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Fur-sty Planet: No Atheists in Knotholes

Assistant Xenobiologist Holden Crawford was going through what could best be described as "a rough day."

The borzoi staggered through the alien woods of Planet Bismuth on bowed legs. The white fur of his crotch still felt like a sticky, matted morass of slime despite his efforts to scrub the effluvia away using water from a nearby creek and his socks (which his blistered heels now missed terribly). During the freezing sock bath, he had found another unpleasant surprise. The section of his cock near the knot was noticeably bruised thanks to the rough treatment the eel creature had provided. To make matters worse, his balls ached where the other eels had sucked on them.

"God, if you're listening, I don't care if I ever get out of quarantine," Holden mumbled. "Just please don't let this result in me developing some kind of space herpes."

His sexual future was the least of his present concerns, however. Contacting The Darwin and getting off this hostile planet was a no-brainer first priority. Trooper Harris, the cowardly meatheaded bear, had left him high and less-than-dry without a communicator. The only thing at Holden's disposal was a small satchel containing a basic set of tools, provided by NATO and manufactured by a company with highly questionable quality standards. The kit contained a set of adhesive bandages that flopped away at the first sign of moisture, a flashlight the size of a thumb that could only produce a sickly yellow glow, a tube of generic disinfectant gel, a needle with thread, and a single flare that claimed to fire its payload 300 feet in the air before exploding into a fireball that rescue vessels could see for miles. The flare also deployed a beacon that would relay his position across all frequencies…assuming that it didn’t get burned up in the process, which was a known defect.

The flare was, obviously, the most promising method of drawing (hopefully heavily armed) comrades to his location. Unfortunately, Bismuth wasn't very firework-friendly. The thick canopy above afforded only small gaps through which sunlight filtered in yellow shafts. Several times Holden had removed the flare, squinted up at a break in the wide leaves, and willed himself to shoot a lifesaving ball of fire right through. But then he envisioned the missile shooting from his hand, striking a leaf, and splashing burning phosphorous back down onto him as he screamed and ran. If the flare was anything like the other cut-rate crap in NATO's bag of tricks, it would function in only the most ideal conditions--if it could even manage that. No, he would need a substantial clearing in the foliage to make absolutely sure he didn't expend his lifeline scorching some alien tree bark.

For two miserable hours, Holden trudged through the woods. His feet ached tremendously with each step. "I swear to god, I will never take socks for granted ever aga--"

Holden stopped dead in his tracks. Up ahead, barely visible through a barrier of tangled roughage, a gently rising, bald hill was bathed in unfettered sunlight. The dog couldn't help but laugh as hope flowed through him like cool water down a parched throat. He sprinted towards the clearing and stopped at the heap of dead shrubbery marking its perimeter.

"I'll be damned."

Despite everything, the scene sprawled out before Holden was quite beautiful. The short hill, which had at first appeared to be coated with a thick carpet of short grass, was actually blanketed by a layer of glistening moss. A strange pink mist swirled and danced just above the green surface. Also present were a number of fallen logs--perhaps the remains of the trees that had once stood here. Strangely, they exhibited none of the usual decay one might expect from long-dead wood. In fact, a number of them had clusters of purple leaves growing from their remaining branches. Roots appeared to be sprouting from the SIDES of the log nearest the ground. It wasn't much of a surprise to a canine of science like Holden. There were trees on Earth that could take a lot of abuse and still survive. Why should Bismuth be any different?

A sudden rustling from nearby startled Holden into a crouch. He clutched the NATO emergency kit by its strap and held it up. As shameful as it was, the only self-defense strategy Holden could conjure up in his fear and fatigue was to use the satchel as if he were using a purse to fend off a mugging attempt

Suddenly, the faux leather strap was torn from his hand. A creature, swinging from its long arms through the branches above, had grabbed it before achieving a nimble 10-point landing in the soft moss of the clearing. A plume of pink fog exploded upwards from the ground, obscuring the beast momentarily. It resembled a macaque, with black fur and long, gangly limbs. The most striking difference was a short-haired face featuring two intelligent, piercing eyes and an elongated snout with jutting incisors at its front. The monkey-dog turned back to observe the Earth-dog, perhaps daring Holden to try and retake the satchel. Then it began to waddle-walk on two legs over the crest of the hill, its prize held triumphantly up over its head.

"You little bastard!" Holden shouted in dismay at the cheeky primate. He sprung to his feet, scrambled back several yards, and sprinted toward the hurdle of brittle foliage separating him from the clearing. Holden had never been much of an athlete, but he felt confident that his long, adrenaline-infused legs would be enough to propel his scrawny 6'3 frame over the barrier. For one exhilarating mid-air moment, it seemed that he would make it. A particularly stout piece of deadfall caught the toe of Holden's boot and brought him crashing muzzle-first into the ground.

The monkey-dog paused at the hill's apex to observe the clumsy biped's shameful display. It coughed wheezily before continuing down the other side of the mound--its actions drunken and unsteady.

Holden was doing plenty of coughing of his own. The squishy moss had been kind enough to break his potentially painful fall, but it had also emitted a cloud of pink gas directly into his face. The vapor felt strangely warm and stung his respiratory tract in a way that reminded him of taking the final hit from a mostly-spent joint, where the cherry burned centimeters from the lips.

Great, another contamination. Holden groaned internally. At this rate, I'll be in quarantine for decades. If I can even get off this fucking planet, that is.

But if he was going to go home, he would have to get that flare back. There was no other way. Determination drove him to his knees, and then to his feet to stagger forward after the thieving monkey-dog. Holden wasn't sure if it was because of the mist or standing up too quickly, but his head felt light and cloudy. Sensations of happiness and giddy pleasure bubbled up through his frenzied thoughts--threatening to bury his anxiety and weariness completely.

"God, this is even better than weed," Holden choked out between coughs. "I could make a fortune selling it back on Earth."

Despite his inebriation, Holden still felt a quiver of fear as he reached the hill's summit. If the monkey-dog had escaped, he'd be up shit creek. And even if it were still in reach, there were the animal's jaws, claws, and God only knew what other hidden threats standing between him and his flare.

The beast was still there, but it didn't look like it was ready for a fight. It lay sprawled out over a log, writhing weakly against its bark. The strap of Holden's bag was dangling from a hand-like paw that gripped and relaxed rhythmically.

"What's-a-matter? Tired already?" Holden slurred. "I'll be taking my shtuff back now, okay?"

Holden stumbled down towards the exhausted primate and snatched at the emergency kit. The monkey-dog held on briefly before its fingers fell away. Victorious, the borzoi clutched the satchel to his breast.

"Little bastard. Not so tough now that--now--" His grumbling trailed off. Somehow, he found that his anger towards the beast was rapidly being subverted by feelings of pity and empathy. He stared into its vacant eyes and tossed the emergency kit aside. "Hey, look. I know you were just playin'. I'll help you. Come on."

In his impaired state, the danger of a potential mauling seemed like a small price to pay to render aid to the poor thing. And it WAS pretty adorable, after all--especially as it snuggled against the odd log. Holden reached down and gave the placid monkey-dog a rub in the soft hair behind its ears (boy, it felt nice against his hand) before lifting the limp, warm body away from the log. The monkey-dog's lower torso didn't come away easily, as though the bark was covered in some sort of sticky substance. Holden peeked down under the animal and gasped.

The slender length of the creature's penis was extended down into a knothole in the log. Instead of swirling, warped woodgrain, there was a pair of wet, grasping purple lips of flesh trying to pull the monkey-dog fully back into their embrace. The beast reciprocated the plant's efforts by squirming in Holden's grasp and pushing its hips forward, trying to return as much of itself to the knothole as possible. The startled canine dropped the creature back down and plopped backward on his ass, sending another cloud of intoxicating vapor into the air.

Holden stared dumbly at the blissful monkey-dog as it slowly sank back down into the log's alien orifice. The log, apparently pleased, began squelching beneath its prey as its innards did something that sounded extremely lewd. Holden's mind couldn't help but return to his first fateful collision with a Bismuthian lifeform. The deervark and, of course, the eels. The eels with their grasping mouths and throats that gripped wetly. His maleness ached dully as it fattened and emerged from its sheath. The memory of the eel creature, which had inspired disgust and shame only minutes before, was now inspiring some very different feelings.

What was left of Holden's rational mind cried out in protest, but the intoxicating effects of the vapor spoke louder. Holden's cock was pushing painfully against the fabric of his trousers. With the eel, fear and disgust had led to an erection that was merely serviceable, but not exactly fully engorged. Whatever this stuff in his lungs was, it was making him hard as steel. And there was another log nearby...

Holden left the lifeless monkey-dog to its fate and crawled carefully across the moss to a log several yards away. Sure enough, there was a knothole in the bark with two fleshy lips the color of an eggplant. As soon as his shadow fell over the hole, the plant's innards spread apart. Holden peered inside, looking drowsily for any threats despite his penis’ desire to plunge inside without delay. Strands of thick ooze dangled and drooped between the glistening walls. Bumps lined the surface of the moist flesh like goose pimples. Holden gulped as he extended a shaking finger into the knothole. It snapped shut on the digit and began frantically massaging it. The bizarre tree's flesh was warm, and the bumps that he had seen were hard, like tiny ball bearings.

I need this. God, I need this.

The thing sucked frantically at Holden's finger as he tore free of its slippery embrace and began to wrestle with his zipper. It came down with a fight, snagging and then breaking apart. Holden's erection sprang out into the warm sunlight and throbbed amidst a haze of pink. The canine shuffled awkwardly onto the log and angled his cock down into the knothole, where the thing's walls once more stood open and waiting. His pointed tip passed through the threshold and had only just begun to brush against the bumpy walls when it snapped shut around him.

"Ah! Ow, Jesus!" Holden moaned. Pleasure and pain blurred into one another as the plant plied its trade on his overworked organ. The borzoi's legs shook as he strove to keep just the tip inside--distantly afraid of what might be waiting at the bottom of the hungry knothole. "Whoa, shit!" Holden’s knees scraped painfully against the tree as the crumbling bark gave way. His torso flopped flush against the log and his cock sank sheath-deep into the hole, which received it very enthusiastically.

Holden was powerless to resist. He could only move his hips in weak pumping motions, although the muscular lips locked around the base of his meat prevented it from moving much. His member was squeezed and scrubbed by the internal membranes, with hundreds of hard beads kneading and coaxing his organ toward the inevitable conclusion. Powerful suction tugged on his sex, as if the creature were convinced there was more penis to be consumed. Despite all that he had been through that day, Holden had a notion that his climax was going to be massive. He imagined the precum that surely must be drooling into the thirsty plant, and the lewdness of it all sent him over the edge. The orifice chewed firmly on his knot as it expanded, squeezing it like a throbbing, veiny stress ball.

"Fucking take it!" Holden grunted. "Here it comes, you bastard!"

The plant, perhaps sensing the violent spasming of its captured prey’s kegels, pushed the bottom of its milking organ up until Holden's cocktip kissed against it and pushed through into a void within its depths. The bunched-up flesh around Holden's spurting tip began to scrub frantically at the canine shaft as gouts of cum fountained out. It squeezed and pulled at the maleness as its owner squirmed in ecstasy--ecstasy and fear over the end of his masculinity being suddenly exposed to whatever lay deep inside the log. With increasingly gentle and sluggish movements, the plant continued to milk what it could from the male as the flow tapered. Semen was pulled down into the plant, where its bizarre "roots" delivered it to the thing that lurked below the hill. Holden groaned and flopped away from the log, his reddened, abused penis pulling free with a squelch.

During the infamous male post-orgasm moment of clarity, Holden's heart jumped up into his throat. If I'm done, then I bet that monkey thing is too! What if the little shit took my satchel with him?

Holden shifted his head to the side and gave his bleary eyes a moment to focus. The bad news was that the monkey-dog was long gone. The good news was that the animal had lost interest in his prize, which lay where Holden had discarded it earlier.

The winded assistant xenobiologist rolled unsteadily onto all fours and began to make for the emergency pack and the flare inside. His cock, which had only just begun to retreat back into its refuge, drooled down onto the moss below. Each drop instantly vanished the moment it touched the strange moss, as if every creature on the surface of Bismuth were thirsty for the taste of male essence. But for Holden, the end of the ordeal was in sight. With a trembling hand, he pulled the flare gun free from the satchel and thrust its barrel toward the open sky.

“Please God…let this work…” he groaned.

With a fiery hiss, the flare rocketed upward. After reaching the appropriate altitude, it exploded like a festival firework. Burning red phosphorous glowed, hissed, and smoked as it arced away from the point of detonation. A tiny steel propeller attached to a homing beacon snapped open and whirred to life. The signal it emitted transmitted exact coordinates to the bridge of The Darwin.

The weary dog grinned stupidly up at the beacon as its whirring propellors held it stationary high above him. It worked! There really is someone upstairs looking out for me! Holden mused as he curled up into a fetal position against the soft carpet of moss. Think it’s about time I caught some Z’s. And next time I wake up, I’ll be on the Darwin. Yeah, that’s the ticket!

With a tremendous yawn, the Borzoi’s eyes snapped firmly shut. He never felt the tingling sensation of the tractor beam locking onto his body.