She couldn’t keep her ship safe much longer. Not with as much damage as they had taken in the last fifteen seconds. Their only hope was to go hyper without waiting for the navi-mapper to secure the coordinates.


Staring at her king, her nipples stiffened against the fabric of her tank top and suddenly the synth-fab oil didn’t smell so bad. His sleepseat motor hummed, tilting his feet to the ground. He’d be awake in less than five minutes now. And as she knelt in front of him, she couldn’t prevent her hand from cupping her breast, pinching the pink tip gently.

If I’m going to go, she thought . . .

The sharp angle of his bed brought him so close she didn’t have to lean far. On her knees, she bent forward, his majestic hard-on hanging right there in front of her, like some royal spear of smooth, stretched muscle, commanding her to bow, to kneel, to taste.

As she extended her tongue toward the tip of his royal erection she tasted the synth-fab oil, a faint mist of wine and tea, coating her throat. How typical, she thought, that the royal dick be anointed with the ultimate perfume before a blow job.

But she wanted to savor this touch, this first touch of taste buds to genitalia. She stretched her tongue as far as she could, yearning to see, as well as feel, the moment of touch. The synth-fab kept her tongue from drying out and gave the head of his cock a dull glaze, like some exotic pastry created especially for her. But when the touch came, when the damp tip of her tongue melded with the point of his blunt truncheon, she closed her eyes. And something dropped away inside her, taking her with it, like an elevator in freefall. She knew she’d never hit bottom, though. Not as long as she kept her tongue on this scorching, royal staff of flesh.


She dragged her tits down his torso, to his cock, still standing high, and began grinding herself against him, up and down, with his red wand snuggled between her breasts, slippery with the residue of his fire.

“Please.” He strained for focus. “Stop that. It’s not fair.”
She stood, sleepy-eyed and smiling.

“Thank you,” he sighed. “Now, unstrap me.”

Her fingers released the waist buttons on her pants. “Forty-five minutes, Your Highness. I can make you come a hundred times in forty-five minutes.”

“No, wait,” he stammered.

She kicked her trousers aside, peeled her panties down and off, then straddled his eager prong, reaching for a switch on the control pedestal.

“Wait. Don’t,” he pleaded.

But she threw the switch and the mattress slab slowly began rotating back to a horizontal position, with her thighs on either side. “Forty-five minutes, Your Highness.”

“Listen, I’m—” but his words stopped when her lips and tongue squashed down on his and, in spite of his anguish, in spite of the danger — or maybe because of it — he lanced back with his own tongue, tasting her desire, somehow sweet and tart and sticky.

But then his mind came back, and he pulled himself away, gasping, “Listen to me. As your Royal Leader I am commanding you to release me. That’s a Royal Order, Captain . . . . uh . . .”

“Z’wella,” she said, between licks

“Captain . . . Z’wella. I order you—” and again her lips squashed down over his, and again he found it difficult to resist. The effect of the synth-fab on his cock didn’t help him. And when she tilted her hips just so, when the crevice of her squishy fruit rode the length of his hard-on, he could barely keep his breathing steady. Then the thought hit him. It was his only chance. Tease the daylights out of her. Taunt her until she begged for his attention, to feel his hands on her. She’d have to release him.


Somehow, he removed his hands from her breasts, a distant purpose nagging just beyond his vision. A wedding? It seemed silly, a vague dream of forgotten promise. He dragged his palms across her tummy and up to her thatch of dripping pubic hair. The tips of his fingers traced the seam of her glistening treasure. This is where he belonged. Here, with the scent of wine and tea in his lungs and on his tongue, fogging his senses, surging between his legs, guiding his hands, his fingers, and yes, these fingers, right here, between her legs, her trembling thighs, and this pink, slick slice of musky, mushy fruit. His middle finger slid up along her groove, nearly to her ass, then glided down the slice, sinking in as he came to her angry button. He buried his finger up to the third knuckle, his palm over her clit. He pushed with finger and palm, and her hips pushed back, quivering with a rising delirium, and a second finger slipped in, sinking deep, followed by a third, gripping her slavering vulva, silvery rivers streaking his wrist, fingertips tickling the spongy walls of her fruit, her slurping, sloppy, oily fruit, now undulating against his palm.

She tried to groan, her mouth full of solid muscle, but dared not disturb the pressure impaling her. She struggled to remember anything beyond this pleasure, this eternal moment of electric madness gripping her clit like a velvet vice, wriggling insider her with unbearable ecstasy. How long? How long? Never mind. Time is gone.