Dry, No Lube Ch. 01

"Right." Pixy was letting her jacket fasten itself. "That's the plan, then. Who the fuck knows what this is about? But we just dropped out of lightspace, so there's that."

"Good luck, ma'am." The Whore showed one of her rare smiles, her fangs yellow against the scaly green lips. "Give 'em hell." She tossed a packet of Bump at her, underhand, and the pills disappeared into her uniform pocket as if they'd never been there.

"Yeah. Sure." Pixy disappeared, flitting through the corridors; her corridors, as she thought of them, for almost nobody else came down here. Dark, dripping mazes, quiet kingdoms of conduits and vents and generators, and Pixy knew them all. When she arrived on the bridge she wasn't even breathing hard, her eyes wide and alert, her senses singing from the Bump. The hatch shook its way open before her, and she pranced through it like she was actually in charge. "What is it?" she barked.

Captain Crick glanced around, now back in his torpor. It seemed there were no aliens waiting to attack them, after all. Which was good, since nobody had told Amisuul to load the tubes. "Carry on, Ms Pfeiffer."

She blinked, her body vibrating in a contained wave of energy. God, that Bump was some good shit! "Carry on with what, Captain?"

He blinked. "Oh. Logistics request off the low-beam. Ms Okonfwe is just getting it from the gun."

"It's been decoded for the past four minutes, captain." Okonfwe waited patiently by her console, tall and willowy. "Come on over and check it out, ma'am."

The drug buzzed through her; Pixy felt like her hair was crackling straight out from her head. She snatched the message readout with an air of casual authority that impressed the commo tech. She frowned down at the message. "Huh." She chuckled.

Silence.

"Care to share the joke, lieutenant?" Captain Crick's voice was icy.

Pixy shrugged. "The fucking request is from an old buddy of mine. Well," she reflected, "not really a buddy. More like a friend. No, an acquaintance. See, we met back when --"

"What's funny, Lieutenant?"

Pixy clamped her mouth shut. She needed to watch it. Bump could make you jittery. "So, it's funny because his ship has the dumbest name in the Fleet, sir."

The captain brightened. He liked hearing about ships worse off than his own. "What ship?" he demanded.

"It's the USS Molester, sir. Fast-attack frigate, out of Mars."

Assorted giggles. The bridge crew enjoyed petty amusements; their jobs were normally very dull. Crick frowned. "Molester."

"Sir." She read the message again. Her old acquaintance Cleve apparently needed some replacement intake filters, Type IX. "Their intakes are fucking clogged, captain. He's wondering if I can hook him up."

Crick rested his chin in his hand, feeling clever. "Leave it to the service fleet to keep the maneuver elements in fighting shape, hmm?" He looked around, but failed to realize he'd inspired no one. "Can you assist, Lieutenant Pfeiffer?"

She drew herself up, feeling foolish, but he liked moments like this and she saw no reason to make him sad. She saluted stiffly, palm outward. "It would be my privilege, Captain Crick."

He retuned the salute with passion, his wrist snapping audibly. "Go, then, and do your duty!"

"Aye aye, sir!" The farce had half the bridge gaping and the other half giggling; Okonfwe could barely hide her smile as she turned to put the coding gun away.

"He'll be on his way in a few minutes," Okonfwe muttered. "ETA is fifteen mikes, docking hatch 4-bravo. Closure rate of four meters per second, maybe? Four and a quarter?"

Pixy blinked. "Dude. I only needed the first two sentences, Amber." And then she was gone, spinning on her heel, her mini-tabslate already out to alert Joop and the Whore. She was pretty sure she had at least two dozen Type IX filters on hand, maybe a few more or a few less; she wasn't sure how many an attack frigate would need, but she hoped she could cover it. He'd know to bring along plenty of shit to trade. Pixy sighed as she strode down the corridors, bellowing at passing sailors. "Out of the way! Move! Officer coming through!" It would have been nice, on reflection, if she'd shown up on the bridge fast enough to take the transmission herself; she could use some new lighting modules already, and Cleve probably had some.

But no worries. When supply officers don't trade in kind, they find other things to barter.

The Whore met Pixy at the docking hatch. "Intake filters, Ana. Type IX. Should need a bunch of them."

A yellow-fanged frown replied. "We need some more buzz-lift lighting modules, Ms Pfeiffer."

"No shit, but I couldn't get there in time." She was fretting, pacing like a lion prior to the gladiators. The Whore watched silently. "Anyway. Break out a bunch of filters and get them down to the starboard bay. Far corner. The usual camera setup."

"Aye aye, ma'am."

"Normal ambient lighting, no sound this time. I don't want people knowing it's me."

The Whore nodded. "It's handled, ma'am." She came to attention briefly. "With your permission?"

"Carry on." The tall green Tygon nodded and disappeared, off to do... hell, whatever she did. Pixy had learned early on that between Joop Koster and Ana the Tygon, there was no real work to be done in her department. Which was good, since Pixy was basically running every other operation aboard the ship, other than Amisuul's prostitutes. Part of that was normal; the second officer was traditionally the hardest-working person on any ship. But usually, they didn't have to do the job of the first officer also. Or parts of the jobs of the third through fifth. Or, fuck, the captain sometimes.

The hatch hissed open. The exterior hatches were the only ones on the ship that didn't rattle, mostly because of the difference in pressure. A few feet beyond lay the shuttle hatch from the Molester, meteorite-pocked and with that distinctive smell of space, of meat seared over a gunpowder fire. Out of that hatch stepped Lieutenant Cleve, still tall and even skinnier than before, somehow. He'd been handsome years ago, and he still was, but now he'd acquired the conniving, furtive manner of all Fleet logistics people. He glanced around at the Pulver's rusty innards.

"Well." Now he included Pixy in his inspection, his blue eyes glinting. "Pixy Pfeiffer. You're looking as good as ever." He jerked his head at the dented corridor plating. "I see you've... prospered? Is that the word?"

"I do all right." Pixy was still popping a little from the Bump, antsy, her feet twitchy in their boots. "How's it going, Elon?" She knew he hated the name, but it wasn't his fault. Elon was a common name in their universe; people were always naming their sons after the truly great men. It was why so many guys were named Washington, or Byrd, or Trump.

"It'd be going a lot better if my captain could get our intakes squared away." He finished his inspection, clearly deciding the Pulver did not meet the Molester's standards. "So whose dick do I have to suck to get a few filters?"

"Mine." She nodded to the side, toward the tube leading down to her lair in the starboard bay. "Follow me, we'll get this shit done." They started off, their boots clacking dully. "I heard you'd gotten married."

"Yup. Three kids, too. It's why I keep coming back to space." He was kind enough not to comment when they passed a big, raw steel patch in the wall. "We need four filters, by the way, but five would be better."

Pixy tried not to sound surprised; she'd expected many more. "I thought frigates were bigger than that. Just four?"

He shrugged. "It's one of the auxiliary intakes. Nothing much. To be honest we don't really need the duct at all, but my captain... well, he cares," he finished pointedly. Pixy chose to say nothing. "He says get the filters, I get the filters; you know how it is."

"Sure do." Sort of. In the Pulver's world, the logistics requests did not come from the captain. Not the first officer, either. They reached the right hatch and she reached out to put in the code. "Five filters is no problem, but I wish I could have grabbed a couple of lighting modules off you."

Cleve gave a short laugh, more like a cough. "The new ones, the buzz-lifts? Jesus, get in line and take a number. Everyone's short of those. Fleet Command didn't do anybody any favors when they demanded we switch over so fast."

"Yup." The hatch vibrated its way across its track, the warmth of the cargo bay reaching out through the opening. "They really bent us over on that one. Dry, no lube."

'Dry, no lube." It was an old naval expression. He waited for Pixy to lead the way in. "Did you need... you know. Anything else?"

"Depends what you've got." The Whore had stacked ten crated Type IX filters on a hoverpallet in the corner, near where the camera was hidden in the wall. Pixy liked to have these kinds of transactions recorded, just in case. For her own protection, like. She gestured toward the pallet. "There you go. I didn't think you'd need so few."

"Well, shit. I mean, I'll take the extra, if you can spare them..." He let his voice trail off, the negotiation already beginning.

"I can spare them." Pixy leaned against the crates, her body still alive with the drug. "What d'you got?"

Cleve frowned and looked her up and down. "I've got a little Anchor back in the shuttle, plus some gold. You need gold?"

"I don't use it much, but whatever. How much Anchor?"

"Ten cc." Pixy felt her eyebrows lift. "I know, I know. I got a huge fucking bale off some dude on Apache Base, back in Andromeda. I've been trying to break it up ever since. My captain would be pissed if he knew I had so much."

"I'll take six cc and the gold, I guess." Ten cc was a dangerous amount, a felony amount. Like, a real felony, the kind they'd prosecute. Even in the Fleet. Her eyes flashed, the pupils huge; she was shifting her weight, all edgy. "Trouble is, that shit's back at the shuttle... Meanwhile, the filters are here... now... with us..."

"Ah." Cleve winked, understanding and not at all offended. "So I do have to suck your dick."

"Well, you know." She smiled grimly. "Next best thing." Her staytab was already busy getting her pants down. "What am I, a mutant?"

He laughed. "Nah, I always had you pegged for an all-natural woman." He stepped back and looked greedily down at her body as it emerged goosebumped, her clothes clearing themselves methodically out of the way. "And, shit, I was right." He bent down low, peering at her vagina. "What's that, autowax? You're smooth as ice down there." He already had his long fingers deployed, even before her pants were done maneuvering around her boots.

Pixy giggled when his hand, unexpectedly gentle, found her labia. "No, I had the laser thing done, that permanent removal shit." She leaned back, arching her body. "No more shaving, no more plucking."

Cleve stepped into her, his fingers already moving expertly. It was as if they taught that shit in logistics school, but of course that wasn't necessary; supply officers became good at sex through practice and experience, or they stopped being supply officers. It was just another part of the job. "I should get my wife to do that. Feels nice."

"Feels even nicer to me," Pixy admitted a little shyly, her body buzzing now with arousal on top of the Bump. Cleve shrugged, and after that there was no more point in further small talk. They were logisticians, and they talked logistics.

"You should get your leg up on my shoulder," he told her as he got ready to kneel. "It opens you right up; it's how I do my best work."

"Sure thing," she replied crisply, using an offhand tone to get over her shyness; she was never really all that comfortable receiving, even from people she didn't know. "Whatever you need."

"Can I touch your ass?" He was sinking down now, her skinny leg rising at the same time. "I'd appreciate it."

"Please." He hooked her thigh up over his right shoulder and leaned in, blowing a stream of warm breath straight into her, tickling. He licked her juices from his fingertips and settled in, leading with his tongue, and she was shivering right away.

There were dangers, she reflected, involved with doing this kind of thing while you were already high. On the one hand, if you were on morphs, it lowered your inhibitions and made you better with a dominant partner. But Pixy was on stims, and stims made it quicker to get her going, quicker to get her off. No more comfortable being on the receiving end, mind, but at least it didn't last as long. She started trembling even before his lips met her labia, resting her hand tentatively on top of his head while she relaxed just enough to let her butt rest in his probing fingers, and then the hard pallet was digging into her back and Cleve was really getting into it.

He was good, she admitted to herself; he probably deserved a better partner.

Down the sides, across the bottom, then a nibble at the clit; that was Cleve's pattern, and once he was settled in he just kept doing it, over and over, varying his pace and speed. He turned each trip back to the clit like an exclamation point, getting Pixy used to a certain regular pace, waiting until she was gasping reliably each time, and then waiting the next time until she was panting, just starting to look down at his face, and then he'd attack, gnawing and sucking and licking, and she'd move into a slightly higher orbit, her legs trembling and her foot drumming against his shoulderblade.

She came with extraordinary speed and shocking violence. Some of it was Cleve's technique, a lot was the Bump, but she knew most of it was her own vague feeling that it was selfish and wrong for her to let this go on too long. But if Pixy reproached herself for this feeling, she didn't do it for long; she was way, way too far gone, her gasps echoing in the vast space, the hoverpallet wobbling slightly as she flailed.

"Fuck!" The cry was almost anguished, tearing out of her, the force of her body's motion almost knocking Cleve sprawling on his ass. As it was, he only stayed up because he was holding so tightly to her buttcheeks.

"Goddamn." With difficulty, Cleve pulled his face out of Pixy's crotch, looking in amazement at the quivering lips of her bare vagina. "What was that, Pfeiffer, two minutes? You getting backed up, or what?" He laughed. "You came like a Junior Lieutenant on her first night aboard."

"Sorry, Elon," Pixy replied obliquely, humiliated by the thickness in her voice. Her body was still hot and twitchy. "I... yeah. I guess it's been awhile."

Cleve lifted her knee off his shoulder and carefully set it down on the deck, his other hand still steadying her from its suspicious position on her ass. He was squeezing it, she noticed, and she couldn't really blame him; she'd given him no time to get into this, and it had been pretty clear from the start that he was a fan of her rear end. He looked up at her now, her face scarlet, with amusement and a bit of concern. "Pfeiffer, man, you need to get yourself a bedwarmer."

"I've got one," she protested.

"Then let him do something to you. That shit's not healthy, getting yourself all backed up like that." He stood and wiped at his face, though in fairness there wasn't much there.

Pixy summoned her pants, which began their usual slow climb up her legs. "It's a she, actually."

"Hey," Cleve shrugged, raising his hands, "whatever. I don't judge. Hell, mine's a guy. But, dude, you went off like a Mark VI torpedo with a bad fuse reactor." He frowned, plucking at his collar. "I appreciate getting things done quickly and efficiently, and shit, my captain will be happy to have all this wrapped up so fast, but..."

"I know, I know." She was regaining control slowly. "It's been pretty hectic lately."

He looked away, then shrugged again. "Well, whatever. It's your body, Pfeiffer, and your business. But if you want my advice, it's hard enough to stay sane out here without getting a little relief. You need to let yourself go. Maybe find a Tygon and let him in there for a couple hours; maybe then you'll be good to go for another few weeks." He reached out and gave her breast a friendly squeeze. "Anything else I can do? Want to suck my cock or anything? I mean, I can't fuck you, y'know, because I'm married and shit, but if you need anything else..."

"No thanks." His hand on her boob had been fire; it had felt great. She swallowed, still trembling. "I'm good. Thanks for the deal, Elon. Need help with the pallets?"

"Naw. I brought a detail." He was digging into his pocket for a mini-tabslate, tapping at it busily. "You, uh, have a good one, Pfeiffer. We'll do it again sometime. Let's get you squared away with the gold and the Anchor, at least."

* * *

Breakfast in the wardroom the next day was a usual for Pixy, a square of matzoh from the entropic storage bins, still crisp and fresh as the day it had come out of the Haifa factory. She cradled it reverently out of the box, took it over to her tray, and dipped the knife carefully into the container, ready to spackle the matzoh with cream cheese and a little salt and sit down for a wonderful start to yet another day.

Of course, the matzoh cracked into three shards the moment she went to spread the cream cheese.

Pixy sat back and gritted her teeth, trying hard to contain her irritation, ready to lash out and rip the head off the next person who spoke to her. Christ. Humans were amazing. They had conquered the solar system, planting vast cities on Mars and Europa. They had learned to talk to dolphins. They had figured out translight space travel, had defeated the odious Antareans, had released the Linders from bondage. They had achieved peace on their own planet, creating a vibrant pan-cultural society that respected almost everyone.

All that, humans had done.

So why they couldn't figure out unbreakable matzoh was not something Pixy could explain.

Sighing, she let the anger ebb away into the deeply profound well of disappointment her life was becoming, applying herself to the vaguely insulting task of cream-cheesing the broken pieces and feeling like a failure as she did so. She did glance up as Klonmyre drifted past, nodding with her chai and mandazi piled on her tray. "Seat taken, ma'am?"

"Not at all, but I'm out of here soon." Yet another fucking inventory meeting at 0830. Why she made herself do so much inventory was beyond Pixy's comprehension; the amounts didn't change, and were never enough anyway. But the schedule was the schedule. "How was last night?"

It was an innocuous question, asked purely for anyone else who might happen to be in earshot, for Pixy knew precisely how Klonmyre's night had gone. The younger officer looked sidelong at Pixy. "On watch? Or... you know, afterward?" She looked very nice when she blushed like that, Pixy decided.

She'd been on fire. Still vaguely ashamed she'd cum so fast with Cleve, she'd taken out her embarrassment on Klonmyre, with a vengeance that had surprised them both. Pixy was amazed the girl could walk, and Pixy's jaw was aching dully. She took a careful sip of her coffee. "On watch, Ms Klonmyre." She winked quickly. "Anything to report?"

"No ma'am." She set her tray down and planted herself, a brief wince crossing her face. She raised guilty eyes to meet Pixy's, and then blushed again. "I'm, uh, still leaking a little," she confessed, very quietly. Then she cleared her throat. "So we made three contacts during the watch, all routine. Lieutenant Densborg was officer of the deck, so... yeah. Not a lot to do, ma'am."

"Nice. A quiet watch is a good watch." She drained her coffee and checked her chrono. "Look, I was thinking... you know Jacobs? Works in diBiase's department? I think he's some kind of fire-control tech?"