Those of us who live in the thirtieth century pride ourselves in our rationality and civility. Still, we crave adventure, as humans have always done for untold millennia. For that reason, I put on my jet backpack and hiking boot boosters and trekked to Sirius 265, a well populated world in a nearby stellar system.

The star, known simply as the Flame to locals, is nowhere on this world as intense as our sun in the most temperate zones of Earth. Thus, the inhabitants live with 265's flora and fauna under a green canopy.

As a result, the people—yes, that is exactly what we should call these folks—have a greenish-bluish tint to their hair, eyes, and skin. In every other way, they appear quite human, even speaking a musical language of clicks and pops.

Humans from Earth and its numerous colonies are constantly warned to venture to other worlds only as part of military or commercially guided tours. This is both for our safety as well as the protection of the cultures we encounter. Interference, intervention, and interspecies interactions are forbidden by law and custom.

However, I have heard a good many stories about hedonistic pleasures enjoyed on other worlds. There is a great, grand galaxy to explore and I am thirsty for learning all that I can. As I child of thirty, I have two centuries to dedicate to professional, family, and civic responsibilities. I have time in my youthful adolescence for some Sirius fun.

On my first day, I wandered through the lush, moist rain forest, the bustling marketplace amid the willowy Sirians chattering and bantering, and the sleepy hamlet where they lived in thatch-roofed houses. They seemed not to notice me, the interloper, in their midst.

I stopped at what appeared to be a watering hole of some sort. Since humans ought not sample untreated water from other planets, I had no intention of giving in to my thirst. That proved wise, as I soon observed the sinewy Sirians removing their tunics, stepping into the pool, squatting a moment, and then stepping out to retrieve their garment. The pool was a latrine.

Outside the perimeter of the marketplace, there was a well with buckets of fresh water alongside benches where people sat—Sirian people, that is. I spoke words of greeting and the folks seemed to understand, nodding and beckoning for me to sit with them.

I studied their faces for indications of emotion and they appeared to be smiling—clucking their tongues in definite speech patterns, though wholly indecipherable to me.

The Sirians are long in the neck, torso, and legs with flat buttocks and concave chests with small round hands and triangular faces. Their eyes are slanted, but unhooded, and their noses comprise teardrop-shaped nostrils on the slightest of ridges. They have wide, toothy, lipless mouths that are perpetually smiling.

Some say the Sirians look like praying mantises. They all wear one-piece unshapely tunics, making it impossible to tell males from females. For all one could discern, they laid eggs and hatched their young in nests.

After a time, I grew hungry and decided to approach a particularly energetic Sirian with cascading blue-green hair, who appeared to be cooking and plating freshly grilled vegetables and herbs.

I tried to address her, but she stared at me uncomprehending. Immediately, I felt foolish in her presence. Obviously, I was some sort of savage breed that could not speak her cultured language.

I used sign language to indicate I was hungry and her expression changed. She smiled and began to cluck and click as she scooped up a variety of edibles with a wooden ladle.

I was taken aback to see that her front teeth were sharp incisors, like a human's, but I knew the Sirians were vegetarian and herbivorous. Maybe, again like humans, they had enslaved animals for food in the past.

When I gratefully accepted the stoneware plate heaped with aromatically steaming food, the lovely Sirian stepped away from her cooking stand and followed me. I had seemingly piqued her curiosity. She sat next to me on the bench and watched me eat the food with my hands, which I already realized was the Sirian way.

We humans, of course, are not only accustomed to using utensils, our hands are unaccustomed to scooping hot food. I tried not to let the discomfort show for fear she might mistake my grimacing as distaste for her food. I knew not what I was eating, but it was delicious. The flavors were an unearthly mix of sugars, hot spices, and saltiness.

She retrieved me a cup to drink, which was not water, but a thicker brew that tasted vaguely like cocoa. I thanked her and tried to introduce myself. "I am Nordic Massachusetts. That is my name. What are you called?"

In response, she chattered melodically and incomprehensibly. Yet I discerned a smile and a friendliness to her voice and body language. I also savored her scent, not quite human, but nonetheless pleasant. Her flesh was moist, fresh, and clean. She was definitely female and I felt a stirring in my groin, as absurd as that may have been.

I found myself staring at her. I was mesmerized by her beauty. Her graceful countenance was wonderful to behold. She moved with an elegance that I found impossible to describe. We could not understand each other's speech, but we continued speaking. I began to call her my lovely Mantis.

Then, to my surprise, there was a hum and she paused. Mantis reached inside the square collar of her tunic and retrieved a flat, circular device. She tapped it with her twiglike finger and it lit up.

The Sirians' lifestyle seemed somewhat primitive, but they had simple communicators like humans used centuries ago. She tapped the lighted screen, clucked at it a while, and then put it away. I followed her hand with my eyes to see her inside pocket and caught a glimpse of her naked flesh. Yes, Sirians have breasts—small, but distinct.

After a time, the dim illumination of the Flame faded into nightfall. Sirians in the marketplace built little campfires outside their storefronts and folks in the hamlet lit kindling wood in their fireplaces. They mostly used hollow branches, akin to bamboo.

Mantis took my hand in an exhilaratingly universal gesture and walked me to the threshold of what I guessed to be her hut. She led me in and motioned for me to sit upon a wide bed of straw and coarse linen. She stood before me, unmistakably smiling, and made a noise that sounded like a sweet musical note, a pure C in ancient notation.

Then she lifted her tunic over her head and my Mantis looked more human than ever, revealing tufts of green hair under her arms and at the delta of Venus. She moved closer to me and I touched the soft fur covering her legs. I detected her scent stronger and more feminine than before.

I touched her twin breasts in turn and she swayed as if to signal a dance about to begin. When I pinched her dark blue nipple between my fingertips, Mantis brought her face right up to mine. She showed me that humans are not the only creatures in the galaxy that kiss.

Her tongue was thin and pointy. I felt as if I would gag when she tickled the back of my throat, but then we settled into delicious, breathy, wet kissing. Her face shone beauteous in the firelight and her hands, like nimble five-legged spiders, caressed my arms, legs, chest, shoulders, and thighs.

I also realized the drink she fed me was both alcoholic and aphrodisiac. To my intergalactic delight, Mantis lowered her head into my lap and began to lick my penis before slipping it inside her warm, succulently erogenous mouth.

Numb to the passage of time, difficult enough to track on a planet with six-hour days and fifty-seven day years, I was unaware of how long it took for my penis to erupt, but I recall she devoured my creamy flow with relish.

Then it was my turn to taste the forbidden fruit of Sirian womanhood. Her cunt, though greyish on the outside, was a lush pink between the folds, confirming the universality of the penis-vagina nexus, including a stiff little clitoris that I tickled with my tongue. Mantis shivered in multiple orgasms before sending a torrent of nectar down my throat.

After a long, dreamy sequence of kisses, mantis positioned herself under me for the mating. The insertion of my throbbing, erect cock was only the beginning. Mantis prolonged the dance and kept my penis clamped between her wings of eros until I filled her tubes a second and third time before relaxing and letting me withdraw from her impassioned embrace.

I wondered if she thought my sperm from earth might quicken an egg in her Sirian ovary. Certainly, I could not say whether it would or not.

What I did know was that I wanted to stay with my beautiful lover from another world.

The fast passage of nighttime on Sirius 265 caught me by surprise and left me exhausted. Mantis was already up and hard at work, chopping wood with a stone axe, hauling water, and preparing more aromatic food in a cauldron over an open fire pit. I admired the rippling muscles of her arms, legs, and shoulders, as powerful as any man's, Earthling or Sirian.

All I wanted was to bathe, laze my teeth, and tune into the multiverse network over a nice cup of Martian coffee, made with the red water from earth's artificially fertilized sister planet.

This was not to be, however. After slipping out to visit the local latrine pool, I joined my green goddess for a breakfast of minty leaves, sweet and tart berries, nuts, and seeds. Once fed, I expected my lady to show me to the door and send me on my way.

To my surprise, Mantis wanted more sex and I happily obliged. She sucked my brown human dickeroo as delightfully as she did the night before and we fucked twice before the midday meal. Her odor intoxicated me, but I was concerned about my body smelling like an animal's hide from all this carnal activity. My lovely Sirian seemed not to mind my stink.

After sharing a hot bowl of roots and herbs, Mantis and I embraced one another on her bed, kissing gently at first. Then she began to lick my face, my neck, my shoulders—almost as a cat would do—and I realized my Sirian lover was grooming me, giving me a bath. By the time she cleaned up my cock and balls I was ready to fuck her deeper, harder, and longer.

As I mounted her, she opened her mouth to kiss me—or so I thought. I felt her bite my lower lips with those sharp teeth I noticed earlier. I felt and tasted blood, but I didn't flinch. I let her bite my lower lip, just as hard. I saw red droplets on her thin lipless mouth.

I made no effort to flee, despite the terror I felt swelling in my chest. She bit my neck, twisting while biting, sinking her teeth deeper and snagging a chunck of flesh that she chewed and swallowed. I began to cry out. She bit my penis and testes. I heard her swallowing my blood. I knew I was going to die.

Momentarily, I would be enveloped by whiteness. Like the praying mantis, my preying Mantis kills and devours her mate.

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