"Okay, everyone make final checks and adjustments. We're going to use the pneumatube." Andrew said, looking up from the clipboard. He had triple-checked the headcount. All the exploration mission's men were gathered in this room, awaiting their first steps on a completely unknown alien world.
 
Emphasis on the word *men.* This expedition to Planet Z, the world first discovered by accident a few years ago, was entirely crewed by males. As the first interplanetary journey -- beating out Mars by a few years -- there were concerns about sexual and mental health, even harassment, while cooped up in a rocket not much bigger than an office building. It was an extreme precaution in many people's views, but anyways, concerns about interpersonal relations proved unfounded. The ten-month journey to Planet Z had passed in what seemed like a very short time, with most of the guys getting along well and even discreetly enjoying private male fun with each other now and again.
 
It helped, Andrews thought, that not a single one of the men here would look out of place in a centerfold. One of the space program's backers had recently discovered the "ultimate" diet and fitness routine, one that allowed the body to perform near its peak at any time. It had not only protected against the ravages of microgravity, but also resulted in a bunch of very, very buff astronauts. Their rigorousness in sticking to the plan varied, but all of the explorers now possessed rippling physiques, with every major body type well-represented. Most of the zoomorph species also had a presence. Powerfully-built felines, lithe canines, and even a few rodents and mustelines stood, mostly undressed, alongside sculpted humans.
 
The crowd of space exploring hunks soon got to chit-chatting, adjusting straps, underwear or helmet-collars. Nothing had aroused real controversy on Earth beside the all-new spacesuits. Even Andrew, stealing a look at a half-dressed, white-furred feline's perfect bubble butt, thought they were a bit much. They were a new technology which dispensed with the need for bulky layers of Kevlar and allowed spacewalkers to get ready in a fraction of the time they used to, but the navy blue and black outfits were… formfitting. Very formfitting -- no, extremely formfitting. They managed to cover a person's whole body while leaving even less of it to the imagination than a catsuit.
 
Andrew was reminded of the Zero Suit from the old Metroid games: every inch of the wearer's physique was left open to ogle. He looked at the young feline again, and could see the lines of the boy's muscles bulge through the taut fabric. The crotch was kept mostly a featureless outline thanks to the standard-issue jockstraps that were their only underwear, but that was the only modesty. If he paid attention, he could even see a bit of the cat's buttcrack--which was as far as he went perving on his fellow crew member. Suffice to say, the only elements of the expedition members' ensembles that weren't titillating were the collar dams just below the neck to attach and detach their all-glass bubble helmets, and the booties on the bottom with hard supports that also resembled Samus Aran's most revealing outfit. Together with the two small air tanks and antenna everyone had on a back harness, as well as a small camera-control panel on their chest, the overall impression was the 1950's idea of a spaceman interpreted by a lecherous 21st century artist.
 
Not that it was a bad thing. But as Andrew pulled on his own helmet and adjusted the clicks, he was a little bothered that every one of the guys was, intentionally or not, showing off. Their attractive forms flexing and tensing constantly gave the tanned human boners at the worst times, like now. He did his best to shift his jockstrap around a little while he thought no-one else was looking, but the soft, finely-textured space-age material rubbed much too pleasantly against his big, tough erection. He decided it was best to let it be, avert his eyes from the crew's crotches and hope it would go away, at least in time for the most widely-viewed moment of his life.
 
The rocket's pneumatube, a smooth, transparent, rubberlike pipe winding from the airlock just outside here to ground level, was another thing Andrew wasn't sure about. Supposedly, it was faster and easier for someone to slide down the tube gently entrained by air jets rather than scale a ladder or operate a crane, but several elements of its design left him nervous, most importantly the lack of cushioning on its outgoing end. Regardless, the moment was nearly upon them, and Andrew had to quash the excited palpitations of his heart. If everything went right, he'd be the first man ever to properly set foot on another planet.
 
Of course, accompanying him would be forty-nine other men, all ready to perform groundbreaking research and walk where no person had before. And the rest of civilization, watching from Earth with a time lag of several hours due to Planet Z's distance. Countless cameras were mounted such that mission control and the world's media had a crystal-clear view of everything that went on or near the ship. Andrew would never forget the moment of touchdown and the total elation that followed, then looking around at Planet Z's forbidding red-yellow peaks and the ringed Planet X with his naked eye, through a porthole. But he would be able to forget the incoming moment soon even less. He steeled himself. As mission commander, he could not allow anything to go wrong.
 
After fastening all his gear, he put the clipboard aside in his locker and carefully re-checked everyone else's. He caught a couple of unsealed collars that could have spelled disaster, tightened some harness straps, adjusted some jockstraps (to the aroused embarrassment of their wearers), and made sure everyone could hear him over the radio. That done, he opened the airlock's circular door and stepped through.
 
He tried not to have his breath stolen by the blurry impression of Planet Z visible through the pneumatube, maintained his focus and allowed eight others to step through. They would do this piecemeal, as there wasn't enough space in either the tube or the airlock proper to allow everyone through. They had all been drilled on the procedure and needed no reminders. At last, the door closed, and the atmosphere cycled. Andrew found himself expecting his ears to pop or something similar, although his helmet's environment was sealed. Planet Z's air was, because of a variety of odd astronomical factors, barely breathable -- but no-one was going to risk walking around in it to save a bit of effort. At last the air equalized. He made some final instrument checks with the other members, gave a thumbs-up, and put his legs through the large opening.
 
It was almost exactly like a waterslide in practical function and appearance. He hung onto two bars at his sides, his nerves almost getting the better of him. The witty saying he'd prepared for the moment nearly slipped his mind. He tried to brace himself for a few moments, but nothing could really prepare him. So, with a few seconds of self-pumping and concentration, he slid his butt across the threshold and let himself go, experiencing every moment as it came, because he could never repeat this.
 
The pneumatube was a little slower than a waterslide. One turn. Then another. Then another, each coming a little faster. He could see, foggily, that he must be getting closer and closer. Another turn, another, and a final steep straightaway- a little crook in the tube, was that normal? And ahead of him--
 
--was not Planet Z's soil. He saw only something very big and purple blocking the way before his feet gently met a weird, velvety, dark violet surface at the very end. It was pliable against his boots, wrinkled, and not the ground. He was too confused to feel robbed of his greatest moment.
 
The tube shuddered. Andrew's world shook, and he slid bodily down the forty-degree slope a little further. His feet slid deeper into the strange surface, and with his knees he almost found balance before he felt a jarring impact against his head.
 
He wasn't alarmed - the helmet was designed to resist collisions much more powerful than this - but he checked in with the crew member who'd hit him, lying awkwardly and putting some pressure on his helmet.
 
"Miles?" He glanced up instinctively, recognizing the other man. Miles, his second-in-command, happened to be a very mesomorphic, blonde cheetah-morph. The cat's calves, trunk-like thighs and rock-hard abs were distinctive in outline. Distinctive, as Andrews had been rather… close to him during a steamy post-gym session.
 
"Commander Andrew?" he replied.
 
"Seems like there's some kind of terrain obstruction here. Can you relay that up to the guys in the ship?" the human asked, as he looked down again to realize his own calves had sunk into what he'd assumed was a fold in the… object. Come to think about it, his feet felt warmer through the boots -- the thought was interrupted again as some kind of vigorous sideways shaking, an earthquake maybe, dominated his senses... and Andrews realized he had now sunk to his knees in the substance, which was far too smooth to be rock.
 
"Trying to get through to them now, sir. Give me a minute. This is Miles to Lieutenant Harold, please acknowledge. We've had a problem during egress, there's a terrain blockage. Over." Miles responded, with cool professionalism.
 
Mud? Oobleck? No, there was something intimately familiar about the bizarre stuff beginning to engulf him. He gripped it in his hands.
 
It was flesh. His eyes widened as he let himself be distracted by all the astounding possibilities. An alien organism. Life on other planets. Maybe even first contact. All sorts of glories -- banished from his mind as the flesh reached up to his crotch. Another jar, from a third crew member arriving, threw his body even further into the strange organism. He moved his legs around experimentally, and felt a warm wetness.
 
He glanced once again at the huge, nearly house-sized parts of the organism outside. It wasn't shapeless. It had a form. Moonlike curves to both sides… a peculiar pair of round shapes below him.
 
It wasn't a wall of flesh, but a giant butt and a pair of car-sized nuts. The opening was folded from the center. A sphincter...
 
*He was sinking into a giant anus!*
 
Out of reflex, he gripped Miles' calf, the cat giving him a quizzical glance until he made the same realization, wide-eyed. Lieutenant Harold was cut off trying to ask for more details as a fourth crew member arrived.
 
In his bewilderment, Andrew reached for the radio controls as the flesh reached up to it. The enormous alien was stirring, the mighty sphincter choking some air out of his chest.
 
"Whoever that is, tell... ship, they have to... they have to know-- there's a huge extraterrestrial down here!"
 
"They said it was a terrain obstruction, not an alien! I-I'm sorry, sir!" a raspy, youthful voice spoke. The fourth one.
 
"Well, we have to get ourselves out of this before it eats--" Andrew never got the chance to finish his sentence, as the huge sphincter twitched and *puckered*. The extraterrestrial's soft anal flesh caressed him through the skinsuit as his arms were pinned comically upward, preventing him from reaching his radio. He couldn't speak to the others! He reached for better purchase on Miles, but couldn't figure out a way to get out without pulling the cheetah down before another movement sucked him in past the armpits. He panicked for a moment, realized his helmet would not break, and was incapable of preventing Miles' ankles from sinking into the bumhole before he was trapped in the pitch darkness of an alien rectum.
 
For his part, Miles pushed against the flesh a little, feeling Andrew lose his grasp on his legs. He tried to brace himself against the tube's walls, but it wasn't enough to stop him from sinking in. He realized he had to tell the others what was happening. The canine above him and Wallace, the youthful human at the top, didn't have any tools that could help beside a collapsible shovel. Wallace's impact had destroyed the canine's antenna, and Miles' was too heavily damaged, not likely to carry beyond the tube.
 
"Specialist Wallace, our radios are out of order! Call the guys in the ship, tell them to retract the--" Another shaking, sinking, sinking. Miles realized they would be following Andrew, just before they did. The enormous sphincter pulled at him before he could say another word, and the massive alien beast engulfed him and the canine with a drawn-out flexing.
 
Wallace managed to call in for help, but his choice of words wasn't really the best.
 
"Lieutenant, uh, Harold! We need help! We're stuck at the bottom of the tube and it's-- it's not terrain! There's an alien! You've got to come help! It's eating us! Eating us with its butthole--" he said, just as the pucker consumed his lithe, wiry frame and sucked in his helmet, his face framed in a mask of terror and confused horniness for a moment before vanishing.
 
Harold, a lanky wolf, had received Wallace's message, and radioed in for clarification. The other four remaining men snickered at his voice. A stupid prank now, of all times? But there was no response. He tried twice, thrice, and four times before giving up. What was there to lose by going down? The Commander and Miles were still there, and not responding.
 
One man, a stout river otter, slid down with a shovel.
 
And when he didn't come back, another. And another. Harold felt everything was wrong about this situation.
 
"For the guys back in the ship: we've lost contact with the first eight to egress onto the surface. I'm going down there to see for myself. If you don't hear my voice in a few, prepare to send multiple men at once. Over."
 
"Acknowledged," replied the Third Lieutenant. Harold gripped the bars and tossed himself foot-first down the tube.
 
Twelve seconds later, Harold took one look at the gigantic butt, with a big anus he was now sliding down helplessly toward, and realized too late that Wallace was telling the complete truth. A moment later, he was stuck knee-deep in the bumhole. He tried pushing and clawing, but the monster rapidly flexed its ass. The lieutenant couldn't even scream before his shoulders were sucked in, followed by his hands.
 
It had been about nine minutes since the scheduled start of the spacewalk and two since Harold's descent, and Third Lieutenant Scott decided they'd waited long enough. He stepped into the airlock with eight other men and they prepared to slide down one after the other. He left standing orders to the remaining crew to follow him down, as none of them could operate the command module or the external cameras.
 
Scott, a mouse tall enough to make even tigers feel short, slid first alongside the coyote boyfriend he'd made over the journey, Victor. Both men rubbed together with a quiet, erotic energy.
 
Both the Third Lieutenant and his partner got jammed in feet-first. They flailed for purchase on a surface, any surface, but to no avail. Their muscular frames disappeared into the alien's body with a disgusting squelch, the men's helmets the last things to vanish.
 
The next few guys fared little better. Despite their shovels, they could only forestall their own anal consumption by a few seconds, if that. There were no guns, knives or explosives. All they could do was push and wiggle, which just stimulated the huge alien into sucking them in faster. Plaintive, masculine moans of unwitting pleasure erupted in the tube as the sexy space explorers vanished with lewd *slurps*, one by one. The combination of their tight underwear, the soft flesh of the strange anal cavity, and male hormones made the third group go down rock-hard.
 
A few more minutes after that, more followed. The Third and his men didn't manage to inform them about the situation. Only twenty-three astronauts remained, but the big alien was ready for them now. Rhythmically, as they arrived, each of the gorgeous fellows was swallowed. Screams didn't carry up the tube, so none of them had more than a few moments warning to realize they were doomed. Some made gestures to warn the others, but it inevitably failed as their muscular bodies were rapidly ingested by the tight pucker. Each time, the enormous creature ground its pucker harder onto the pneumatube in an obscene gesture.
 
Edgar, the white tiger, was the last of all. He was pretty embarrassed already, being very sure the Commander was peeking at him in the equipment lock. But he was a little aroused at the idea of being checked out by someone else, and liked the notion of being attractive enough to be ogled, superficially. He was the youngest man on the mission -- actually, the youngest person ever in space -- not even old enough to drink. He'd always been on the short, lean side, and had been borderline underweight before entering astronaut training the year before the mission.
 
Now, he had gone from twink to... twunk. The perfect diet, although he'd sneaked in some pizza slices here and there, had been enough to make his body a spectacle to behold by any standard. He'd never been brave enough or knowledgeable enough to ask any of the other guys out for sex, although he was definitely open to the idea. He contented himself by just looking in a mirror when he could find the time.
 
Intellectually, the idea of actually setting foot on Planet Z himself was always rather distant, but now that he stood in front of the pneumatube's opening, it seemed enormous. Nothing about his life would ever be the same after this moment. He dithered and fidgeted after the second-last guy dropped, wondering what had happened to make everyone so silent.
 
He wasn't going to wait inside an empty ghost ship for hours, though. Better get on with it. His suit was tight against his skin, practically flush. He practically used the top handle on the opening as a swing and tossed himself, butt first, into the tube. And it was a great thrillride.
 
Until he finally saw the anus. The alien had not anticipated another arrival, so he was not immediately sucked through the sphincter. He stopped, as Andrew had nearly half an hour earlier.
 
Edgar had been craning his neck up, so he had more than an impression to look at. After a few seconds, he made sense of the nonsensical image, and made the same obvious deduction Andrew did, and a few extra steps.
 
His ankles were sucked in just as he began to process it. Somehow, this big monster had found their rocket, snuck up as they were changing, and planted *his* rear end against the pneumatube's end. The rest of the crew had been anally devoured by him, sliding down this tube practically straight into his bowels!
 
Terror and sorrow sprung into his mind, followed by arousal. Vorarephilia had been the tiger's deepest, darkest sexual fantasy since he could even fap.
 
This was hot. He also didn't want to be ass-food, but that didn't matter. He didn't have the ability to resist. He fantasized, more or less accurately, about what it would feel like. Then he didn't have to fantasize.
 
He bucked wildly, shouting lustfully and uselessly into the air of his helmet. He wriggled his legs, knowing it was pointless. He tried to worm his way outside, only to slide in deeper and become more aroused. He tried to summon up the strength for some appropriate last words as his chest slid in, but nothing came to mind.
 
Except a plaintive moan. Fear and arousal mixed as he shouted theatrically. "Somebody! Anybody! Heeeeeeelp!" At the same time, he thrusted against the flesh surrounding him, masturbating with the extraterrestrial's sort-of-help.
 
Nobody answered, obviously. Except the monster, who sucked Edgar in up to his neck. The tiger reflected on how the future would play out. In a few hours, Earth would… everyone would see what had become of him… the poor boy, they would think, shoved up the ass of the male monster of Planet Z. His penis was practically working on autopilot...
 
With a final slurp, and as he reached climax, he vanished into the anal darkness.
 
***
 
The feelings at Mission Control had gone from elation to wonder to interest to horror, and then...
 
The space program's human director had seen it all from the cameras. Was seeing it. So was everyone. Everyone in the world.
 
His heart had sunk into his stomach, then into his intestines, then to somewhere outside his body entirely. It must have been halfway to the Earth's mantle by now. Spaceflight would never recover. Ever. Not in ten thousand years. The business was done. Finito. He turned toward the faces of his greatest backers, various captains of industry and politicians, as if he could change anything by looking at them. He was numb.
 
By the time the last crew member had slipped into the huge, dragon-like alien's… rectum, some technician saw fit to cut the feeds completely. The director didn't want to think. He wanted to find the deepest hole in the world and bury himself alive in it.
 
And then one of the backers turned his head from the silent screen, and to him. A zoomorphic tiger, probably Siberian. Not that any of that mattered. The director thought he may as well have murdered someone in front of them. All the words died before even becoming thoughts.
 
A smile? Why would anyone be smiling? What?
 
More backers looked. More of them smiled. Had he finally lost his marbles?
 
The tiger approached. The director blinked like he was a deer in bright headlights.
 
Before anything else, the backer, some unimaginably wealthy individual he could barely stand to look in the face, spoke.
 
"That..." The feline held up a single finger to the director's face.
 
"… was the sexiest thing I've ever seen. Do this again, but with women, and I'll give you ten times the budget."