House of The Trois - Part one

The Story Before The Alien Smut Storm

Mandatory sexy cover art.

Author’s Explanation: Whew… okay. So here’s the deal. A while back I had the ridiculous idea to write alien erotica with one goal in mind:

“It’s gonna be strangest friggin’ smut. I’m taking notes from H.R. Giger and aiming for full-on Cronnenboners.”

I wanted it to read as erotic and intoxicating for the aliens—and as pure body-horror nightmare fuel for the rest of us. Did I pull it off? That’s for you to decide.

This is Part One. Part Two will slither its way out later this week.

---

The capital is the envy of every Trois. Pale towers rise straight from the plain, their upper levels linked by resin bridges that gleam in the late light. Wide avenues rumble with crawlers, engines coughing smoke that drifts beneath red banners of the Hegemon Keeper. Radio masts needle the skyline, static crackling from corner speakers, reciting the names of the fallen like a toll, as if they were the price paid for the stalemate the Triarchy calls a victory.

The markets surge with bodies. Trois families push through the press of soldiers and vendors, ration cards in hand. Smooth, pale skin catches the sun; wide eyes flash with translucent membranes whenever grit-stirred wind cuts through. Children dart between stalls—boys, girls, and keepers alike—young enough to remain unscarred by house lines, innocent enough not to grasp the lot their sex will one day assign them. They all shout the name of the Triarchy’s returning hero.

Adults, their faces carved with lineage, turn to look.

Kael Yseren sits stiff-backed in the private crawler, trying to ignore the eyes on him. He knew his deeds had earned him repute, but it isn’t until now, returning to the capital, that he understands the weight of it. The scar along his jaw seals the matter: an honor mark. Boys stare at it as if it were carved for them. Men nod approvingly. Women whisper.

To Kael, it feels unearned. Too many braver men died under his command for it to mean anything other than he was the one who survived.

From his first step off the transport, dignitaries from noble houses jostled for his attention. Even a few Keepers deigned to appear in person, each trying to pull him aside. He declined them all with careful politeness.

His gaze catches on a haggard male stumbling out of an alley. Lips stained yellow. Pants soaked with the pale drench of spent pleasure. Kael can’t help but wonders if the sickness and desperation of the warfront followed them all home. There’s been one on every corner, many bearing the stumps and scars of old veterans.

The crawler turns into a narrower street, lined with carved stone. Each wall bears the curling sigils of its household. Kael’s eyes linger on the inscription of his true father’s name, and he traces the curving line across his brow that mirrors it. At the far end, the gates of House Yseren rise: pale, severe, beautiful in the way only power can be.

The crawler hisses to a stop, vents spitting steam.

He steps down into the courtyard to the shrieks of his younger siblings. One by one, he lifts them, hugs them close, their limbs still small enough to wrap around his neck.

Then a voice calls his name, soft and tentative, “Kael?”

Lethra, his true mother, stands at the edge of the courtyard, membranes flicking fast, wrist gripped tight as if holding herself back.

“I’m here, Mom.” He wraps her in his arms, breathing in the scent of lacquer and wood shavings. She pulls back, fingers brushing the scar on his chin, as though she can read the war through its raised line.

Elira, his second mother, claims him next. Ink stains her fingers from the accounting house. Her grip is wiry. Her voice catches, not with relief, but awe, like she’s touching a ghost. “You’re back. You actually came back.”

Doneth, his second father, holds back longest before offering a trembling hand. “I thought it a curse, you bearing his name... but you did what he couldn’t.”

Kael clasps his arm, then pulls him into a full embrace. Doneth breaks against him, voice cracking. “He would be proud.”

Kael turns last to the pale figure still waiting in the courtyard: Tres Yseren.

He drops to one knee and presses his forehead to the soft flesh of their abdomen.

“Keeper of House Yseren. Bearer of the yolk that bore me. Upholder of the Triarchy. Messenger of the Hegemony. I return so you may bring me back into the fold.”

“And I accept, my child. Rise.”

He obeys. Yseren folds their arms around him, the heavy flesh hidden behind their sleeves settling over his shoulders, feeling warm and familiar. “Son, I’ve missed you so much.” They pull back and look him over. “How many suitors came for you at the station?”

“More than I could count.”

Yseren pats his shoulders. “Good. Then I’ve done my job well.”

Kael frowns. “Yanma... what have you been up to?”

Yseren exhales, a sly smile tugging at their lips. “Propaganda. Rumors. Lies. All in your name.” They lean in, whispering. “You’re going to hate it.”

---

Moans echo down the corridor, punctuated by the occasional giggle. Behind the carved resin doors, wet sounds and gasps ride the humid air. Mesh Lin approaches with professional detachment, though each step is laced with dread. He adjusts his collar, smooths his robe, and knocks once.

A breathless voice answers, muffled but sharp. “Not now.”

“My lord,” Mesh calls, “I come with certain developments that will interest you.”

“I don’t care if Freehome is breaking down the palace gate. I said not now.”

Mesh shifts, caught in the middle of something dangerous. “I understand, and I beg of you a thousand apologies, my lord. But you also requested this information be delivered the very moment it became known.”

A groan follows—less aroused now, more annoyed. Fabric rustles. “Fine. Enter.”

The door creaks open, releasing a wave of sweet musk and spiced oil. Mesh steps inside, eyes already averted.

Heir Seremon Mank reclines atop a nest of pillows and tangled silks, limbs spread wide, their iridescent robe half-open and heaving with breath. Two women are buried beneath the folds of fabric bobbing in ritual rhythm. One lifts her head with a final moan, chin slick with a faint yellow gleam, and collapses backward, panting.

Seremon gestures lazily toward her. “You’re drooling again, Nara. Lisk, enough.”

Both women pull back, dazed and blinking, narcotic bliss still softening their features.

Seremon finally turns to Mesh, licking their lips with idle amusement. “Well? Speak.”

“Kael Yseren has entered the city,” Mesh says, bowing stiffly.

That gets their attention. Seremon sits upright, eyes lighting with interest. “Really? Still in one piece?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Seremon grins. “Wonderful.”

They stretch, spine arching with a feline grace. “Send word to Mita. And have the linens changed. These are—” they sniff, “—exhausted.”

The women giggle softly. One sinks back into the cushions with a satisfied sigh that turns into a startled moan as her sex begins to unfurl between her legs.

Seremon glances over and adds, “But give it an hour. We’re not yet done.”

Mesh Lin bows again and retreats, the door closing just as Seremon flops back into the cushions, fingers idly tracing the slow pulse beneath their own skin.

---

The room is small, bioluminescent light flickering across the low table from a resin lamp. Steam rises from the pot between them. Kael kneels stiffly, his bad knee throbbing in protest, but he holds himself upright as Yseren rolls back their sleeve.

Their pale skin hangs loose with age. A darkened nipple swells at the wrist, full and taut. Yseren gently pinches it and draws a stream of milk into Kael’s cup. The liquid blooms into marbled spirals, both bitter and sweet.

Kael bows his head, lifts the cup, and drinks too fast. The warmth floods his chest, loosens his hands, eases the knot in his knee. He sets the cup down quickly, embarrassed by his thirst.

“You’ve been gone too long,” Yseren says, voice gentle. What Kael sees as a weakness, they name as homesickness. “Did you get the powdered tabs I sent you? I know it’s not the same as fresh.”

Kael nods, voice trembling slightly. “They kept me going. Thank you.”

“Perhaps now your mothers will stop trembling every time a crawler rattles past, fearing it bears bad news. Doneth might finally sleep through the night.”

They pour more tea, steady and slow. “You carry more than yourself back through these gates, Kael.”

His jaw tightens and he gives another nod. Yseren waits, letting the silence do the prodding.

Finally, Kael admits, “Everything has changed, yet it stays the same. I grew up hearing that the Triarchy was the last remaining bastion of civilization and how barbaric Freehome was. How they treat their Keepers like cattle. How they gorge on yolk without ritual. But they’re still Trois. They bleed like us. Plead like us. Fight for their kin like us. And I’ve seen our own soldiers be just as savage. Then I come back here and see children playing in the street and…”

He stares into the dregs, membranes flicking fast. “I’ve done things, Yanma. Things I wish I could forget. They cut deeper than any ritual blade. And I’m afraid they’ll define me.”

“That’s good,” Yseren says softly. “The Triarchy needs leaders who understand the cost of war.” They take his hand, warm and papery. “There were whispers. Bottled Freehome yolk passed among the men in the trenches. Soldiers taking what they feared they’d never live to earn.”

They meet his gaze. “Did you partake?”

Kael breathes in, lets it out slowly. “No. Many did. Even the officers. They were sure they wouldn’t survive. I didn’t... But I thought about it and....” He grimaces and lets it out, knowing that otherwise it will haunt him until the end. “And I betrayed you, Yanma. Everyone was stealing milk tabs off the dead just to take the edge off, and I did too. I sipped another’s milk.”

Yseren reaches over and cups his trembling cheek, “My son, if it allowed you to find a moment of peace in Hell? Good. Who am I to berate you for breaking ritual?”

Yseren studies him for a long moment. Then lays a hand against his abdomen, just below the ribs.

“Temptation proves you are flesh,” they murmur. “But restraint? Restraint is what marks you as a man. Are you still intact?”

Kael shudders out a nod.

Yseren’s tone shifts, light and amused. “Perfect. That will matter when the court sees you, tonight. Heir Seremon Mank has invited you to dine.”

Kael’s cup wobbles in his grip. “What?”

Yseren cracks a broad smile. “Did you think I spread those tales for nothing?”

---

The palace of the Hegemon sits inside the capital like a ribcage, its pale arches curling inward to shelter the courtyards beneath. The crawler rumbles through the outer gate and over a bridge lined with scarlet banners, its treads clattering until the sound begins to echo back on itself.

Kael steels his breath. He expects a crush of courtiers; hundreds of Keeper aristocrats whispering gossip and jockeying for the Hegemon’s notice.

But inside, the halls are bare.

No press of bodies. No layered voices. Just resin lanterns guttering against tall walls etched with the ancient lineages of Hegemons long-dead. The silence unnerves him more than any battlefield. Those were fights he could understand.

At the end of the corridor, two guards usher him into a chamber, and he braces for spectacle. Instead, he finds only one person waiting: a girl in an officer’s gray, seated stiffly at the long table.

Mita Kessix.

She sits upright, her long frame folded neatly into the chair, posture textbook-perfect. A scar runs across her chin, matching Kael’s own; another honor mark carved by war. Seeing it jolts him. Then it mocks him, as she cracks a crooked smile.

“So it is you,” Mita says, voice low, sharper than he remembers. “When I heard stories of the ‘Great Kael the Conqueror,’ I refused to believe it was the same Kael I knew. I figured you’d be cannon fodder.”

For a moment, Kael is back in the schoolhouse, hearing her cutting laugh, watching her hand fly across slates faster than his ever could. But this isn’t the girl he once knew. Her scar-pattern is more elaborate now, carved deep into her brow, and her uniform fits like a second skin.

“And I never would’ve believed a Kessix would debase herself with military duty,” he fires back. “How much did your keeper pay for that mark?”

Mita rises to her full height, and it’s no small thing. Trois women are taller than most men, and Mita is taller than most women. She uses the advantage with ease.

“They say battle is a man’s game,” she says. “Too rough for the gentler sexes. But war?” She leans in slightly. “War suits me. My logistics and strategy are the reason you’re still breathing. I’m the first non-combatant to earn this mark.”

Kael meets her halfway, looking up. “Last I checked, maps don’t bleed.”

Their eyes lock. Neither of them smiles.

Then Mita lets out her familiar laugh. “Now that we’ve upheld the sanctity of our house rivalry… how have you been?”

Kael clasps her forearm. “Perplexed. The Keeper machinations never cease to machinate, and I’ve clearly found myself in the middle of something.”

“Then we’re on the same page,” Mita says.

The chamber doors open, and they turn. Heir Seremon Mank steps through, and Kael and Mita immediately bow low, eyes down, membranes closed.

The Heir enters the light, swathed in pale robes that flow like skin peeled back from bone. Their eyes flash beneath flicking membranes, their steps soft and deliberate. They pause before the table long enough for Kael to feel his pulse in his ears.

“I want you to listen very closely,” Seremon says. Their voice is quiet. Almost private. The chamber shifts as the doors close behind them with a heavy thud. “We are now behind closed doors. Just the three of us. Stand.”

They do. Kael and Mita keep their head down, eyes still shut tight. Seremon circles once, inspecting them. “Do you know why it is a crime worthy of death to look upon a royal Keeper with open eyes?”

Mita answers, carefully, “No, my lord.”

“It is not our place to question such things,” Kael adds.

Seremon leans in close. Their voice drops to a whisper. “Because the Hegemon is very… very… sensitive… about their weight.”

Kael clenches his jaw. Mita visibly trembles.

Then Seremon bursts into snorting, uncontrollable laughter behind them. Mita and Kael exchange glances.

Seremon wipes a tear from their eye. “Please, open your eyes. I swear I won’t have them gouged out.”

They obey. Kael blinks into the Heir’s face—and sees youth. Barely an adult. No longer a child, but younger than he expected. There’s liveliness there; something free and strange. Nothing like the cold authority he’d imagined.

“Does our gaze please you, Seremon?” Mita asks, dry.

“No, no, stop.” Seremon waves a hand. “None of that. Don’t call me ‘Heir,’ or ‘Tres Mank.’ Just Seremon. Or maybe ‘Mon-mon’ if you’re feeling cute.”

Kael frowns. “Forgive me, I don’t understand. There are traditions—”

“Look around,” Seremon interrupts. “There are no guards. All the power that makes me Heir is out of sight. But you know what I see?” They point to Kael. “A veteran who could snap me like a twig.” They point to Mita. “And you—you plot. I’d prefer to keep my back unstabbed. This will go smoother if we respect each other as equals, so relax… and sit.”

“…Yes. Seremon,” Kael says at last. Mita echoes him.

Seremon pours three drinks, the scent of fermented petals sweet and acrid in the warm air. “Tres Yseren told me you two were close in school.”

Mita chokes on her drink. She shoots daggers at Kael. “I’m sorry—what? How did they come to that conclusion?”

Kael groans. “Damn it, Yanma.”

“You told your Keeper?”

“No, they’ve just always been… extremely observant.”

Mita rolls her eyes. “Fine. Yes, we were part of a triad for a short time. Courted by some idealistic Keeper—what was their name?”

“Nitera.”

“Yes. Nitera thought they could end our house rivalry by taking us as lovers.”

“It was ego on their part,” Kael says. “For us, it was just teenage rebellion.”

“Rebellion?” Mita scoffs. “You kept your belt cinched tighter than a tourniquet. You fled the moment things got interesting.”

“What would you have me do? Defile myself behind a gardener’s shed?”

“You ran off screaming.”

“I did not!”

Seremon bursts into cackles. “This is perfect. Too perfect. Thank you.”

Mita gives the Keeper a look. “Are you always this coy? You didn’t summon us here just to relive our school days.”

“No, Mita, my darling schemer, no.” Seremon’s smile slinks across their face. “Would you like to guess what schemes are afoot?”

Mita studies them, then turns to Kael. “You’ve gathered a male and female from rival Houses. Most would assume we’d be at each other’s throats, but you know better. And neither House Mank nor House Jessa is in attendance. Which means your parents and their Keepers were not privy to this meeting.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re courting us. Why?”

Seremon takes a slow sip, smirking. “Where’s the fun in simply saying it?”

“You’re proposing a union.”

“Precisely,” Seremon flashes a glance at Kael. “Trust me, she’s not done.”

Mita’s pupils flick, calculating. “A union between the three of us would be tantamount to a coup. When you ascend as Hegemon, we’d effectively sideline the two most powerful Houses in the Triarchy. But the current Hegemon would never allow such a thing—wait. Is this a coup?”

Seremon leans back with a titter. “Bravo, darling. But no. I’ll give you a hint: it’s not a coup.”

Kael sets down his cup, the weight of realization blooming behind his eyes. “It’s not a coup because the Hegemon is already dead.”

Seremon gasps, lips parting in mock surprise. “And how did you come to that conclusion?”

“Freehome propaganda on the front. They said he was dying for months. I assumed it was bluster, but now… They must have their spies.”

Seremon tsks. “Normally, I’d call that cheating. But I’ll allow it. Yes, the old warmonger is currently, very quietly, dead. Having them out of the way was the only reason I secured the armistice—against my parents’ wishes, mind you.” They swirl the contents of their cup. “The announcement and coronation will come soon. Which is why we’re here. Cutting House Mank and House Jessa off at the knees before they can rally and unleash their horde of suiters of fanatical yes men and hangers on.”

Mita smirks, already warming to the idea.

Seremon’s gaze swings to Kael, sharp as a hook. “Tell me your views on Freehome.”

Kael doesn’t hesitate. “They’re hedonists with guns. The blood of many good men is on their hands.”

“Yes,” Seremon says. “But now the hedonists with guns are no longer shooting at you. So I’ll ask again—what do you think of Freehome?”

The question sinks into him like a blade.

“There was this village,” Kael says slowly. “Caught between the fronts. Everything was torn apart. Some of their Keepers were shot for trading yolk to our men for food. Others vanished before we could find them. I hated what they were doing. The corruption. How it clung to our forces, dug its claws into men and never let go.”

He breathes.

“But what struck me most was that their Keepers were starving too. They didn’t hoard food for themselves. They were just as gaunt and hungry as their families.”

Silence follows. But Kael presses on, Yanma’s voice ghosting behind his own.

“My Keeper always said, ‘No one is born to lead. Respect is not inherited. It’s given, and kept only if it is earned.’ I saw that in Freehome. I’ve also seen our own villages in famine, and I cannot say the same for the Triarchy. Our Keepers expected to be fed even as they stepped over the emaciated bodies of their young.”

Seremon tilts their head. “And yet, Kael Yseren, I am the Keeper quite literally born to lead the Triarchy. Or should we hold a vote, like the hedonists do?”

Kael’s stomach drops. He bows, words spilling. “Forgive me, Seremon. I didn’t mean—”

Seremon’s laughter suddenly cuts him off.

“That was the right answer,” Seremon says at last, resting a pale hand on Kael’s shoulder. Their gaze hardens. “Tell me, Kael Yseren—do you want to be king?”

Kael stammers. “King? I—I don’t… No.”

Seremon’s membranes flick, genuine confusion flashing across their wide eyes. “No?”

Kael shakes his head, his voice steadier now. “No. There are others far better suited—generals, tacticians. I can’t—”

“Did you just turn down the crown?” Seremon interrupts, incredulous. They glance at Mita, jaw slack. “Is he serious? Or is this some Keeper trick? Did Tres Yseren teach him to play the humble fool? I can’t tell.”

Mita smirks, and lazilly gestures across the table, “No. That is simply Kael.”

Kael crosses his arms, meeting Seremon’s stare. “I can’t do what a king must. I can’t send thousands to die with a stroke of a pen. Not after what I’ve seen. You don’t want that kind of weakness in a king.”

Seremon grips his forearm, “Good! For twenty cycles, we’ve been locked in ideological war. Millions dead because the old guard saw equality as a threat. In five cycles, I intend to open trade and passage across the border.”

Kael stiffens. “But their yolk would flood into the Triarchy.”

Seremon produces a vial and places it on the table. A yellow liquid glows within, luminous as honey. “The flood is already here, Kael. Loose yolk on every corner. Every low-born Keeper with an ice box is selling their own stock. We can’t go back.”

Kael picks up the vial, studying it. Something’s off—the color, the transparency. It’s thinner than it should be.

“That vial in particular,” Seremon says, “is the future. It’s Freehome’s endgame. Can you guess why?”

Kael shakes his head. “I’m not familiar enough with the stuff to tell.”

He passes it to Mita. She holds it to the light, pops the top, and sniffs. “It’s… off. Smells almost chemical.”

“Exactly.” Seremon smiles, all teeth.”That yolk isn’t from a Keeper. It was made in a lab.”

Mita leans forward, stunned. “It’s artificial?”

“Entirely. And in five, maybe ten cycles, Freehome will be able to mass-produce it by the barrel. No refrigeration. No spoilage. The glue that holds our society together, they intend to drown us in it.”

They let that sink in, turning to Kael, “So, we can do what we’ve always done; treat it like an existential threat and launch another holy war. Or we can shift the battlefield. Let us cling to our faith, our rituals, to the old ways, at home. Fight it as a culture war. Which would you prefer?”

Kael loosens his grip on his own arms, “I prefer the latter.”

“Which is why I need a king who sees the value in life. Who won’t spend it chasing some holy ideal.”

Kael nods slowly, the weight of it sinking into his bones. “If the next generation grows to be strangers to death and destruction, then… yes.”

Seremon bounces in place and claps, “Wonderful! He said ‘yes!’”

Kael sighs, “Yes. I am your man… your king.”

“Then it is settled,” Seremon says, rising to their full height. Their voice lowers, reverberant, ceremonial. “Let us make it official.” They extend both hands, palms pale and trembling with expectation. “Kael Yseren, will you open yourself and take me as your Keeper, that our blood may mix and our names be bound as kin?”

Kael clasps their hand, pulse drumming in his scar. “Yes. I swear it.”

Seremon turns to Mita. “Mita Kessix, will you extend yourself and take me as your Keeper, that your womb may be nourished and our triad sealed?”

Mita bows her head, eyes glittering with something unreadable. “I swear it.”

“Then drink of me,” Seremon intones, voice a low vibration that seems to leave the walls quivering with outrage. “Let three become one, forevermore.”

Kael and Mita kneel, shoulders brushing. Seremon rolls back their sleeves to reveal the golden ceremonial bracers clasped tight at each wrist—filigreed cups molded to hold the swollen flesh beneath. For a heartbeat, their fingers fumble, unsure of the device, until Seremon murmurs with quiet amusement, “The clasp is at the front.”

The metal releases. Flesh spills free—taut, luminous, crowned with dark, near-iridescent areolae at the wrists. Kael feels the heat climb his throat. Mita leans in, eyes wide, her breath catching in a gasp. These are not like Yanma’s heavy folds, softened by age. Seremon’s glands are youthful, firm, disturbingly perfect.

Together, drawn by instinct, they close their lips around the peaks. The glands stiffen, and Seremon exhales softly. “Oh… yes. That tingles in the best possible way.”

Then the milk comes. Warm. Thick. Sweet. Familiar yet strange. It floods Kael’s mouth, and he swallows before thought can stop him. Heat unfurls inside him and blooms, loosening every knot, leaving his skin humming against the air.

Mita trembles beside him, her breath breaking. Her thighs press tight, bracing against a wave of hunger that contracts deep in her core. A soft moan escapes her, reverent, helpless.

At last, they release, gasping, lips slick with milk. The haze lingers, stripping away the last fragments of decorum, leaving only want and aching need.

Seremon gazes down at them, cheeks flushed, eyes glittering like wet stone. “Now,” they whisper, “shall we take this to my chambers… and finish this little insurrection that we’ve begun?”

Mita rises with a predator’s grace, her smile curling. “Just point the way.”

READ PART TWO HERE