getting publicly fucked and milked half-unconscious.

And the videos dropped before your shift even ended.

Grainy clips first. Just a few seconds of you walking around the tables, tray balanced in your palm, dark wet patches blooming on your top. Then clearer cuts. Records from different angles. You up on the bar, skirt shoved up, legs wide open, ridged tentacles plunging so deep your belly bulges with every thrust. Your swollen breasts dripping with milk. Drool on your chin. Eyes glassy and unfocused. Your own broken, crackling moans mixing with wet slaps and alien laughter.

"She's soaking the bar. Someone get a pitcher."

Human cow in heat, the caption said, and Worth every kredit.

It went viral. You went viral. And with it, of course, The Den, too. The views climbed to millions, comments begging for a round two and three and four.

The bar isn't subtle about what it is about. Aliens come to see humans, rare and exotic in these parts of the galaxy, and they pay anything to try them, too. To get a taste of soft skin and clenching cunt.

So much so that-

"I want to make it a regular thing," your boss states. "Every week. Fridays." She leans forward slightly, claws tapping on the table. "You get a nice bonus for it."

You open your mouth. Then close it.

You knew it was coming. You saw the videos and the comments. You saw how full the bar was the next week. You felt it even during the quiet shifts. The weight of the stares picturing you up on the counter again, stuffed full.

But every week? The thought makes your stomach twist. You can't complain about your job. The money is good, better than anything you could have on Earth. But getting fucked and milked like that every week? Your nipples tighten traitorously at the memory, but you are unsure your body could really handle it week after week. You were exhausted, overstimulated, half-dazed, and leaking for days. But the money... You saw your account the next day. Rent covered, groceries for weeks. Just from one night.

Your boss lets you think it through, but you know she wouldn't accept a blunt no. That's too much money to say no to it.

"What about the other girls?"

She shrugs. "Maybe. Later. But I want you. The patrons want you." A smile curls on her lips, sharp teeth flashing. "You will be The Den's delicacy."

Delicacy... a dripping, leaking delicacy.

"Every two weeks," you say at last. "Fridays only. Special nights, as you said before. And I want Saturdays and Sundays off on those weeks."

The silence hangs tense for a second. The alien stares at you, all four eyes unblinking. "Every two weeks. Weekends off. And you drink without complaint. You perform. You let them see what a good little human you can be." She extends one long, bony hand across the desk. "Deal?"

_

You feel like a prey.

Your boss made sure the word spread: new specialty in The Den. Every other Friday. With you on the menu. And it shows. The bar is full. The tables are packed. Tentacles are draped over furniture, scaled tails flick on the floor, claws tap on the side of cool glasses, and wings flap by instinct every now and again.

Stares burn through your barely-there uniform the second you emerge from the back. The top is the same thin fabric as always, but tonight, you are especially aware of how it clings to you. It hides nothing from the prying eyes: glowing, slit-pupiled, compound, hungry. You feel them trace the curve of your breasts and linger on the faint outline of your nipples already pebbled from nerves and the low thrum of the bass. Your skin prickles under the weight of all the attention.

You try to focus on the tray in your hand, on the orders you are supposed to take, but every sway of your hips is followed by low murmurs and clicks of tongues.

You make your way to the bar and lean over the counter to call for the next round. The bartender, an older human man with greying beard and matching hair pulled back into a bun at the nape of his neck, is busy chatting up a small group of females a few feet from you. One of them laughs at something he says, and another reaches out to fix absolutely nothing on the collar of his shirt. The man just smirks and winks at them before turning to you.

You lift a knowing brow at him.

He shrugs. "What? You're not the only popular one here."

The group giggles again, eyelashes flutter, wings, too.

He finishes loading your tray, and you are almost ready to run another round around the bar, when he turns back to you with a small shot glass in hand. The liquid is clear and shimmery under the colorful lights above.

"And this," he says, "is for you."

And just like that-

The moment the words leave his mouth, it's like someone hit pause on the entire room.

The music still filters through the speakers, but the chatter dies quickly. Head turns. Eyes lock. Tentacles still. Even the women beside you go quiet. Now, instead of your co-worker, they watch you with curiosity.

The weight of it all presses down on your shoulders. Their anticipation breathes down the back of your neck.

Your stomach knots tight.

You can still change your mind. It's not too late. Yes, your boss would give you a hard time for a few weeks, but she would quickly find another human for the job, and you could continue serving the tables. The aliens wouldn't be happy either, but if they don't want to get banned, they would quickly shut their mouths about it. You can say no.

But do you want to?

With a deep inhale and a quiet cheers, you tip the glass back in one big gulp.

The liquid coats your tongue with honeyed sweetness, followed by a burn that warms you from the inside out. It spreads fast: first your throat, then your chest, and finally, it curls low and hot in your belly.

You slam the empty glass down with a loud thunk.

And the bar erupts.

Cheers and whistles drown out even your own thoughts for a long second. The music and the clinking of glasses disappear. Someone shouts something in a language you don't understand. A tentacle slaps down on the table, almost tipping it over.

The bartender leans in so you can hear him over the roar; "Have fun, and shout my name if you want it to stop."

Your breasts already feel heavier, though you aren't sure if it's not just your mind playing tricks on you.

With the tray back in your hand, you reply a quiet thanks.

It starts low in your stomach. A trembling warmth uncoiling. Slow and syrupy. Up your spine. Across your ribs. Between your legs and deep in your chest. Your pussy clenches in time with your heartbeat, thighs flexing for friction, and your nipples harden into aching points under your top. The material feels wrong now, too rough and too tight. It rubs over you with every step you take, and you can't help but scowl at the feeling.

You reach the first table with reptilians around. Their scales glint bronze under the lights, tails lashing lazily.

One of them leans back as you set down their drinks. His slit-pupiled eyes rake over you shamelessly. "I can already smell you."

His friends snicker and sniff the air.

You are not surprised. The others told you about the change in your scent because of the serum. You smelled sweet for days, made the aliens' mouths water and teeth ache.

As you straighten, a scaled hand brushes the back of your thigh, claws grazing just under the hem of your short skirt.

"Fuck, look how hard those nipples are," the one in the middle purrs with a wet click of his tongue. "Gonna leak for us soon, human?"

Without a reply, you move on. They are regulars, always up for some bantering, but right now, you can't focus enough to come up with anything. It doesn't even matter. They continue to laugh and stare anyway.

The change in your body is familiar from the first time, but still new and strange. Your chest is heavy. Your nipples throb in time with your pulse, so sensitive now that the slightest shift of fabric feels like a rough tongue dragging over them. You have to bite your tongue not to hiss. And the warmth in your stomach has turned to fire by now. Every touch leaves a trail of heat on your sweaty skin. Every comment sinks deep as they watch you unravel.

At least you are not panicking now. The last, and first, time, you had to beg one of your co-workers to look up if it's normal or if you are going to die or something.

Teasing touches follow you through the bar.

A smooth and cold one slides up between your legs, barely reaching the damp fabric of your panties, but you still sigh at the cool feeling he offers. When your thighs clench to keep it there, the alien laughs. Then another one slips to your ass, sneering when he pulls your underwear tighter, making you whine and bat his hand away.

"Gonna spread these cheeks later and watch that tight little hole wink while I stretch your pussy. You're gonna leak milk and cum all over the floor by the time we're done."

"Don't worry, little human, I have enough cocks to fill your holes."

"Smells like she's already in heat. I'm gonna make her black out on my suckers."

You are panting now. Open-mouthed.

A tentacle flicks your nipple. Claws pinch the other.

You make it back to the bar, but barely. Your legs are unsteady, and your body is buzzing. Your top clings to you in new ways; tiny damp spots form where your nipples leak the first beads. Your cheeks burn at the sight, and you have to grab the edge of the counter to keep yourself from massaging yourself, though you are sure the bar would appreciate it.

The bartender catches your eye, but says nothing. Just raises a brow with an infuriating smirk and takes the empty tray from your hands.

You are still catching your breath, fingers curling and loosening, when she steps up beside you.

She is lean and elegant with sharp lines and grace. No breasts, at least not the way humans have them. Her chest is a smooth, flat plate. She is completely bald, skin covered instead with intricate, swirling tattoos. Her eyes are huge, slowly blinking.

She tilts her head, gaze dropping immediately to your chest. "How does it feel?"

You swallow. Your tongue feels thick in your mouth. "It... it's warm," you manage. "Heavy. Like they're filling up too fast. Every little touch feels... too much. And it makes me-" You cut off, cheeks burning. "It makes everything else clench."

The alien blinks once. "May I touch you?"

You swallow again. Then nod. "Yes."

She is careful. Her touch is cool, too, on your fever-hot flesh even through your top. She squeezes at first as if testing the weight and the feel of it. Your nipple drags against her palm, and you bite back a whimper. Your back arches on its own, pushing you into her gentle hold. Her fingers spread wide, kneading the swollen curve. It sends a jolt straight down between your legs, and you press your thighs together instinctively. Slickness ruins your panties entirely.

She watches transfixed. "So full already." She looks... fascinated.

Behind you, the small group of alien women from earlier drifts closer.

One presses against your back. Her breath is warm on your neck as he peers over your shoulder. "Gods, look at them growing."

And she is right. Your tits grow. The soaked fabric of your top is now like a second skin on your body. It stretches over your chest, clinging.

The hand of the woman behind you comes around, cupping your other breast. She is less careful. Her fingers dig in, rolling your nipple between thumb and forefinger through your shirt, yet you sigh with relief. The pressure from both of them eases something deep inside, even though it winds you tighter at the same time, too.

"Fuck," someone hisses nearby, and another alien says something you don't understand.

"So soft," the one behind you coos over your shoulder, squeezing a bit harder.

The tattooed one nods in agreement, thumb circling your areola. "Such a good little human. So eager to give."

And fuck, the situation does something to you. Them, talking over your head while groping you in front of the whole bar. Your knees threaten to buckle. Every tug and slow knead sends fresh heat pooling low in your belly. It settles in your core and licks up through your veins. Your milk drips steadily now, and you are hyperaware of every breath you take. And the whole time, the women massage, giggle, and coo about how pretty you look and how sweet you smell.

Another alien steps up then. Another regular, though not a chatterer. You don't even know his name.

One side of his mouth is twisted from a jagged scar running from his chin, across his lips, up to the corner of his missing eye. The empty socket is shadowed under the bone of his brow.

Your breath catches as you stare up at him.

He just looms there for a few seconds until the women back away from you. Out of respect. Or fear. Or maybe they are just curious to see what happens next.

Now that there are no hands to hold your tits, they feel extra heavy.

Without a word, the scarred alien hooks one claw under the neckline of your top, and the material gives with a soft ripping sound. It flutters to the floor, forgotten before it reaches the ground.

Your breasts spill free, and whistles ripple through the crowd while the alien in front of you grunts low in his throat. Something rough and guttural that might be a fuck. His good eye drifts up to meet yours, then drops back to your bare, dripping tits. Milk beads at the tips in fat drops. And the male doesn't hesitate. No question asked. Just him latching onto your nipple with a wet, hungry sound. The suction hits hard and suddenly. You cry out, back arching as the pull of his lips shoots straight to your clit, and your milk fills his mouth.

But he is too tall. The angle is awkward. His head bent low, shoulders hunched, while you are almost on your tiptoes in an uncomfortable arch to offer him more.

He growls in frustration, your nipple still in his mouth, then grabs your waist with both of his huge hands and lifts you off the floor like you weigh nothing. Your legs curl around his torso with a gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders. You cling to him helplessly, thighs clamping tight on his sides.

Your breast presses into his greedy maw. Your milk flows freely now, so much so that it spills from the corners of his mouth when he swallows too slowly. You can hear the wet gulps and the vibration of his growls and grunts on your skin.

And you can feel the others watching.

"Can I take her home?"

"My mate would love a cow like her."

If your mind were less dizzy and your body less demanding, you would be embarrassed by this whole thing. But that ship has sailed. And there is no turning back. Not when your hips rock forward, trying to grind against anything that can give you some friction and release. But he is not here for your pleasure, you find out quickly. He is here to drink. Deep, greedy pulls while your pussy throbs with emptiness, soaked and aching and ignored. He simply doesn't care. He just keeps sucking, one nipple then the other, like you're nothing but a vessel to empty. To fill him instead.

Your head falls back. Eyes glassy with tears.

When he finally pulls off with a wet pop and puts you down, milk coats his scarred lips. Then, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and grunts a thanks or maybe something entirely different.

"What an asshole!" you hear one of the women behind you, but there is laughter in her voice.

And you stay standing here, tits heavy, nipples raw and wet, and pussy throbbing with need he denied.

And the bar erupts again. The waves of it ripple down your spine.

The room is a sea of glowing eyes and shifting bodies. A tentacled patron in the corner has two slick limbs wrapped around his own cock. Or cocks, you can't be sure because of the shadows. At the nearest table, a reptilian couple has one of the other waitresses bent over. Top yanked down, skirt flipped up. One claws at her ass while the other laps at her exposed cunt. Some sip their drinks, eyes never leaving your dripping breasts, others lean forward, elbows on tables, cocks or slits already freed and glistening in the low light. Even the ones not touching anyone yet stare with open, shameless want.

This, this is familiar, too. The predatory stares, snarling mouths, and tense bodies. The way you can almost read their minds about what they want to do to you.

"Come here, cow. My cocks are already hard for you. Pick one. Or take both."

"Sit on my face first! Let me drink that cunt."

Someone growls from the back. "Climb on my lap, human. You can grind that dripping pussy on me before I fill you proper."

"Don't listen to them, love, my suckers will suck that swollen clit while you ride. You won't even have to move. I'll milk your cunt and those fat tits."

But your gaze catches on someone else. Scaled in deep emerald and black, ridges sharp along his shoulders and down his spine. He is sprawled on a chair like he owns the fucking place, legs spread wide, thick thighs straining the seams of his pants. One hand rests on his knee while the other holds an almost-empty glass that he swirls absently before one last gulp. His eyes, slit-pupiled and burning gold, lock onto yours the second you look his way. He looks smug. Almost mean. The corner of his mouth curls in a slow smirk that shows just a hint of fangs.

He lifts his chin once. Come here.

Your legs move before your brain can catch up.

The serum has you so wound up that every step sends fresh wetness sliding down your inner thighs. The feeling is uncomfortable. This slickness. It reminds you how empty you are. And how full you are. Your bare tits bounce with every movement, and milk drips slowly and obscenely down your skin.

You feel like you are melting from the inside out.

The alien yanks you forward and pulls you down onto his lap with one smooth motion when you get close enough. Your thighs straddle one of his, and your soaked cunt presses hot against the rough texture of his pants.

"Easy, little cow," he coos, low and mocking.

Heat floods your face. Shame and need twist together until you can't tell them apart. Your hips jerk forward on instinct, grinding slow circles on his thigh.

You are already so close it's embarrassing.

He laughs under his breath while his hand slides up to cup you in his huge palm. The other reaches past you to grab his empty glass off the table to dangle it in front of you.

"Gonna fill this for me, aren't ya?"

The bar cheers around you again.

And the alien squeezes. You gasp at the rough motion while your milk splatters into the glass with wet little plinks. The sound echoes in your ears. Somewhere, shame and embarrassment burn in you, but with every pull, your clunt clenches harder, and you forget everything else. Your wetness soaks through his pants, marking him with your desperation.

The glass fills steadily, creamy liquid swirling at the bottom.

The crowd around you is restless, and when the alien under you lifts the half-full glass for everyone to see, holding it up like a trophy, the room roars.

He brings the glass to his lips. Gulps it down in long, greedy swallows, and sets the empty glass aside with a clink.

Then both hands clamp down on your hips.

Finally.

"Grind that dripping cunt on my thigh like the needy little human you are. Come on. Show everyone how bad you want to cream yourself in front of the whole bar."