Deliberately, the Sergeant made stroke after painstaking stroke toward the tight rosebud of Phoebe’s asshole, then repeated the process even more slowly on the other side. At last, there was nothing left but a ring of stubble around the sphincter itself, and Phoebe was trembling with tension.
The Sergeant reached down to rinse the razor and paused, her face clouded with displeasure.
“Stop moving!” she roared.
“Jesus!” Phoebe yelped. Her visible effort to still herself only made her involuntary movements bigger and more spastic.
“Shit,” the Sergeant muttered. “Do something to take her mind off this, will you?”
Walters looked at me and stroked her fly. I nodded.
“No, hang on,” I told her a moment later, realizing there was no way for Walters to get at her prey. We got Phoebe’s ankles back to where they were before, in the dying cockroach position, and hooked her bracelets together underneath the cot. Now that her arms and legs had more free play, Phoebe would just have to hold still. The Sergeant waited patiently at the foot of the cot until we were ready.
Walters swung a leg over the narrow bed. With a wide-legged straddle, she rested her butt lightly on Phoebe’s chest. “Suck on this candy, baby doll.” Walters licked her lips and started to work the big dick out of her pants.
Phoebe wasn’t going to make it easy: her lips pressed shut in a thin white line before the rose-dark cockhead that bounced impatiently on her chin. Even with Walters’ thumb and forefinger firmly pinching her nose, she seemed ready to hold her breath until she turned blue rather than let that monster in her mouth.
I leaned in and whispered in Phoebe’s ear, “Maybe it’s time for that enema after all.”
Phoebe’s lips parted. Walters guided the big knob into our captive’s mouth.
“Hold…still…now,” came the Sergeant’s muffled voice. The entire tableau froze, Walters straddling the cot and pressing her hard-on down into Phoebe’s candy-glossed piehole, me and Caine at either side like altar boys, steadying Phoebe’s winglike knees, and Sergeant Greenvale in full genuflection, ready to administer the sacrament.
Four precise strokes, and the razor landed in the basin with a clang.
“All right, boys,” the Sergeant sang out, “as you were!”
Phoebe gave a little cough as Walters pressed the big dildo home. The Sergeant and I stood back to watch while Caine unzipped her own rod and worked it into Phoebe’s well-lubed cunt.
“That girl sure is a piece of work,” the Sergeant told me, shaking her head in admiration. Phoebe’s eyes were closed; so were Caine’s. Walters bent over to gently cradle Phoebe’s hairless head while fucking her mouth. We could hear little grunts and moans of pleasure from all three of them.
“She sure is,” I agreed. “We’re gonna miss her.”
Phoebe’s excitement was building. Walters swung off so she could kneel by the cot, stroking and squeezing Phoebe’s breasts, kissing her ears and cheeks and head and eyelids while Caine moved rhythmically in and out.
“Did she tell you what kind of detail she’s going on?”
I shook my head. “Just something undercover.”
Phoebe was getting louder. “Oh, god, oh, yeah, oh,” she called, while Caine murmured, “Oh, baby, come for me, yeah, honey, that’s right, that’s right,” and Walters kissed and nibbled and sucked everything she could reach.
“And that the shave is part of her cover,” I added.
“Or it doesn’t matter.” The Sergeant shrugged. “She was pretty coy about it. All I know for sure is that a little roughing up was good to go.”
The legs of the cot were beating a tattoo on the cell floor as Phoebe bucked under Caine’s onslaught, and she was yelling obscenities full blast. Caine herself was bellowing like a calf, and Walters was squatting bare-assed beside them, grunting, having unstrapped her piece to bring herself off, one hand pis-toning the big dildo in and out while the other worked furiously at her clit.
“That’s so undignified.” I nodded toward Walters, reflecting on the number of times I would have liked to do just the same thing myself.
“I hope she put a fresh rubber on it,” the Sergeant remarked gravely.
At last the sweaty threesome was quiet, draped on the cot and each other like a heap of puppies. Phoebe didn’t look half bad with a bare knob. I guess you have to have the right shape skull.
“Okay, let’s go, let’s go,” the Sergeant waded in, clapping her hands. “Let’s break this up and let the lady get some circulation back.” Caine groaned and heaved herself off Phoebe. “Get those cuffs off her. And put that thing away, for god’s sake,” she pointed at Walters’s discarded dildo.
“You know, I thought I’d take Phoebe home myself for the last…” I pulled out my pocket watch, “…ten hours before she has to report.” Phoebe was straightening her legs and working the kinks out of her shoulders. “But it looks like she still owes you for that shirt.”
“Go out and get that bag of clothes, will you? And you can dump the basin and swab down that cot.” The Sergeant handed out her orders and turned back to me. “What are you saying? You want to turn the prisoner over to my custody, Officer?”
“Let’s ask Phoebe.” I called to her, “Hey, Phoebe! You and the Sergeant have some unfinished business. You want to choose your poison for the rest of the night, or do you want us to flip for you?”
Phoebe’s sleepy eyes opened wide. “Flip for me?” She hooted. “You, maybe, Sam. But the Sergeant?” She howled.
The Sergeant grinned.
“All right, all right,” I said, smiling. “Some other time, maybe.” I waved at Caine and Walters, now busying themselves with laying out a fresh set of jeans and T-shirt for our guest of honor. “I’ll just send those guys…”
Phoebe ignored the clothes and made her careful way to me. “Thanks for a great time.” She put her arms around my neck and kissed me, deep and lingering. Her beautiful breasts pressed into my shirtfront as she molded herself to me and set my heart to racing all over again.
“Do you want to catch some z’s? Or keep going?”
She threw a mischievous look toward the Sergeant. “Sorry about the shirt, Em.”
I caught sight of Walters and Caine from the corner of one eye. “What in hell is going on here?” Walters had strapped her rod back on; Caine seemed to be helping her adjust the fit. Her mouth was millimeters away from touchdown. “Clean that thing up and put a rubber on it, for god’s sake.” I excused myself from Phoebe’s embrace. “Have you maggots forgotten your drill?” They bounced to their feet. I eyed the half-masted stiffie poking out of Walters’s fly and shook my head sadly.
“These jokers are in need of training, Sergeant. Would you be so kind as to take charge of the prisoner for the rest of the night?”
“With pleasure, Officer.” She turned to Phoebe, who was now dressed and seating herself gingerly, sneakers in hand. “Shall we, darlin’?”
Phoebe lifted an eyebrow and gave Em a look that would’ve turned my knees to water. I sighed. I saw them out and bolted the door behind them, with one last kiss for Phoebe and a wink for my lucky friend. Back at the pen, Caine and Walters were disassembling each other’s uniforms, too busy to notice my return.
I cleared my throat. They threw me startled, guilty looks. Caine giggled. Walters hurried to button her shirt, getting them wrong.
“Jesus Christ.” I rubbed my weary eyes. “Didn’t one of you baboons even think of cleaning that up?” I pointed at the puddle Phoebe had left on the linoleum. They looked at each other with identical expressions of horror. “No, no, with the mop, you morons.”
I thought longingly of Phoebe and the Sergeant, the good time they were undoubtedly having without me. When Phoebe came back, I’d take it out on her hide. If she came back, I corrected myself soberly, with more than a little worry. I hoped we’d given her a good send-off, at least. In the meantime, I’d just have to make the best of it.
“Straighten up! Caine, put th
at dick away. Walters, you’re still out of uniform. Undo it and try again, then DROP and GIVE ME TWENTY!”
It was going to be a long night.
Phoebe, bon voyage.
CAMERA
Elspeth Potter
You’re stripping out of your mecha because the battle’s over. Your nerves still sing from your part in the ship’s defense. You peel the shimmering layer of mecha down your arms, your wound-scarred torso, your legs. Nanoprobes withdraw, pricking your depilated skin with delightful heat, and the mecha pools on the silver deck like a satisfied cat. Released from their unnatural tensile state, your muscles slacken. You’re a normal soldier again.
A trooper, still wearing her mecha, pokes her head in the door. “Sarge, they need you in Blue Area.”
You groan. “Confirmed. Go strip off, Park. That suit’ll tear you up if you’re not careful.”
“Sir. On my way, sir.”
The door shuts. You do some isometrics under the black monitor cameras before you pull on your black undress coverall. Your uniform cap hides the pressure marks on your bare scalp. You suck down a tube of the protein paste regulations require, post-mecha, and jog to your next assignment.
Following a yellow strip on the deck leads you to a cluster of primary-colored triangles. The silver corridors surge with squads of mechanized troopers trotting in unison; engineers inspecting the bulkheads for damage; civilian scientists cleaning away debris from the unsuccessful attack. The air stinks of burnt plastic, not masked by the lemony deodorizer pumping out of the air recyclers. You take the upship corridor to Blue.
“Sergeant Flood,” says a trim blond officer manning the Blue control desk.
“Sir.”
“Roo Squad captured one of the terrorists. Find out what she knows.” He gives you a palm reader, with her record open. It shows a DNA scan and nothing else.
“Yes, sir.”
He gazes at you solemnly. “We need this information, Sergeant Flood. If the Terraformers are still making an effort to capture Beta-Coriolanus for their use, we need to know. The recent communications blackout has made our Intelligence very…unhappy, with the elections coming up.”
You don’t give a damn about all that political crap, but these officers seem to feel obligated to keep the grunts in the loop. “Yes, sir.”
“She’s in Blue C-16. Dismissed.”
The captive slumps on the silver cell bench. Up in the corner of the ceiling, the red light on the monitor camera pulses, watching her. Her mecha is silver, scarred with black sooty burns incongruously smelling of rainstorms back on Earth.
You let the door slide shut and step back, blocking it. You’re big and silent and menacing. The prisoner is much smaller. She’s white-skinned, and her blue eyes are huge and defiant. She has a red plastic stud in each nostril, and a design like a star—a brand, you realize—marks her forehead. Her sweat-spiked hair is prematurely gray, the way mecha troopers get after a while; she looks about twenty, a fresh little morsel who needs a good meal more than she needs an interrogation.
You say, “Take that mecha off.”
She says, “Fuck you.”
“Take it off.”
“Make me.”
The chickie’s wearing mecha but you’ve got twenty years of experience on her. You pin her to the bunk, her pulse beating frantically against your forearm. You find the stripseal of her mecha and rip it down. She shudders and spasms. The chickie’s hooked on the suit. You seal her back up, trying to ignore the sweet scent of her; it has the same effect on you as an unexpected cloud of nerve gas. You wait for her to wake up.
When she does, you say, “How many ships are there in your fleet?”
She says, “I am not knowing. I do other work for the soldiers on my ship.” She licks her thin lips. “Special work.”
She’s a whore. Your people don’t have whores on their ships. Your government legislates that you just have to suffer. You wonder how long you could hide her in your quarters before someone found her. Anyone would wonder that.
She says, “I am wanting to stay here.”
“You look like you’d eat too much.”
“I am making it worth your while.” She grins, saucy like the kid who gets dessert no matter what. “The name is Harrah. You are Flood. See, I can read.” She points at your namestrip.
You say, disbelieving, “You’d rather sit in one of our cells than go home and do your special work?”
“The cell is having a big woman with big juicy tits.”
You don’t blink or acknowledge that you’ve heard. “I make all the deals here.” You lean back against the door, crossing your ankles. This position presses your swollen cunt lips against the seam of your coverall because, yes, the chickie makes you horny. Especially after your mecha’s been screwing your entire body all day. This scrawny little chickie with the hard attitude is just what you need to be banging.
You glance up at the camera. The red light blinks, on, off, on, off. You can smell ozone and your own musty sweat, and a kind of metallic tang you get right after you strip off your mecha.
She’s looking at the camera, too, those big blue eyes all wide-open and innocent. She turns slowly, stroking her hand down her body, modeling for whatever schlub is monitoring. You can see her ribs and concave belly outlined under the mecha in brutal detail. She’s a head shorter than you. Your people don’t have mecha that small. Even without mecha on, you could kick her bony ass. You could get a million details out of her, find out if she’s fucked the enemy’s High Command or knows what the grunts complain about in their own territory.
You can think of better things to do with her bony ass than kick it. Since you’re her interrogator, you’ve got discretionary powers. You take a little mental journey, you and she on a desert asteroid.
You haven’t been saying anything for the last little while. Harrah’s a typical prisoner. She can’t take the silence. She says, “Like the underwater dancer, you are. No hair—you have hair where it is counting?” Her eyes make it clear what she means. They linger at your crotch, as if she knows you’re wet.
You just stare at her, like the camera that might not have anybody behind its silver lens.
Harrah says, “I am offering to tell you about my officers, if you are keeping me here. I am not going to the prison.”
You could make her tell you anyway. You could make her scream and not leave a single mark, and it would save lives—on your side, that is. But you’re horny, and she looks like a virtual reality sexbot in her shiny silver suit. You walk over to her and pull her hood up over her head. Her eyes and nostrils show, where the goggle and breather attachments would go, but that’s all. Her eyes look like blue jewels in silver settings. You kiss the shape of her mouth through a layer of mecha, and pull back. She doesn’t move.
You’ve never touched mecha from the outside before, not with your bare skin. Troopers brag about doing this kind of thing, but none of them have really done it. In the barracks, there’s no privacy, and getting caught misusing government property is a court-martial offense.
You run your hands down Harrah’s arms. The suit feels cool and hard and a little slippery. It feels like it should leave a greasy residue, but it doesn’t. Your body heat reacts with the mecha’s surface layer, and you get a weaker version of the ozone smell the blaster damage causes. Harrah’s nostrils flare, taking it in. You’re close enough to feel her rib cage moving up and down as she breathes faster.
You know she can’t feel your touch on her skin; inside her mecha, she can’t feel anything except maybe patterns of warmth and cool, if she’s skilled enough to read the suit’s transmitted signals. She’ll maybe feel a little heat, but no pressure and no friction. You get all the pleasure. The thought excites you. You kiss her—the mecha—again.
The silver stings your lips. You can smell ozone and yourself. You sweep your tongue over the indistinct movements of Harrah’s mouth. Your tongue fizzes. The barrier of the mecha makes you hungry. You suck hard and get a static
shock that resonates in your cheekbones. Your tits bump against her and the shock then almost makes you come.
You’re greedy now. Your hands are all over the cool, silver body. Your clothing is intolerable. You want that fizzing all over your skin.
You step back, back, dragging her with you. She goes willingly because you both know she doesn’t have a choice. You fall back onto the cell bench and she lands in your lap, straddling you. It’s like you’re wearing a harness, one that can knead your tits.
You’re trying to mold unmalleable flesh with your hands. You shove your tits against the hardness. She’s undone your coverall, and the cold makes your nipples swollen and tender and burning. They hurt. Your cap is pushed off. Harrah’s gloved hands smear electricity across your skull. You can feel it effervescing in your sinuses. You’re in an ice storm with sleet pinging off your bare skin.
It’s like trying to fuck a statue. This statue steams hot breath out its nose. Its frozen mouth writhes against its confinement. “Fuck me.”
You want to fuck yourself on her. You also want to see what you can do to her while she’s trapped inside her mecha, stronger than you but still your prisoner. You grab her waist. She clenches her knees on your hips and she leans backward, her back arching. Her hands brace herself on the deck. She wouldn’t be able to do that without mecha.
Her cunt’s right there for your inspection. It’s just a smooth curve, like a doll, but you know she’s under there. You cup your hand over her shielded cunt. She pushes up into your palm. There’s a spark, like the one when you were kissing her, but stronger. It happens again. She’s doing it. She’s making it happen.
You remember she’s done this lots of times. But you don’t feel cheated. The sparks are coming faster now, penetrating your skin and muscle and bone through the palm of your hand. You rub and press her mound through the suit, as hard as you can. She bucks up and moans, and this time the body shock makes your cunt lips throb. Your free hand plunges down your open coverall to your hot, tender clit. Yes, you have hair where it counts. You’re not smooth at all. Your hands, one on her, one on you, writhe in tandem. The contrast makes you crazy.
Best Lesbian Bondage Erotica Page 10
