Dry, No Lube Ch. 01

She brightened. "Yes! He and I... that is, I'm familiar with him." She glanced quickly to the sides and lowered her voice again. "He doesn't charge much for officers. There's a discount."

"I know how these things work, Sublieutenant Klonmyre. This is not my first ship."

The younger woman retreated at once into her mandazi. "No, ma'am. I didn't mean to imply... well, sorry."

Pixy brushed it off. "Should we invite him to your next PD? As, like, a technical consultant?"

Unexpectedly, Klonmyre backed off a bit, her eyes hooding. "I... well, of course, that's your prerogative, ma'am. But my understanding..." She trailed off and looked at her food, then tried again. "I was thinking it's really only proper for officers to do PD with other officers. If that makes sense, ma'am." True, Pixy reflected. Things like bedwarming and ship-husbanding were supposed to be rank-based. It was okay for officers and sailors to fuck for money, but not for free.

"You're quite right, Ms Klonmyre," Pixy said after a moment. "I'm not sure what the fuck I was thinking." She reached beneath the table and gave Klonmyre a brief, punctuational finger-stab to the pussy, just to reinforce her sincerity. Klonmyre shuddered, her eyes closing briefly. "Forget about it. There's nothing Jacobs can do for PD that you can't." She whipped a quick look around to make sure nobody was listening. "You know that's not what I meant, Jannelle."

"I know, Pixy." She raised her big soulful eyes in her squared-off face beneath neat, close ginger braids. "I know." She sipped at her chai as Pixy started to get ready to leave. "If I may speak plainly, ma'am?"

"Go ahead, Ms Klonmyre." Loaded with the remains of her pitiful matzoh, Pixy's tray began its shaky hovering trip over to the wash-sink. "Say what's on your mind."

"It occurs to me," Klonmyre said after a pause, "to remind you that PD doesn't just have to be a one-way process. Ma'am." Her brown eyes flashed, and Pixy had to restrain a shudder. Christ, and she wasn't even Bumping or Rushing. Cleve had obviously been right: she needed to get laid. "I'd be happy to explore that further, ma'am."

Pixy sighed. "I'll take it under advisement, Ms Klonmyre."

* * *

Hating herself, Pixy actually took Cleve's advice a few days later. She'd woken alone, under the stars in the middle of the night, with a big cool spot in her bunk where Klonmyre belonged. Pixy had been confused and frightened, swampy with sweat, and had been shocked to discover her own fingers buried deeply in her snatch.

They were moving, too, trying to scratch an itch she couldn't reach, and she'd glanced at the chrono in frustration. "Fuck me," she sighed at herself in disgust, but she already was, and it wasn't doing any good. In despair she'd thought for a moment, then she'd pulled out the tabslate and checked the duty roster.

Yup. Klonmyre was on shift. But Amisuul was not.

Angrily she'd swung her legs to the deck, ordering her clothes to get themselves together. Five minutes later she'd been stalking the corridor toward the junior officers' area, her hair in wild disarray, her uniform barely done fastening itself; that hardly mattered. She planned to be naked soon. She stepped once more around the hydraulic puddle outside diBiase's quarters, the one she'd slipped on last week, and she jabbed the doorcode angrily into Amisuul's door.

He was shirtless, sitting at his desk in the stuffy shoebox of a room, completing a weapons-status report. He twisted around in his seat as the hatchway creaked shut, frowning. 'Shit, ma'am," he whined. "You need to stop just barging in."

"Shut your yap," Pixy replied testily. Her mouth was feeling dry, and she was already doubting this was a good idea, but she was here. "Busy, Mr Amisuul?"

"Yes, actually."

"Not anymore."

The Tygon started, his eyes narrowing; Pixy had always found it attractive, how they blinked sideways. There was a pregnant pause while Amisuul hooked his arm casually across the back of the chair and regarded her coldly. "I've already got a bedwarmer, ma'am."

"Several. I know."

"So do you." He was rubbing thoughtfully at his jaw. "None of mine have their own latrine, though."

Pixy stared evenly. "I'll let you use my shower," she allowed, "but only on Wednesdays." She paused, considering. "And only for the next month. This isn't going to be a consistent thing, Mr Amisuul."

"I should hope not," he replied slowly, but he was smiling like a bastard anyway; she shivered with lust and revulsion. Tygon men liked fucking human women; it was considered a step up socially, especially in the Fleet, and particularly if the woman outranked them. He folded his keyboard away and stood slowly. "Feel like slumming it, ma'am?"

She paused, thinking about how to say this. She didn't hate him; he was a pimp and a loser, but he knew about the weapons systems and, when he could be bothered, did his duty well enough. Plus, there was the overriding reality that he was the Third Officer they had, the one the whole ship had no choice but to rely on to do his job. Or at least as much of it as he could be bothered to do. Pixy shrugged. "Don't take it that way, Mr Amisuul. Think of it like this: I need dick, and of all the males aboard this ship you're my first choice."

He smiled at that, crafty, looking her up and down. "Well, I guess I should take that as a compliment." He stood up, tall and muscled, his scales shining. "Can I call you Pixy?"

"You cannot," she snapped. "I told you, this isn't going to be a consistent thing."

He chuckled. "Even while we're fucking?" He shook his head. "Wow, ma'am. You are one hard bitch, you know that?" He pressed his staytab, the pants already tenting. "You can use my first name, if you want."

She gnawed at her lower lip, considering. "What is it?"

He gave a short bark of laughter as his pants came off, him standing there loose-limbed and calm, both of them watching his dick come the rest of the way up. "You couldn't pronounce it if you tried, ma'am. People call me 'Rocky' in English."

"Fuck no. I don't like that name." Pixy, her hand trembling, hit her own staytab. His dick was veiny, impressively thick by Tygon standards. She tried to ignore his lack of balls. "Lie down, Lieutenant."

He smirked offensively, one fang poking out, as he watched her body come into view. "Can't I give the orders for once, ma'am?" he muttered, grinning when he saw how hard her nipples were, deep dark pink on her pert breasts. She was tense, anxious, every muscle hard under her pale skin. "After all, you're a lieutenant too."

"You're a Sub, Mr Amisuul. I'm not. That's why I'm the Second Officer and you're the Third." She allowed herself a smile as her legs burst free of the pants, the stuffy cabin air cooler where she was leaking down her thigh. "More to the point, that's why I've got my own shower. Lie down, Lieutenant."

Standing naked and proud, the Tygon made his penis twist and writhe until it pointed at Pixy's face. "Aye aye, ma'am," he said softly, sinking down onto his narrow bunk. He stuck his hands insolently behind his head, echoing the position she'd found him in with Purcell. He was making his dick dance now, back and forth, watching smugly as she licked her lips. "You look like you're more than ready for me, Lieutenant Pfeiffer. Did you want to skip the foreplay?" He snarled a nasty laugh. "I wouldn't say no to a blowjob, though. I've wondered about your mouth for some time now."

"Have you?" Pixy was nude now, all rippling muscle on her compact frame, and she reached down to spread her labia without shame. He looked greedily at her. "You're going to have to keep on wondering, then. I came here for a full pussy, not a full mouth." She was amazed at herself. She didn't usually talk like this. Undoubtedly, she reflected, it was because she just didn't like him. Or maybe she really was just that horny. She straddled him, the scales smooth and warm under her thighs, like sitting on a pleasure bot, and ran her hands up his abs to his chest. "Ready?"

"Watch this," he replied, and he made his dick move to poke her mound, just like you'd use a finger. Unexpectedly, Pixy giggled; it tickled. "Oh, you like that?" He used his cockhead to trail downward an inch or so, prodding dully where he knew her clit was. Pixy couldn't suppress a gasp. "Yeah," he said, his lip curling cruelly. "You like that."

"So weird, without balls," she muttered, her hands exploring his body. His dick was rubbing at her in little circles, a subtle reminder of what was to come once he was inside her; all she had to do was raise her body and take him in.

"Anyone ever tell you you're sexy as hell, ma'am?" He reached up to tweak her nipples. She pulled back, daring him to keep trying, unable to quit being at least a little playful. "Get back here," he said, low and intimate, trying again, and this time when she moved her chest side to side, the little boobs dancing, he took advantage of her distraction to move his cock snakelike between her legs and up, nestling just inside her slit.

"Mm!" She hiked herself forward convulsively, like a spider, forcing herself straight onto his dick even as she slapped her tits into his waiting palms. Grimacing with pleasure, she pasted herself to his body, feeling his cock writhe triumphantly inside. "Fuck yes." Clive had been right. She shuddered. "People tell me all the time," she admitted, still just a bit bashful. She didn't like being complimented.

"Uh-huh." With a last, lingering squeeze of her flushed tits, Amisuul returned his hands complacently behind his head. "It's the eyes, ma'am. They're fucking gorgeous." He made his dick curl around to the front of her vagina, tickling lightly from the inside, and he smiled as she shivered. "I've wanted to tell you that for awhile, but you're always such a bitch to me." His eyes were roaming all over her body, admiring her.

"You're not a very good officer, Mr Amisuul." Then she arched back, her mouth wide open, his penis doing incredible things inside of her; it was like a handjob, but with the intimacy and expertise of sex with a really good lover, and her whole body went even tenser as she shuddered through an orgasm.

"Yeah," he offered calmly, "but I'm the one whose quarters you barged into when you needed to get laid, huh ma'am?" He gave a soft, mocking laugh. "That's one. How many times you want me to make you cum, Lieutenant? Fifteen? Twenty? As horny as you are, that ought to take about half an hour." He chuckled again. "This is why you Earth girls can't stay away from Tygon cock."

"Fuck you," but it sounded weak and whiny to her.

"You are," he gloated, doing that thing again, with his dickhead deep, deep inside her, and then she was collapsing again with her magnificent eyes lidded, falling forward with her slack body slapping onto his smooth chest, hearing him laugh at her weakness as she lapsed right away into her second orgasm. She felt his arms go around her, offensively intimate, and then he really started fucking up into her, and she forgot where she was.

* * *

When she came to, in the very early hours as the oncoming 0400 watch began stomping across the decks above Amisuul's quarters, she felt greasy and heavy, wallowing in a deep lazy sexual pit, her mind thick and her pussy in deep, deep discomfort from the solid hour or so she'd spent tensed in orgasm. There was bloat there, too, a sort of slushiness from the sheer quantity of stinky green spooge he'd unleashed inside her. "Fuck," she grunted quietly into a pillow that stank of her hair; she felt vaguely offended that Amisuul would be able to go to sleep that night still smelling her.

"Why, good morning!" He sounded impossibly chipper. "I was just heading out for a shower. Want to come with me? You can get the full sublieutenant experience, scrubbing your ass with the rest of us." He laughed, a familiar sound by now; he'd spent much of the night mocking her. "Got to get the stink of your nasty human cunt off me, ma'am."

Christ, she told herself angrily, such a mistake! Such a hideous mistake! She'd been in a bind, though; there were other Tygons aboard, but they were enlisted. And Pixy Pfeiffer did not believe officers ought to fuck sailors, certainly not without paying. So she'd felt, in her horny and sleep-addled brain, that Amisuul would be the only vaguely acceptable partner, and now she hated herself for her weakness.

But oh, motherfucker! He'd played her body like a cello, making it feel things she hadn't felt in years. She'd need to write a letter to Clive, thanking him and admitting he'd been right: Amisuul had given her enough that she should be able to go weeks now without another dick. But after that... She balled his sheets up in her fist, impotent with rage at the thought that she might need to come back here again. Her vagina was still fluttering, sending twinges of pleasure deep into her brain despite the soreness.

The mocking voice still invaded her. "Of course, I'll get a better shower next Wednesday, ma'am, won't I?" He snickered. "Maybe you'll join me then..."

She roused herself with an effort; this shit needed to stop now. "Listen, Mr Amisuul," she bit out, trying to sound like a badass despite her nudity and his sperm swamping her innards, "get this straight. This ends here and now. Your impertinent mouth can go screw itself. You're using my shower on my timetable, not yours, and for the stated water-availability time only. Then it's straight down the corridor and back to this stinky little closet you live in." She sniffed, pulling the sheets belatedly up to cover her breasts. "And you'll be silent about this whole thing, too, or I'll put you on extended duty for three weeks."

He smiled, scratching at her crusty discharge on his dangling penis. "You can't do that," he mocked. "You're not my boss."

"No," she nodded, "but the First Officer is. And I can get him to sign anything I want." It was true, and she watched the realization dawn in those sideways yellow eyes. "So, you little shit, you keep your fucking mouth shut. You go about your duties, you hog my shower for a couple of Wednesdays, and you try your best to forget about this. Do that, and we'll get along. But if you fuck with me about this, just once, I'll load you into one of your own torpedo tubes and blast your skinny fucking opposable penis out into space. Comprehend?"

He glared, but he got the message. "Yes, ma'am," he sulked.

"Good." She flapped her hand, booting him from his own quarters. "Now shoo. Go take your shower. I'll see you for the captain's briefing at zero-six." He'd scowled, but her point was made, and he left with one last glance at her naked leg. Pixy sighed, cursing herself as she flopped back onto his nasty bed, wondering whether she could possibly make the walk of shame back to her quarters without leaking green cum all over the deck.

Klonmyre would be wondering where she'd gone, but she'd be too polite to ask.

* * *

Some weeks later, Pulver found herself in company with seven other ships, meeting for one of those infrequent rendezvous that happened from time to time, when the admirals decided the capital ships needed more ammo and water. Three frigates, a cruiser, and a destroyer all hung sluggishly in space, bound to the three service ships by their endlessly complicated umbilicals for power, fuel, water, and all the other sundry necessities of interspace war. For a few days, at least, this little patch of space became something like a settlement, a tiny outpost of humanity (and its more acceptable alien allies) in the vastness of the stars.

This sort of thing didn't quite mean liberty for all hands, but it certainly meant anyone who could possibly get off their ship and onto someone else's did so. Life aboard any starship, even the largest and most airy, became painfully claustrophobic quickly. You saw the same people every day, at the same times. The food was about the same. The stars, despite being different, looked the same. There was nothing to relieve the routine but the occasional planet or passing ship, or very occasionally a battle. There were no real days off, nowhere to spend your pay, nowhere to get any unrecycled air or to be away from the familiar, changeless mechanical sounds of your own little piece of pressurized hull.

One of the frigates, the Corsair, was out on the edge of the formation doing picket duty, but other than that, the captains of the combat ships were calmly going about their business, pretending it was peacetime. So, of course, the service ships were following suit. This annoyed Crick, who had tried to order his crew to the feared Weapons Status Green before the senior captain had mocked him over the low-beam.

And when word spread that a detail was required to run a load of detonators over to the USS Timochenco, there was a painfully high number of volunteers. Pixy was in charge as supply officer, Amisuul was along as weapons officer, and the three sailors they needed to help do the transfer had been supplemented by about eleven more.

She gathered the spare eleven in the troop bay of the shuttle as Amisuul inexpertly dragged the little vessel across to the massive cruiser. "Listen up, shitheads," she snarled. "Lieutenant Amisuul and I are well aware why you people volunteered to come along. You want to see different colored decks, smell the funk of different armpits, sample different kinds of drugs, trade your shitty little trinkets for different shitty little trinkets, and get a chance to put your genitals in or around different genitals.

"Look, whatever. But do it fast, because this transfer is going to take forty minutes, tops. I'll make one announcement, just one, to give you people a five-minute warning before we shove off back to the Pulver. You assholes don't make it back? That's your own tough shit. You'll be AWOL, I'll forward your name to the Fleet as a deserter, and they'll hunt you down and have you drawn and quartered. Right?" She glared around, but she was a fairly popular officer aboard and nobody really doubted her. They liked her because she was hard but fair, and because she was the one who got them drugs. "Comprehend?"

"Aye aye, ma'am," came the reply out of eleven listless mouths. Pixy glanced out the canopy, distracted by the lurching of Amisuul's horribly-done approach.

"Oh, and two more things. The surgeon will have birth-control capsules available when you get back for any of you fuckdicks who forget to be careful. And last but not least, the captain's orders say no stowaways. If it's alive, it stays on the Timochenco. So no pets, no viruses, and no new boyfriends or girlfriends. Yes?"

She whirled then, not waiting for a response, to take charge and dock the fucking shuttle. "Goddammit," she grunted, batting the Tygon's hands away from the control stick. "Is there a shittier pilot in the Fleet? Must I do everything for you?"

"Well," he murmured, "only what I don't do for you."

Pixy wasted no time, glancing around to make sure nobody was looking before she whipped her hand off the stick and smashed her elbow hard into his cock. "Learn to fly," she snapped as he doubled over, coughing.

Keeping a firm hold on her three real sailors, Pixy worked her way through the big cruiser's unfamiliar corridors, lined with hatches that looked the same as the ones on the Pulver, only cleaner. Their guide was a diminutive fellow from the supply department, a mutant who couldn't have been more than three feet tall, and Amisuul had to concentrate hard not to step on him as he walked. "Do you know this supply officer, ma'am?" he asked. He was still wincing as he stepped.

"Mr Amisuul, it's not like there's this universal logistics fraternity that has a secret handshake and a password and shit." She and Joop traded eye-rolls. "I doubt I've even heard of her."