The temperature controlled air in the training room did nothing to stop the sweat on Vegas Munro’s top lip. No matter how many times she’d filled in for Avril, these sex education classes got no easier. It didn’t help that six muscled, attentive aliens stared at her, hoping she had all the answers.

“That is your female hole?” The six-foot five bronze-skinned Galaxar stared intently at the revolving 3-D image at the front of the class.

Blowing a strand of dark hair off her face, Vegas nodded. “That’s correct. You’ll see the similarities with your own females’ reproductive organs.” She kept her tone level. She was twenty-six; she shouldn’t squirm when talking all things alien-human reproduction. It was, after all, what her job was all about. Arranging long-term hook-ups between humans and aliens. Getting them to produce beautiful alien babies to populate the stars.

“It looks smaller,” another Galaxar said. “How do you fit us?”

Galaxars were nothing if not direct with their questions.

“Females expand widthways and lengthways,” Vegas said. “When a woman is aroused, she expands to fit her mate.”

The Galaxar shook his head. “You won’t be able to fit me.”

Vegas made a discreet note on the tablet in her hand. She’d be sure to pair this one with a female who wouldn’t mind him insulting her sexual organs. “We’ve had no complaints about not being able to fit.”

“You’re right, Jaylag. It looks too fragile.” The Galaxar at the front slumped back in his seat. “A good match was guaranteed. A female who would accommodate us.”

“You will get perfect matches,” Vegas said. “We are thorough at My Single Alien.” Glancing at the space station’s logo emblazoned on the wall, Vegas grimaced. It showed a smiling blonde woman holding a blue-skinned baby. Next to her was a blue, smiling Draxdan. Staff at My Single Alien now knew not all aliens were blue. They’d had a few complaints about favoring Draxdans on the publicity materials and were working on a new logo. As with anything that needed a decision being made, it took its sweet time and involved a crap load of forms and meetings.

“I’ve heard it called a garden,” a Galaxar from the back said. “What does that mean?”

“I’ve heard human female parts called growlers,” another Galaxar said. “Does it make strange noises when aroused?”

Vegas gestured with her hands, partly to cool her burning cheeks and partly to stop the cascade of names for a woman’s down belows getting shouted around the room. “The last description is not a compliment. Don’t go using that when you meet your match. However, garden is not so bad. It makes sense, you see. That is what you’re doing. Planting your seed to grow something amazing.”

Several interested murmurs drifted around the room. Males, they could be from Earth or from the deepest reaches of space, sex was always on their minds.

“Your brochure said you have a seventy-five percent success rate,” the Galaxar at the front said. “What happens to those who are unsuccessful with their mates?”

“If, after three months, you and your partner have not successfully become pregnant, you have the option to choose a new partner. But there are certain conditions that must be met before you get a new mate. Fertile human females are in high demand.”

“Which are?”

“You must be intimate with each other for a minimum of five times a week.”

“That won’t be a problem. I like to take my mate several times a day.”

Vegas pressed her thighs together. Galaxars were huge in all aspects. As part of her job, she’d studied the biology of every new alien interested in this service. It was crucial to know what they were dealing with. Especially since, in the early days, there had been a few... incidents.

Vegas knew she wouldn’t be able to walk for a week if she was mated several times a day by one of these well-hung beasts. Not that she had anything against big muscles and strong-minded males. She did, however, like to sit down without needing a cushion and an ice-pack.

“We all do,” the Galaxar in the back row said. “It keeps them happy.”

“I heard the orgasm is good,” the Galaxar at the front said. “Tell us more about that.”

Vegas pressed her fingers on the bridge of her nose. “This education session is about reproduction. You’re here to learn how the human reproductive organs work. It’s important you understand what you’re signing up for.”

“We know what we’re here for. We need a female. We have to breed.” A note of desperation speared through the Galaxar’s words.

Vegas’s frustration softened. “Of course, but things operate differently for human women. It’s more than just breeding they require from a mate.”

“You like flowers,” the Galaxar at the back said. “Dead flowers are given as a sign of fondness.”

Resisting the urge to sigh, Vegas nodded. “It’s an old custom. It’s not one we use on the space station. The pollen messes with the air filtration system. Do not give your women flowers, unless you want our chief engineer to come looking for you.”

“And candy,” another Galaxar said. “Your men like to make their females fat.”

If only that were true. You could buy chocolate from the station’s general store, but it was an expensive import. It had to be. They had no room to grow cocoa beans on the station, and the food replicators were dodgy on a good day.

Vegas had been shocked to discover that not all aliens loved chocolate. That seemed like an anomaly too far. Horns and squirting tentacles she could handle, but no chocolate, you had to be joking. “Chocolate is sometimes given as a gift. But it’s more than the gifts you give.”

“Back to the orgasms,” the Galaxar at the front said. “Do you have them easily?”

If only she did. Vegas had to think back. It had been several months since she’d had a decent one, and that had been by her own hand. “Women do enjoy a good orgasm. And they can be had easily, providing they’re given the correct stimulation.”

“Show us that. How do you stimulate yourself?”

“That’s for another class.” Vegas didn’t like the eager look in the Galaxar’s eyes as he peered at her groin. “It will be shown in a 3-D simulation, not a hands-on practical session.” She didn’t know how Avril coped with running these classes. She ran them seven days a week to meet client demand. Vegas would have to make sure Avril didn’t get sick again soon—she’d up her supplements and check her exercise routine. She needed to be fighting fit, so Vegas didn’t have to endure this humiliation again. She’d only been doing this a week and finished every day with a headache and her cheeks feeling like they permanently glowed from the probing questions.

“Your race enjoys lots of reproductive opportunities?” The Galaxar sitting at the side hadn’t spoken until now. He played with the tablet in his hand.

“We do,” Vegas said. “Females are pregnant for nine months before they give birth.”

“We do not mate with you when you are with squib. I mean, child?”

“You can still mate; it doesn’t harm the squib.” Vegas considered the Galaxar term for child appropriately cute. “It’s also a good bonding experience to remain sexually active.”

The Galaxar nodded. “That is good.”

“We become fertile almost immediately after birth. But it’s sensible to hold off for a few months before becoming pregnant again. It gives the body time to recover. It’s safer for the female and the next baby.”

“I understand the reproductive process,” the Galaxar said. “What I meant was, do you like to try to become pregnant regularly?”

The Galaxar at the front snorted. “Tolak is asking if you like to be mated often? Do you enjoy the process?”

Sweat prickled on the back of Vegas’s neck. She had another half an hour of this. She would need a long, cold shower and a strong alcoholic drink at the end of today. “With the right partner, we definitely do. Now, let’s turn our attention back to the female reproductive organs. We haven’t covered the clitoris.”

“Show us the breasts. They are for more than feeding the young?”

Vegas’s hands unconsciously drifted to her chest. “They are. Some women find stimulation of the nipples and surrounding breast area extremely pleasurable.”

“You have nice ones,” the Galaxar at the back said. “I would like yours.”

A choked laugh came out of Vegas. “You don’t get to pick the exact breast type or size. You can say you would like a certain type, but we can’t guarantee that. But we do guarantee you this: you will breed with a fertile human woman. It is why you are here. It is why My Single Alien is here to help you.”

The Galaxars all muttered an agreement. They were desperate. Their own women could no longer reproduce. They needed humans. And humans needed their money and their protection. The fact the Galaxars were not hideous to look at was a bonus when it came to finding them suitable mates.

There were other alien races who came through the Glory Hole—better known to the science dudes as a wormhole, who were a little more niche. You needed an open mind to be interested in mating with them. Although, Vegas had heard the Dackins tongues took you to a whole new level of pleasure. You just needed to get past the feathers and beak-like mouths.

A knock came on the training room door. Letting out a relieved sigh, Vegas strode over and opened it. Heather Roberts stood on the other side. She glanced into the training room, grinning when she saw the eager aliens peering back at her. “Our new intake has arrived.”

“They’re early.” Vegas checked her wrist comm. It was a handy mixture of communication device, galactic level web browser, and timekeeper. It also kept a check on her macros, so she didn’t overindulge too often. If she did, it sent her a stern reminder that excess fat in the space station put a strain on the already stretched resources. As if a few extra pounds on her thighs would rip apart the space time continuum.

“They got a jump on their transport window. I think they’re keen to get here and find their true loves.” Heather’s blue eyes sparkled.

“When are they not keen? Although it’s rarely about love.” Vegas glanced at the aliens waiting for her to discuss all things clitoral and breast-related. She’d be glad to cut this lesson short. These Galaxars had more classes to complete before they got to experience the delights of a human female in their beds. “Give me two minutes.” She turned back to the Galaxars. “We must end our training early today.”

“But we were learning about the breasts. They are fascinating.”

Vegas heard Heather snigger behind her. “We can learn all about breasts tomorrow. In the meantime, take your study records with you. They’re pre-loaded on the tablets you’ve been given. I’ll test you in the next session to see what you’ve learned. There are also info pods available in your rooms. They provide useful information on all aspects of mate interaction.”

“We know how to treat females’ breasts,” grumbled the Galaxar in the front row. “We do not need info pods. We are not squibs.”

“But we are a special kind of female,” Vegas said.

“Miss Munro is correct.” The quiet Galaxar stood, his tablet in his hand. “We must cherish these females. If it weren’t for them, we would have nothing.”

A general murmur of agreement went around the room.

Vegas smiled at the Galaxar. “Thank you, Tolak. I’ll see you all back here at the same time tomorrow.” She pulled the door open and stepped out. Vegas gestured for Heather to wait for a moment as she listened in to the Galaxars’ conversation. She always liked to know what the aliens really thought of My Single Alien. Not that she was nosy. It was all about gathering informal feedback to help improve the service they offered.

“I can’t wait to plow myself a garden in one of these human females.” It was the pushy Galaxar from the front row. “Although, I’m sure she will break when I mount her.”

“They won’t if you handle them properly.” Tolak had moved closer to the door.

“I know how to handle my females. It’s their folds that interest me. What do you think they hide down there?”

“You won’t get to find out if you don’t treat your mate properly.”

“I thought these lessons would be more practical. I want to get my hands on the real thing. All these 3-D models do is give me an enormous hard-on. I’ve nowhere to put it.”

“Try sticking it up your own tail-end.”

“I know where I’ll stick it if you keep sucking up to Miss Munro. She won’t be interested in you.”

“I’m not sucking up to her. We must respect her. She will give us all mates.”

“You’ve already succumbed to their weak human emotional ways. You’re getting it all wrong. They just need a good hard fuck, and they’ll be happy. You saw the way she reacted when I talked about how big we were. Her panties were almost on the floor.”

Vegas raised her eyes to the ceiling and frowned at Heather. “Let’s leave them to it.”

Heather hurried along beside Vegas as she traversed the outer corridor of the station. “Don’t take it personally. No matter the alien, boys will be boys.”

“For once, it would be nice if all they were interested in wasn’t what we looked like with no clothes on.”

“Evolution can only take us so far. These aliens have the technology to create a stable wormhole, but they still think with their ding-a-lings most of the time.”

Heather was right. Aliens came from thousands of different galaxies, having traveled millions of space miles to get to this place, but they were basically all interested in the same thing: getting a woman’s legs open.

Vegas increased her stride. “It’s a Colonel and his officers arriving this afternoon, isn’t it?” She’d read through so many transport log manifestos that each one blurred into a single blob of names and aliens.

“That’s right. Six Galaxars in total.” Heather ducked as a station security drone shot too close to her head.

The space station, known as Prodigy, or Procreation Central to some, was a stop off point for aliens who traveled through the Glory Hole and needed to re-fuel or rest. It was also the headquarters for My Single Alien. The location was perfect, and business was booming.

Heather was almost running to keep up with Vegas. Whereas Vegas stood a lofty five foot ten, Heather was just over five foot tall, with short legs and curves. Although they couldn’t look any more different, Vegas was as close to her as any sister.

“Do you want to do anything specific for the welcome party this time?”

Vegas shook her head. “We’ll do the same as always. Welcome them. Give them a tour. Set them up in their accommodation then complete the inductions before introducing them to their mates.”

“It’s a Galaxar colonel. Aren’t they more like royalty?”

“Royalty my butt,” Vegas said. “These guys will be the same as the others. It’s just that they’re better at wielding a laser or a blade.”

Galaxars were galaxy defenders. They were employed by dozens of planets to protect them from attack from outlaw aliens. They had a military-style hierarchy, with generals seen as near gods.

Vegas glanced out at the star-studded blackness of space through a fused silica window. She never let herself think about it too long, but she was a hell of a long way from Earth. This place had been an experiment. A place of last resort, not just for humans, but for the many aliens who utilized their resources. And the only resource humans had that aliens wanted was fertile women and lots of them.

“I’ve seen a new Galaxar greeting that’s popular,” Heather said. She was always eager to please when working with aliens. As well as a first class matchmaker, she’d been a blogger on Earth, specializing in human social interaction. “They bow with their fists over their chests. Then they do a fist bump.”

“A fist bump? Isn’t that an Earth thing?”

“It’s also a Galaxar thing,” Heather said. “Although I’m worried my hand might break if I ever make contact with a Galaxar’s fist.” She clenched her tiny fingers together several times.

That was one problem with Galaxars. They punched first and asked questions later. It often led to fights in the Enchanted Captain, the station’s bar. When Galaxars fought, you got out of the way fast. They’d smash through anything, human bones included.

“A handshake is good enough,” Vegas said. “Galaxars don’t do small talk or pleasantries. So long as we don’t insult their battle prowess, there’s not much we can do wrong.”

“I wish they liked to talk,” Heather said. “I like sharing with my man.”

Vegas smirked. Heather was such a romantic. “Did you find Earth men good at sharing?”

“They were dreadful.” Heather’s nose wrinkled. “I had one boyfriend who threatened to tape my mouth up if I kept talking.”

“How kinky.”

Heather swatted Vegas’s arm. “There was nothing kinky about it, more’s the pity. And he was so vanilla in bed. I used to drop off to sleep before he’d finished. Or I would sneak the TV on with the remote and watch it over his shoulder until he was done.”

“What did you watch?”

“Repeats of Knightrider. And I loved the A-Team. I would have done a lot of illegal stuff to get my hands on Murdock. I even got myself off a few times just staring at that gorgeous man while my idiot boyfriend pounded into me with his weird-shaped ding-dong.”

“I was more a Face fan.”

“The charming one?”

“The one who could charm his way out of any situation. He was smart, he just hid it well.”

“Anyway, my loser boyfriend said my tone of voice sounded like an angry bee in his ear. He said I made his brain itch.”

“It seems to be a trait across whichever galaxy we end up in. Men don’t like to talk.”

“I’m determined to find one alien race who likes to talk,” Heather said. “I’m settling for nothing less. And I’m not giving up my precious eggs until I do.”

That was a caveat about working for My Single Alien. If you worked here, you couldn’t go bonking the clients and getting pregnant. Vegas had signed up for a three-year contract and was at the end of her first year—the weirdest and freakiest year of her life.

She’d never had the urge to have children. Not that she would have done while on Earth. The number of birth defects following the radiation spikes meant most children were born with abnormalities. At least in the recycled air of the space station, you guaranteed yourself a healthy child. A part alien part human child, but at least no one had to worry about their baby’s health.

“I want a virile, talkative, musclebound alien,” Heather said. “Someone who will sweep me off my feet and fertilize my eggs until I can’t walk in a straight line. And if he’s good with his tongue, I’m all in.”

“You’re making me feel sick.” Vegas turned the corner, leaving the education rooms and the offices. The space station had three main areas: the hub in the middle contained the fusion power core and engineering; the walkway, a series of loops providing safe movement between sectors, and the operational area—this included flight crew, security, and the offices of My Single Alien.

There was a separate area for crew and visitors to sleep in, connected to the station by crossover bridges. At the far end of the station was a docking bay suitable for most alien spaceships. If you ever got lost, the easiest thing to do was return to the circular hub area and start again. Otherwise, you’d go round in circles in the wrong part of the station. It was a good workout but frustrating as space dust in your bra if you were in a hurry.

Vegas ran her hands over her fitted green jumpsuit. She always felt a thrill of excitement at meeting a new intake of aliens looking for a mate.

The aliens who came through the Glory Hole were a mixed bunch. Some were suspicious of My Single Alien. When Earth had established the agency on the space station, there had been accusations they were trying to steal alien DNA. Not true, they were just desperate and needed something appealing to aliens.

Other races who had flown through the Glory Hole were in favor of the agency and couldn’t wait to drop their alien shorts and get down to business. It was always a careful balancing act when meeting a new race. Would they be hostile and cautious or horny and too touchy-feely?

“Maybe there will be a friendly Galaxar in the Colonel’s troop,” Heather said.

“If there is, you’d better not go resigning,” Vegas said. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t working in this place. What with Hardwick’s increasing demands for reports, and her insistence we decrease the time to do each alien induction, I’d end up in an evac pod, punching the red button and sucking on space.”

“Don’t you dare go on a space walk without a suit! I’m not going anywhere. Even if I found my dream alien, I’m not leaving my job.”

Vegas shot her a sideways glance. “You sort of have to.”

“I’ll ignore the rules about not dating an alien. I’d just keep quiet about him.”

Vegas slowed and looked at her. “Heather, you can’t even keep quiet about what you had for breakfast. How are you going to keep a hunky alien lover a secret? I know you’d have to tell me all about your hot nights of passion.”

Heather grinned. “I would keep quiet if it means we keep working together.”

Vegas felt the same. Despite the fact Heather could talk non-stop about any subject of her choosing, she was a great friend. They’d started at My Single Alien on the same day, both terrified and wide-eyed, still uncertain what they’d signed up for. They were the guinea pigs of the space station. The Earth crew who’d blasted them into space weren’t even sure they’d get here. All of this was still a huge experiment. Sometimes, it felt like a successful one. Other days, when the air filtration broke and the water froze, Vegas wondered how many days she had left before she discovered just how easy it was to die in space.

With a shoestring budget and chronic understaffing, Vegas was amazed the whole thing hadn’t collapsed. And with Diadora Hardwick, her tyrannical boss, breathing down her neck, demanding reports and completed key performance indicators, she had a tough job on her hands. But Vegas loved a challenge. What could be more challenging than matching aliens from across the star system with desperate, fertile human women, while living in a space station in bad need of repair?

Heather squeaked as they entered the docking bay. “Check out the size of their craft.”

She was right to admire the sleek silver bullet-shaped Galaxar vessel. Galaxars knew how to travel in style. Having mastered long-distance space travel over a thousand years ago, humans were struggling to keep up with their technology. Scratch that: they didn’t have a hope of getting close to the technology Galaxars used to surf through space.

“We really do have royalty on the space station if this ship is anything to go by.”

“Don’t go curtsying,” Vegas muttered. “They won’t know what to make of it.”

“Of course. They might think it’s a signal to mate. That would be embarrassing, trying to fight off six randy Galaxars.”

“Are all six Galaxars intending to profile for mates while they’re here?”

Heather checked the tablet she held. “The Colonel is the only one who has completed his profile. Here is his match.” She held up the tablet. “He’s older than the others and needs to reproduce within the year if he’s to maintain his rank.”

Vegas skimmed the details of the female he’d been matched with. “What about the others? Are they all healthy and sane? I don’t want them coming out of their craft and running amok with their blades.” Galaxars loved nothing more than a fight with the long, thin blades they carried.

“They’re all accounted for. No problems reported.” Heather tucked the tablet under her arm. “They’re all here for one thing. To get us pregnant. Well, to get some lucky female pregnant.”

Vegas focused on the release clamps of the Galaxar ship as they descended. Galaxar colonels could be tricky characters. If they were the highest ranking Galaxar in the room, they liked to throw their weight around and show everyone who was in charge. Vegas had reprimanded several Galaxar colonels because they’d gotten too full of themselves.

She always made sure to do it away from their officers and foot soldiers. It didn’t do to humiliate a colonel in front of his lower ranked comrades. That resulted in a slit throat and your innards prettily decorating the nearest wall in a glistening, warm display of Galaxar strength.

“Here we go,” Heather said as the stamping footsteps of the Galaxars approached the ramp.

Galaxars all wore the same style of uniform, reinforced metal plates and tough, manufactured ribbed armored guards on their arms and legs. They covered their bronzed muscles in form-fitting black. It did nothing to hide how enormous they were.

The Colonel appeared on the ramp. Vegas suddenly found it hard to breathe. She checked the air monitor on the docking bay wall. It wasn’t that. The air in here was fine. Why couldn’t she breathe?

“No way,” Heather spluttered. “It’s him! It’s your Galaxar.”