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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Brandi Whyne and Her Incredibly Erotic Adventures with Robin Manhood and His Totally Sexed-Out Space Pirates
Copyright ã 2006 Celine Chatillon
ISBN: 1-55410-627-3
Cover art and design by Martine Jardin
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by eXtasy Books, a division of Zumaya Publications, 2006
Look for us online at:
www.zumayapublications.com
www.extasybooks.com
Dedication:
I want to dedicate this series to all the fantastic eXtasy Books authors, editors and publishers I met at the 2005 Romantic Times Convention in St. Louis. You really put some wild and creative ideas in my head… Man, did you ever!
Chapter One
Captured by Space Pirates!
It’s difficult to know where to begin my tale—so fantastic an adventure it is, and oh, so incredibly erotic. I suppose the best place to start would be at the very beginning.
Not at my beginning. To go that far back would simply bore you to tears. I know it would bore me, so let’s not go there at all. Agreed? I really should have phrased that first sentence better. Allow me to start again.
The best place to start is when I first met the space pirates. Or to put it even more accurately, Robin Manhood and his totally sexed-out space pirates.
I know what you’re thinking now. ‘What does she mean by ‘totally sexed-out space pirates?’
It’s a valid question. But if I told you everything at the start of this saga, it would take away from the suspense, now, wouldn’t it? Besides, it will become obvious in a few pages what I mean about the space pirates and their sexual appetites. Can you hang on until then? You can? Thanks.
Okay, now that we’ve settled that point, I’ll start my story on the day I, Brandi Whyne, met Captain Robin Manhood and his so-called band of Merry Men, Women, and Aliens-Whose-Genders-Are-Still-Under-Consideration.
Got that? Good—because I’m not repeating it.
I was twenty-two years old and working that day—strike that, slaving is a more accurate term for what I did—at the Black Whole, a smoky, seedy spaceport bar owned and operated by my aunt, Cruilla DeVino on the planet Proxima Centauri Five.
I use the term ‘aunt’ somewhat loosely to describe dear Cruilla, for I was never certain of our family relationship. With her toothless grin, greasy, matted gray hair, two-meter height, one-hundred-kilogram weight and her constant chuma leaf chewing and spitting, she bore little resemblance to me—a petite yet curvy, auburn-haired, freckled-face girl with all my teeth.
All I really knew about Cruilla was that after both my parents died in a crash landing of a top secret, experimental spacecraft on the other side of the planet when I was a mere twelve years old, I was sent off to slave alongside Cruilla at the Black Whole. And I can honestly say that there has never been a more educational apprenticeship experienced by an impressionable young girl in the known history of the universe.
“Bring us more ale,” the old space dogs would bark at me from their sticky barstools from sundown to sun-up. “And bring us another bowl of those little salty peanuts so we can eat them and get even more dehydrated than we do while consuming large quantities of alcohol so we can consume even more alcohol…” or some similar nonsense. I ignore them. The Black Whole wasn’t famous for its intelligent clientele by any means.
Fetching mugs of space ale, delivering bowls of peanuts and wiping off sticky barstools was the bane of my existence until about my sixteenth birthday. Then our patrons’ jeering took on a more lascivious tone. But I soon discovered a way to keep the lusty louts’ hands off my curves. By the time Robin Manhood arrived on the scene several years later, I had polished my comeback lines so well they had become true performance art.
“Hey, sweet cheeks… You’ve got a lovely arse,” one of our drunken guests shouted at me that fateful night when I met Robin. “Bring us some of those extra-salty pretzel sticks so we can slowly suck on them, therefore showing you what we want you to do with our dehydrated, shriveled-up old dicks.” Well, okay, not really, but it amounts to the same thing.
“Fuck off,” I said with a smile, replenishing their drinks and dumping their Plutonian cigar ashes from the ash trays into their snack bowl just to see if they’d notice.
Now Cruilla had warned me repeatedly not to curse at the customers and not to pollute the snack bowls. It was bad for business, she said—and for her shares of stock in the Super Salty Snack Company of Ceti Alpha Prime. But what did I care? She barely paid me minimum wage and even with scraping and scrimping, I still hadn’t manage to come up with enough credits to buy passage off this God-forsaken rock.
“Yeah, fuck, that’s what we’re going on about, Brandi,” one particularly thickheaded gentleman missing half his teeth and all of his wits, charm and pocket change replied to my challenge. His drinking buddies laughed and punched him on the arm.
“Fuck, fuck, heh, heh, heh... That’s all we wanna do,” said the chorus of seriously sloshed sociopaths. “Pull down that blouse of yours and let us see those great titties, Brandi. Flip up that skirt and show us that curvy arse of yours up close and personal, sweetheart.”
What can I say? Their manners were appalling. That’s the Black Whole’s clientele for you. It was time to teach these royal screw-ups a lesson.
Dramatically sighing, I slapped my bar towel on the counter, tossed my long, lustrous red-brandy colored hair over my bare shoulders and fixed my intensely green eyes on the first loser who dared to piss me off. Boy, was this gentleman in for a treat.
“Oh, what an eloquent pick-up line. To have this innate ability to wax poetic… Ah! It makes me my heart sing and my panties wet. Your mother must be very proud of you and your lyrical abilities.”
“Eh?” The cretin cocked an eyebrow and stared at me, drool pooling in the corner of his crooked mouth. “You sayin’ you really wanna do it with me?”
I batted my thick, curly eyelashes, smiled coyly and leaned in for the kill. “Why, kind sir, how can I refuse? You are a true master of romance.”
His eyes were practically on stalks now. “Say wha…?”
As his brain was probably the size of his dick—miniscule—I tried to make it easy for him, speaking slowly and distinctly. “Okay, I’m game, Romeo. Pull it out and show me what you got, big guy.”
Quite a large crowd gathered around us now, murmuring encouraging words. “Woo-hoo! You better show the little lady what she wants before she changes her mind.”
I held out a hand and cut off their banter. “But first, let me remind you all of one important thing…” I leveled a stare at the entire assembly and lowered my voice to gain their utmost attention to the seriousness of what I was about to say. “I have taken a sacred vow of celibacy at the Shrine of the Goddess of Fertility, Fun and Family Planning that I wi
ll never make love to a man unless he measures up to my intimate expectations.”
Ever so casually, I pulled out the slide rule I kept hidden in the pocket of my bar apron. I whacked it down on the counter in front of the creep, daring him to whip his noodle out of his pee-stained drawers in front of his drunken chums, thus embarrassing him to death and causing the health inspectors to rush in and close us down for the night, giving the waitstaff a much-needed rest.
At this point, you’re probably wondering why I worked as a barmaid, yet carried an ancient method of computing mathematical equations. I did tell you that I had home-schooled myself in elementary physics and space piloting during my off hours, didn’t I? I apologize if I didn’t. But I shared my parents’ love of space and space travel, so no matter how long the hours were at the bar, I always managed to squeeze in a little study time each day.
Now where were we? Oh, yes, the slide rule… It belonged to my dad. Some of his last words to me were, “Brandi, always remember your slide rule. Some day you will run out of batteries in the middle of something very, very important and wish you hadn’t. So always, always keep your slide rule handy.”
Very wise, my father was. Now, back to the story.
“Uh, you want me to pull my dick out and lay it on the bar?” The imbecile hadn’t quite caught on yet and wanted me to spell it out to him. Meanwhile, his drunken companions howled with laughter at his expense. Foolishly, I egged him on.
“Of course. I must measure it. I’ve made a vow to the goddess. You don’t want me to go back on my vow, do you?”
“No, no, of course not. It’s just, I…I…”
“He ain’t got one!” jeered one of his buddies.
“Hey, I got one and you know it! You take that back, Bernard. After all, you saw it up close and personal in the public showers at the space dock just a few hours ago. You seem to enjoy sucking on it as I recall.”
“Ooo!” the inebriated ensemble cried. “Henry’s been getting blowjobs from Bernie in the space dock showers. A couple of pansies, they are!”
“Eh?” The cretin called Henry was growing more and more agitated by the moment. His face turned red and the veins popped out on his scrawny unshaven neck. “Are you saying Bernard and I are queer?”
Their hoots and whistles only infuriated him more.
Henry stood and whipped off his filthy rag of an overcoat. “Well, Bernard, I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to take this lying down.”
“No, you two rather take it on your hands and knees from the rear!” derided another one of their so-called friends.
The entire bar was in on the joke now. Sniggering and chortling, back slapping and booze sputtering echoed from the top of the smoke-stained rafters down to the mud-encrusted tile of the floors.
Now, if I had been thinking at this point rather than enjoying a rather good laugh at a customer’s expense, I would have made good my escape to the back while Henry and Bernard’s buddies taunted them about their masculinity. But I didn’t. I joined in on the merrymaking, even reaching across the counter to retrieve my slide rule…
“Gotcha.” Henry pinned my hand to the surface. “Get her other arm, Bernard. We’ll show Miss Brandi and our comrades here who’s a pansy and who isn’t.”
At this point I believe I should make mention that I had indeed taken a vow at the Shrine of the Goddess of Fun, Fertility and Family Planning. It wasn’t quite the vow that I used to tease my customers. However, it was made along similar lines.
My vow was simply this: I would never give myself to a man until the goddess gave me a sign indicating that he was the right man for me. So allowing myself to get raped on a bar countertop—and a sticky, cigar-ash-and-peanut-covered one at that—was right out of the picture.
“Aunt Cruilla!” I cried as the creeps crushed me to the bar spread-eagle. Even now Henry was fumbling with his belt buckle as Bernard reached under my full skirts and ripped off my panties. “I need a little assistance here!”
Cruilla sauntered out from the back office and clucked at me like she did when she wasn’t too happy. “Brandi, I told you a million times not to wipe off tables with your butt. Now, get your knickers back on and climb off that counter this instance before I dock your pay.”
Then my dear auntie disappeared into her cubbyhole once more.
Henry and Bernard weren’t about to let me go with so weak a protest on the owner’s part. And their buddies were all starting to drool and fumble with their belts as well…
This wasn’t just a simple rape—it was turning into a regular gangbang. I opened my mouth to scream but found my own bar towel shoved inside, muffling my cries.
Henry leaned low over my face and leered. His breath was sour—so sour that even rancid milk would smell fresh by comparison.
“Just relax, darlin’ and enjoy it. You’ll soon be able to measure just how long and thick my cock really is—as well as Bernard’s, Cliff’s, Gregory’s and Roger’s here.”
I tried to spit the towel out so I could spit in his eye, but they the cloth was secured tightly about my face. I try to twist away from Bernard’s roving hands, but already he had pushed aside the folds of my voluminous skirts so Henry could ram his angry red rod into my womanly mound.
Cliff, Gregory or Roger had somehow managed to lower my peasant blouse, exposing my rosy, pebbled nipples for the crowd to view. The drooling three stood at the front of a queue forming nearby, eagerly pumping their own ugly cocks in anticipation.
This was it. The end of my purity and perhaps my life. It was all I could do not to break into tears.
But then when all hope seemed lost, a commotion starting behind me shot a warm glimmer of hope through my anguished soul. A shadowy character from the last booth on the right emerged. I hadn’t paid much attention to him before, as he had pulled his hood low over his face and kept pretty much to himself all evening. But now the hum of a pocket-sized laser zap-knife and the cries of agony permeated the air along with the smoky-sweet stench of burning flesh.
“Egads, no!” screamed many a drunken bar patron that night as he quickly zipped up his fly and made a made dash to the door. “Please, anything but that! My missus would never forgive me if I came home without my cock!”
Within seconds, Henry and Bernard and their cronies were limping out the exit minus a few inches they couldn’t afford to lose. I slowly pulled myself to a sitting position and flung the rag from my mouth, eager to thank my rescuer.
But he was gone.
“Brandi, get your arse off the bar top,” Cruilla called out from her office. “How many times do I have to tell you, girl?”
“Sorry, Aunt Cruilla.”
I hopped down and rushed to the smudged front window. A towering figure dressed in a flowing, dark green, hooded cloak strode quickly away from the Black Whole.
My champion. My savior.
And he hadn’t even bothered to tell me his name.
* * * *
“Stop moping, love. Get over him. He ain’t never coming back.”
It was nearly two months since my near gang-rape. Still, I hadn’t forgotten the tall, hooded man who had rescued me from utter ruin. Where had he gone? Why hadn’t he stayed and at least told me who he was? Why all the mystery?
I sighed, idly twirling my bar towel. “I know he’ll probably never return, Beula, but I can hope, can’t I?”
“Hope? Yes, you can do that. Anyone can do that.”
The thin, middle-aged woman sitting at the bar boasted bleach-blonde hair and a meter-thick slathering of make-up. But in spite of her rap sheet, Beula was a good confidant. Discretion was her middle name, she had told me often enough. And she certainly was more understanding than Aunt Cruilla.
“I keep hoping someone will take me from this line of work I’m in, too, but it ain’t never gonna to happen,” Beula confided. She took a sip of her drink and smiled wryly. “We gotta face facts. We are poor, powerless and got pussies. All the space dogs want to do to us is fuck our brains out
while they’re in port and then forget about us when they’re gone. Until the next time, that is.”
“Beula, don’t act so pessimistic. You can be anything you set your mind to be. You don’t have to prostitute yourself to make a living. Look, why don’t you take an online course like I did?”
She raised an eyebrow. “And study how to pilot a spaceship?”
“Sure. Why not? Unless you’re more into business courses. The institute offers business management degrees as well.”
“Run my own business? Hmm, I like the sound of that. Maybe. I sure as hell could run the Black Whole a damn sight better than your auntie.”
“Anyone could manage this place better,” I mumbled. Aunt Cruilla had just entered the bar area from her office in the back.
“Greetings, Beula,” Cruilla said, never quite making eye contact. “I have some business for you this evening. Are you free?”
“Free as I’ll ever be.” Beula leaned closer. “What kind of business?”
“A ship full of randy men just docked down at the port. They’ve been running contraband through the Crab Nebula for several months now and haven’t seen much…action. I heard tell from their quartermaster that each of his shipmates is worth an Emperor’s fortune in platinum. Sounds like your lucky day.”
“Really. Should I contact Sal and Moll and a few others as well then?”
“Yes. Line up as many entertainers as you know. From all accounts, these fools will be flushed with so much credit they won’t be able to spend it fast enough.”
“And your take this time ‘round, Cru?”
My aunt stroked her fleshy chin and bit her chuma-juice-stained lip. “Hmm. I think forty percent is fair enough.”
“Forty percent!” I slapped my hand down on the counter. “Why, Beula and her friends do all the entertaining, and you sell even more drinks and smokes and chews because horny men tend to forget how much they’re spending. I think ten percent should be enough of a cut, Auntie.”
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