Boarding the Starflake Ch. 05

This latest maneuver was irritating Argon on a number of levels. It wasn't because he didn't get where Morgo was coming from; he'd seen the play, he'd watched his horny First Marauder manhandle Natalie—with her apparent acquiescence, even if only in the interest of thespian professionalism—and so he understood why Morgo would want to follow up on the Starflake's quiescent actresses. But it seemed like a really bad idea to be here, after lights out, skulking about on the ship's dormitory level, especially when they'd already aroused suspicions with that steward, Heather.

Morgo, though, would not be dissuaded, so here they were, following Fuckface through the dormitory's angled halls and trying to keep to the shadows. Argon passed a closed door and heard a pair of girls chattering behind it; this didn't still his misgivings.

"If we get caught down here," he whispered, "we'll have a fight on our hands."

"We'll be fine, long as we're careful." Morgo turned to give Argon the sincerest look he could muster. "Go with me here. If you want to take the Starflake on the sly, it's worth the risk. I've got a plan."

Argon sighed, exasperated. "Okay. Goddammit, you know I trust your judgment."

"And you say you got where this Brooke girl's room is?"

"I know where all the girls' rooms are," Fuckface, walking point and peeking around a corner, said.

"And she's got a single?"

"Yup. Mostly they're singles. It's up here. We just go 'round this corner and then it's three doors ahead on the right." Fuckface started to make the bend and Argon followed, but the Gob froze in place and held his hand up. "Wait. I hear something."

Suddenly Argon could hear it too, a quiet but rising series of footfalls, and waved an over-eager Morgo back as well. They retreated and crouched, and a second later the Starflake's lone security guard strutted by a tee intersection at the end of the hall, his U-shaped phasor pistol bouncing at his hip. Luckily, he didn't stop or look over and instead went briskly past.

"Phew," Argon fretted. "That was close. Those phasors pack a punch; he could probably take down all three of us with that."

Fuckface nodded. "Good news is, if he's doing his rounds like normal, he won't be back around this way again for at least another half hour. As long as none of the students pokes her head out, we should be fine. Come on."

The trio tiptoed down the hall and momentarily they were flanking one of the doors on both sides, commando-style.

"This is it," Fuckface whispered. "Brooke Bethany's single. What's your plan?"

Morgo, still in his monster costume and lugging its head under one arm, started to wriggle it over his grisly skull. "Unlock the door. Quietly." Fuckface complied with scarcely a rattle, then ducked to one side. Morgo, in full monster getup, moved to face the door at a crouch, then rapped it lightly with his knuckles.

"What the hell are you doing?" Argon exclaimed at a fast angry whisper. Morgo held up a placating palm.

"Who's t-t-there?" came a girlish voice at the door immediately. Morgo ignored it and knocked again. The doorknob turned and the door started to open. Argon scarcely caught sight of the pretty, distressed damsel Selena from the play, peeking past the door and flashing one creamy bare thigh, before Morgo leapt upright, presenting his hands like bared claws and letting a vampire hiss.

Brooke recoiled in terror. Her eyes swelled to the size of golf balls, her mouth frozen open in a scream that caught in her throat. Argon worried she'd cry out; if so, they'd likely feel the sting of the guard's phasor within the minute. Instead, her pupils rolled up into her head and her shoulders slackened. She crumpled and collapsed on her side in a delicious heap. Her violet, frilly nightie feathered up to her waist, baring her upper thighs and translucent matching panties.

She'd fainted dead away.

***

Without wasting a moment, Morgo stole into poor Brooke's dorm and waved Fuckface and Argon in after. Once they'd safely invaded her space, Morgo quickly but quietly clicked the door shut behind and turned the lock. "Hurry." He tilted his head toward Brooke's desk. "Check her purse."

Argon unsnapped it and looked in.

"Her Dub!" he exclaimed.

"Just as I thought. Go. Go." Morgo snapped his fingers, got the Dub-LM from Argon and started scrolling through it. "Zero out the fear level, give the poor girl a break."

"Maybe we should gag her," Argon suggested villainously. "She might make noise when she gets up otherwise."

Brooke breathed deeply and her eyes fluttered open. Fuckface shot Argon a doubtful look.

"Shouldn't need to," the Gob piped in, "if you use it right." He looked over Morgo's shoulder and pointed. "Find the 'quiet-chatty' slider." Morgo scrolled about. "There, it's there. Slide it all the way to the left. Negative twenty."

"She's waking up," Argon observed.

"It's all right," said Fuckface. "She won't make a peep."

"Let's see," Morgo mused with a scratch of his chin, getting it. He deftly thumbed the Dub-LM. "More docile, less rebellious. More eager to please, less defiant..."

She roused.

A comely and quizzical Brooke picked herself up on one elbow and looked around. She scrunched her brow pleadingly, parted her lips as if to speak. But no words came out.

"Move it from 'Oriented' to 'Lost,'" suggested Fuckface with what Morgo thought might be a suppressed giggle. He did, and in real time Brooke's eyes fogged over and her gaze, which had been passing over each of them in turn, seemed to come unmoored.

It smelled of perfume here.

"Here," said Morgo, and handed the Dub to Fuckface. "You've done more homework than me on this thing."

"Ah," Fuckface exclaimed, a fish to water. "Tasty." Scroll, scroll. "The first thing I've always wanted to do," he poked out his tongue with glee, "is see what happens when you max this thing out on poised as against clumsy." Scroll, scroll. "Poised."

Morgo looked about and saw, under the white sofa in the corner of the room, several pairs of shoes: pink sneakers with ankle-high cotton-ball socks tucked neatly in them, girlish penny-loafers, and three pairs of pumps, including one in a cheery violet that nearly matched her shimmery sleepwear.

"I think this is working. Brooke? Can you hear me, Brooke?"

Fuckface's voice took some time to reach her, but she eventually turned to him and nodded, barely perceptibly.

"Do you see those purple pumps over there?"

Another gentle nod.

"Crawl over to them on your hands and knees and put them on."

A third and she slowly, deliberately, put her free hand to the carpet, palm down, slid the elbow of her other arm toward her side to bring her left hand to the floor, then rotated her hips to pivot her trunk atop her knees. Arching her back to protrude her shapely bum, the narrow V of her slim panties following the curve of her niveous buttocks, she began to crawl, somehow dignified, to the bed.

"I'd say it's definitely working," said Argon.

"Yeah, hard to argue she'd be this agreeable of her own," Morgo agreed.

Fuckface was still testing his wings. "Tell you what, let's take the bit out of her mouth." Scroll, scroll. "Move it up from negative twenty quiet, let's make it, say, negative seven."

"Where am I?" Brooke inquired softly. "What's going on?"

Morgo adopted a ridiculously forced, feminine affect, sounding clowishly like a man in drag.

"This is Ms. Evars, Brooke. Ms. Evars, your stage director."

"Hi, Ms. Evars," Brooke replied dreamily. "I feel very funny. Don't feel sick, though, not anymore." She got her pumps by the heels with a thumb and two forefingers.

"We're taking a break, Brooke. We're taking a break for a few minutes, and then we're going to finish the rehearsal."

"We are?" Brooke lifted herself, sat on the edge of her twin bed, and crossed her right gam statuesquely over her left, completely unaware she was doing so.

"Yes, and then I'm going to show you how much I appreciate your work, Brooke. I'm going to show you, you're my favorite actress on this project."

"Okay!", with enthusiasm.

Argon was still irritated, Morgo could tell, but he was also chuckling. "Why are you talking like that? You sound like an idiot."

"It's working, isn't it?"

Brooke laid her heeled foot flat, then crossed her other leg over her settled knee.

"Did you plan this out?" asked Argon.

"Not exactly, but I started thinking about how I'd like things to go, and this was what came up. A daydream, I guess. But so far it's happening just like I'd imagined."

Brooke massaged her left high-heeled pump onto her remaining bare foot, starting at the pad behind her toes and clamping the back over her smooth heel.

"Right," said Argon. "In other words, you planned this out. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you never would have agreed to it. Because it was fucking crazy. If the Starflake has a brig, I assumed we'd be in it by now. I can't believe this is working."

Brooke, now done in high heels, negligee, and panties, rested her palms exquisitely on her knees and tilted her legs slightly to one side. Tired of giving backstory to Argon, Morgo turned his attention to young, supplicating Brooke. He clouded.

"Jesus," Argon grumbled, to a Morgo already swimming too deeply in his odiferous pheromones to care, "there's nothing worse than a ruttin' Trog."

"Quiet. Whatcha wearin', sweetheart? You smell nice."

"It's 'Peach Dream,' I think. Some kind of perfume." Brooke's voice had a strangely Edenic purr to it, some caprice of the way they'd set the Dub-LM.

"Open wide. Smelly Ms. Evars would like to show you some tricks that will help you with your stage projection."

"Open wide? You mean, my mouth?"

Morgo settled up to Brooke, who sat vulnerable and mostly nude at the edge of her couch, and loomed over her. Tilting her chin up at him, she gave him a puplike, big-eyed look. He ogled her lip-gloss slick, primavernal kisser. Her lips trembled querulously.

"That's right. Say 'ah.'"

She complied, prettily. "Ah."

Morgo passed a palm over Brooke's neck at one side, bent himself and abruptly slipped his greasy tongues in her. One sought the full topside of her own wet tongue, the other wriggled over the inside of her soft, blushing cheek. Her mouth was cool, not quite soaked but slippery. In his monster costume, his cock sprang to life. His acrid breath quickened with perverted arousal. Brooke jumped, her tits jiggling under her flimsy negligee.

"Oh, man. I'm not sure I wanna watch this," Morgo dimly heard Argon say behind him.

Ms. Evars withdrew from his young pupil, a slimy string of Trog slobber dangling between his maw and her tender, quivering piehole. As he rose, it broke and fell over her chin with a splick. "We need to get some work done."

"Guh," Brooke stammered, her eyes saucered with surprise. "That felt super-weird."

"Probably because of my two tongues."

"Hey, Morgo, snap out of it for a second. Find out if she's got any loot."

Morgo nodded. He cupped one of her breasts through her shimmery negligee in the meantime. Her flesh, feathery and buoyant, bounced on his gristled palm. "Hey, Brooke, you got any money? Any jewelry?"

"In my purse. I've got credit cards with a ten thousand dollar limit. On my dresser in the bedroom there's a jewelry box. Tons of stuff in there."

"All right. Hope you don't mind if we help ourselves." Not even waiting for an answer, Morgo descended on her anew, this time probing her milky, open talkbox so deeply he coaxed a click and gag from her constricting throat. His tonguetips tingled.

"I'm gonna go grab it," he heard Argon say. "I think it's about to get pretty revolting in here." Morgo's tongues sidled wildly up Brooke's mouth, gunky salivary glands blossoming and secreting in her.

He heard the bedroom door close, Argon presumably now on the other side of it.

When Morgo relented this time, Brooke coughed and fanned her fingers at her cheek, flush with startled embarrassment. "Oh, my goodness. How does this help my stage projection, Ms. Evars?"

"I'm checking your mouth and throat for obstacles, or any tension that might be keeping you from projecting properly."

"Oh, okay. And . . .?" She indicated down with a flick of the eyes toward the groping hand Morgo had set to coursing over her heaping bosom.

"Checking your lung power. Very important."

"Oh, okay. As long as you think it'll help my acting, Ms. Evars, I'm up for anything."

***

Goddamn, Argon thought. This Brooke chick must've come from royalty. He'd rummaged through her jewelry box and found knots of pearl necklaces, earrings set with diamonds the size of babies' noses, even a crown tiara he thought had to cost at least $50,000. It went on and on.

"Wow, this is super," Fuckface cried meanwhile, as he turned her dresser out. "She's got a ton of great clothes I can send back to what's left of my family from Gobrin."

"Just make sure and leave her an outfit or two so she's not running around naked. That'd be a dead giveaway."

The Gob nodded, smiling in affirmation and making eye contact. "Thanks for letting me get a share of the loot."

At that moment, Argon knew he had him. With untouchables, a little reward went a long way.

"Hey, there's more where that came from. Just ask. Thanks for giving us the info we needed. You say we can just boost all this stuff and we can make it so Brooke won't spill it to that Julie cunt?"

The Gob stopped digging through Brooke's blouse drawer long enough to scroll through the Dub-LM once more.

"Remind myself. Way I got it set, she should be completely loyal to you. 'Printed on you like a baby duck."

"Outstanding. Looks like our biggest problem right now is finding a bag big enough to stuff all this in."

He heard the Dub-LM Fuckface was holding beep.

"Uh, oh," said the Gob worriedly. "Maybe not."

Argon stopped mid-pillage. "What's the matter?"

"Something's wrong with the Dub-LM. I better go in the other room and check."

"All right. I think I'll wrap things up in here. Not like I could be any help, I haven't got the foggiest idea how those things work anyway." Plus whatever Morgo was doing to that poor girl, he didn't want to know it. Some things, once seen, cannot be unseen.

Fuckface did indeed confront quite a spectacle when he returned to the living room. Brooke was now lying limp on her back across the sofa, her shoulders up against one arm. She looked down with vague unease along the length of her barely clad, shapely body. The frail straps of her negligee had been pulled halfway down her arms, exposing her hefty but firm coconuts. They joggled and quivered meatily as she twitched. Her bare breasts glistened with a film of dank, sticky goop, most likely Morgo's drool. The hem of her nightshirt had been pushed up past her waist, so that it was just a wide strip of lacy fabric about her midsection. Her navel was bare, and undulated along with her halting, rapid breath. Her legs had been arranged akimbo. One calf flopped over the back of the sofa, her dainty panties around its ankle, tangled in her high-heeled shoe. Her other foot was planted wobbily on the carpet. Between her spread, naked thighs, from above, Morgo had slid his black, knobby head. It rocked semi-rhythmically up and down in Brooke's crotch and Fuckface could hear loud, slithery splats and moist sniffs as Morgo pleasured himself by sucking and smelling the gash of the young Earth girl's delicious pussy. Meanwhile his gray, three-fingered hands ranged about the insides and undersides of her smooth-shaven thighs, palpating and squeezing the succulent meat of her tanned drumsticks.

Brooke looked on passively but with some apparent alarm and hugged herself with a shiver, accidentally gathering and raising her milky, stripped bosom like a pair of rising oven pies. Another twitch jangled through her and a flash of sparks sprayed out of her forehead, followed by a fading gray bew where her Indian dot would be and a tiny puff of smoke. The Dub-LM beeped again and Fuckface realized it was warming in his hand. It dawned on him what was going on.

"Morgo!" he cried. "You're overheating Miss Bethany's Dub!"

With evident reluctance, Morgo drew his maw off Brooke's quim. Fuckface glimpsed her tight, carnation slot in the crux of her fluttering gams, crowned with a slight tuft of raven-colored pubic fur. Gobs of greenish Trog expectorant flecked her girlish mound, and the same gunk also ringed her vulva and upper inside of her legs. Morgo indelicately wiped his chin on his forearm and turned his attention to Fuckface, visibly irritated at the interruption.

"Goddamn but that's one savory girl. Love these plebe college girls; their tight chinks taste like fuckin' honey." He ran his hand greedily over Brooke, smearing the treackly dribble in her fur-pie, massaging the crumpled fabric of her nightie over her ribs, groping the twin globes of her denuded tits. "What are you on about, Gob?"

"Look! Look at her forehead!" Just as Fuckface urged this, Brooke twitched again and another spark spat out of her crown. Her face went from concerned to vacant, then back again.

"What the fuck was that?"

"You're overheating her Dub unit. Forehead sparking's a side effect. It's in the manual."

"Overheating it? How am I doing that?" He played with Brooke's pliant hooters, one and then the other fondling and groping her greedily, squishing and stroking her luscious yams.

"How? By doing that! Copping feels and eating her out! It's too much for the Dub-LM."

"Well, I can't stop now, Gob. I've been grabbing at this tasty sapling and sucking her all over for ten straight minutes." Not letting up on pawing Brooke's fleshy pads, he found his own crooked, stiff prick with his other hand and started slowly stroking it. "I've worked up a steaming load in my scroat size of a fucking softball," he mumbled into Brooke's thigh. "If I don't hose this sexy-ass fox down and pronto, my head'll blow clean off."

"Is this still supposed to help me with my acting, Ms. Evars?" Brooke asked dizzily, ceiling-staring. Oh, damn. Right. Morgo'd forgotten all about that bullshit story of his.

"Yes," he said, recovering his schoolmarm voice. "Your Yoni has to be in tune for you to act, and the second best way to learn that is through exploratory tongue massage."

"Okay," she giggled.

"The thing's not overheating. Look, she's still gullible as fuck."

"Yeah, but . . ." Another spark, another creepy moment as Brooke's face went mannequin blank, then snapped back to her normal, merely brainwashed condition. "See!" Fuckface pointed. "It's gonna fry her noodle."

"Beat it, Gob." Morgo turned his back on Fuckface in order to crouch at the near end of the sofa and gather Brooke's slack lower limbs between his arms so that they balanced on him, winsome thighs to clammy belly, dainty, high-heeled feet to jowly, gray cheeks. Fuckface was coming to the realization that Morgo wasn't lying about going ahead with his plan to despoil poor Brooke no matter what, and he ran back to the other room. He'd tell Argon, maybe they'd think of something.

"Did you know, Brooke," Morgo meantime inquired as Ms. Evars, squaring his hips with Brooke's torso, prepping for the coup de grace, "what the best way is to search your Yoni?"