Dry, No Lube Ch. 07b: Armor

Unlike most of my stories, which stand alone even though they're interconnected, you should definitely read the prior story (7a: Promotion) first. Trust me. It's worth it.

* * *

"I'm telling you, I have to get up to the bridge..." It came out as a wheezing bleat. "Once the buttfuckers drop out of lightspace, they're going to want to get back into it as soon as possible."

Wrae Juno shuddered, her whole body alive with the extended orgasm Ferdie was giving her as a dual result of his nice penis and the half-gram of Haze she'd snorted just before they'd started. She made her eyes open, then glared up at his reflection in the viewport window. "I already told you, you fucking asshole," she hissed, her voice surging and receding with the pumping strain of his body rutting her, "you're not going anywhere until you cum in me."

"Er..." He fucked dutifully on, his hands clenched on her naked hips.

"Hear me, motherfucker?" Juno was merely a petty officer, a legal clerk, and there was almost nobody aboard this circuit ship she could possibly talk to in that way; it was, like most Fleet circuit ships, clogged with officers. But Ferdie wasn't Fleet. "Keep going!" Ferdie was a civilian, contracted to be the sole living being on a grubby ship otherwise crewed entirely by those queer little robots that some prankish design engineer had manufactured to look exactly like a human with his hands on a lover's hips.

Exactly like Ferdie was now, in fact, driving into her with quick, economical strokes that she could feel along every trembling wet millimeter of her pussy, so thick was this kid's cock. She had no idea whether he was fucking any of the other passengers, and right then? She didn't give a shit. "Come on," she grunted, every muscle in her body straining, pushing back against his sturdily thrusting body.

Her hands felt the coldness of the viewport, its stars blurring as the ship hurtled through space. He'd come to find her an hour before, as she churned through another workout in the gym, telling her they were approaching her stop. "They're at factor .97," he'd explained, "but they've agreed to drop out and pick you up. You must be important." Juno had taken her receipt calmly, ignoring the murmurs from the officers: .97 was fast, and it meant her captain was a hard driver. Not the kind of person who'd order a halt to pick up a mere stray legal clerk.

But Pixy Pfeiffer was not just any captain, and Wrae Juno was not just any legal clerk.

Besides, there was an engineer aboard that was also making the stop. She'd risen gracefully, followed Ferdie out of the gym, and propositioned him shamelessly and sweatily, and despite his very strict orders to the contrary he'd taken her to his grotty little room aft. "What the fuck do you do all day?" she'd asked him, glancing curiously around. "You're in space every minute of every day and night, with robots as your only permanent companions. What do you do?"

"I knit and masturbate. And drink," he'd shrugged, and that had been the extent of their small talk before she'd stepped up to him, activated his staytab, and devoured the dick she'd surmised a few days ago had to be massive. He'd tasted more than slightly funky, like a guy who spent his entire life sitting down, but then she herself was still streaming with sweat from the gym such that, when she pushed his face down to her dripping pussy, she surprised a slight grimace from him.

So she smacked him.

"Get your tongue out and put it to work," she'd seethed, and he'd complied with a speed that told her he wanted her to be the one wearing the pants here, even if they were both naked. So she took over, her need intensifying step by step by step until she finally propped herself against his big window, the full panorama of the cosmos out in front of her, and spread her feet to invite him inside her.

Now he pumped hard, each nerve ending in the drooly tunnel of her cunt sizzling with the passage of his veiny dick, his big balls lurching against her sweaty skin. Her mind thrilled to the thought of the bruises his fingers were leaving on the tight flesh of her hips, her ass, and then the whole circuit ship shuddered as the robots dropped it out. "I really need to go..." he wailed.

She answered with a snakelike twist of her neck, her face set in a brutal sneer. "You really need to fuck me," she declared, her mind torn between the need to stay where she was, bent over, or to straighten and whirl with a spin-kick to his mouth. She tightened her pussy-walls, letting him feel her power, and smiled to herself as he strained to fuck her harder.

She blinked as she spotted her destination at last: Pixy's Tirving, hanging among the stars, a ship unlike any she'd ever heard of. Already, she could see insect-looking fighters surging from the nose, orbiting for security. The whole vessel was a vast hollow tube, a tunnel in space, its rims bulging with living space while the smooth hull between bristled with torpedo tubes, the whole thing swelling toward the forward end into the great batteries that would support the Army's landings.

The ship looked like a penis.

The robots brought the circuit ship slowly up behind, to the gaping ring of the stern, showing a shadowed interior studded with shuttles and transports of every description. A Tygon Interceptor drifted lazily up beside the circuit ship, its pilot looking curiously over at Ferdie's window.

"Cum inside me, bastard," she husked over her shoulder. "Do it. Send it straight into my hole. Then take this ship and send it straight into that hole," she commanded, cackling as she jerked her head toward the stark ring at the back of the waiting Tirving, and in the reflection from the port she saw Ferdie's eyes widen. "Cum. Now."

"Goddamn!" he raved, his form falling apart as his legs slapped loudly against hers, drilling her heavily until, with a pounding force that overcame her trembling arms and crushed her against the cold, hard window, he drove deep and then unloaded, bellowing harshly as the circuit ship's intertube crackled. Captain Ferdie to the bridge, it buzzed.

Only Juno knew that Captain Ferdie was in no shape to do any part of the ship's business. He was too busy gibbering and sweating above her smoothly twisting back, riding out the last waves of his orgasm while his cock twitched mindlessly inside her, shooting his semen deep into her body, answering a call far, far older and more elemental than anything the robots up above could understand.

She yelped sharply, biting her own lip as she came along with him, the white sizzle of her orgasm washing up from her cunt and then right back down from her brain. He was pulsing inside her, deep eager jets of sperm, pump after pump after pump, both of them in bliss as they took in their reflections in the viewport.

"Jesus H Buddha," she raved, panting. "That was the shit. Thanks, dude!"

"Fuck!" He was scrambling to summon his clothes, wiping off his dick with an old-fashioned towel. "I'm late!" A sharp knock sounded on his hatchway: You in there? We need to report aboard! It was that engineer, Juno reflected as she mopped at her pussy. Lieutenant Perfaxon? Was that his name?

"Um." Ferdie blinked desperately. "I'm sorry. I had diarrhea. Get your stuff and assemble at the docking hatch, with that Juno girl." She tittered at him, stepping back into her boots.

"That little bitch is impossible to find," groused the voice on the far side of the door.

"Just look! Please!" The flustered captain glanced mournfully back at Juno. "So... can I have your number?"

"Absolutely not," she snapped. "Get out there. I'm already packed; I'll be along before fucking Perfaxon. You'll see."

Ferdie wiped his nose, then dived through the hatchway. Juno shook her head and glanced once more out the port at the waiting Tirving.

Home, she told herself, on a dick-ship. It seemed appropriate. She picked up her duffel case and hummed as she left Ferdie's sex-stinking quarters.

* * *

And so it was that the steward to the Captain of the USS Tirving came aboard, stinking of sweat and spooge, eyes wild with the lingering aftereffects of her Haze. Captain Pfeiffer stood impatiently at the hatch, tapping her foot. "Took your sweet fucking time, Juno," she snapped.

"Cute badge, ma'am." The steward nodded toward Pixy's Command Badge, still new and shiny against her black utilities. Her face was still flushed, Ferdie's semen still sloshing in her vagina. "Where's our quarters?"

"Did you bring all my shit?" Pixy had been stinting herself, that one set of utilities all she'd had when she'd reported for a staff conference that had unexpectedly turned into a new command.

"The buttfuckers will bring it in," she soothed, jerking her thumb over her shoulder, and she was right; the circuit ship's robot crew was already liberating Pixy's duffel cases and locksacks from the ship's small hold, and for the first time Juno looked around at her new ship. "You know? This ship really looks like a penis."

Pixy chortled. "Yeah, well. The designer was probably repressed." Goddamn, it was great to see Juno again! A flash of orange caught her eye, and she cocked an eyebrow in that direction. "Yes? Report."

"Ma'am!" The engineer shot Juno a withering glance as he stepped past her and saluted sharply amid the hustle of the offload. The buttfuckers shuffled around, hauling the luggage and the mail, the crew whisking away the assembled piles. Everything was purposeful, and Pixy was grateful now for the many, many days of equipment offloads they'd done when fitting out, a month ago back in the 114 Basin. She looked frostily up at the engineer. "Jonno Perfaxon, captain. Chief Engineer, reporting."

"You're late, Mr Perfaxon." She scowled. "You've familiarized yourself with petrolatum hyperventate systems like the ones that power this vessel?"

"Yes, ma'am. I've studied it."

"Oh," Pizy sniffed. "So. Tell me the maximum safe spin coefficient you can achieve with hyperventate." The lieutenant swallowed, searching his memory. "Take your time, Mr Perfaxon. I'll be in my office when you figure it out." She jerked her head toward the bow, where another Orange Suit waited. "This is Numan, your second assistant. I'll bet he already knows the answer, but whatever." She felt her teeth grind. "He'll show you around. You'll need to get smart on this system, and fast; we're already enroute to a combat placement." She nodded. "You're dismissed."

Pixy spared one more smile for Juno as she turned back to check the manifest. "In a moment, Juno," she muttered, but the smile was long gone by the time she turned to Ferdie. "What the fuck?" she growled. "We're still short five techs. You were supposed to bring me those techs." She gestured at a cluster of lieutenants, milling around beside the hatch. "I've got my officers here, ready to induct five... new... techs."

The civilian scratched his head, looking bleary-eyed. Pixy thought he smelled weird, a little like cum, but there was no chance; Fleet personnel were strictly prohibited from fucking circuit employees.

Maybe he'd been masturbating.

"Look, Captain, I don't know what to tell you. I loaded the personnel who had priority, and these two fit the category. They were it." He spread his hands. "Your other five are probably enroute? Maybe?"

Pixy held his gaze a few moments longer than was necessary, watching as he shifted his weight awkwardly. "Well. I'm glad you're so confident." Her voice belched sarcasm. "I no longer need you." She pivoted abruptly amidst all the clatter and swung once more to see Juno, studying her closely.

"You seem different, ma'am." The steward scowled. "Almost... older?"

"Because I was a spring chicken before?" Pixy thought about allowing herself another smile, but the docking corridor was still packed with people and pallets. Already, her crew knew that the skipper never really smiled during supply offloads. She was more likely to be shouting at people and booting them in the ass. "No. I think I've lost weight," she shrugged. "Inadequate intake of butter-tea. And you? You look good, you stupid slut." She paused as Juno cocked her head, then shook her head. "Actually, no. You're not stupid."

"Nice one, ma'am." The steward drew herself up. "Macaroni and haggis, Captain? 1900?" She said it formally, the way a real Captain's Steward should offer suggestions.

"That would be much appreciated, Juno." Pixy nodded, a queen in her domain, suddenly feeling a calm satisfaction she'd not really felt since she'd first taken the ship out of the Basin.

All was right, now that she had her steward back.

She felt the lift as she moved along the curved wall by the bridge, darting in at the hatch marked FIGHTER OPS. If you'd held Pixy Pfeiffer down and asked her what she liked the most about commanding the Tirving, she'd have confessed that her favorite part was owning her very own fighter detachment. It felt like having a toy that nobody else had on Yule Morning.

Fleet had put seven Tygon Interceptors aboard each P/E ship, then given the captains very little guidance about how to use them: like everything else with these new ships, the idea was so new that nobody had any firm doctrine. The fighters were for recon and ground support as the Army landed, then they were to move back into orbit and help the Tirving fight off any planetary defenses.

Well and good. But there was a catch.

Among Tirving's 420-odd Fleet sailors were twenty-three Combat and Engineering officers, and it was their duty performance that the captain was most interested in. Her Chief of Fighters was a singularly energetic and destructive force called Pepper Laredo, a little bitch from the Solar System who wore that sense of Core Worlds entitlement like a uniform cape. Laredo was, by all accounts, an excellent pilot and a good leader; she was solid when it came to planning placer operations, and as far as pixy could tell she was brave enough to help win the damn war.

The problems arose when Laredo wasn't flying.

Pixy needed at least 12 watchstanders to take charge and run her ship, and she had them. She wanted more though, and she needed Laredo's cooperation to make that happen. She and her two fighter lieutenants spent their days lounging around in splendor in their briefing room aft, sleeping late and making extensive use of the fledging Fleet Prostitution Program whores aboard.

Pixy wanted them to do something useful. Above all things, she hated sloth. So she'd ordered Lieutenant Laredo to get herself and her officers qualified to stand watches on the bridge. There was no strict Fleet requirement for fighter pilots to take on ship's duties, but they did have to obey their captains. Laredo sometimes had a problem doing that. She was dragging her feet on her watch requirements, and Pixy was expecting to have to kick her ass sometime soon.

Not today, though. She stood now at the forward end of the transparent globe Pixy used as a bridge, leaning on her control console and frowning as one of her pilots took his Interceptor through its paces outside. Pixy had set up an SOP that sent at least three fighters out for local defense every time Tirving dropped out of lightspace, and Laredo was in charge of making that happen. "Circuit shuttle is leaving in fourteen minutes, Ms Laredo," Pixy barked as she strode onto the bridge. "Meaning, we'll be moving again in fourteen and a half."

"Aye aye, ma'am." The pilot did not deign to turn around. Pixy traded a glance with the OOD, standing there at the star plot with the ceremonial telescope cocked under his arm. The man was a young Junior Lieutenant, on his first cruise, working with the shields; Pixy could see he was doing just fine at calculating her next course, so she focused on Laredo.

She spent a lot of time focusing on Laredo.

Her eyes wandered back into the vast tunnel, where the Army shuttle pilots were taking advantage of their halt to move some of the B Company transports around. What went on in there wasn't any of Pixy's business, really: it was her ship, yes, and she was the one who'd give the orders for the Army to start their operations, but the Tunnel (or the Vag, as the soldiers called it) belonged to Colonel McMerckx and his people. And to Pixy's own Subcommander Leodmannsegge.

Her eyes wandered off to port, where her heart leapt to see a GP Service ship swinging gently around on its own course, keeping station at 10 kilometers. USS Leith was Tirving's tender, its cargo bays bursting with the assorted hardware and fuel Pixy's ship would need to replenish itself after a placer/extraction operation. The idea was that Tirving could then head at once for the next target while Leith scrambled around, loading up again. It was a system they hadn't had to test yet in any meaningful way, but the sight of the GP was comforting. It stabbed her with nostalgia for her old, simpler days, serving aboard those things as a lieutenant.

But hell, with the tempo around here in Nosferates, she'd not even had time to invite Leith's Captain Stellato over for dinner, as was customary.

She sighed, hearing the low crackle of orders from the officers around her, her officers. Who she was responsible for. It was a good crew, at least so far: minimal discipline problems, at least. Here, outside the Service Fleet or her first tentative Combat assignment out in the Outer Parabolic Sector, the sailors tended to be more highly motivated.

She cleared her throat. "Ten minutes!" she called. "I want us underway again in ten fucking minutes!" Back aft, the circuit ship was buttoning up, its docking lights doing the countdown flash before it moved off. She stepped back up to Laredo: Pixy's command chair waited for her, but she'd never been one to sit down when she could invent something to do. "When are you going to pull your people back in?" she demanded.

Laredo paused before she replied, letting Pixy know she was cooler than her captain. "That's Mr Horkins out there. Second Section," she shrugged as if that explained everything. The three Tygon Interceptors buzzed around the ship like hunting birds, but they threatened nothing at all: the scopes were all clear.

Pixy clenched her teeth. "When are you going to pull your people back in, Lieutenant Laredo?" It was bad news in Fleet when senior officers used your full rank when addressing you, and Laredo now turned toward Pixy, obviously annoyed.

"Horkins is flying with my two best warrant officers. They know when to come in. Ma'am." She waited a bit longer, letting Pixy stew, before with a slight smirk she nodded. "I'll light the recall beacon in eight more minutes. They'll be secured aboard in nine. Your helmsman can start moving in ten, like you said."

"It's nine now. You've wasted a minute bickering with me."

The pilot shrugged and glanced down at her mobile control display. She wore it like some sort of ancient headdress. "Fine then. Subtract a minute from my answer." She turned back to the stars outside. "We, uh, really do know what we're doing, Captain. I know your prior service was with unmotivated slugs, but our business does not reward lack of competence. We know how to do our jobs, ma'am."

Pixy bristled. Before this month, she'd never even met anyone from Fighter Fleet. She now wished she never had. They seemed to spend a lot of time sitting around in their smart red utilities, talking with their hands about how to steer their little Interceptors. Laredo had two lieutenants, four warrant officers, and a small army of maintenance techs at her disposal, and she seemed to really enjoy her little fiefdom.

Which Pixy could understand. She, too, liked being independent. But she could do without the attitude.