Excerpt from THE DEVIOUS BOY-KA-WANG OF MARS

Braden considers the game

Braden considers the game; after sex with Colin, he tries to enlist the pregnant Venusian's aid...

The game-play itself is simple and brainless: pieces of cartoon fruit fall down the screen and the player needs to smash them and make them vanish either by making them stack into columns of like fruits or by hitting them with a floating dick-shaped hammer. That term in the game's name—Boy-Ka-Wang—is in fact an old-timey vulgarity for a big fat dirty spunk-drippy erection, particularly one sported by a horny-as-fuck and desperate-to-fuck youth. According to Oxford, it's first known written occurrence was in A-R Kanayda's novel Love Always, Your Prince of Jasoom, in this passage:

I'd no intention of fucking Kowan, that dirty fucking rentboy masquerading as a prince, that trashy narcowhirl-snorting gay-for-pay faggot. That he seriously thought he could blackmail me! In fact, I decided I would finally expose him to his father—who would probably either exile him or murder him (I didn't care which as long as he was gone). But he hit me again, this time in the left eye, with a spatter of his spit and it went right into me, right through me, his fucking contagion! I could not say no, not now, not when he opened the buttons of his fly and drew out that filthy footlong boy-ka-wang. It leaked preek, a long clear streamer of it falling like a ribbon of glass from his wide piss-slit to the bamboo floor between his feet. The smell, had I not been poisoned by his venom-spit, would have made me gag when he pulled my head to the puckered end of his long foreskin, to the cheese-clotted knob cloaked beneath it. I skinned it back cleaned off his mushroom head with my tongue. I sucked in as many inches of shaft as I could, and a couple more when he held my head, thrusted and forced himself past my tonsils. The stench of the lad's pubes is still in my nose to this day. I can still feel the pulse of his thick jack-snot on my tongue. You need to understand that I never stopped being his slave, and that I still am. So, you see now the trap into which you have walked. A trap set by me not so much by command of a prince but by his cock, by the filthiest boy-ka-wang on all Mars!"

As I played a couple more minutes of the game, I found that I was getting more and more horny, each smash of the cock-hammer on fruit blocks making my dick pulse a little bit. Then Colin showed up and I think I may literally drooled at the sight of him, so hot was I to hide my stiff prick in his tight slippery snatch.

From Colin's audio diary, an account of Braden fucking him and then asking for his help:

Usually when Braden has dicked me he has favored my asshole over my vaj as the slot for his cock, but since he and Patrick returned from Venus a few weeks ago, I guess he has kept a taste for maph cunt after—he says—pregging two hundred Venusian boys with Patrick's help as part of these Venusians' weird idea that some kind of "spunk beam" from the Tong Tiphon is going to blast their planet any time now, forcing mutant pregnancies on everyone on the planet who's not already knocked up. I have a hard time believing they could actually have cum inside that many pussies in the short span of time that they were there no matter how much Erec-T and Juic-E they were popping, but that's what they say happened. Braden tells me directly that he thinks I am hotter now that I am pregnant, his lips shiny with spit and his eyes wet with lust as he says it, and that I get hotter the more that my belly bulges with this pup. "It's fucking sick-hot to cum inside you," he says, panting over me, sweating from his face onto mine, "when you got Jaustin's spawn growing inside there...right there under my dick, baby!" He tells me that after this kid is born that he—Braden—wants to get me pregnant again himself. "I'm gonna fuck another one right into you, baby," he gasps, and I know that he is just saying this to make himself even hotter on purpose, cranking up his own climax, turning himself on even harder, by saying this shit. And then, after he says that—that he's gonna fuck another one into me— he cries out and he gasps and he squeezes my collar bones in both hands, and he screams and he spills out his sperm into me. He spasms and pulses for a minute, spit drooling from his lips to mine, panting into my mouth, and when his dick finally starts to deflate he pulls it out and rolls his body off me and onto his back and see says, "I need you to sing."

What the fuck does that even mean? I ask. "Sing to Ethan," says Braden. "Or with him. While is he drawing. I don't know how it works with you two, but he has been drawing and painting like some kind of crazy psycho-fuck—Aaron Ansible and I went into town this morning to fetch a fucking jeep-load of paper and paint and crayons and other shit for him. We're going to have to add a wing onto the house to hold his art! This has been going for days. And yet you have not made a sound."

"It's the pregnancy," I say. And saying it aloud was the first time I actually formed the thought. I have had felt almost none of the deep songs in me since Jaustin pregged me, and no inspiration at all from Ethan. "Weird. Another singer knocks me up and then I don't feel like singing at all."

"Can you at least go look at his stuff?" Braden says. "Ethan's drawings? Maybe it will start something inside you."

I realize that I had not even spent any time around Ethan and his art lately. Was I doing this on purpose without realizing it? I agree to try.