CHAPTER 1
My name is Aonghaelaice. It’s pronounced “Angelica.” My parents are freako alt-agers. That’s part of why I left home early. They did a lot of fairs and festivals, and that’s why I wanted stability. I never got it, of course. I’m too much of a butterfly. I tried marriage. I lasted a year.
During the War, I was a spy.
I actually didn’t notice when the War started. I mean, I saw the news mention it. I didn’t really pay any attention. There’d been several attacks between forces, with a handful of deaths and no real followup. I watched reports on those. I’m a veteran, so I kept wondering if I’d see any of the medics I served with show up. Second Legion never got involved in those, though, so no.
I wasn’t homeless. I was transient. I paid my way, and I had savings in several systems in case I needed them. It’s hard to travel interstellar without either a roll of money or some kind of business, but I managed. I made myself useful as needed. Sometimes I was a ship’s cook. Sometimes I was a medic. Usually I was just a cargo handler. If need be and I felt like it, I was somebody’s girlfriend.
A lot of the time I was in Grainne’s Outer Halo. It’s a good place to go to—and from—anywhere. Of course, Station Ceileidh and Station Breakout are damned near thirty light-hours apart. It’s often easier and cheaper to hop around through Caledonia, Novaja Rossia and Earth than try to grab in-system transit.
But I hadn’t been on dirt in about five Freehold years when the War started. That’s eight Earth years.
As I said, there’d been a couple of shootouts between Earth and Freehold. After each one, nothing happened. So I figured it was some chest-thumping stuff for the public, and the governments would do something behind it to clear things up. I was much more concerned with getting back to the Halo from the Prescot’s mining system of Govannon. It’s all minerals, covered in domes, with resorts for the stupid rich. If I wanted to land, the flight in would cost fifty K-marks, then I’d need ten K-marks per night for lodging, and I heard food was about two K a day, minimum. Stupid rich.
I was twenty—thirty Earth years. I looked pretty good, and I give killer head, but you can’t see that. No one was going to hire me as their girlfriend unless I had about 50K in wardrobe to get to the right parties. Even then, chicks with a lot of biosculp surgery, who were full-time escorts and looked younger even if they weren’t, were going to be top call. And I don’t mind being a girlfriend to some rich guy, but I’m not in it strictly for money. So I was never going to see the indoor ski slope, the indoor lake and beach or the indoor jungle cave.
But there was a lot of work in the stations. They’d been moving a meshload of processed metal a week out of there for a couple of centuries. I can’t do advanced math, but I can do a bill of lading and count mass ratios, I know how to operate a forklift, tug sled (gas jet or chemical), and can move pretty good loads. Cargo loads, I mean.
I’d seen what I needed to, and wanted to clear out of my bunkie, load up my backpack and get back to the Freehold for a bit. After that, I might try Alsace or Salin for a change. Money goes a long way in Salin.
It can take months to find transit, and sometimes you take what you can get, traveling around six sides of a square, to get there. I hung around the scheduling office in the mornings, and spent the afternoons visiting shipping offices personally and flashing my assets at them.
No, that did not involve dressing down. I’d rather work my way than bitchhike. Quite a few ships have a professional sex worker, or at least simulacra. I don’t show cleave or wear lips when asking for a job. I keep my hair longish but ship style, natural red-tinged gold, and wear a clean shipsuit with just enough wear to prove I work. Some people wear a qual badge of some kind, but I don’t bother. Your quals should be on file, or readily provable. A badge can be bought anywhere. If you want to look green, hang crap off your work clothes. Professionals generally don’t.
I had a file on archive for any interested parties, and was on the rolls with a hiring agency. I scurried into the station office lounge every morning to see what was available. I’d decide which ones I’d consider, and go from there. I won’t go on a ship if I’m the only female. I won’t go with Earth Arabs, but Ramadanis are usually okay, and most Mtalis, but not the Shia from there. New Indians I need to interview with to decide if it’s safe.
From there, I’d see which ships needed crew. I was hoping for Wednesday to be good. That was the big load day. There was always a processed ore load leaving for Sol system, with minimal facilities for passengers. I thought of that as my last-ditch nasty route. There were two luxury cruisers scheduled, but they were unlikely to need crew. They ran extensive background checks and paid well, and if they happened to wind up a body or two short would rather just run that way than take local hires. Their passengers were billionaires.
Billionaires had nothing on the three private yachts who wouldn’t be interested in me for anything, although there was a slim chance one of the crew would want a playmate and be allowed a courtesy guest.
But in the last twenty-four, a tramper had come through, en route to Caledonia. I couldn’t afford the M10K or so transit fee, but they might need labor or have other openings.
A couple of their crew were hanging out jabbering with the woman at the Support cubicle. They might have been fueling or transshipping some local stuff. I didn’t need to know that right now. What I did know was they were flirting with her, badly.
I toed over in the low G, letting it do wonderful things for my chest, which was fully restrained inside my professional coverall. They could see my figure, however, and that got their attention.
“Good morning,” I said. “Are you with the Kubik?”
“Yes,” said the one to my left. Not bad looking. Fit, clean, neat. That told me they kept a good ship. “I’m Ted Kubik. Purser.” He held out a hand and I shook it, going for a firm grip.
I stepped back and to the side to give some distance from the Support tech. “Angie Kaneshiro. Pleased to meet you.”
“You’re trying to crew?” he asked.
“If you have space, I’m ready to work,” I said.
“We have space, but it got quiet. We’re not going to need a full complement.”
Damn. I’d been afraid of that. I pitched anyway.
“Then I’m your man. I can handle cargo loaders, lading charts, lashing plans, and I’m trained as a cook and medic.”
“Certs?” he asked. He was still interested.
“Paper for the loaders, I can demonstrate the rest. Military for medical.”
“Colonial military?”
“Freehold of Grainne.”
He suddenly shied away.
“Yeah, if you’re a Graunna vet,” he mispronounced it, “we can’t have you aboard. Too complicated with the invasion starting.”
“I have Caledonian ID,” I said. “Landed immigrant.”
He looked unsure. Gods dammit, why had I been so honest? I should have just said I was a Caledonian resident.
I lowered my voice, and said, “I don’t even care about the money that much. I just want to get back home.”
Caledonia wasn’t home, but I did have legit ID and kept a drop box there.
He looked at the other one, who hadn’t been introduced, but I was pretty sure he was an officer, too.
They looked at each other.
“Got a scan?” he asked me. “I can show it to the captain-owner.”
I drew a stick from my pocket and passed it over. It had my face, “Able Spacer” and “Multisystem” on it. My name was listed as “Angie,” not the awful spelling. It listed my quals and some of the ships I’d transited with, for reference. As big as the universe is, most spacers know someone who knows someone. I’d be “Oh, yeah, that girl,” to most of them, but that could be enough.
I figured the captain-owner was his father. Quite a few family companies plowed all their assets into spacecraft to get off Earth, or struck resources in the colonies and used it as capital.
If they didn’t bite, I’d try again in the morning. It was better if there were two or more ships. If they needed crew and thought they might have to compete, they made option offers. As it was, I was running out of local funds. I didn’t want to dip into my emergency money.
There weren’t any other choices, but I hung around until lunch just in case. I had lunch with me, prepared cold in the minikitch at my bunkie. Tuna salad and rice crackers.
Nothing happened by noon.
With that, I went looking for station work. If there was any, it wouldn’t pay much, but I needed to keep my balance up as best I could. I had already decided I wasn’t coming back here. The Prescot family owned it outright, and ran a closed shop. It was a good shop, but unless I wanted to ground and work in the mines for a year or two, there was little to offer. Working in the mines, or even in HQ, wouldn’t get me into the resorts. So there was no reason for me to land in domed habitats that were just like space habitats but on the surface.
Unless I wanted to sling hash as backup hash-slinger in a crew dive, there weren’t any station jobs listed, either. At least, if I ran out of funds, they’d give me a “free” trip to Sol system. Some systems are reported to have spaced vagrants, meaning anyone without air money.
I decided I’d take a walk around the station. I had nothing else pending, and I needed to decide if I wanted to take the fry cook job for a few days, or lower my standards and be an entertainer. Not that there’s anything wrong with being an entertainer, but it’s not what I wanted.
It also has its own risks. You’ll get seen by crew. If you show up the next day looking for work, you’ll be, “That stripper chick who wants to play in space.” If I decided to do that, I’d have to raise money fast, stash most of it, live super austerely, and wait for all ported ships to rotate. That wasn’t going to happen here.
Govannon’s station is called “The Highlands.” The perimeter passage is called, “The Zodiac Walk.” It’s roughly in the ecliptic, with large view ports, but the Earth constellations are badly beaten because of the distance between stars.
It’s an attractive walk, made to look like cobbles. There’s an electric trolley for faster travel and ambience, and it’s actually free.
The Prescot family is oddly conservative. You can’t buy most recpharm. You can buy tobacco. I went past a tobacco shop and stopped to look.
I don’t smoke. I’m fascinated by the delivery methods people have. Cigars, cigarettes, cigarillos, pipes, tinglers, hookahs, censers, holders, cutters, lighters. They had everything. And it smelled delicious. Why does it smell so good raw, and so revolting burned?
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” the clerk greeted me. “Can I help you find anything?” Behind him were tubs and bins and cans of various mixtures, a sign offering custom blends, and more signs listing types and origin.
“Just browsing,” I said. “I don’t smoke.”
“Not an issue. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m going to have to close for an hour. I have a shipment waiting on the docks and it has to be moved. My wife is sick today, so I’ve got to get it.”
I slipped a card out of my thigh pocket and slid it across the counter.
“I’m Angie Kaneshiro. I’ve got certs on loaders and tugs. I do have a bond on file.” It was in Caledonia, but I figured he wouldn’t check that hard. What would I do with a pallet of tobacco and accessories?
“Okay?” he asked, looking at it.
“I could get it for you so you don’t lose sale time.”
Just then a couple walked in, and I stepped back out of the way. I busied myself looking through the glass of his small walk-in humidor.
He helped the man with a blend of something lychee and apple for a hookah, apple-scented charcoals for it, and some little tools that were used for maintenance. They took a glance around, came near me and I heard him say, “Seeing those humidors almost makes me wish I smoked cigars.”
He sounded Earth Canadian.
They left, and I looked back at the owner.
“How much?” he asked.
I asked back, “How much stuff is it?”
“Two standard cubes.”
“You have a dolly?”
“Yes.” He gestured toward the back.
“I’ll leave my ID. Fifty marks and a meal.” I figured that was up-end of average for this station, based on what I’d gotten elsewhere.
“Fifty flat,” he countered. “I don’t have any food handy.”
“Done,” I said.
He pointed to the storeroom, and I found the dolly. It was a manual type. He handed me a Landed Cargo slip, and off I went, out the rear and into the service passage, which was much less pretty, but a lot more interesting. I might find more work back here.
I skated the dolly down to the dock, found his cubes, strapped them on, shoved them back and got a bit sweaty. The whole task took me about an hour. He handed me a L-note and my ID.
“Thank you,” he said. A party of four had just left.
Well, that would feed me cheap for a couple of days, and pay for my bunkie for one more. But I’d found a couple more places needing general labor, so I went back down the service passage, now that I had a reason, and made another M76 by day’s end.
Their definition of a bunkie is pretty roomy, too. I had a double bed, drawers mounted at the head and foot, a shelf on one side. The other side had enough room to stand and change. That was offset with the one above me, so they managed with about twice the width, but no more height that what most places offered. The soundproofing was good. The upright end near the bed head had a micro/induction heater/minifridge. There was more storage under the bed, too. My backpack and rolly were there. The bathroom down the passage had five stalls and usually at least one open. The showers were clean and roomy enough for a friend or toys. I took toys. I felt a lot refreshed after that, and slept well. I like it completely black.
The next day I was back at the station office. If you’re reliable on searches, you are seen as reliable for work.
I was in luck. Ted Kubik was there again, with the captain-owner.
“Ms. Kaneshiro,” he said, and offered a hand. He was old, gray, didn’t smile, but seemed to be in good shape and alert. “I’m told you can work cargo manifests and some various duties?”
“Loading, cooking, yes.”
“Engines?”
“No, sir. I don’t know anything about them. I can watch a gauge while someone takes a head break. That’s it.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “What do you think about the Hevi Six dash Four vs the dash Three?”
That was a loader on my qualification list. “I think they made it too complicated instead of doing an actual upgrade. Most of the display choices aren’t needed, and the controls for that are hard to reach while actually gripping anything.”
“You’ll be happy with our dash Threes, then.”
“Oh, good.” I’d work with either. I just left the monitor screen cold on a dash Four, and drove it by eye.
“We’re tight on funds,” he said. “I can offer two K flat for the trip. But, I’ll give you point five percent time saved on loadup and loadout charge as a bonus.”
Yeah, that wasn’t much. But the bonus would help a little. And it got me from here back to Caledonia, where I had some funds and some gear I could sell if I had to.
“Private berth?” I asked. I was hoping.
He said, “Yes. We don’t have any passengers this leg.”
“Deal,” I said. Good. Private berth, locking door, transit where I needed to go, and credits. I wasn’t going to find anything better.
Govannon wasn’t a bad place, but it wasn’t a place for my skillset.
“I have your berthing number. When do you need me?” I asked.
“We start loading at twelve seventeen local.”
That was in three hours.
“I’ll be there. Thank you very much, sir.”
He gave me a pass authorization for their ship. I took that to the office, and they crosschecked my ID, added my bond number and image, and handed it back. That would get me through dock control and customs.
I got to my bunkie, stuffed my clothes in my backpack, and my dress outfits in a garment carrier. My pocket tools and “lock adjustment tool” went into an outside compartment. My rolly contained my coveralls and tension vac suit. I punched for the rolly to evacuate and it sucked everything down for maximum compression. I had nothing that Earth stations could consider a weapon, but I could sure as hell adjust someone’s attitude with that wrench. I had three other tools in case I needed them, but I wouldn’t here.
I logged out, slipped the key, recovered my deposit, and was ready to go. I took another walk around the Zodiac. It really was impressive, and there was no way I could afford any of it. There was a Gio Leather shop, with shoes starting at Cr1000. They were fantastic. I could get handmade mechanical watches, very retro. There were engraved pens. There were more practical things, like licensed stun batons dressed as walking sticks, and handmade backpacks that were almost reasonable—M500. There were casinos, but most were above anything I could afford, and the luck games are for suckers, and I stink at placing bets on cards. I never went in them.
I stopped at a kiosk for food.
“Morning, ma’am,” the cook said. He was Turkish, of course, with gyro meat roasting behind him. “Donor kabob?”
“Chicken, please,” I said. “Veggies, tzaziki sauce, banana peppers and a Coke.”
I don’t eat mammals. I rarely eat birds. It’s a personal thing. I wasn’t sure what they were serving aboard Kubik, but it shouldn’t be more than twenty days, and I can manage on salad for a while. And I had some canned tuna and salmon.
I paid, and sat at a table watching people as I ate. It was good. The chicken was raised in-system, actually in microgee. It was very tender, and nicely seasoned. The poor things probably wanted to die, as tight as they were penned.
I succumbed to temptation and bought some Austrian chocolate and authentic Italian cheese as I headed for the docks.
At the dock, it was like being home. There were lighted walkways, traffic lights, warning lights, loader lights, people in reflective suits shouting at each other, the throbbing of rams. It meant work and travel. I was happy.
Kubik was much like other ships I’d been in. The drive section was aft and none of my business. The command deck was forward, and something I hoped wouldn’t be my business. In between was crew quarters and holds, and the davits that held towed cargo. The co-owner and first officer was the wife of Mister Kubik, Sr. She greeted me at the ramp, which reassured me a lot.
She was slightly soft from a lifetime in space, but reasonably fit and shapely. Spacers get more arm and less leg from pulling stuff around. She had gray hair pulled back in a short tail, and a shipsuit with Kubik Deep Space Transport embroidered on it.
“Ms. Kaneshiro?”
“Yes. Ms. Kubik?”
“Yes!” she grinned as we shook hands. “Frame four zero starboard is your berth.”
“Four zero starboard, got it,” I said.
“If you want to stow your gear, we’ll be ready to load in about twenty minutes.”
“Roger,” I said with a nod.
I found the stateroom easily enough. It was a bit larger than a station bunkie, and included a comm and phone terminal. That’s not a courtesy aboard. It’s necessary communication for emergencies. I checked that it worked, established an access, dropped both my bags and went below.
The ship was old but maintained. It might be half a century and change. As long as they fly and can transit a Jump Point, they’ll stay in use.
They had three loaders, and Ted and someone I hadn’t met were on two of them. I took the third, flipped it on, checked all the op lights, and got to work.
I think I impressed them. They had twelve haulers delivering containers from the holding sally. Each one got imaged from all six sides so damage in transit could be accounted for. Each one pulled up, released the container, which dropped sides and exposed the cubes. We’d each grab one, back to the ship’s flank, spin, elevate on the loader’s scissor jacks, and stuff the cube into the hold, where two others snagged them with davit harnesses and swung them into stow. The haulers were scheduled five minutes apart.
After the second one, Captain Kubik called and told them to make it four minutes. He couldn’t go any faster, because they couldn’t position stuff internally any faster.
In fifty minutes we were done, so I’d earned .5 percent of whatever they saved on undocking. If you don’t pay flat rate, you pay by the minute. That matters for tramps.
On the last load, Ted and the other guy swung out, ran along their forks, and jumped aboard to help wrangle in the hold.
“Park ’em and stow ’em,” he called while pointing. I nodded, dropped mine to the deck, and drove it up into the lower hold. There were three slots. I noticed my lock fob was labeled “Kubik #2,” so I parked it in the middle, and ran back for each of the others. Ted was waiting on the hatch as I rolled in the last one, nodded and hit the release. I grabbed all three fobs and handed them to him.
“Thanks,” he said. “We’re shoving off. You’ve seen your couch?”
I nodded. “Yes. I’ll go there now.”
He said, “We’ll update over phone.”
I placed my bags in underbunk stowage, rolled into the bunk and pulled out the gee harness. I checked my earbud and my phone itself. You pretty much never remove the earbud, and I know some people have them surgically implanted. I just wear mine. The phone itself has better reach but isn’t always needed.
No one wastes mass or money painting a ship. Everything is bare extrusion or alumalloy. But sleeping spaces are the exception. Mine was a cool blue, which I liked. I’m not a fan of pink or puke green. So I had a bit of color for my space.
Mister Kubik’s voice came over intercom. “All hands, I show green. Any delays or alibis, let me know now.” Thirty seconds later he said, “All green, stand by for undocking and external loading.”
Departure wasn’t a problem. Hydraulics pushed us out, the maneuvering thrusters came on, then retroed.
They hadn’t told me anything, so I assumed the towed containers were being attached by station crew. I felt some faint vibrations, and a couple of slight shoves to the ship’s orientation. That meant they were attaching stuff. Trampers typically carry as close to safe margin as they can, anything that can be stuffed in or hung on the outside. Any gram of capacity not used is a gram you’re not being paid for. Cargo is easier to find than passengers, but they’ll take passengers, too.
Kubik warned us about thrust again, and I felt it hiss, then rumble. He moved us slowly, making sure the latchlocks on the davits were tight, the cargo secure and oriented. I knew he was satisfied when the screen over my rack warned me he was going to gas it. Thrust and G increased, adjusted, then main power came online and we were outbound for the Jump Point. It was seven and a half Earth days from here to there. In the meantime, I’d do any shipboard routine they needed.
“All hands may undog and start spaceside duties. Dinner at eighteen hundred in the mess.”
Ted’s voice came over, “Angie, you’re welcome to relax until chow. There’s nothing pending.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “Call if there is.”
Dinner was baked longtrout, and not bad. The crew was all family and inlaws. I’d flown on ten or more ships like it and they were in my log if I needed reference.
“Where are you from, Angie?” the engineer asked. He wasn’t ugly, but definitely not my type. Fit enough, but just, no.
Being discreet, I said, “Caledonia, but I’ve spent my life traveling.”
“I bet. Your accent doesn’t sound Caledonian.” He slid over the food dish, and I decided he was just being conversational.
“Probably not anymore,” I said. He didn’t press the issue. “It’s what my passport says, though.”
“Have you been on land?”
“Not really. My parents did the wandering thing.”
“That’s not common.”
“No, and look how I turned out. I can’t stay anywhere more than a year.” I stuffed fish into my face to avoid more convo.
They didn’t push me for more details, and I sat out of their family convos. They were friendly enough, but this ship was their world. It was just a job and a cubby for me.
I spent the time until jump, and after jump, doing routine shipboard maintenance—flushing compartments for pests, checking seals, checking batteries on the loaders. Much of it was automated, but it still called for eyes on to make sure the automation was connected.
When we docked at Station Orkney in Caledonia system, we raced to pull the cargo. We were done in thirty-seven minutes. The terminal hadn’t finished with the external pods.
Mister Kubik came down as we stowed the loaders.
“Thanks for crewing with us, Ms. Kaneshiro.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” I said.
“I could use one more leg to Earth if you’re free.”
“I appreciate it, but I have things to do here,” I said. I didn’t want to go to Earth again, unless I knew I had passage back out.
“Very well. Possibly we’ll cross flights again.”
“Possibly.”
He handed me a draft for M2000 and the bonus of almost eight hundred. That would keep me going a couple of weeks, and I had accounts here I could draw on.
Ted and his mother came by. We shook hands and parted as professionals. I’d definitely keep their info in case we did cross flights. It does happen.
I found a bunkie off-dock, stowed my gear, then went to a small stowage I keep in a traveler’s locker. They’re meant for personal belongings that might violate code as you change systems—drugs, weapons, porn. I keep all those, and some valuables, and clothes.
With better clothes, I was ready to go clubbing and see who I could find. A girl can only deal with toys for so long, and as I said, crew are off limits.
I took the case to my bunkie, and pulled out magenta hair dye, and a straightener. I gave it a quick brushing to neaten it up, then grabbed a blue catsuit and white bolero. I didn’t bother with underwear. I did wear boots with low heels that gave me a little lift but had plenty of support. Gravity at the club level was mid, so I chose a bra with a little lift, but not the superstructure I used back on Grainne at 1.18G. Now I had cleave, and I painted my lips for fullness. That was a hint.
I hadn’t been here in six months, but Club Eden was still open.
The guy at the door might have recognized me. He squinted slightly, scanned my chit and nodded. I smiled a little and walked in, with just a trace of strut. I wanted to look confident, not arrogant.
It was dark, with flashing colors. There was even a magenta flood similar to my hair. They had a gym of chromed bars, and four dancers were weaving through it. They were in very sheer skintights. I’m not much into women, but I eyed the brunette. She was slinky but lush. Her cheeks were fantastic. All four of them.
Much of the crowd were younger. Some military, some crew, some station, and probably some corporate, either interns or adult children of execs. I was probably one of the poorest ones in the place.
I got a cola with just a dusting of Sparkle in it. I wanted to heighten things slightly, not affect my judgment.
I don’t know much about music, but I know they can tweak the waveforms so they’re constantly shifting and basically resonate in the brain. They were doing that. The beat was hypnotic and sexy, and whatever was playing lead was complicated and oddly classical.
I got out on the floor, under the cage, and just started moving. I noticed the lights were running in sequences, and followed them with my eyes, and my feet. I occasionally bumped someone, and most of the dancers were couples, but there were some other singles.
I danced with three guys, and decided two of them were worth considering. The other one just felt desperate to me.
One was younger, fitter and had fine maneuvering technique. He twisted me between the other couples and gripped me with a firm touch I appreciated.
The other one was older, probably had more money, and was still in good shape. He had green eyes, hair shot through with gray, and I got a veteran vibe from him. I liked how that added up.
The most important question was: Did I want this man crawling over my naked body for several hours?
Oh, Gods, yes.
The Sparkle had worn off enough I was sure I was thinking straight, and I filed a pic of him in case I needed to ID him.
“I’m Angie,” I said, giving him a card that had a throwaway contact in case I needed to dump him.
“Darren,” he said. “You’ve got a lot of energy.”
“A lot more,” I said, and half-winked. “Want to buy me a drink?”
“Sure.”
This time I took a rum and Coke, light on the rum. I could get plowed after . . . well, after I got plowed.
Yes, he was the one. We finished our drinks, got back out to dance, and I said, “It’s too noisy here.”
He nodded, took my hand, and led me out the door. His timing was perfect. A train had just pulled up across the passage.
The shuttle whipped us around the perimeter. We kept casual but interested hands on each other’s legs as it traveled. We got out at Perimeter 90, and I wondered where his lodging was. Some people prefer low gee, others standard, and there are rentals at all levels, at all price ranges.
We took a lift not far down to .7. I felt bouncy and light, and my boobs were higher on my chest. The boots turned into slippers despite the heels.
“This way,” he said, and led me down a passage that was owned by Noble Lodges. Not bad. They were an upper midrange chain.
He swiped the door and ushered me in.
I placed my pouch near the door, just in case, but I was sure he was decent. As I stood up, his hand ran down my spine and I shivered. I turned to face him, and I could see he wanted to kiss me, so I moved the process along and kissed him first.
He was good, and warm, and wrapped his arms around me, and slid them down my back.
His hands cupped my ass and he realized I had no underwear. He paused for a moment and I said, “Step back.”
He did so, and I dropped the jacket and peeled the catsuit. Sometimes you want to tease them along. Sometimes you just want them to get to work.
Gods, could he work.
He had me on the bed and went at me with hands and mouth, while I tried to get his clothes off. When I succeeded, I returned the favor. He had firm muscles and moved smoothly and had lovely texture against my tongue. Between gasps I managed to say, “Bend me over,” and tossed my legs off the bed. I liked his weight, and his strength, and his motion. I was stretched and stuffed, and clenched until my knees cramped. I about blacked out.
I got more sleep substitute than sleep, but I think we decided we were both very happy with the night. I was actually a bit stiff when looking for work the next morning. I did keep his info. I had no idea how long I’d be on station.