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SYNOPSIS
While engaged in a little parcel delivery business, our outer space heroine, Sanoon Sarem, finds her ship forced to land on a planet inhabited by a race of sex-mad robots. They subject Sanoon, and any other stray females they have happened to ensnare, to an endless round of shagging.
But escape she does. Fans of Sanoon’s early life will recall how Kadral Par bought Sanoon’s freedom from the Hoor slavers. Now Sanoon is forced to return to the slave planet to investigate Par’s untimely demise, and along the way she comes across a few other skeletons from her past.
Another little misspent period in Sanoon’s early life saw her take part in the most violent sport in the galaxy: an entertainment known simply as, THE GAME. Now Sanoon and her original team-mates are invited to make a return appearance to the blood splattered arena, and how can a girl refuse an offer like that? Can the four members of ‘The Black Bits’ team rekindle their original elan or will they get shagged into defeat and their naked asses kicked into the bargain?
Energized by her appearance in THE GAME, Sanoon then decides it’s time to try her luck as a female gladiator on planet Roma, but even the hardy Sanoon finds the going tough.
Narrated with wit and style, this fifth installment of Sanoon’s memoirs is 59,000 words of sex, pain and torture at the hands of unfeeling aliens. Why would a Human female with a uniquely undefended crotch want to travel the galaxy? Find out by following SANOON SAREM’s further wild adventures.
EXTRACT
I know that it began with a brawl which had nothing to do with scoring goals and that
someone parted me from my costume within two minutes of the opening siren, leaving me with
a deep scratch on my left hip where they had grabbed the strap of my panties and yanked
down hard. I saw Sustuta break out of the grip of two of the Vagpower girls, one of whom
was also already naked, pick up the ball and throw it to me and that I scored the first
goal of the match. I’ve seen it on the Tri V discs, but I can also clearly recall giving
a salute to the crowd as the first of the Vagpower team raced off to the Shagging Post for
her first dose of the night, but after that it all got too hectic.
They scored, we scored again, I can see coach Wasamat yelling at me from the
sidelines and Yaani being spun off her feet by an opponent and a stream of urine pissing
out from between her legs as she was flung around in front of me. But if that happened
early in the match or late in the proceedings I couldn’t be sure.
I must have taken a lot of shags, you can’t avoid that, but that too is a mess of
isolated images and brief snatches of clear recall amid the noise from the crowd and the
shouts, yells and occasional scream from the court. I do remember clearly racing up to
the Shagging Post to replace Sustuta who was still being pronged, her face an anguished
mask of pain, sweat dripping off her nipples as she was held down and a big Ramaston
behind her having the time of his life. I recall thinking: ‘Please, let it not be a
Ramaston.’ By the time I’d arrived she was being thrown forward and she almost collided
with me as she ran back onto the court to help Yaani and Demiss while I cocked a leg over
the post and was grabbed even before I was properly in position. The shag I then received
is lost in mist amid all the other shags I took that evening.
There is a particular fragment of memory I have of looking down at my chest just as
some anonymous Vagpower bitch rips four sharp claws through my tits and I see in slow
motion a spray of blood following her hand. Another has me upside down above the court,
with apparently everything around me stopped as if paused by some great galactic remote
control. There’s a ringing in my ears and off ahead of me a few pairs of naked buttocks
and legs are seemingly dangling from the roof. It’s a quiet moment, almost peaceful, then
I’m dropped hard onto the court on my back with a thump and the world returns to its
normal deafening roar and somebody kicks me hard in the crotch.
I must have screamed a lot because at the end of the match my throat was scratchy
dry and sore, and you can see me in the Tri V disc in full cry yelling and cursing as some
monster dick is rammed into me, but happily for me I can’t recall much of that.
The rest is just fragments: pricks and groping hands, the goal ring floating in
front of me, the Shag Counter with its big symbols telling me if I’m due to line up for a
fan fuck (And when has a player ever glanced at that thing and not found herself in
deficit?) or a team mate bleeding. You just get out there and keep doing what you can
until mercifully the final siren sounds and you can collapse in a heap, hardly caring if
you’ve won or lost, at least for a time. We were a little out of practice but the old
reactions soon came flooding back: the imperatives of The Game as drummed into us
constantly by coach Wasamat.
They might have been implanted into our brains, these unwritten laws which made the
difference between winners and losers:
1/ Don’t play fair, play to win.
2/ Hurt your opponent before she can hurt you.
3/ Take Three for your team, who cares if your cunt bleeds.
4/ Keep your opponent’s cunt busy by scoring goals.
5/ Help a team mate and she’ll help you.
And so on in a similar vein. This wasn’t sport, this was war.
