Lesbaliens

Scarlett Sage has chased stories her whole career, but this one smelled different the second she saw the name in print. A woman named Miss Summers had gone public with an alien abduction, and when Scarlett spotted her congressional campaign in the same state, the pieces started to add up. She dialed the number printed in the article. The line clicked open and Miss Summers sounded eager to talk. Her voice was steady as she laid out the details: a worldwide cover-up, every major government in on it. Scarlett kept scribbling notes long after she should have hung up. Hours later her head still spun with questions as she crawled into bed. Fatigue dragged her under, but sleep didn’t last. She came to hovering a foot above the sheets. Two tall figures stood motionless beside her, their skin the color of cold wax. She tried to move, yet nothing answered. The paralysis wasn’t hers. Their minds pressed her back onto the mattress. She opened her mouth to scream and only managed a thin sound. One of them bent closer. English rolled out in a flat metallic cadence: they needed biological samples. Scarlett shook her head, but her limbs were theirs to move. Long fingers hooked the waistband of her panties and slid the cotton down her legs. A cool hand glided across her thighs, parting them. They worked in tandem, tasting, probing, examining every inch with an impersonal hunger that left her shaking. Her mind circled back to the tape recorder on her desk: she’d wanted firsthand contact with alien life. Here it was, meticulous and unrelenting, between her spread knees.