Shore Leave

This is the second story in the series about Mela. The first, Welcome Aboard, can also be found in the SF & Fantasy section, and parts of this story will be clearer if the two are read in order.

Three days after I hired on, the Zande Warrior jumped from Taurus Seven. It had been a rush to get everything in order before I left, including a mercy fuck for Zak, my ex-boyfriend and bandleader. The first couple of days out were slow–crew are too busy to bother with recreation–but then it picked up and settled into a routine.

Being a Ship's Whore is like any other job, in a way–even if you like the work, there are days when it's just a job, and you count the hours until your shift is over. But on a ship you don't have to fake emotional involvement–in fact, that would defeat the purpose of having Morale Specialists. The point of having us is to take the sexual pressure off, so people don't form emotional involvements with other crew–there's nothing like an ugly breakup to undermine morale. It happens, of course, because there's no way to stop people from falling in love, or out of it. It's only really prohibited on military vessels, where denial is especially strong. But at least with a whore readily available on C deck there's no need for people to rationalize a stiff prick or a wet pussy as undying passion. The other point is keeping sexual contact within the crew. Spacecrews are the most thoroughly screened and treated individuals in the galaxy–there is no safer sex than with your crewmates (that's why sex with passengers is forbidden–you never know what you might pick up from one).

Nevertheless, being professional means having a genuine concern for meeting a client's needs–you can't be cold either, and sometimes you do need to dig deep to really be with someone. Fortunately, most needs are pretty routine–people want an orgasm and (what they usually won't admit) a bit of skin-to-skin contact. Cuddling. Yes, even the males.

The two other Morale Specialists were Gashni, a Morelian female who catered to the reptilians in the crew, and Tar, a Shivoid who must have been on the run from something. I mean, why else would he be working as whore on a little freighter when he could have been some heiress's kept stud? Shivoids are especially prized as studs, because they're always at least partially erect and they can voluntarily control the size of their penises--I guess it evolved as a courtship display, like a peacock's tail. I didn't hang out with Tar–he thought Terrans were beneath him--but I sneaked a few peeks when he was with clients, and he could go from finger size (well--a really big finger) to forearm size in twenty seconds, and back again in the same time. Shivoids can adjust themselves to fit pretty much any orifice in any mammalian species, which is what makes them so desirable. Oh--did I mention that it was jet black with turquoise, red, and yellow stripes? On their home world, Shivoid males wear crotchless tights, but off world they make a concession to other species' prudishness by wearing these stretchy codpieces. To non-Shivoid females, it just seems a little silly to have one make a pass by inflating it at you (even if you do feel a shiver at the thought of it), but I guess it's a pretty potent gesture to a Shivoid chick.

Anyway, Tar barely spoke to me. Gashni was friendly, and we even made an attempt at getting physical, but reptilian sex and mammalian sex are so different that we gave up after an hour or so. One problem with being a morale specialist is that you don't have the same options for sexual release as the rest of the crew. Not that I don't have orgasms with clients–I do, a lot of the time–but you can never really let go. It's about their needs, not yours. And even in your off time, you can't have favorites among the other crew--that leads to jealousies. The usual thing is for the whores to service each other–just for fun, in their time off–but that is easier on a ship like the Empress, which has over a dozen morale staff. That makes it easier to find somebody attractive, with whom it doesn't feel like incest, because the whores do tend to become family (of course, if you like incest, I guess it might work out). It just didn't work on the Zande Warrior.

The first few weeks were uneventful–six six-hour shifts a week, routine fucks and blowjobs with the occasional date with a female crew–though most of them seemed predominantly het. Delta never booked a slot, which made me wonder sometimes–I admit she did something for me that women usually don't do, and maybe I was a bit disappointed. Vaxt'ron booked me a couple of times, but officers are busy, and it doesn't look good if they spend too much time in the morale suites. Captain Dash–a mustached, military Terran–never used the Morale Specialists.

But I was kept reasonably busy, and in my off-time I caught up on my reading and doodled on my synstrom, writing some songs. There were a couple of other crew who were musical. One guy played early 21^st century music on an antique electric guitar–the harmonies were just too weird for me to get my ears around–and a girl in engineering played electroflute. We jammed a few times, which was fun even if it didn't actually sound that good.

A month out we had a crisis–the sort that Morale Specialists are supposed to prevent. The Astrogator's Mate had hooked up with a chick in communications, and he walked in on her while she was in flagrante with the Chief Communications Officer. I heard different stories about what they were actually doing–some said they were just kissing, while others talked about sixty-nine and still others said anal fisting (with different versions of who was doing it to whom). Anyway, there was a fight, and the A.M.. was confined to quarters with a broken arm and discharged at the next port, as was his ex-girlfriend. The Comchief should have been (sex with a direct subordinate), but she was considered irreplaceable–at least for the time being.

We were delayed for a week on Iribbun, at the Baloan spaceport, while a new A.M. was hired. Everybody got shore leave. I spent a couple of nights clubbing, but the minor spaceport we were in didn't have a lot going on, and I quit going out, preferring to stay in my quarters with a book. Whoever acquired the Zande Warrior's library had odd tastes–I was trying to make sense of something called The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gent. Sometimes I almost thought I understood it, but it was hard to put down anyway. The crew like to get out and get some sexual variety on leave, even though it means being quarantined (sexually) for a week afterward while they get daily scans. Whores don't feel the need so much–besides, an STD just means a week or two of quarantine for most crew, but for a whore it means unemployment.

It was finally announced that we had a new A.M. and would lift in two days. I was in my quarters with my book when Gashni buzzed me.

"Mela–let's go out tonight." She spoke in that slow, deliberate way that reptilians do, except when they're angry or scared.

"No, Gash–I don't think so."

"Oh please–I'm bored, and I don't want to go out by myself." So I agreed.

We went to a little club in the Felun Quarter. It wasn't a district I'd go to alone, but if anyone had nasty ideas, a glimpse of Gash's teeth and claws (not to mention the wicked spike on the end of her tail) would have given them second thoughts. The band at the club wasn't bad; I got in a conversation with the telwynd player during their break, and she invited me to sit in and sing a couple of songs in the next set.

I stepped up on stage and looked across the room. It wasn't a crowd I would want to meet in a dark alley. The cube player counted off and we were into "Dark Love and Light," the synstrom and telwynd playing the intro in unison. I felt the rush, and realized how much I missed doing this. By the middle of the second verse I could tell I had the audience in my hand, and it was then that I noticed him. He was standing off to the left of the stage, leaning against the wall. His dark blue skin had made him almost invisible in the shadows, but he moved slightly into the light, and his silver hair caught my eye.

It took a moment, but then I recognized him as a Kristar. He'd clipped his hair short, so you had to look close to realize that it went all the way down his neck–if you knew about the species, you knew that it covered his whole body, except the face, palms, soles, and genitals. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and his skin-tight suit showed he was well muscled. I told myself that it was always a useful trick to sing to one person in the audience–it gives a bit more edge–and focused on him. Okay, so it wasn't just about the performance.

I finished the song and appreciated the brief pause before the applause. Then we went into "Starwind," something up tempo and fun to follow the heavy stuff. I waved and got offstage quickly–it's not good manners to steal the show when it's not your gig–and it was surely just coincidence that the clearest path off the stage led directly to him. His pale grey eyes shone with a faint phosphorescence, and he smiled faintly.

"You sing well." He spoke in Esperanto.

"Thank you."

"I haven't seen you here before."

"I haven't been here before–I've only been on the planet five days."

"I've only been here two weeks myself. How long will you be staying?"

"We lift day after tomorrow."

"Too bad–are you on the Aphrodite?" (A luxury liner with loads of entertainers).

"No." I hesitated, but there was no point in trying to hide it. "I wish. I'm an M.S. on the Zande Warrior."

He smiled. "I'm an M.S. on the Sebastian Cabot. My name is Pran."

"I'm Mela."

"Is that a Terran name? I haven't heard it before."

"It's a nickname. I was named after both of my grandmothers–Carmela Melanie. My sister couldn't say either name and just called me Mela, and it saved my parents the trouble of deciding which grandmother to offend–they both thought it was their name I was using."

He smiled again, and I felt shivers run down my spine, all the way to...well, wherever. "Can I buy you a drink?"

I followed him to the bar, then to a corner at the back of the room, where we sipped and talked. About what, I couldn't say. Our glasses were empty. He said, "What are you doing tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?"

He laughed. Maybe he even blushed, if Kirstar can do that–maybe there was a faint purple tinge. "I meant tonight."

I grinned. "What would you like to do?"

He laughed and stood up, holding out his hand. I took it, and we headed for the door. Suddenly Gashni was at my side. "Mela?"

"I'm fine, Gash–he's an M.S. on the Cabot. I'll be back on board by 1200 hours."

She blinked slowly, a reptilian gesture that I think implies acknowledgment or approval, and turned back to the bar. Pran led me out into the street. I looked up. The big moon had already set; the two little ones were directly overhead, looking as if they would collide in a minute, though I knew that actually the yellow one would partially eclipse the red one for a short time. Pran wrapped his arms around me from behind, and I leaned back into his embrace. "We could go to the ship, or I could rent a room." He nuzzled my neck, the hair on his cheek stiff but silky against my skin in the cool air.

"I've seen enough of ships for a while." I turned around and kissed him. He pulled me against his chest, and I felt small, in a completely pleasant way. We stood there, exploring each other's lips, until we heard the sound of two drunks stumbling up the street, arguing in what sounded like a mixture of n'Irrubi and Spanish. We pulled apart and I followed Pran in the other direction.

He led me to a comtel, inserted his H-card in the slot of the regimat, and took the receipt. His card popped back out of the machine, now keyed to open the room door until tomorrow. The room was at the end of the hall. It was really not much more than a cubicle–just room for a double bed and enough floor space to stand in, with a lavbooth and a tiny closet. There was a dispenser at the head of the bed. Pran swiped his card, touched the keypad, and three small foil packets dropped out to land on the pillow. He picked them up and set them on the small shelf by the bed, reached over to turn on the bedside lamp, and cut the main lights.

I sat on the bed as Pran began to undress. He did it gracefully, with a smooth economy that reminded me of a dance, except that there was nothing showy about it. The front zipper of his suit came down and he slowly–but not too slowly–slid it off his shoulders.

I had never seen a Kirstar naked before. Their hair naturally grows about three centimeters long, but Pran's was close-cropped, a bit less than a centimeter, all over his body. The silver hair shone against the dark blue skin; the deep black of his four nipples made the contrast more intense.

He bent to unzip his boots, stepped out of them and the suit, and raised an eyebrow at me as he stood there in his white shorts. I smiled and pulled the red top over my head, tossed it on the floor. The bra followed. I stood up and toyed with the zipper on the side of the short black skirt, then stuck my tongue out at him as I eyed the bulge in his shorts.

He was out of them in a millisecond, and I was on my back on the bed, with him all over me. I enjoyed it for a moment, then thrust with my hips and one arm and flipped him onto his back–if I hadn't caught him by surprise I couldn't have done it, but my timing was perfect. I straddled his thighs and looked down at him. I ran my fingers over the pale hair on his stomach, then reached up and lightly scratched a nipple with my fingernail. He squirmed and moaned in a most satisfying way. I looked lower. He was erect, his cock not all that different from a human one, except for being blue and having a knobby ridge along the top. I squeezed it firmly, and he gasped and rolled his hips. I felt it throb in my hand and saw a drop of fluid emerge from the tip. I was tempted, but I reached over and grabbed one of the foil packets, ripping it open with my teeth. I knew we were both professionals. The rule is, you trust your buddies–but you cut the cards anyway.

I rolled the condom onto him, then slipped down the bed a bit and took him in my mouth, taking him deep and coating him with spit. Then I wrapped my breasts around his cock, touching my nipples together as I slid up and down. He began to stroke his own nipples, thumbs on the upper pair, little fingers on the lower.

I sat up and grasped his cock again. The ridge was firm but slightly spongy. It reminded me of pictures of those Terran dinosaurs with plates on their back. I slid my hand down–the hair at the base was longer, coarser, stiffer. I brushed it with the back of my hand and was startled to feel it quiver at my touch, and to hear Pran give a whimper of pleasure. Of course, human hair is erectile too, but mostly in response to fear–I'd never heard of pubic hair as an actual erogenous zone before. I ran my fingers through it again, just to see the reaction, which was even more intense the second time.

I was debating whether to take my skirt off or to leave it on for a while, for a greater tease effect, when Pran pulled me down and with a quick flip turned me onto my back. His left hand was on my pussy as his tongue circled my left breast, just barely touching the nipple with each circuit, until I was so keyed up I wanted to shove my tit down his throat. "Suck it!" I snarled, or maybe pleaded. He did, so expertly that I felt myself gush juice all over his fingers, and felt it dribbling down between my cheeks.

He slid his hands under my butt and, lifting me up, plunged his face into my pussy, licking me from asshole to clit. His tongue seemed to be everywhere–inside, around, right on my center. I felt myself drifting away into that strange space, my whole body a pulsing erogenous zone surrounded by his mouth. Then he moved back up to kiss me–I opened my lips and discovered that he did indeed have an extraordinarily long tongue–I tasted my juices on him, and then with one long, smooth stroke he was inside me, the knobs of the ridge on his cock rippling over my g-spot like a drum roll. I came then, clamping down on him as I felt myself melting into hot liquid from my belly to my knees.

He paused as my orgasm subsided. I knew he wasn't done, and I wasn't either. "I want to be on top," I gasped.

"No problem, " he whispered. I wrapped my legs around him and we rolled over, still connected. I slowly raised myself up, squeezing with my cunt muscles as I did, feeling the little pop as each knob slipped past my labia. I slowly slid back down, all the way, and discovered that his pubic hair had become even stiffer, the bristles tickling my clit as I pressed against him. I rolled my hips, grinding harder against him, feeling him quiver all over. Then up, then down again, slowly. At first I was focused, testing out the new sensations of a new body inside mine, then I felt myself going into my sex trance.

But it was different this time, different than I remembered it ever being. I kept my eyes open, for one thing, and so did he. The phosphorescent highlights in his irises glittered like a new constellation in the soft glow of the lamp. I heard his breath, slow and harsh, as I rose and fell, drawing him into me, riding on his body like floating up and down on a wave, surfing. I was the earth containing his ocean, the wind over the waves of his body, our eyes were locked, and then his opened wide as his mouth did too and I felt him throb inside me and thrust deeper. He came, and I was right behind him, eyes still open, melting into his as we both cried out in our own native languages, the words needing no translation.

I collapsed onto his chest, feeling my heart pounding; then I realized it was his heartbeat, then I realized I couldn't tell whose heart it was. And it didn't matter anyway.

We said goodbye the next morning. He said the Cabot was due to make planetfall on Danuta sometime on this voyage, but freighters don't keep tight schedules. We exchanged com addresses. I managed not to cry until he was out of sight.