Naked Planet Ch. 02

Misha laughed at the snub. "Well, if you are not 'girlfriend,' you must be something else." He grabbed her by the pussy. "Unbelievable—what American girl will do for one ruble!"

Something cold and flat between the team leader's fingers pressed against the lips of her vulva. The coin. She released a soft, feminine gasp as he pushed his middle finger deep in her pussy, lodging the ruble firmly inside her. She watched, mouth agape, as he sucked his finger clean and gave her a smart, playful spank. She glared at him a moment but said nothing; she simply put on her thong panties and finished suiting up. He chuckled as he slung his submachine gun over his shoulder.

The alien sun had begun to set by the time he and Ransom brought her back to base camp. The makeshift outpost was situated on a nearby rocky plateau overlooking the jungle canopy. Shuttle Two had not only landed there completely intact, but it was impressively stocked to the gills with supplies and equipment: scientific survey instruments, plasma lamps and space heaters, and a pair of sturdy, portable tents that were already pitched on arrival. The night ahead was full of uncertainty as she reached the camp, but she took some minor solace in the supposition that most of what she feared they would do to her, they had already done.

As it turned out, three other members of Misha's team had survived, none of whose names Gwen could recall. One was a Russian, a beefy Spetsnaz-type like Misha, and the other two were Americans: a pale, curly-haired man and a swarthier, squat individual. They sat around a heater eating rations; Ransom handed her one. As they ate, neither he nor his team leader told the group what happened at the glade, but the lustful smirks cast her way suggested that they all knew. As darkness fell and the men grew restless, Misha snapped his fingers at her and pointed to a tent.

"Why?" she asked defensively, already knowing the answer.

As she lifted the flap to crawl inside, she saw the three subordinates begin a game of rock--paper--scissors. She did not need to guess what for.

The interior of the tent was mostly bare: a dim glowstick hanging from the ceiling, Wade's backpack, and a few sleeping mats on the floor. Here they would make her a sex slave. Not if I can help it! she resolved. She zipped up behind her. There was little time. She quickly scanned her surroundings for a way out. The walls were made of a tough, ultralight fiber rated for extreme environs, and she had come through the only entrance—except, she noticed, a circular porthole directly opposite her. The cover was secured in place with eight flathead screws.

If only I had a screwdriver! she lamented. She searched frantically through the pack. She could hear the men arguing outside, no doubt about who had won the right to fuck her first. She had to hurry. If only she could open that porthole... A thought occurred to Gwen, and she quickly unzipped her jumpsuit. Outside, the men were laughing and joking: a winner had been crowned and would soon be on his way.

Misha hurried over when his fellow Russian sounded the alarm. Ransom and the others clamored and crowded around the team leader as he stared, dumb, into the tent. It was empty; Gwen was nowhere to be seen. The porthole cover was on the floor, leaving a circular exit into the night just wide enough for the young science officer to escape. He searched the floor to find, lying among several screws strewn about the tent, a wetly glistening object.

It was a Soviet ruble.

TO BE CONTINUED

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