Stripped

by Stoke, Christina

  *Publishers Note: This short story is previously published in Future Fantasies Volume Two.*

  Blurb: Done in the first person, for him and for her, this is an erotic tale of eventual submission and dark tangled lust and love. Set on a distant planet, in the midst of harsh survival, a man and a woman test the boundary of need, when they believe there is no other chance. Sexually explicit m/f, hfn

  Read an excerpt:

  I take a deep breath, and then I crouch down onto my heels watching her. Her hair is still braided so I can see the delicate slope of her pale spine, flaring into her generous hips and reddened ass. Her legs are shapely and white and one of her big tits is partially caught under the arm she is using to reach around and sooth her buttocks with her hand. She’s crying. Not very loudly and it overpowers me how lucky I am for this chance.

  I never went this far with my ex-wife. We played a little slap and tickle. I tied her up and made her cum a few times. But I held back from what I really wanted to do. Needed to do. This. Dominate. Take control of a womb-born female and make her a slave to our passions.

  It is probably some psychological twist inside me about being born in a high tech incubator with no family. Perhaps, it has made me need to control the love in any relationships that I have? Love.

  “Jesus,” I hiss. Where did that come from? I will not try to love another woman. Yet, as far as wanting and desiring, Tallie will take the prize. I can tell that she is going to fulfill me deeply in a way I was not completely honest with myself that I craved. Or needed so badly. “It hurts, but you are aroused, aren’t you, baby?” I murmur.

  Tallie nods her head, not looking at me

  “Come here and tell me how you want me to pleasure you. I will do anything, Tallie.”

  She peaks at me over her shoulder. “Get un-d-dressed,” she quips in a wavering voice.

  I laugh suddenly and it catches me by surprise. “You are quick, baby. I’m going to have to watch out I can see.”

  Tallie actually smiles a little as I unzip my flight suit and pull it down off my shoulders. I have her attention now, despite herself, as I make sure my biceps bulge tightly while I do it. I’m broad-chested with deep muscles across my chest, and I’m hairy, not thick, just all over sprinkled black with gray. My stomach is ribbed with sinew and my buttocks are shaped like blocks of muscular clay. My thighs are athletic and powerful and my cock is big. They made Variant males more enhanced and they didn’t stop at the genitals. Seven or eight inches are average for a male, so they genetically altered Variants to produce ten-twelve and more inches. I’m a hard ten, but by the time I’m ready to enter my woman, I’m a steely hard twelve.

  Tallie is going to have trouble taking me. Her sweet cunt is the tightest I've ever felt. She couldn't have been with more than one man, a couple of times, for it to still be that snug and firm at her age. She is a definite treasure ... and she can’t keep her pretty brown eyes off my dong. She wants to be angry and disillusioned about me, but her own arousal and the sight of my big and very hard cock are pouting her curved lips in conflict.

  “You could use your mouth,” she whispers, then she blurts, “I am so horny, Ry.” Then she clamps her hands between her thighs.

  “Oh no,” I utter. “Take your hand away, Tallie, and come here.”

  Tallie moves her hands and rolls over onto her hands and knees to crawl toward me. Her brown irises are nearly black as her larger breasts sway and I lay down on my back. “Sit on my face, baby,” I murmur. “Let me eat your pussy out.” End Excerpt.

  Her Captain's Command 1: Stripped

  By Christina Stoke

  copyrighted© 2004 by Christina Stoke

  Chapter One

  His name is Captain Boa. Disconcerted, I find myself watching him every hidden chance I get. I'm so foolish, secretly acting immature, and nearly powerless to stop it. But I’m thirty-five, no childish teenager any longer and he’s . . . well, Captain Boa is out of my league. Of course, most men are.

  Self-confidence is my tragic problem. I’m too shy, or reserved, or perhaps downright cowardly to even understand the art of flirting. Or maybe, like some alien creature to every man I could be interested in, I emit the wrong come-hither signals for sex and primal mating. But I’m no great beauty. I'd assume I’m definitely not ugly. Precisely average, a middle of the road type. Regular. Someone once mentioned that I have bedroom eyes. They are a muddled brown, dark with slumberous eyelids. Now my love affair with myself is my hair. It's thick and lush. A sable color with deep brownish-black shading and it's very long. My hair is definitely not stylish military hair, and I'm equally glad I’m not full military. I'm just in the reserves, so they cannot force me to cut it. At least I don't think they can.

  Every person on Earth was stunned, four short months ago, when deadly aliens first launched their attacks. It’s still staggering to believe Earth lost so many regular military people in the first three months of attacks that reservists had to be called in. That's why I’m here, out in space, aboard the U.S.S. Eclipse and assigned with an incredible stroke of luck to Captain Boa’s squadron, the Shadow Stars.

  All six kids, that are the pilots comprising the Shadow Stars, thought of the cheesy sci-fi name. It just goes to show how impossibly young they are to be trying to save us and risking their lives. It scares me and breaks my heart at the thought of losing one of them. Every last one of them is just in their twenties. Babies. Babies defending me? Something is messed up. But most seasoned pilots were lost in the beginning.

  Captain Boa was one of them. He was one of the best commander pilots. From what I've heard, he's a legend of that sort. Now he's the only one left alive from the entire squadron he commanded. I think about how close he came and what horrible things he's seen. He was injured in that last battle. What I wouldn’t give to know what the initial “R” of his first name stands for, and just what his injury is.

  So now, Captain Boa commands this squadron of wet behind the ears pilots. I’m their systems technician, along with “Midnight,” that’s Mario Lopez who does the space Skitters maintenance, and “Ghost” Lonnie Depp who does the communications. I’m the only nonmilitary in their squad. I came into this war game far too late for a Shadow call name, so all of them just call me, “Hey Rousseau.” That’s my last name. I don’t think any of them know my first name, Tallie. But that's the military for you, I’m finding out. These brave kids put their life on the line every day, for all of us, and maybe that’s why they don’t use first names? Death is so close.

  “Private Rousseau, I need that tactical system up and running before the Shadows mission at o’ twelve hundred.” Captain Boa speaks to me. He rarely does, and I find as usual I cannot look him in the eye, so my gaze centers on his chest.

  “Yes, sir,” I manage to respond, in what I imagine hopefully is a crisp military fashion. The task is already done, but the Captain doesn’t need that explained to him, wasting his valuable time. It simply needs to be done when he needs it, and the how and the when are not important.

  “Good.” He turns his deliberative gaze once again to face the entire Shadow squad, but especially turning to the pilots who are preparing to risk their lives again in thirty short minutes. We’re all sitting in one of the pilots briefing rooms aboard the Eclipse, and the Captain wastes no time as he explains the operations details, giving the pilots their orders.

  “Tet-base-5 was a small colony extracting reactive ore from the crater moon, MM2,” Captain Boa explains as he points to the fluorescent green digital star map beside him.

  The screen changes showing a closer view of the lone moon, MM2. We all know that a Mac-5 force destroyed it two weeks into the war and it had remained all but forgotten since.

  “Last week, ‘Spy Eye,’ doing a routine five-thousand mile swe
ep, picked up a warble near MM2. Now the World American Federation wants the Air Space Rangers to go in and take a closer look.”

  The digital screen flips again, zooming in on a closer planet display. I watch the luminous lime-green light strike the edges of Captain Boa’s hard-angled jaw as he steps up to the projection to pinpoint a particular spot. Rigid and relentless with a jaw like that, I imagine.

  “Here. This is where you will concentrate your sweep in and around the old Tet-base-5 extracting sites.” Captain Boa straightens his broad shoulders, centering his intense blue eyes on all six of his pilots. “This is a quick one, pilots. Just take your pictures and run. Any questions?”

  The silence at these moments always leaves me with a bleak feeling. It’s never just in and out with these aliens. Never.

  “All right.” Captain Boa glances at his watch. “Fifteen minutes to Skitter ready,” he announces sharply.

  On the way out of the tactic briefing room, Lt. Logan stops me with her hand closing briefly on my arm. So, I naturally move with her hand's light pressure a little to the side of the corridor. “I got a letter from that guy.” She looks somber.

  I would smile, but she seems so uncomfortable already, so I hold it back. Lt. Di, “The Reaper,” Logan is a twenty-two-year-old Variant female. She's one of only a dozen that I know of onboard the Eclipse. Captain Boa is one also. It’s quite a testament really that either of them is here, because the normal womb born society doesn't trust genetically altered humans. Possibly, trust was not quite the right word for the differences felt on both sides, but it is the nicest one I've been able to think of so far.

  “Bo, wanted to write you,” I say. It is a simple answer and it’s true. Bo is a friend of mine from back on Earth. He is an attractive nineteen-year-old Variant male, attractive like all Variants are. Because he's a Variant, he has no family, and I thought . . . no I knew he had to be lonely, besides the war has hit everyone hard.

  “Yeah.” Di is a nice looking younger woman with short brown hair and deep gray eyes. “But I’ve never gotten a letter before, Rousseau . . . What do I do?”

  I smile then, easing the puzzled lines on Di’s face. I guess it's my age or perhaps my quietness, but people talk to me. Di has never had a mother, probably never had a boyfriend.

  “Just tape him a message.” I’ve found Variants can be perplexed about the simplest of human things, as though certain things have never existed or are completely alien. But then of course, for them they are. “You don’t have to write,” I continue on, bravely placing my hand on Di’s shoulder. “Just say a couple short things. He loves those ancient movies like you do, so there is something you can talk about. Then, send it to him and see what happens. Maybe he’ll write you back.”

  Di appears a bit hopeful, in a confused sort of way. “Think so?” she mutters.

  “Yes, I do.” I look over Di's shoulder and I see a wide black shoulder, then my eyes lift to Captain Boa’s face. Di doesn’t see him as she says, “Goodbye,” to me and she continues to walk past me.

  Captain Boa has the kind of face that makes me look twice. Oh, be honest, three or four times. Every woman has her own idea about what’s attractive and Captain Boa is it for me. His face is mature and ruggedly masculine. It’s an exacting face with crinkles at the corners of his indigo colored eyes. Those eyes intensely offset by his silver hair cut close to the scalp, just enough to lie down, while his physique is built with trained military muscle, which is powerfully projected beneath his black flight suit.

  I blush . . . damn it, as the Captain’s gaze sweeps me and I inevitably lower my eyelashes. How could I blush? He must have heard what I was saying to Di. At least he had to hear parts of it, before I knew he was behind us.

  Thank god, he just walks past me without a word.

  Chapter Two

  “Captain Boa.”

  I nod absently at the fleeting acknowledgment of my name by a passing Tactical Commander. My mind is elsewhere.

  Really, I’m hoping that my outward appearance didn't show any of my inward reactions a few seconds earlier. Considering this was not the first time I’ve noticed Rousseau has the largest and firmest set of breasts on a military woman I've ever seen. I suppose what literally irritates me about her is the fact she's not genuine military.

  We are in the middle of a tough war, and we are losing. There are those of us in the regular military who are trying, with everything we have, to hold things together and we do not need ill-trained reservists underfoot. They are just one more thing to worry about, one more individual I must try to keep alive. Just like the young pilots I've recently been assigned to. Too young.

  I don’t have time to worry about it . . . or them. I never have before and I can’t now. This is my job. Fighting and killing, no emotion involved. I need the distance. It’s always been that way for me, no family to care about, even if I knew how. I’m a Variant, genetically altered. No true mother, father, sister, or brother. Marriage and family had sounded good once and I tried it like a natural person would. Didn’t work. They told me it wouldn’t.

  I’ve got to loosen up, but the tension is binding my shoulder muscles. Damn, I'm always tense before a takeoff and it just gets worse until my pilots get back to the Eclipse. It was much easier when I was the one going out on the missions. That’s what I’m trained for. Fighting. Being in the thick of battle, making things happen and winning. Making sure everybody comes back. Except for that last time. My squadron the Dragoons flying into hell, and when it was all over I was the only one that survived.

  They had been the swiftest squadron in the Air Space Rangers. A legend, really. Too damned much of a legend. Everyone, myself included, pinning our hopes, actually our inflated egos, on the Dragoons. Even after the four squadrons sent in before the Dragoons were wiped out. Still, we all thought . . . But being the best didn’t help against the aliens from hell, and now that I fully realize the aliens' superiority, it scares the hell out of me.

  It really unsettled me to lose my squadron. Literally, made me furious. It still does. But these new kids, these young pilots have got something. Something better and more intuitive than the old Dragoons had. Possibly, that's why I have unnerving feelings of caring. Caring about six young pilots whom, for better or worse, and for the first time in my life, look up to me.

  “Captain Boa, is your team ready?” Commander Grady’s voice sounds suddenly through my headset link.

  “Yes, sir,” I reply, glancing at my technicians Midnight, Ghost, and Private Rousseau sitting ready in the setup room. Then, I turned my gaze out the thick buffer glass to the six pilots locked down in their Skitter fighters and I nod. All six of my pilots give me the thumbs up.

  “Ready!” I announce sharply, and then I give the order to drop them.

  Twelve hours later, I sip my scotch in the Com-Bar on level three. But they are all still alive.

  Four of them are playing a classic air hockey game behind where I'm standing at the bar. Two more are laughing as they stand by an old-fashioned jukebox in the corner. Ghost and Midnight are here. Rousseau never comes to the bar.

  Still, they all seek her out at different times and places. Like old friends with their secrets and problems. I know they do it. I’m interested that she's there for them with her quiet ways. If I think about it at all, I’d assume it was our age. Rousseau and I are older, nearly the same age, in our later thirty's. For single moments, a couple of times, I’ve envied her their confidences. Something's been happening to me. It's crazy feelings I’ve never had before, and I wish the hell it would stop. Before I . . .

  “I heard you flew with the Dragoons.” It's a woman’s husky voice near my shoulder. I don’t move. Instead, I sip my scotch, and then with measured stiffness, I turned to see my newest pilot, Audrey Lipton. She is twenty, if a day, with brunette hair and coppery-brown eyes, sultry like Rousseau's, but that’s where the comparison ends. She was assigned to my squad three days ago as the seventh man alternate.

  “Yes.” My
voice is low, just as she sidles closer, touching my elbow with the soft edge of her breast as she takes a sip from her drink.

  “It’s an honor to meet one of Hell’s Dragoons. Wow.”

  Wow? I cannot believe this. This is not happening.

  “I was wondering, Captain . . . um, have you ever tried one of the Comp-space pods aboard the Eclipse?”

  I am simmering now. That's the only word for it. The only activity Comp-pods are used for, besides evacuation, is for sex. Two people naked . . . alone, on a carrier that's hard to find "alone" space in. The only reason a woman would mention a Comp-pod to a man was for one motive.

  “I credited a couple hours in the broadside Comp-pod and I thought you might want to join me,” Audrey purrs in a sultry voice.

  I cannot believe this. I’m an officer, and it insults me that another womb born female is looking for thrills with a Variant male. Damn, I’m her superior and I deserve more respect.

  “Hey, Captain Boa, Wraith is leaving us!” Lt. Clay, “Night Hawk,” Boggs calls from behind me. “Come be my partner, huh?”

  I can only see red then, as I slam my drink down on the bar. Extremely pleased that it splashes on Audrey. Then, I stand military straight, tight, and severe. This is what I gain for being a “buddy” I think furiously as I turn, and the wave of my anger goes outward, straightening all of my pilots to attention around the air hockey table.

  “I am not,” I utter through clenched teeth, stalking up to Night Hawk. “Your buddy. I am not your pal!” Then, I stalk around Night Hawk. “We will not be playing goody softball in front of your goody-goody home when this is over!” I turn then, stiff and rigid. “I’m here for one thing, people, and that's to fight! Not play babysitter to a bunch of wet behind the ears kids!”