Dry, No Lube Ch. 01

"Ready to go, ma'am." He'd had nothing to do since vomiting in the latrine except make sure every goddamn gun on board was fully loaded, which he'd done. Twice. "100%."

"Stand by, then. Guns out, status green." She looked down at the back of the First Officer's head. "Lieutenant Densborg, sir, if you'd please set a course for the Shaka's starboard quarter? Five hundred meters' range, please."

"Why the fuck not?" Still twisting and turning crazily, Pulver began to inch toward the darting frigate. "It's not like we can match velocities, anyway. No point, with this little engine power." Motherfucker had his flask out, right there on the bridge.

"Okay, fine. Go to 80% power on the shields, Mr diBiase." Pixy punched up the intertube, speaking into the microphone. "Engine room?"

"Who's this?" The reply was wary, as well it might be; they had no clue down there what was going on.

"It's Lieutenant Pfeiffer. I'm in charge. I'm giving you 20% more power, Ms Klonmyre. We need thrust."

The pause that followed was staticky, but Klonmyre sounded chipper enough when she came back on. "No problem, ma'am."

Pixy squinted at Shaka's data. "We'll need... 42% more thrust, Ms Klonmyre. Make it happen." She didn't bother waiting for a reply, but turned to the stinky Okonfwe. "Call Shaka; tell them we're coming up in support. Starboard quarter."

"Yes Ma'am."

Pixy thought some more; there were other orders she'd need to give, but not yet. And then she was terrified once more, sitting there with nothing to do, and the scope was changing by the second, those three fat enemy contacts deploying; over at her own station Ana the Tygon Whore was buckling in, taking over, and Pixy made a fist to stop her hand from shaking, and Amisuul was running out the guns, and suddenly Shaka was close aboard, looming in the viewport with her guns hot, and the torpedo warning blared.

* * *

The transfer came through with little ceremony a few weeks after the battle. Subcommander Owen Crick was getting his dream shot to go along with the Titanium Medal for Valor, a slot as First Officer on a combat cruiser.

"Fucking unfair," Amisuul grunted to Pixy when he read about the medal, but Pixy had laid a hand on his arm.

"It gets him off the ship, you dumb shit," she explained quietly. "I can live with that, and so can you." The rest of the wardroom glanced at her and nodded like she had the wisdom of Buddha, and as always she was mystified.

They'd all been doing that lately, everyone aboard from the captain all the way down to the lowest sailor, every one of the fucking idiots treating her with that silent respect, even worship, like she was some sort of great combat leader or something. It bothered Pixy. Sure, she'd saved the ship, rescued the Shaka, and destroyed two enemy battleships, but so what? As she saw it, she'd merely done her job. What else was she supposed to do, with the captain on the deck doing the kickin' chicken and the First Officer living out his arcade-game fantasies in real life? When that happened, the Second had to take over, and when the enemy was shooting at you, well, what the fuck was she supposed to do?

She'd fired back.

Naturally she'd gotten a medal too, the little silver one with the red ribbon. The other officers aboard had gotten the bronze one, but people had been really impressed at how she'd hard-docked a shuttle, under emergency thrust, onto a ship maneuvering evasively under fire. First try, too. Besides, the right people knew what had happened on the bridge. Even the Admiral had known, had treated her with a certain grating deference, the story already spreading far and wide about the supply officer on the GP service ship who'd stepped up, assumed command, and taken her attack all the way in.

But orders were orders, and officially the captain got the glory when his ship did well. This time, if the result was Crick getting promoted out of the ship, Pixy saw that as a solid win. She studied her tabslate, the meeting already running long. "Right. So we'll be getting some replacements soon, probably. A new captain obviously, a temporary First while Mr Densborg... well, a temporary First," she finished lamely, and for the first time it occurred to her that maybe, just maybe, they'd be getting a new Second instead.

Maybe the new First was in the mirror.

She shook that off. She was an excellent supply officer with, finally, a hullside cabin, and she wanted little else. But at the moment, with the captain packing his bags and the First in withdrawal awaiting orders to rehab, she was the captain. And that, she had quickly discovered, was no fun at all. Because it meant Mr Amisuul was acting as the First Officer, and Pixy didn't have a Pixy as Second to pick up his slack.

But Pulver sailed on through the stars regardless, limping to meet an appointment at the repair basin off Cygnus VII, and the ship didn't care who was in charge.

* * *

"I'm telling you, you need to let me do this!" Klonmyre sounded angry. "Enough of your bullshit. Shut your mouth, get your clothes off, and lie the fuck down."

Pixy shook her head slowly, amazed. The engineer must be stressed out, or on her period, though the metering implants should have taken care of that. She leaned her arm casually on the desk. "You do remember who you're talking to, Jannelle, don't you?"

"I'm certainly not talking to the great immortal Lieutenant Pfeiffer, the one who saved the ship." Pixy frowned; Klonmyre was using air quotes, a habit that deeply bothered Pixy. "No. I'm talking to my friend Pixy, the one with the cute ass and the martyr complex. And I'm telling you, get out of that chair and onto your bunk!"

Pixy sighed, but she'd never seen Klonmyre like this. She got slowly to her feet, the stars wheeling immeasurably above, for she'd started ordering lights-out an hour earlier these days. Wouldn't do to be detected, not with the damage Pulver had. "We need to work on your command presence," she said slowly, shaking her head. She hesitated with her hand halfway to the staytab. "You really think my ass is cute?"

"Smoking hot," Klonmyre barked. "Now come on. I'm on watch at midnight, and I'm not wasting time on your smart mouth."

Pixy scowled as her clothes schlumphed off to the wash module. "You don't normally complain about my mouth," she observed, a twinge of pain in her back making her grimace. That last torpedo had nearly put her down, the one that had killed Ononfwe. The surgeon had done his best with her back, but what did he know? The guy was a pediatrician. The Fleet didn't waste its prime doctors on GP service vessels.

Klonmyre, of course, noticed the grimace.

"There, you see? Your back is killing you." Her voice softened with concern. "Let me do this."

"Fine," Pixy scoffed, tossing her head. "But don't screw around. Give me a backrub, make sure I take my meds, and then it's spooning time. I feel like I haven't slept in months."

"I'm not sure sleep is all you need," Klonmyre said quietly as she hit her own staytab. "Ma'am."

Pixy gave her a withering glance, but it did feel good to be naked and warm and marginally safe, now that they'd outrun the enemy ships. Klonmyre had been solidly on her game, finding thrust wherever she could, squeezing power into the solar cells out of every passing star of Class A or higher. She collapsed onto her bunk, the springs protesting as they always did. "Like you'd know what I need, Jannelle."

"I told you," the younger woman chided as she slithered onto the bed, "your smart mouth is not required at this point."

"Fuck you."

"Not this time." She was whispering now, all lithe limbs and lush breasts, kissing already as her little body whispered dryly across Pixy's. She peeked around to see those violet eyes close, and Klonmyre knew she needed to do this right; there'd be no second chance. "Relax, Pixy," Klonmyre soothed, her breath hot and sweet in her ear. "You don't have to be in charge all the time." She felt her words take effect, felt the body underneath her deflate just a little, and then she sent her felt invasive little hands burrowing gently underneath, seeking nipples.

"What are you doing, Jannelle?" It came as a thick murmur. Those violet eyes were still closed, her lashes long and fine at such close range. Klonmyre felt that stupid little thrill in her brain, the one she felt every time Pixy used her first name; she'd been Klonmyre for years, since starting the Academy. She was only ever Jannelle to this woman, at these times. Even her husband didn't call her that, but then they'd met at the Academy anyway. "What's your plan here?"

"My plan?" She let her fingers flicker quietly along the sides of Pixy's breasts, whispering across her armpits, and she heard a distinct giggle from below. "Why does there have to be a plan, Pix?"

"This is the Fleet, you inexperienced little muppet." The reply had been muffled by the pillow. "There's always a plan."

"Sometimes you're wrong, ma'am." Ah, but she did have a plan; she just wasn't going to announce it. She'd already chosen her landing zone, remembering a time before, long past now, when Pixy had twitched when tickled at the base of her spine. So, using all the strategic principles the Fleet had taught her, Klonmyre brought her assault in at that point, tongue first, nibbling and sucking, and the surge from the woman beneath her was powerful and sudden.

"Gahh! Fuck!" Pixy's supple body bucked up off the bed, but Klonmyre was ready; she leaned in hard, maintaining leverage, and shoved her right back down. She was coming in from the older woman's side, and she pushed her leg on top of Pixy's thigh and drove mercilessly downward, bending sharply to trail kisses further down, into the crack of her ass. "Get off me, Jannelle!"

"Shut up," Klonmyre grated evenly, and then she jammed her face back into Pixy's ass with her forearm hard across her shoulderblades. She hoped she wouldn't have to spend all night holding the woman down, but she would if she had to; far better for her to teach the grim bitch that she'd get a lot more fun out of her bedwarmer if she'd just shut up and quit struggling. Klonmyre had been feeling guilty for weeks, taking Pixy's tongue and giving nothing back, and now she was damned if she wouldn't pay back every fucking lick, with interest.

Whether Pixy wanted it or not.

Now Klonmyre had her hand on that stringy, muscular thigh, the body still surging beneath her in a most exciting way, and she swept her tongue straight down to the bottom of her ass just as her thumb hooked hard into Pixy's slit from below, and with an abruptness that took Klonmyre's breath, the surging changed. Pixy wasn't trying to buck her off anymore; now, suddenly, those hips were rolling, grinding in harsh wet rhythm on Klonmyre's thumb, and she picked her head up and laughed.

"See?" She smacked Pixy's ass, still wiggling her other thumb in what felt like a damp furnace. "Told you. Shut up and take it."

Pixy's thick, wavy hair tossed as she swung her head around to glare at the triumphant Klonmyre, those gorgeous eyes of hers narrowed. "When you get done with me," she promised, her voice low and sibilant, "it's open season on your cunt. I hope you know that, Jannelle." Her hips writhed, keeping up with the easy rhythm of Klonmyre's thumb.

"Whatever." Klonmyre took a breath then, and wormed her head down between Pixy's thighs, coming in from behind, leading as before with her tongue. This was new; she'd never licked out a woman before, but the last few months with Pixy had taught her what worked for the receiver, so she was confident she could figure it out despite the odd position.

"Damn you." The legs spread involuntarily once Pixy figured out her bedwarmer's objective, her back spasming as she arched her body to offer access. She gasped, first with the pain and then with the hot, wet shock of Klonmyre's eager mouth colliding with her vagina. "Motherfucker."

Young and energetic, Klonmyre brought her legs up and around, and now she was jamming her head up under Pixy's hips, and the Second Officer had no choice but to get up onto her hands and knees to avoid suffocating Klonmyre. She looked beneath her now and saw bobbing red curls as Klonmyre pushed her head up into Pixy's crotch, her jaw working steadily, her fingers now coming gently into play along her labia.

And then, at last, Pixy saw the determination in her little friend's shoulders, heard the smacking sounds as pussy juice met saliva, and accepted defeat. "Fuuck..." she sighed, loud and long, and then she buried her head into her pillows, knelt there, and took it.

Klonmyre knew at once she wouldn't have to do any more convincing, and she celebrated with a gently prodding finger at Pixy's asshole. She let her head drop back onto the creaky mattress, her whole world bounded now by Pixy's flesh, and took a deep pussy-tasting breath. "Told you so," she murmured, licking up at Pixy's belly button. She patted briskly at the other woman's hip. "Now roll over and let me work."

The lieutenant obeyed, still with those suspicious, narrowed eyes, arranging a pillow beneath her tender back. "Congratulations, Jannelle," she announced. "You've made it farther than any other bedwarmer." Klonmyre wasn't sure she believed that; eleven years Pixy had been in the Fleet. It seemed inconceivable that she'd only ever been eaten out by other supply officers in those squalid little transactions of theirs. She spread her legs wide on the bunk, her feet hanging off each side, and lay back warm and tingly. "Do your worst." And then Klonmyre was no longer thinking about Pixy's service record.

Klonmyre reared up on her knees, looking down at this woman who was surrendering to her, her breasts fine and high and tight with their dark nipples paying attention. All her limbs were splayed out, her gash a deep purple-red eye staring up at her, shiny and hairless and smelling like wet dog. Klonmyre had never seen anything so sexy. "You really should loosen up," she murmured, arching her own butt high alongside the other woman's thigh so that Pixy could watch her from the side. She knew how much Pixy loved her tits, and she wanted her to watch them dangle. "I'm sure I'm not the first woman who's wanted to do this for you."

"No," Pixy agreed, her voice soft. She allowed herself to stroke Klonmyre's hair, glowing by the light of the stars through the transparent-band hull. "It's hard for me to do this," she confessed quietly. "I've never really had people care about me."

"Yes you have," Klonmyre said at once. "Just not the ones you make deals with, the other supply geeks. Some of us... well, let's just say some of us care about you very much." She leaned down, her brown eyes strong on Pixy's violet ones, and gave her pussy a deliberate kiss. It tasted musky, strong and sweaty and darkly exciting. "Very much." She went back down, and Pixy let her head fall back onto the pillows, and that's when Klonmyre learned how to eat a woman out.

Fortunately for them both, she'd always been a quick study.

It wasn't that difficult, she told herself; it was a lot like kissing, actually, if the lips you were kissing didn't kiss back. That, plus the flavor took a bit of getting used to, though once she did she found it got her all sorts of horny. No, this would be a breeze; and, in fairness, Pixy was not being shy in her feedback. She thrust her hips around and up, opening wide for Klonmyre, and from there she made no effort to stop herself from the occasional gasps, groans, shivers, and kicks; even more telling, she couldn't stop the steadily mounting smells and flavors of a woman in heat, and Klonmyre soon discovered she was hard-wired to respond to that.

She could tell immediately, based on her memory of teenaged experiments with mirrors and vidcams, that her own anatomy was very different from Pixy's. This slit was long, generous, opening wide and red beneath her tongue, and she found she could get her nose and mouth quite far into there. She also found, around the same time, that Pixy enjoyed that. Very much. Strong, clenching hands soon found their way into Klonmyre's curls, and for many blissful minutes the two women let each other enjoy the moment, sampling and nibbling and sighing and giggling.

But it couldn't last; Klonmyre was a woman, so she knew precisely where and what she should attack if she wanted to produce an orgasm, which she very much did; and even as her brain immersed itself slowly in its unthinking estrogen bath, she remembered past nights where Pixy, working hard in Klonmyre's own smaller, tighter vagina, had coaxed her little clit out into the night and devoured it, how it had made her feel. So, her jaw tiring, Klonmyre blew a tickly breath into her friend's hole, waited for the soft chuckle to subside, and then her tongue was out and in, snaking up along Pixy's corrugated inner labia to the top, where the magic began, where the clitoris waited.

So this, she reflected a few moments later, is what Pixy Pfeiffer does when she cums.

The strength of the muscled thighs was almost too intense, buffeting her, knocking her face almost all the way out of contact with her target, but she persisted: Klonmyre brought out her teeth, desperately but lightly, and when she fastened herself firmly onto her lover she felt the power in that rippling body, the trickle of fluid and the cracked groan from above, and she knew she'd done it.

She was impressed at the size of the stain beneath Pixy's asscrack. And finally, her jaw working out its stiffness, Klonmyre came drifting tired and sweaty into the circle of Pixy's arms, always so unexpectedly gentle. When at last Pixy spoke, she sounded ironic. "So. What was that about a martyr complex?"

Klonmyre nestled back, and now Pixy was doing the spooning, like usual. Klonmyre felt strong arms and legs around her body, felt the usual hand playing with her breasts, felt safe and warm. She sighed long and loud, adding a brief giggle onto the end. "Well."

"I know." Pixy sounded happy, at least, though it was always so hard to tell. "Thanks, Jannelle. You seem to have had a point about two-way PD." She leaned in and kissed Klonmyre's neck. "Maybe I should listen to you more often."

"Maybe you should." They breathed easily, already lapsing toward sleep.

"Don't get all uppity, though," Pixy warned after a few moments. She sounded like she usually did, a mix of indifference and annoyance. "You're still just the engineering officer, Sublieutenant Klonmyre, and you still have many bosses. I won't hesitate to put you on extended duty if you start thinking your shit doesn't stink. Comprehend?"

Klonmyre hoped her grin wasn't audible in her reply. "Perfectly, ma'am."