The mission

by BRK   

Spinning across the universe can cause some wild changes over time. That can be a good thing.

The travel sphere shot through the endless vortex, and Damon felt himself starting to doze. Five back-to-back missions between the Imperial Sector and the Sylvan Colonies, spending himself to prevent interstellar war, had exhausted him. He longed for bed and luxurious sleep, preferably not alone.

He shook himself mentally, forcing one last surge of alertness upon his unwilling mind. The sphere needed his psionic energy, his concentration, to work. It was truly a marvel, Damon through—a thick three-meter-wide temporary sphere composed of mental energy, transparent and apparently without any controls or equipment, capable of traversing the galaxy in mere hours—if you could keep your concentration up. Not the form of transportation most considerate of the operator, he thought ruefully.

He mentally kicked the sphere, which had faltered slightly during his lapse in concentration, into high gear, and the streaming lines and colors of the vortex blurred past him. Only another hour before he reached Sylvan Prime—and Orest.

Damon sighed as he thought of Orest. Always his thoughts traveled to the first time they met. As the son of an Imperial (his mother, a free spirit if there ever was one, had suddenly and shockingly emigrated to the Sylvan Colonies a century ago) and in his capacity as one of the junior Speakers of the Sylvan Assembly, Orest had been selected by both governments to meet Damon on his first trip to the colonies. For this reason Orest, alone of all the Sylvans, had been briefed on the secret of sphere travel, known only to the team that ran the project, a few government officials, and the pilots themselves: body plasticity.

Even now Damon felt it, fought it, using techniques drilled into him during years of training. Traveling through the vortex is done with the mind, his instructors had said over and over. The mind moves itself through underspace, and only the mind can bring the body and its protective bubble with it. In a sense neither the body nor the sphere the mind forms on entering the void really exist. One lapse in concentration can cause the mind to lose its iron grip on the body’s shape and size and contours, and the body will start to lose its shape, its cohesion.

Damon had seen it happen twice. Early in his training a veteran pilot, Jax, had returned from a trip to a distant star as nothing but a mind—his body had stretched and contorted during the difficult trip back until it disintegrated, becoming nothing more than a thick coating of living tissue on the interior of the sphere, which vanished when Jax let go of his sphere. Jax had returned to the vortex, the only place he could survive as a mind. Sometimes pilots returned from their travels claiming to have met Jax, mind to mind, still alive and well in the vortex.

Another time an inexperienced pilot named Eli had let his sphere elongate, suckering into the illusion of distention that all pilots feel as they shoot through underspace head-first at what seems like colossal velocities. He had arrived back home safe and sound, but stretched ridiculously, his hard pilot’s body looking as though it had been made from taffy and then pulled from both directions. He had retired from piloting, afraid of further changes, to live off a comfortable inheritance. Just for fun Damon had had a delightful fling with Eli not long after, and during their weekends together Eli and Damon discovered together that Eli’s body had retained a certain rubberyness that made for some unique sensual pleasures.

Damon had been terrified by what had happened to Jax, however, and he had prided himself on never letting his attention drift and never allowing the tiniest shift in his body’s cohesion—until Orest.

He got to Sylvan Prime all right. There was a designated landing spot, constructed by the Sylvans not long after the invention of sphere travel; but Damon had been only the first visitor by sphere, all the others (including Orest’s mother) having traveled by much-slower hydroships. The Sylvans had insisted on quarantining Damon as they did all visitors. Only the junior Speaker, Orest, was allowed in. Damon had been briefed on this, but had never met a Sylvan and—even though they were descendants of his own people—he did not know quite what to expect.

As Damon emerged from the vortex, still inside his sphere, into the huge, empty reception chamber he struggled to reacclimate his sight to the physical world—and then he saw him. Orest was beautiful by all standards, magnetically beautiful. Tall and tan and impossibly handsome, his rich black hair fell on broad, muscle-rounded shoulders and his thin, sheer Sylvan legislator’s costume, though covering his body from neck to ankle, revealed and accentuated his naturally perfect form. His bright green eyes absorbed Damon as they beheld each other, and they bonded on sight, both of them barely noticing the progressive tightening of their uniforms between their legs.

The beautiful Sylvan soon transferred his attention from Damon’s handsome face to his crotch, his eyes bulging. Damon and Orest were discovering what few even among pilots knew: body plasticity endures for several moments after emerging from the vortex, as the mind controls the reintroduction of the body into normal space, retaining the travel sphere around itself as it does so. Usually it’s not a problem—the mind is geared for survival and works hard to bring the body back together safely with little conscious effort. But if you’re distracted in these crucial moments…

Damon was barely aware of his body as he stared at Orest, trying to force himself to speak so that he could at least apologize for his rudeness. But it was Orest who spoke first.

“You should stop it soon,” the awestruck Sylvan whispered, nodding at Damon’s torso.

Damon looked down, confused, and was suddenly aware of his body, which had reacted to Orest’s intoxicating beauty as if Damon were himself one big giant penis. He had grown taller—there was now half a meter of skin showing above his hands and feet, and another half a meter of abdomen showing between his shirt and pants. Worse yet, his cock, which had stirred and swelled on seeing Orest, had continued stirring and swelling, and he now had a very, very hard cock which was quivering its way toward his collarbone, its head smearing juices across his gently expanding pecs, under the uniform shirt, while a half-meter of thick hard cock shaft was exposed along with half his expanded abs.

Damon looked down at Orest with panic and shame, but Orest merely said, “It’s all right. But you must take control now.” Damon nodded and began to concentrate, gently but firmly regaining control of his body. He could feel his body solidifying, the plasticity wearing off, and it became harder and harder to reshape his body to where it was supposed to be. He concentrated harder and harder, and finally, overcome by fatigue from the effort and the long journey, he collapsed, his sphere evaporating normally.

He awoke to find himself lying on his back in a large bed in a sterile white room—his quarantine bedroom, he thought groggily. Immediately he became aware of a warm, clean, muscular naked body pressed against his under the soft white covers. A long, tan arm stretched languidly across his chest. He turned, and the beautiful Sylvan was looking at him peacefully, his sharp eyes piercing Damon’s heart. He gulped, and he felt his cock stirring.

“Orest, right?” The Sylvan nodded coyly. “Is this how diplomacy is conducted on Sylvan Prime, Orest?” Damon said softly, and Orest laughed.

Then Orest said seriously, “We bonded. We both knew it. Among our people everyone knows it is unnatural to resist such a connection.” Orest’s strong hand was caressing Damon’s pecs, which felt heavy for some reason. Damon realized his feet were cold—they were sticking out from under the blankets.

Damon smiled, rolling onto his side to embrace Orest’s broad torso. As he did he felt Orest’s powerful, extra-thick erection pound against his granite abs. “So it is with us Imperials,” Damon said, who had only felt a sudden bonding twice before, and never nearly this strong. “But even with a bond this powerful the first greeting is normally only a kiss.” Damon demonstrated, pressing his lips against Orest’s, settling into a deep and luscious kiss.

Orest laughed as their lips separated, and Damon’s heard felt joy at Orest’s laughter. “I admit I’ve been forward,” he said. “When you collapsed, I brought you to bed, and undressed you; and when I did that I couldn’t resist joining you.”

Damon frowned. His rapidly stirring cock felt wrong, heavy and huge. It was starting to try to press between Orest’s long, powerful legs, but at the same time it was pushing down them as it continued to grow and harden. He felt the cockhead straining below Orest’s knees and gasped.

Orest lifted his leg a little and Damon’s monster cock eagerly jumped between Orest’s legs, rapidly stiffening the rest of the way as it tried to reach its accustomed vertical position. Soon it was painfully hard between Orest’s legs, the Sylvan’s heavy balls resting on the base, the lower part of the thick shaft rubbing along Orest’s firm buttcrack, and the tip trying to arch back toward Orest’s shoulder blades.

Damon stared into Orest’s eyes. The Sylvan smiled. “When you realized you were letting your whole body expand with, well, arousal, you tried to fix it, but you only got as far as getting your height down to three meters when you fainted. And now,” he added, leaning in for a gleeful kiss, “you’re stuck this way until you reenter the vortex.”

Damon felt an electric thrill as his powerful monster cock throbbed, pushing Orest’s muscular body closer to him. He took a deep breath and said, “I think I can deal with that.” They kissed long and hard, reveling in the pure joy of their connection.

Damon felt his concentration becoming more ragged. He was not ready for this trip. He felt as he shot through underspace the edge of the threat of body plasticity as he had never allowed himself to feel it while actually in transit. He could feel his body, which seemed to grow and change on seeing Orest again of its own accord despite his own half-hearted attempts to stop it, and which he painstakingly restored to near normal during each return trip home to the Imperial Sector (though always he needed to buy new, slightly larger uniforms on coming home—a not uncommon problem, and another secret of the pilot’s guild he’d only recently discovered), start to want to stretch and warp with the elongation of spacetime that he himself was creating with his own mind. He struggled and pushed himself, striving to reach the colonies before his concentration failed—wondering what it would be like to succumb and become lost in underspace, like Jax, or to arrive spent, unable to control the flux of his body. Unwillingly the thought came to him that he wanted that very thing, knowing that Orest would strengthen him and guide him into a shape unlike any either of them had ever seen before except in their fantasies. Damon gritted his teeth and pushed on. “Only an hour to go,” he muttered, unaware of how much his body had already stretched and grown as he strained to reach his destination.

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