Some Prosperity

This party was much that same as other parties of its ilk; thought Paul as he surveyed the room, drink in hand, looking for a place to sit. These parties, always commemorating an occasion, demarking our days until we die, then throw another party. It was New Year's Eve. Another year was ending. Another calender would be thrown away. Paul spotted an attractive woman sitting alone on the couch. He didn't recognize her. Perhaps she didn't fall into the intersection of the Venn Diagram that composed their respective circles of friendship. He decided he would make her acquaintance. She had ample bosoms. He longed to fuck her.
"I bid you a prosperous New Year." He said to her.
"It must be so." She said. Paul couldn't tell if she was forlorn or drunk. He was historically bad a telling those two apart. There was a pause, which Paul took as an invitation to sit beside her on the couch.
They talked for an hour or so, though the stilted nature of their conversation (which consisted of his questions and her one syllable answers) made it feel as though it had been two, perhaps even three hours. Still, Paul felt as though things would end well between himself and this stoic woman. He leaned over and whispered an invitation into her ear.

****

Hours later, they arrived at his apartment. He asked for her name. She replied that it was "Nebula". He had never bedded a woman with such an odd name. They both disrobed.
"There's something I must tell you, before we engage in intercourse." Nebula said.
Paul was a bit perplexed at her clinical language. He would have preferred "make love" or the more colloquial "fuck". But he told her to continue.
"I didn't lie to you when I said my name is Nebula. That is the best approximation for it using this cumbersome tongue. I did lie when I told you I was human."
"You didn't tell me you were human." Paul replied.
"Yes, but there is the tacit acknowledgment that we are both human."
"So you're not human?" Paul asked, somewhat disappointed.
"I'm afraid not, I am from the Chrrrox planet in the Ghraszenti Pesudo-cluster. It is a star that is much to far for it's light to reach the earth. You see, many years ago, all the men on out planet died. We found only three planets in the universe where we could adequately reproduce with their inhabitants. By the time we had reached the other two, they had killed each other off."
Paul, who was familiar with this trope, knew what was coming next.
"So we need you to help us repopulate our planet."
Visions of a non-stop interstellar fuckfest with comely aliens flashed through Paul's mind. He was abruptly stirred from these fantasies when Nebula handed him a small container.
"Please fill this with your semen. We will ensure you have a very prosperous new year."
"But...." Paul stammered.
"I'm sorry Paul, but we do not engage in intercourse to reproduce. We have advanced technology. Our genitals are vestigal."
Paul sighed, but obliged the alien by filling the container with his semen. The next day he found that seven million dollars had been deposited in his bank account. He also fucked the bank teller when she got off work. As he was doing so, he said:"Thank you Nebula".


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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Prosperity'.