Dry, No Lube Ch. 01

"Christ, ma'am!"Amisuul was rubbing at his side where she'd kicked him, a trickle of blood just starting at the corner of his mouth. "You're not supposed to hit me."

"I'm only hitting you because you're AWOL from your post, you stupid fucking shitbag." She took another swing, catching his arm as he went to block. He was tracking her with that goddamn prehensile dick, aiming, and she kept on dodging; it was frustrating. He had to run out of spooge soon. Pixy had only occasionally enjoyed having sex with Tygons. She liked the green scales, and the penises always felt fine inside, but there was something weird about the whole process. She missed having a pair of balls to grab, for one thing. But shit, most of them really did make a woman know how to cum. They enjoyed sleeping with Earthling women, it was said; they always said Tygon women were harder to satisfy.

But Pixy was usually a traditionalist. Give her a simple, plain human cock, and she'd be happy 95% of the time. Well, 90%; many of the guys in Fleet repulsed her.

She ended it with a lucky kick right onto that long, tapering penis, which left him gasping in the fetal position. "Get your fucking lazy ass up to the bridge, Sublieutenant Amisuul. And be grateful the captain isn't writing you up for dereliction." Fat chance, obviously; the Tygons weren't the only ones who lacked balls, she thought bitterly.

They didn't pay her enough for this shit.

Purcell was lurking just outside the hatch when Pixy came striding out, looking edgily up and down the corridor, and understandably so; junior sailors weren't supposed to be here in officers' country. She snapped to attention, still stinking of cum and sweat, and Pixy scowled at her. "Go away, sailor." She eyed the girl; she had to admit the girl had a certain something, a flirtiness in the set of her mouth. She'd make a great bedwarmer. "He's supposed to be on duty, and I think his penis will be malfunctional for a little while anyway." She smirked; Purcell really did have a sweet little body on her. "You'll need to continue your audition another time."

"Oh. Aye aye, ma'am." Yes, a sweet body, jiggly in all the right places. She'd be quite popular aboard the Pulver.

* * *

Pixy was in the wardroom typing up an award for a shitty sailor named Jennings. Her hope was that the award would get him noticed, and that he'd get promoted out of her department. She didn't like him and he wouldn't stop hitting on her, so she was doing her best, trying to get the wording right. She nearly jumped out of her seat when the tap came on her shoulder.

"The fuck?" She spun around to see a very familiar sublieutenant. "Oh. Ms Klonmyre. What's on your mind?"

There were others in the wardroom, hence the formality, but Klonmyre smiled at it anyway. She looked drawn out, like she'd been up for days. She stank in her filthy uniform. "Ma'am. Sorry to bother you, but I was just wondering whether we were still scheduled for professional development this evening? 2100?"

Pixy frowned. PD? Tonight? What the fuck was the engineer rattling on about? But then Pixy caught the subtle tone in Klonmyre's voice, the quickly raised eyebrow, and with a flood of gratitude she understood. "Oh! Damn, I forgot. No, I had another meeting planned." She did, too, a fucking inventory report. "Shit. Um, when are you on watch?"

"0400, ma'am." Pixy closed her eyes, remembering the pain of being a sublieutenant.

"Yeah, Subs get all the bad shifts." She sighed. "I'll reschedule my inventory, do a working dinner or something. You come on by at 2100 and we'll do your PD." She made a note on her tabslate. Her inventory detail would be pissed about missing their chow, but she had some spare stims she'd be able to give them. They'd be elated at the freebie; either they'd take the stims and get high, or they'd be able to sell them for a nice little profit.

Klonmyre sighed. "Thanks, ma'am. I really appreciate you taking the time and effort." She turned to go.

"No problem. I always make time for my junior officers." But the inventory, of course, went longer than planned, stupid dry old Chief della Sera insisting on checking every single goddamn number, with Pixy doing her best to deal her drugs to her detail without the fucking Chief finding out. It was an anxious evening for her, and when she finally trudged down the corridor outside her room at 2115, she'd forgotten all about Klonmyre.

She stopped short as she rounded the corner and spotted the compact little engineer, leaning against the wall and fiddling with her tabslate. "Oh! Thank God; I thought I'd gotten the time wrong, ma'am."

"Ah." Pixy licked her dry lips. She was hungry, cranky, filthy, and tense. "Your PD."

A smile on the younger woman's red lips. "My PD."

Pixy leaned past Klonmyre and punched in her doorcode. "I stink," she muttered apologetically.

"Same here, ma'am." Klonmyre's mouth twitched again. "I was hoping to get a shower before I go on watch in the morning."

"Were you." The hatch slipped open and the women crossed the threshold, then turned and waited while it crept back shut; the moment the doorlock snicked, Klonmyre sighed and threw herself on Pixy's bunk.

"I thought you'd never get here," she complained. "You're always preaching punctuality and reliability."

"Sorry, Jannelle." Pixy's clothes were already descending, her funk wafting up at her. "Duty called. Listen, were you serious about that shower?" As a senior officer, Pixy got her own latrine. "There's not much water available tonight, but I don't mind sharing."

"Fuck yes, I was serious." Klonmyre's hand was already fiddling with her staytab. "Everything on this ship stinks."

"Give it time." The nasty working uniform was sliding itself down Pixy's legs, folding itself. "This is, what, your second ship? I've served aboard some really shitty ones in my time."

"You really are a mess." Klonmyre was staring at Pixy's ass. "How did you get oil on your butt?"

"I fell into a puddle." Naked, the two women passed into the latrine while their clothes walked themselves to the wash module. "It's hydraulic fluid, anyway."

"Ah." The younger woman ran a finger across Pixy's ass. "Should have known from the color."

"Damn straight. My first captain used to quiz us on fluid identification by making us taste the shit." She stepped into the shower and then turned toward the jets, watching Klonmyre approach. "Look at you. You need to work on your grooming." Her pubic hair was becoming embarrassing. "Your bush is hiding all the good bits."

Klonmyre grinned. "Sorry, ma'am. I'll try to do better in the future." She stepped into the jets, her legs bowing out automatically to accept Pixy's hand. "Ah, shit. That feels nice."

"The water, or my hand?" Pixy knew this pussy well, the folds of Klonmyre's inner lips already trapped between her fingers. She gave the flesh a slight shake. "You need to be more specific, Jannelle. I expect better attention to detail from my junior officers." The water finally got warm, mixing now with the autosoap, and both women sighed. It felt wonderful to be clean, and it seldom happened aboard a service ship like the Pulver.

"Mm." Klonmyre stepped closer, their bodies touching; she really did have amazing tits, Pixy thought. She'd spent her entire adult life wishing hers were bigger; it's why she was always seeking plenty of boob on her bedwarmers. Klonmyre smiled as Pixy's middle finger found its way inside. "I'm always trying to improve, ma'am."

Their voices were low now, barely audible over the noise of the water. The red clock in the corner was already counting down; only four minutes of water tonight! Jesus, Pixy thought in disgust. That's what happened when the First was a drunk. The man couldn't even figure out the condensers. Pixy took her sudden frustration out on Klonmyre's well-known clit, and the shorter woman gasped and fell against Pixy. "Sorry."

"Fuck. I'm not." Grinning, Klonmyre smacked fondly at Pixy's thigh and pulled herself free of the senior officer's fingers. "You seem tense. I'll give you a massage, Pix."

"Now, see? That's the kind of initiative the Fleet expects from its Subs." She licked the familiar tang of Klonmyre's discharge from her finger. The clock was ticking. The shower was not a fully automatic model; you had to manually trigger each cycle. "Ready to rinse?"

"Just a sec." The two of them were painfully close in the small shower, but they'd done this many times. Klonmyre eased around Pixy, their bodies slick and gleaming, and the younger woman gave a giggling gasp as the water found her anus. "There it is. Okay. Do it, Pix."

"Hold on." The rinse/dry cycle could be punishing. The chemical smell of the autosoap faded suddenly, replaced by the chalkiness of the antibiotic rinse. It pummelled them both in a drenching flood, leaving them gasping in the sudden harsh, warm air of the auto dryer. "Jesus fuck."

"Better than the one in the Subs' latrine." No doubt. The shower in there was communal, meaning Klonmyre needed to share with Amisuul, Okonfwe, and diBiase, and that was if their shower got enough water. It made Klonmyre uncomfortable; she was no prude, but she didn't like the way the others looked at her tits.

Jannelle Klonmyre had had no illusions when she'd joined the Fleet. Her cousin was already in, serving aboard the quick, darting G-type frigates, so she'd heard all the stories. She knew about the hazing and the weird little rituals, the line-crossing ceremony when you left the Sun's gravitational pull for the first time. She knew about cruise wives, ship husbands, bedwarmers, bunkmates, cumbuckets, and those weirdos who only slept with Korlenes.

She'd never, ever set out to become anyone's playmate, and it had surprised her when Lieutenant Pfeiffer had asked, her manner diffident with the new Sub, even as her eyes had flashed their intense purple at Klonmyre. In the months since, she'd decided she quite liked it. She'd learned it wasn't about physical pleasure, really; it was about comfort, and taking care of people, and people taking care of you.

So that was the hard part. Pixy Pfeiffer had no interest in being taken care of.

It happened that night, too, the two of them groaning down into Pixy's bunk, pressing into each other, giving those intimate little laughs and tickles that happen when women are closer than lovers. Klonmyre, much to her surprise, had found herself spooning Pixy. That almost never happened, so the figured she'd take advantage.

"Here," she whispered into the older woman's ear. "Lie down. Relax." She'd pushed on Pixy's shoulder, forcing it down, both of them strong women and both of them equally determined. "Come on, Pix. It's just a backrub."

"Is it?" But Pixy had relented at last, her clean body stretched out on her belly, while Klonmyre knelt above her and arranged her limbs. Pixy was beautiful, Klonmyre thought, but not in the conventional way. She was not a woman to be dreamed about by cadets masturbating in the training rooms, not one to be filmed secretly in the shower. No, Pixy's sex appeal was different: it was an attitude, a cold aloofness, an air of absolute brutal competence in everything, sex included.

So Klonmyre already had greasy pubes as she straddled Pixy, her lithe little body tingling and pink, her nipples on the massive high breasts poking out obscenely. The other woman had lain hard-bodied and firm between her thighs, that strong back all planes and angles, and Klonmyre had delighted in the feel of Pixy's muscles straining and breaking under her insistent fingers.

She never let Klonmyre do this. Never.

Both had been breathing evenly, deeply, and as Klonmyre had rubbed and kneaded and pushed and pulled, she'd eased down the other woman's back, over her hips, perching high on her firm ass, and Klonmyre had left a snail-trail of her own juices the entire way down. Should have waited on the shower, she thought briefly, but no; the washing water would go off at midnight until 0400 to reset the system, and there was no guarantee they'd be done by then. Her hands drifted lower, across Pixy's ass, working the flesh there, and then Klonmyre's heart had leapt for a moment as Pixy, the hard Pixy, the indomitable Pixy, the badass Pixy, her Pixy, laughed.

Klonmyre had been almost too astonished to go on. Never once had she made Pixy laugh. Giggle? Sure. Chuckle? Often. But laughter was special, her whole tight body shaking between Klonmyre's trembling legs, and she hadn't been able to stop herself. Her breasts dangling low and warm as they grazed across Pixy's back, she'd planted a line of soft, murmuring kisses down her friend's spine, tasting herself on the smooth skin, thrilling to the feeling as she gave this woman comfort, security... love?

It had all gone haywire, of course, when Klonmyre's greedy little fingers had crawled along Pixy's inner thigh, stabbing upward to where the skin got slick and wet, and Pixy had surged upright with a convulsive gasp and scooted back to sit on the pillows, her face scarlet and smirking. "Nuh-uh..." she'd admonished, waving a finger, and Klonmyre had just sat there heavy-thighed and blinked like a dumbass as Pixy had crawled across the thin mattress, lionlike, and tackled the unresisting Klonmyre gently onto the thin sheets. "You know better, Jannelle," she'd chided quietly, and then she'd begun to rub their bodies together, her nose and lips dry and soft as they dragged across Klonmyre's skin, and she'd felt herself sinking back into the sheets. "I'm in charge."

Klonmyre had known it was 2230 when the Pulver had gone lights-out, machinery stirring deep in the bowels of the ship as the hull tuned to its transparent band, the vessel gliding through space as invisibly as it could. All of a sudden there'd been stars everywhere, dazzling and limitless, for senior officers got hullside quarters. And she'd looked from the infinity of space down her own body, sleek and glistening as the starlight glowed on the sweat, down to where thick, dark hair flowed curling over her lap, to where a pair of violet eyes shone sharp and hard in the dark: Pixy, on what must have been at least her fortieth minute down there, her tireless tongue tickling, her fingers gentle and soothing over goosebumped flesh, enduring the clashing grip of Klonmyre's thighs, the thrashing rolls of her hips and the thick, salty drool that flowed undammed out of her body...

Too much. It was all, as it always was, too much, and Klonmyre had wept and rammed her fists into Pixy's sheets as the pink glow had burst and spread from behind her vagina, stoked by the older woman's subtle teeth nibbling at her clit, leaving her taut and straining before, with a cracked cry, she'd melted completely, embarrassingly, her little feet drumming on Pixy's muscled back to the soundtrack of a slurping, moaning hum coming from between her thighs.

Not bad, being the second officer's bedwarmer.

* * *

Pixy had woken Klonmyre at thirty minutes to 0400, having apparently never fallen asleep. The younger girl had started up from a heavy, troubled dream to the hot, humid whisper of Lieutenant Pfeiffer's voice straight into her ear. "Time to get up, Jannelle," she'd said quietly with a brief, tickly lick along her earlobe. Their bodies had been twined warm and comfortable, the hull above the bunk still tuned transparent, and with the warmth and the joy and the immutable vastness of space all around her, Klonmyre had just assumed she was still asleep. But her uniform, cleaned and washed, had been loping across the senior lieutenant's quarters, seeking its owner, and with a thick sigh she'd swept her feet off the bed and sat naked, shivering under the stars, readying for another day of duty.

* * *

The call came through on low-beam while the Pulver was working its fretful way out of lightspace, tracing onto the comms console with a low ping from the alert box. "Sir! Logistics request. Urgent."

"Drop out. Helm, full reverse. Get the mid-beam antenna ready to rig." Captain Crick was suddenly thrown from his usual catatonic torpor, the prospect of some hot, dangerous unscheduled supply action getting him all excited. The bridge gang had seen this kind of thing before. The captain enjoyed urgent low-beam requests; he thought of them as war. His orders came fast and thick, like a tsunami. "Have Lieutenant Amisuul load the torpedoes as soon as we drop out."

The crew looked at each other, having no idea who the captain was talking to. Why the fuck didn't he just tell Mr Amisuul himself? But he was still going. "Make sure Lieutenant Okonfwe is ready with the coding gun. Oh, and where the hell is Lieutenant Pfeiffer?" He made a show of looking around the bridge. "If it's a logistics request, she'll need to assemble a team and get her inventories up to date, forthwith."

An uncomfortable silence followed as nobody did anything at all.

"Well?" Captain Crick waved at the helmsman. "Execute! Drop us out, Lieutenant diBiase!"

"Aye aye, sir." Elon diBiase was not a real lieutenant; he was a Junior Lieutenant, that demeaning rank that meant you had been in the Fleet for just under a year. He was quite certain he had no clue how to "drop out" of anything. He was relieved to find that Jacobs did, leaning far over to slap a few random buttons on his neighbor's console. He gave the Junior a brief nod. "All good, sir. We're going to full reverse."

"Very well." The whole ship shuddered, the stretchy astrophysics of the post-lightspace reaction concept making themselves felt in the rattle of a number of unsecured coffee mugs in the rack on the wall. The captain wiped sweat from his brow with what he thought of as an appropriately noble air. "Did I not call for Lieutenant Pfeiffer?"

Okonfwe, freshly arrived from the latrine, blinked. "Sir? She came off watch like half an hour ago. I'm sure she's... well, I don't know." She did, but she wasn't about to announce it on the bridge. "Sir, why not page her?"

"Excellent idea, Ms Okonfwe." He gave the intercom switch a suitably decisive slap. "Paging Ms Pfeiffer! Ms Pfeiffer to the bridge!" The voice was rich, deep, a voice made for command, a voice that carried no further than the chartroom hatch.

"Uh, sir?" Okonfwe looked carefully sheeplike. "Wrong button, captain. It's the blue one, right next to that one."

"Shit." Another decisive slap, better aimed this time. "Lieutenant Pfeiffer! Come to the bridge." This time it worked, the sound carrying through the intertubes as the ship slowly rattled to its usual calm, vaguely wheezy motion, the order emerging from dozens of squawk boxes mounted in all the major spaces. Even the starboard cargo bay, where Pixy was busy.

The command rang through the bay, echoing off the closed outer hatch.

"Shit." Pixy stopped what she was doing, hoping it was a mistake, waiting for the silence to clear. When it did, it was only her chief tech Joop.

"Naw, ma'am. He really wants you to come up there, I think."

"Fuck." She stood up; the three of them had been squatting, dark in the shadows at the corner of the bay, carefully bagging their drugs into saleable packages: 11mg of Crystal sold for the same price as 5g of Drag, or just 3cc of Anchor, or a couple of doses of either Rush or Bump. Joop exchanged a glance with their third member, Ana the Tygon Whore.

"We can clear this up, Ms Pfeiffer," the Whore said quietly. She did most things quietly. "We got it. Are we putting this in the usual place?"

Pixy shook her head violently and reached for her uniform jacket. It was hot down here. "No. Uh-uh. Mr Densborg was sneaking around down here, vomiting the other day. I was going to stash this shit over under the Furtz generator."

"Good plan." Joop nodded wisely. He'd been aboard the Pulver for ages. "We used to stick bumtabs down there, before they legalized them."