Dry, No Lube Ch. 09: Invasion

"Eventually," he smiled, reaching coolly down to tug his smooth, luscious balls from between his thighs. How many times, Pixy asked herself, had he emptied those inside her? It made her treacherous cunt juice up, just thinking about it. He glanced along her skin, his shaft giving a visible twist. "You're so fucking sexy," he breathed.

"You just like me 'cause I'm younger now," Pixy scowled, but she felt the prickle of her blush anyway, her skin betraying her. Like it always did. She swiveled her hips, her nude thighs flexing. "You like what you can make me do."

"Not tonight." His voice took on that flat, serious tone he used when it was time to get down to business. "Tonight, I'm just going to make you cum." His eyes glittered. "Repeatedly."

"Yeah. Right," she scoffed, but there was nothing but brittleness in her voice. They both knew he was correct. She forced her body to relax, to become his toy, the way he liked. "You still talking? Or are you going to put that thing to use?" she demanded, nodding at his erection. He chuckled softly, his cold eyes slicing straight through her layers of bravado as they always had, and nodded.

"Get on your fucking back, bitch," he hissed. Crazy Jack was not a yeller; he could get everything done with a well-placed whisper, and Pixy felt her flush deepen as she flipped around, tits high, legs spread slightly as she awaited his pleasure.

He always loved this part, and she always hated it: the wait. The breathless gap of a rockercoaster car at the top of the slope, before the plunge. The surge of suspense as the spring compressed, just before it flew back out of tension. Crazy Jack never made it last long: he loved her cunt too much for that, but even two seconds was too long, Pixy reflected, when her pussy was drooling like this, her juices tickling the curve at the bottom of her asscheeks as they ran slowly down her inner thigh toward her duvet. She lay there, staring up at him, feeling her mouth grow dryer and dryer with each deep, nipple-shuddering breath until, with a saucy wink, Colonel McMerckx took her.

His new thing, apparently, was some improved type of cunnilingus. McMerckx had an engineering background, as his sexual adventures often proved: he believed in linear progression and stepwise refinement, based on stated specifications and clearly-defined performance measures. It made him a fairly predictable lover, but it also meant every one of his techniques worked. And, as his breath washed over her waiting vagina, Pixy knew this time was going to work, too.

He began with kisses, firm ones, possessive along the sides of her pussy lips, pulling her skin between his lips with each hungry kiss as he worked his way up and down her long, wet slit, his mouth a bellows in the blast furnace of her arousal. Each deliberate contact pushed her, taking her, and each time his mouth moved off her snatch was an eternal emptiness, another rockercoaster-car wait until, with a rush, Crazy Jack descended again to stake his next claim. And his next. And his next, each kiss bringing her further and further out of herself and into him.

It had taken her a long time, a death, a new body, and transcendent sex with a Korlene before she'd understood it was okay for her to get off first. Pixy had always been a pleaser, unable to feel comfortable until she'd made her partner happy, but now McMerckx was in no mood to be denied. So she surrendered at last, his mouth sweeping her away, and at just that moment he moved deeper.

Pixy moaned, low and guttural, arching her hips as she felt his sure, confident tongue pierce the center of her pussy, his fingers moving up from between her legs to hold her open. He'd eaten her out many times, but always from below, from within the trembling barrier of her thighs, never from alongside like this. The realization that he was right there, kneeling, made her give his cock a spasmodic, hard grasp, her fingers closing over his warm taut flesh.

His tongue speared her, bold and wet like a tiny penis, sweeping joyfully between her folds. Already her body was responding, the familiar hot-sweet tingle blazing out from behind her mound, her hand clenching Jack's dick like it was the only thing tethering her to reality.

He feasted, one hand digging into her slit just beside her perineum, the other pressing down on her belly, pinning her. Reminding her that she was where he wanted her. That she was not in charge, not here, in the only place at the only time on her own ship that she commanded absolutely nothing.

He glanced up her body, past her shaking tits, giving one of them a casual swipe as he found her eyes, his lips finally off her flesh. Pixy forced her head up off the pillow, looking down at him, her eyes a question. "What?" she managed, hearing the catch and whine in her own voice as she struggled to reassemble her thoughts.

"Just letting you know I'm getting started," he rumbled, smiling, and she whimpered as her head thudded back; Jesus H Buddha, getting started? She was already halfway toward orgasm! She closed her eyes to the soundtrack of Crazy Jack's lascivious cackle, the dry giggles fading as she felt him muffle his mouth against her snatch, and then she felt something new.

"Holy shit!" she shouted, her other hand grasping his hair, for he did something with his tongue that she was not in any way prepared for. She felt it hook sideways, then drive fast and purposeful up the length of her slit until the side of his mouth framed her clit and his tongue licked, patient and deliberate, along the sensitive skin just inside the front of her vagina.

Three times he did that, and that's all it took.

As if from a long distance, Pixy heard her own feet drumming the duvet, legs flailing as her climax stabbed her like a sword sizzling up from her crotch to her mouth. This was a hungry, voracious orgasm, undeniable, powerful enough to leave her sobbing and gasping as her whole body trembled with the force of it. Her throat was sore when at last the waves began to recede, telling her that whatever she'd shouted had been goddamn loud.

She opened her sluggish eyes to see his, smiling back at her, his grin smug as he knelt above her with his cock still a steel rod in her clutching hand. His voice dripped with self-satisfaction. "So, I guess my new move worked?"

"Holy motherfucker," Pixy whined, her body swimming in sweat, "did it ever!"

"Figured it would." He nodded clinically down at her, enjoying the sight of her lush body still locked in the tension of her climax, then gestured to his penis. "If you let go, Captain Pfeiffer, I can go ahead and fuck the shit out of you..."

She laughed, a breathy, exhilarated gust, then swung her legs wide and offered her cunt to him. "If you say do, Colonel McMerckx."

He'd taken her so many times this way, his body well-known and... well, not loved. Surely not that. But it comforted her, a familiar smell, and shape, a familiar and wonderfully smooth cockhead parting her twitchy pussy lips, a familiar sliding grunt as he pushed into her.

She didn't love him. He was too much of a douche for that. But she did love being fucked by him, even though she'd never tell him so. As if he doubted it, his eyes gloating over her face as he felt her give herself to him, his dick certain as it sawed past her clit with those wonderful, swooping hips of his, driving each shuddery breath out of her with his virile thrusts.

Sometimes he made her orgasm twice, and as Pixy clung to him with her arms and legs, she wondered whether he would do it again.

Their bodies churned under the stars, mangling her duvet, the sweat and gasps flying around her quarters as he powered in and out of her body, his face twisting into that cruel snarl of his when his plowing dick began to slow down, plunging deeper, nearing his own thunderous climax. Pixy grinned up at him, knowing precisely how it would feel when he released inside her, taking his pleasure from her willing cunt, using her the way she loved to be used.

When it happened their foreheads were touching, glued by sweat, tangled by hair, his cock twitching deep inside her body as it bathed her in thick, hot cum. She felt his breath in her mouth, their lips crashing together one last time as she brought him off, both of them moving fluidly together in a rhythm all their own, the uncaring stars watching their every move.

She lay after, ecstatic because he let her hold him in his arms with his head on her chest. She loved being the place he was seeking comfort, at least tonight, and for a moment or two she could even pretend to forget she was anything but a hole to him. Or that he wouldn't be seeking different holes in a few days. That they had a real closeness, like she and Klonmyre had had.

But the curtain came down quickly.

"I'll miss you, Pixy Pfeiffer," he husked in the star-splintered darkness, his voice oozing that mocking tone it always did.

She went still, her hand halfway down his back, mid-caress. "Miss me?" She hoped it hadn't come out as some sort of squeak. "When?"

"Soon." He yawned against her nipple. She felt a chill on her mind, and it wasn't just because of a pussy that looked like it would be staying empty for the foreseeable future. "It's fine. It's another Combat Command job, though not on a ship."

Pixy made her hand move again, down his back, tentative now. "You've spent years in Placer/Extraction. Even before the K-class ships came along. What the fuck do you know about dirtside duty?"

He chuckled. "I spent almost ten years planetside before I got into this space shit."

"Where you going?" She forced lightness into her voice as her hand, robotic now, kept tracing his spine. "Such a famous, studly warrior as yourself is probably going somewhere to command some kind of large-planet garrison or something."

"That's the weird part," he sighed, his hand grazing along the lips of her pussy. For once, her mind filled with troop movements and disappearing targets and personnel orders, she barely noticed. "The orders are for the Hearth."

Fuck! "Yeah?" Pixy hesitated, trying to make sure her voice would be under control when she tried to open her mouth. "The Hearth, eh?"

"But a Combat Command." He didn't seem too concerned. "I'm assuming there's some enroute training, or a new implant, or just a personalized debriefing from the Powers That Be before they send me off to my next job."

"I'm sure." It came out flat, dry, and she knew it. "Or maybe an awards ceremony or something." She smacked his ass, but in her mind she was already back in her office, studying star charts, trying to get a sense of what was happening out there. A Combat Command assignment in the Hearth? Nobody had even thought about warfighting back in any of the Core Worlds in decades! "Personal decoration on Sol III. How'd that be?"

"I don't know." He yawned again. "I'll need to head back soon, Pixy. My XO rotated out last month, then we got a wave of replacements, so everything needs my fucking attention now."

"Just promote your senior company commander." Her mind was racing, her mouth babbling automatically.

"I did. Major Kutuza. But he's a warfighter. He's useless at admin." He craned his neck to face her. "Wait. I didn't think about this. If I get ordered off, and there's no replacement XO already in place, you're going to have to be working with him."

"Not a problem. How are your replacement troops?" Thoughts were nagging at her, logical thoughts from roundabout parts of her brain, solving the problem. Her leg had begun to shake a tad, her foot beating a tattoo on the comforter. "Like, fully trained?"

"Fuck no," he scoffed, "the dregs. Worst of the worst. They take all my top-notch troopers and replace them with the bottom tier."

And where do they send your top-notch troopers, Pixy asked herself. She had a growing suspicion he might run into some of them back in the Core. Say, on Mars or something. Preparing to defend the actual Hearth... "Well. Come say goodbye before you go, Crazy Jack," she murmured.

His eyes narrowed at her tone, but he gave her nipple one last suck and backed off her bed. "Sure thing, Pix." She turned away as he sauntered toward his clothes.

* * *

She paused the next day in her command chair, distracted when one of the techs at the coding station whirled out of her phonic unit and gestured urgently to Lieutenant Pargo, on comms right then. Pixy's impatience grew as the two of them carried on in whispers for a bit longer than she wanted them to, but she forced herself to keep her temper in check: she needed to trust Pargo to figure this out on his own, whatever it was.

But it dragged on. And on. And that made Pixy glance at the Main Plot to see what the trouble might be, which made her feel testy about the course and attitude, which made her think about how all this would be so much easier if it was just her, alone, handling everything without having to worry about anyone else, which was why she was feeling particularly snappish when Pargo finally hopped past the railing and down to the Officer of the Deck station to report. The two of them conferred a moment, and as soon as she saw the OOD glance her way Pixy decided she was through wasting time. "Something significant, Mr Perfaxon?"

"Ma'am." Perfaxon, too, was watching the Main Plot now. "Captain Amisuul says there's a chance contact sketching through their scopes."

"I need the coding gun to plot it, Captain," Pargo blurted eagerly. She stopped herself from rolling her eyes; assistant commo officers still thought reading coded messages was exciting.

Pixy had been that way herself, once.

"Do you indeed." She hesitated, squinting at the plot, thinking how strange it was to hear Captain Amisuul. So many years later, the two of them, in charge of ships in company. "You need the coding gun."

"Ma'am."

"Or you can just call back and ask Amisuul for a partial fix. Right?"

"I could, ma'am." Pargo had a strangely protuberant Adams apple, and at times like this it bobbed like a dribbled jagga ball.

She nodded gravely, even regally. "Go try that before you bother your captain for her fucking coding gun, Lieutenant." He almost fell into the nav pit in his haste to escape her, but Pixy just sat back and waited a few minutes until, wavering, the blinking pinprick of the partial contact came up on her Main Plot. "Report, OOD. Loud enough so that the whole bridge knows what the fuck."

Perfaxon cleared his throat, drawing himself up. "Unknown contact, fourteenth quartile, aft 23%. Closure and direction undetermined. Primary tracking by the Leith!"

"Secondary track, Ms Luzhenka." The weapons officer nodded tersely back; the order was not really necessary, but Pixy knew the logbook robot would pick it up, so it needed to be said. She pondered, analyzing her gut, feeling the waver in her own knee as her brain started working without her. "And do me a favor, Mr Pargo: get me connected with Colonel McMerckx in the Barracks Barge? Now, please." She wasn't entirely sure why she'd said that, but she'd long since taught herself to pay attention when her instincts wanted to do stuff.

Besides, it would take Crazy Jack five or six minutes to get back to her. It always did. She had time to think.

The distant contact had not resolved further in that time, though, so she didn't have much to tell him. But at least they had a direction. "We're tracking something, a spacecraft headed back toward the Branch. No clearer sense of direction. If I move to intercept it, do your guys feel like a possible boarding?"

"That's what Marines do, Pixy. We're Army."

"Yeah, no shit. But I've got no Marines. What I'm asking is whether your guys might enjoy it."

He coughed a short chuckle into the vox. "Poor choice of words, Captain Pfeiffer."

She lost her patience. Fucking short-timer. "Get up here. Quickly." She signed off before he could reply, then sat staring up at the Plot, brooding over that oddly blinking contact. She was not even surprised anymore when Juno, attuned as always to Pixy's moods, appeared silently with a bowl of tea. "Thank you, Chief," she nodded.

"Ma'am." Pixy was suddenly struck by the necessity that she'd need to find a new steward to yell at, and then train that hapless person to make tea. The prospect suddenly seemed too difficult to even contemplate. But if Juno saw her sigh over the tea-bowl, she gave no sign as she melted away off the bridge. A difficult read, Wrae Juno. Pixy, a woman who had no friends at all in the entire universe, considered her a friend. But a very dangerous and unstable friend.

Apparently, the Army considered her dangerous too. But her orders said they needed her, so off she would go. Pixy looked away, cradling the tea-bowl, wondering just how many more she'd get before Juno went off to do... whatever it was she'd be doing.

She stirred, then looked down to notice her leg had quit shaking. That meant her brain had an answer. She thought a moment, then nodded. "Keep checking with Leith on that contact, Mr Pargo."

"Aye aye, ma'am!"

Pixy leaned over to look down at Targeting. "Manually update the Main Plot, Ms Luzhenka. Every five minutes, maximum."

"Aye aye, ma'am." Both she and Luzhenka knew there was time: the contact, as tentative as it was, was obviously far away. Pixy had another idea. She turned to the OOD. "Mr Perfaxon. Take careful note of these instructions. Ready to listen?"

"Always, captain." Perfaxon was an engineer officer, and on Pixy's other ships he'd have spent his time in the engine room. But Pixy had decided that a ship where she was captain would qualify every officer to stand a watch, other than the surgeon and the chaplain. He'd do.

"Plan a rough intercept course for that contact. Very rough, but maintain it. Update it. Massage it. So that if I want to use it, you can get us started right away while you fine-tune. Comprehend?"

"I think so, ma'am." It was not the answer Pixy usually liked, but he'd paused to think before he gave it. "Okay if I keep it manual? No star-plot?"

"Absolutely," Pixy nodded, glancing over as the hatch opened: Narvon "Crazy Jack" McMerckx, scowling slightly, came stalking in. "Don't get comfortable, Colonel. We're off to see the chaplain."

He stopped short, the surprise blooming bright on his face. "What the fuck?" he blurted, but she was already easing past him toward the aft hatch. Decisions, once taken, made Pixy Pfeiffer a fast, choppy mover. "So... I follow you?"

"If you can keep up," she snapped over her shoulder, already roving the service corridor, headed to port toward Bermudo's office. When she got there she knocked once, loudly, before thumbing her code into the lock and shouldering the hatch calmly open.

Bermudo rose swiftly behind his desk, a startled sailor in the visitor's chair opposite. "Captain! I'm in the middle of a counseling appointment!"

"No time, Rabbi." Pixy glared down at the sailor. "Look, can you come back later? Say, an hour? I need the chaplain."

"Uh. Yes, ma'am," the sailor managed in a soft drawl. "Um, I guess?"

"Good. Go." The kid scuttled out, looking fearfully at McMerckx' rank cape: this was more brass than the poor fellow had ever seen. "Sorry about that," Pixy shrugged gesturing for the Army officer to enter. "I get that this is inconvenient, but I need you."

"Yeah, so you said." The rabbi sat back down, clearly uncomfortable. "Colonel. I'm Ira."

"Narvon, but nobody calls me that." They both chuckled while Pixy fumed.

"If you two are done sucking each others' dicks?" she sneered pointedly. "Sit down, Colonel. I've got an idea." She nodded toward the chaplain. "I thought I had no Marines aboard, but I remembered one. Rabbi?" She felt her grin go feral. "Do you remember your boarding-party training?"