Chapter 1: The Breaking Point of Restraint
The mess hall hummed around us, a low, constant thrum that had become the soundtrack of our isolation. The recyclers cycled, the lights flickered, and Albert stared into his mug of black coffee as if the answers to the universe were hiding in its murky depths. I leaned against the doorway, letting the long white shirt hang open over my bare skin, feeling the cool air kiss my thighs. My bioluminescence pulsed beneath my purple skin, a soft, hypnotic dance of light that I knew he could see even from his periphery. I wanted him to look. I needed him to look.
The past two months had been a slow, exquisite torture. I could feel his thoughts, walls and walls of them that I could never quite breach, but the dreams were another matter entirely. His dreams were a gift. I had seen him in them, seen the fierce, hungry man underneath the stoic pilot, seen the shape of his desire in vivid, aching detail. I knew what his cock looked like in those dreams, knew how it curved and what it would feel like to have it split me open. But out here, in the cold light of the mess hall, he was all rigid control and polite nods.
I walked to the table where he sat, the soles of my bare feet whispering against the metal floor. He didn't look up, just wrapped his calloused fingers tighter around his mug. I swung a leg up, then the other, settling onto the cold table in front of him with a soft sigh. The shirt fell open, framing my body for him. My breasts, heavy and firm, rose and fell with my breath, my nipples already hard and erect from the thrill of finally pushing him to the edge.
"Morning, Captain," I said, my voice a low purr.
His eyes were fixed on his coffee. "Morning, Heather."
I spread my legs slowly, deliberately, letting the shirt gape open to bare every inch of my glowing, naked body to him. The bioluminescence rippled across my skin in a wash of red, the deep, heady crimson that I felt surging through me. This was it. Two months of teasing, of drifting into his quarters in that same shirt, of bending over in front of him in the galley, taunting him with glimpses of my cunt. Today, I was going to make him snap.
"Albert," I said, and the use of his first name made his jaw tighten. "Look at me."
He looked. His blue eyes traveled up my bare thighs, over my glistening slit, up my stomach and my breasts, and finally to my face. The mug slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor and splashing coffee across the deck plating. He didn't notice. His whole body had gone taut, a cord of barely contained violence drawn tight beneath his worn jumpsuit.
"What the hell are you doing?" he rasped.
"I'm tired of waiting," I said, and I ran a finger down my thigh, tracing a slow path to the heat between my legs. "And you're tired of pretending. I can feel it, Albert. I can feel how much you want to fuck me."
He crossed the distance in a heartbeat. His hands grabbed my legs, hard, his fingers digging into my thighs as he yanked me to the edge of the table. I gasped, a sharp, eager sound, and then his face was between my legs. He buried his mouth against my cunt, and the world went sharp and bright.
"Fucking hell," he growled against my skin, the vibration shooting straight through me. "You've been driving me insane for two months. You knew it, didn't you? You knew exactly what you were doing."
He didn't wait for an answer. His tongue found my clit, flat and hot, and he dragged it up the length of my slit. I cried out, my back arching off the metal table, my fingers twisting into his short, dirty-blond hair. He grunted against me, his hands moving from my thighs to cup my breasts, his rough palms kneading the heavy flesh, his thumbs finding my erect nipples and rolling them hard.
"God, yes," I gasped. "That's it, Albert."
He lapped at me like a man starved, his tongue delving into my folds, spreading me open. I felt the heat of his breath, the scrape of his stubble against my inner thighs, and all the while his hands worked my tits, squeezing, pinching, pulling. The bioluminescence under my skin went wild, patterns of red and orange swirling across my torso, and I knew he could see it pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
I could feel his need through the thin membrane of his mind, a roaring hunger that had been locked away for years. His fantasies leaked through the cracks, a torrent of filthy images of what he wanted to do to me, and it only made me wetter. I was soaking his chin.
He pulled back, just for a moment, his blue eyes blazing up at me from between my thighs. "Is this what you wanted? You little tease. You wanted me to break, didn't you?"
"Yes," I breathed. "God, yes, Albert. Now eat my fucking pussy."
He laughed, a low, ragged sound, and then he dove back in. His tongue circled my clit, fast and merciless, before he sucked it between his lips. I keened, my hips grinding against his face, my hand fisted in his hair so hard I knew he'd feel it later. He didn't seem to mind. He moaned against my flesh, the sound vibrating through to my core, and he slipped two thick fingers inside me.
"Fuck," I gasped, feeling the burn of that first stretch. "Yes, right there."
He crooked his fingers, pressing against the soft, spongy spot inside me, and I cried out. My whole body clenched around him, my inner walls gripping his fingers. He pumped them into me, a steady, punishing rhythm, while his tongue continued to whip my clit. The coil in my belly wound tight, hotter and tighter than anything I'd ever felt. This was his restraint, shattered, turned into pure, focused hunger.
"Come for me," he growled against my cunt, the filthy demand sending a shiver through me. "Let go, Heather. I want to feel it."
My first orgasm ripped through me, a convulsive wave that had me crying out his name. My hips bucked against his face, riding his fingers through every wave. He didn't stop. He kept going, his tongue lapping up my slick heat, his fingers curling inside me, dragging another orgasm to the surface before I'd even caught my breath.
"More," I panted, and I was shameless in my need. "Don't you fucking stop."
He didn't. He drove me across that cold table, one climax crashing into the next. Third time, I was screaming. Fourth time, I was a shaking, writhing mess, my thighs clamped around his head, my nails raking across the metal surface. My bioluminescence blazed red and orange across my entire body, a fireworks display of pure need.
He pulled his mouth away, his chin slick with me, his lips swollen and red. He was breathing hard, his eyes wild, the front of his jumpsuit tented with the unmistakable outline of his cock straining against the fabric.
"Now," I whispered, reaching for him. "I want to feel that cock inside me. Now, Albert."
He didn't answer with words. He pulled me to the edge of the table and crushed his mouth to mine, and I tasted myself on his lips, the copper-sweet tang of my own slick. His tongue shoved into my mouth, filthy and demanding, and I moaned into him. Then he broke the kiss and dropped his mouth to my breast, taking my nipple between his lips and sucking hard enough to make me arch off the metal, a breathless cry tearing from my throat.
"That's it," I gasped, my fingers raking through his hair. "Suck them. Suck my fucking tits."
He obliged. His teeth grazed the sensitive tip while his fingers found my cunt again, two thick digits plunging back into my soaked heat. I was beyond sensitive, my body still quivering from the last climax, and he worked me with relentless purpose, his thumb circling my clit while he feasted on my breast. The coil wound tight again, faster than I thought possible. I screamed. A fifth orgasm crashed over me, and he kept going.
He switched to my other breast, his tongue laving the nipple before he sucked it into the hot cavern of his mouth. His fingers hammered into me, curling, stretching, and I came again. I screamed so loud the lights in the mess hall flickered, my vision going white at the edges. He didn't stop. He just kept fucking me with his hand, dragging a seventh orgasm out of me that left me a sobbing, shaking wreck.
"Please," I begged, barely able to form words. "Albert, please, I need your cock. I need it inside me."
He pulled his fingers out of me with a wet sound, and I whimpered at the sudden emptiness. Then he grabbed my hips and lifted me off the table as if I weighed nothing. I let out a startled yelp, my arms wrapping around his neck, my legs locking around his waist. He carried me a step, then laid me down flat on the cold metal, my breasts pressing into the freezing surface.
"Stay," he said, his voice low and rough, and his hand pressed between my shoulder blades, holding me there.
I obeyed. I lay there, my cheek against the cold metal, my ass in the air, my cunt dripping and exposed for him. My bioluminescence blazed across my skin, red and orange patterns writhing in the dim light. I watched through tangled hair as he shed his jumpsuit, peeling it down his lean body, and when it dropped to the floor, I saw him. His cock stood free, long and thin, curving slightly upward, jutting from a nest of dirty-blond hair and heavy balls.
"Oh fuck," I breathed. "That's going to split me open."
He didn't say anything. He stepped between my spread legs, and I felt the head of his cock press against my slick entrance. He didn't shove it in. He pushed in slowly, a deliberate, agonizing inch at a time, and I felt myself stretch around him, felt his thin hardness slide deeper than I expected. The curve of his cock brushed something inside me I didn't know I had. I cried out, my fingers scraping the metal.
"Fuck, Albert," I gasped. "So deep. God, so fucking deep."
He bottomed out, his balls resting against my wet skin, and he paused there, letting me feel every inch of him. I clenched around his shaft, trying to pull him deeper, and he groaned, a raw sound from somewhere in his chest. Then he pulled back, almost to the tip, and thrust back in with a sharp snap of his hips. His balls slapped against my cunt, wet and loud, and I moaned.
"That's it," I whimpered. "Fuck me, Albert. Fuck me hard."
He set a brutal rhythm. His hands gripped my hips, holding me steady as he drove into me, his cock reaching places I swore I'd never felt before. The curve of him dragged against my walls with every stroke, and his balls slapped my skin with a punishing rhythm. His hand slid around my hip, his fingers finding my clit, and he rubbed it with the same relentless rhythm as his thrusts.
"Come for me," he grunted. "I want you screaming my name."
The pressure built inside me like a dam about to burst. His cock speared into me, hitting that spot over and over, while his thumb worked my clit with merciless precision. I was already so close, my body shaking from the prior climaxes, and he was pushing me over the edge again. I screamed. The sound tore from my throat, raw and desperate, as my cunt clamped down around him, flooding his cock with heat.
He didn't stop. He fucked me through it, his thrusts never faltering, and before I could catch my breath he was driving me toward another. My body went tight as a bowstring, my toes curling, my hands scrabbling for purchase on the cold steel beneath me. He forced another orgasm out of me, and I screamed his name so loud my voice cracked.
"Albert! Fuck, Albert, yes, right there!"
He grunted, leaning over me, his chest pressing against my back. His cock drove deeper still, and his finger rolled my clit harder. The third orgasm built like a storm, huge and terrible, and I knew I was going to lose myself in it. I came apart with a scream that echoed through the mess hall, my body convulsing, my vision going dark at the edges. My cunt clenched around his cock so hard I felt him shudder.
But he didn't come. He pulled out, his cock slick and glistening, and I whimpered at the loss. He turned me over, lifting my hips, and I looked up at him from the cold metal, my chest heaving, my skin blazing with light. He stared down at me, his blue eyes wild, his cock still hard and ready.
He stared down at me, his blue eyes wild, his cock still hard and ready. The sight of him looming over me, slick with my juices, made my cunt clench around nothing. I reached for him, but he caught my wrists in one hand and pinned them above my head.
"Legs on my shoulders," he commanded, his voice low and rough. "Now."
I obeyed without hesitation. I lifted my legs, hooking my ankles over his shoulders, and he shifted his grip, his hands finding my breasts. His palms cupped the heavy weight of them, squeezing hard as he positioned himself at my entrance. He pressed forward, his cock sliding into my soaked heat in one smooth, deliberate stroke, and I cried out at the sudden fullness.
"Hands on my breast," he said, his voice a growl. "Rub your clit while I fuck you."
I reached down, my fingers finding my swollen nub, slick and sensitive from everything he'd already done to me. I rubbed it in desperate circles while he began to move, his hips snapping against mine. He was so deep, so long, and that upward curve of his cock dragged against my walls with every stroke.
He pinched my nipples hard, twisting the erect tips between his calloused fingers, and the shock of it shot straight to my clit. I screamed, my back arching off the cold metal. My fingers rubbed faster, frantic, as he drove into me with brutal, relentless thrusts.
"Fuck, yes," I gasped. "Albert, that feels so fucking good . don't stop."
He didn't. He kept pinching my nipples, rolling them between his fingers, sending jolts of pleasure straight to my clit. The pressure built inside me fast, a storm gathering in my belly. My bioluminescence blazed red across my skin, patterns writhing and pulsing with every thrust.
I came around his cock with a scream that tore through the mess hall. My cunt clamped down on him, and he kept going, fucking me through the convulsions. My fingers never left my clit, rubbing the oversensitive nub even as I cried, even as my vision went white.
"More," I begged, my voice wrecked. "Albert, more .
He pinched my nipples again, harder this time, and another orgasm crashed over me before the first had fully faded. I screamed his name, my body bucking wildly beneath him, my legs shaking where they rested on his shoulders. He drove into me without mercy, his balls slapping wetly against my skin.
I came again, a third time, sobbing and shaking. My nails scraped the metal table, searching for purchase. My cunt was so wet, so hot, dripping down my thighs and onto the cold surface beneath me.
He leaned forward then, his chest pressing against my thighs as he folded me nearly in half. His mouth found mine, and he kissed me, deep and filthy, swallowing my moans and screams. His tongue shoved into my mouth, and I tasted myself on him, the salt of my own sweat, the copper tang of my slick.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, my ankles locking behind his back, and I pulled him deeper. He grunted into my mouth, his rhythm faltering for just a moment before he drove into me harder. His cock speared into me, reaching that spot inside me that made everything go white.
I dragged my nails down his back, raking furrows across his skin, and I felt his whole body shudder against me. I came again, a violent, convulsive orgasm that had me screaming into his mouth, my cunt milked his cock, squeezing him so hard I felt him stiffen.
"Fuck, Heather," he growled against my lips, his voice breaking.
Then he shattered. His cock pulsed inside me, flooding my cunt with his cum. I felt every hot surge of it, felt him fill me so full there was nowhere left for it to go. He kept thrusting through it, shallow, desperate strokes that spilled his seed out of me, streaking down my thighs.
He broke the kiss, his forehead pressed to mine, his breathing ragged and heavy. His weight pressed me into the cold metal table, and I could feel the bioluminescence of my skin blazing against him, a wash of deep crimson that pulsed with my heartbeat.
"Holy shit," I whispered, my voice hoarse.
He laughed, a low, shaking sound, and kissed me again, softer this time. "Two months," he murmured against my lips. "You drove me insane for two months."
I lay there beneath him, my chest heaving, my whole body trembling like a leaf in a solar wind. Every muscle in me had turned to jelly. The bioluminescence under my skin had dimmed to a soft, pulsing rose, the color of exhaustion and contentment. He was still pressed against me, his weight a warm, solid anchor, his breath hot against my cheek.
He lifted his head, those blue eyes searching my face. "You okay?"
I laughed, a weak, breathless sound. "I'm more than okay, Captain."
He made to pull away, to stand, but I locked my legs around his waist and held him there. I could feel his cock, still half-hard inside me, slick with our combined mess. I looked up at him, and my voice came out shaky, barely a whisper.
"Twelve times, Albert. Twelve fucking times in an hour." I shook my head slowly, my red hair spilling across the cold metal beneath me. "I've never... maybe twice, if I was lucky. But you. Twelve times."
He blinked, something softening in his expression. "Heather..."
"I think I'm in love," I said, and the words came out raw and honest, stripped of all the games I'd been playing for two months. "I'm never leaving this ship if you're here. Never."
His throat worked, a muscle jumping in his jaw. He looked like he wanted to say something, but I didn't let him. I pushed against his chest, and he rolled off me, his cock sliding out with a wet, obscene sound that made me shudder. I turned onto my side and reached for him.
He was still semi-erect, that long, thin spear of his glistening with our mingled fluids. I wrapped my fingers around the shaft, feeling the heat of him, the slight curve that had driven me out of my mind. He let out a sharp breath as I squeezed, his eyes darkening.
"Let me taste you," I said, and I didn't wait for permission.
I slid down between his legs, my knees pressing into the cold metal floor. His heavy balls rested against my chin for a moment before I leaned in and took the head of his cock into my mouth. He tasted like sex and salt and something deeper, something that was purely him. My tongue swirled around the tip, lapping up the mix of his cum and my own slick, savoring the filthy complexity of it.
"Fuck, Heather," he groaned, his hand coming down to tangle in my hair.
I cupped his balls in one hand, feeling their weight, their warmth. They were full and heavy, and I rolled them gently in my palm as I sucked him deeper. He hardened in my mouth, growing thick and long again, and I took him all the way down, letting him slide past my lips and into my throat. I gagged, just a little, and his hips bucked.
"God," he rasped. "Your mouth is fucking perfect."
I looked up at him through my lashes, my lips stretched around his shaft, my hand still cradling his balls. I bobbed my head slowly, drawing him deep, then pulling back to lick along the underside of his length. I lapped at his cock like he was the last source of sustenance in the void, and I knew he could feel my hunger.
He was fully hard again, his cock curving up against my tongue, the head pressing against the back of my throat. I hollowed my cheeks and sucked, hard, and he groaned loud enough to echo off the metal walls. His fingers tightened in my hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself.
"That's it," he growled. "Swallow every drop of it. You earned it, you little vixen."
I wrapped my hand around the base of his shaft, stroking him in time with my mouth, while my other hand kept working his balls, rolling them, gently tugging. His skin was hot and slick, and I could taste the remnants of my own cunt on him, a flavor that made my bioluminescence flare brighter along my spine.
He was close. I could feel it in the way his thighs tensed around my head, the way his hips started to twitch. I doubled my efforts, taking him deep, my throat relaxing around him as I swallowed his length whole. I wanted him to come in my mouth. I wanted to taste all of him.
"Fuck, Heather," he panted. "I'm going to..."
I hummed around him, a low vibration that made him cry out. His balls drew up tight in my hand, and then he came, flooding my mouth with a hot, thick surge of cum. I swallowed, milking him with my throat, and he kept coming, pulse after pulse, until I had taken every last drop.
I pulled off him slowly, my tongue giving one final, lingering lick to the head of his cock. He was soft again, glistening, and I smiled up at him, my chin slick with his seed.
He stared down at me, his chest heaving, his blue eyes full of something I couldn't quite name. Then he reached down, hauled me up his body, and kissed me, tasting himself on my lips.
"I think I love you too," he murmured against my mouth, and I laughed, breathless, my heart hammering in my chest.
We lay there on the cold metal table for a long time afterwards, tangled together, our breathing slowly evening out. The ship hummed around us, indifferent to the wreckage we'd made of its mess hall. I traced patterns on his chest, and he played with my hair, and for the first time in a long, long time, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
He was still murmuring something against my hair, something soft and low that I felt more than heard, when I felt it. A twitch. A stir against my hip, where his shaft lay soft and spent across my thigh.
I went very still.
He kept talking, his voice a low rumble in his chest, his fingers lazily working through the tangles in my hair. He didn't seem to notice. But I noticed. The bioluminescence under my skin flared, a pulse of deep, startled crimson, and I bit my lip to keep from smiling.
The stir became a swell. I felt the heat of him grow against my skin, the soft weight of his cock thickening, filling, lifting. His voice trailed off mid-sentence. His hand went still in my hair.
I pushed myself up on one elbow, my red hair slipping across his chest, and looked down the length of him. He was harder now, the shaft rising off his belly, that inward curve of his cock pointing at his own navel. The head was already wet, a bead of slick forming at the tip.
"Look at you," I said.
His throat moved. "Heather."
I didn't let him get any further than that. I rolled off the table and dropped to the floor, my knees hitting the cold metal with a slap that made me hiss. The deck plating was freezing against my thighs, but my skin was still blazing, red and orange rippling down my arms in slow waves. I wanted him to see it. I wanted him to know exactly how much this mattered.
He was sitting up now, his back against the edge of the table, legs spread across the floor. I slid in between them.
I put both hands on his heavy balls. They were still wet and hot from everything we'd done, and they felt obscene in my palms, thick and full and loose in their sack. His whole body jumped at the contact. I cupped them, weighed them, rolled them gently between my fingers. They were so heavy. I'd felt them slap against my cunt for the better part of an hour, and now I got to hold them.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Careful with those."
"I'll be gentle," I said. "For now."
I wrapped my right hand around the base of his cock. The thing was hot in my grip, and it pulsed against my palm, and I felt him grow a half-inch thicker just from that one touch. I stroked him, slow, from root to tip, squeezing a little at the top and watching that bead of slick rise again in the slit. It was almost purple at the head, dark and tight.
"That's it," he said, but his voice came out thin.
I licked my lips and put my mouth on the underside of his cock. Just there. I dragged my tongue up the long vein that ran the length of him, a slow, deliberate lap from the base all the way to the ridge under the head. He tasted like salt and my own cunt. I did it again, and then a third time, each stroke of my tongue getting a little wetter, a little sloppier. I could feel his pulse beating through the skin.
He let out a long breath through his nose and buried his fingers in my hair. Not pulling. Just holding.
"You been wanting to do this all night," I murmured against his skin. "Admit it."
"Yes."
I smiled and took the head of him into my mouth. Not deep, just the tip, my tongue working the ridge in circles while my hand kept stroking the rest of him. His hips bucked, one small sharp motion, and I felt the twitch run all the way through to his balls. I rolled them a little harder in my other hand, and he made a low noise in his chest, almost a growl.
"You're going to make me come again," he said.
"That's the general idea."
I took him deeper. Five inches, then seven, then my throat was full of him and my nose was pressed into the dirty blond hair at his base. I held him there until my eyes watered, until I felt the muscles in my throat close around him, and then I pulled back slow, hollowing my cheeks, dragging every inch of him over my tongue. His cock came out shining.
"God," he whispered.
I licked the shaft clean. I did it properly, the flat of my tongue, up and down, corner to corner, until there wasn't a dry spot on him. Then I took one of his balls into my mouth, sucked gently, and he swore out loud and grabbed the edge of the table behind him with both hands.
"Fuck, Heather, that's, fuck."
I pulled off him. "Breathe, Captain."
"Don't call me that down there."
I laughed, and I stroked his cock in long pulls while I did it, my fist tight around the shaft, my thumb following the curve. Every stroke he twitched, and every twitch the head of him leaked a little more. The deck was going to have my knees marked on it. I didn't care.
I leaned in and licked him again, one slow wet line from the base of his sack to the tip, and then I took him back into my mouth and worked him with both hands, one jerking the shaft, one dragging slow circles through his balls. That heavy sack tightened under my fingers, drawing up, and I knew exactly where this was going.
"You're close," I said against his slick skin.
"Yeah."
I looked up at him. His blue eyes were glassy, his mouth open, his chest going up and down in rough strokes. He looked wrecked and he looked like he wanted to come in my mouth, and I was not going to give him the choice to be polite about it.
I sank all the way down on him.
He came with a shout, one hand fisted in my hair, the other slapping the tabletop. Hot and thick and salty down the back of my throat, and I swallowed and swallowed and kept swallowing until he stopped shaking. I pulled off him slowly. I showed him my tongue when he looked.
He lay there slack, eyes half closed, chest heaving, one hand still hanging off the edge of the table. I swallowed the last of him and licked my lips clean. His cock softened against his thigh, slick and spent. He looked like a man who had just been dragged out of a wreck, breathing through his mouth, humming with the aftershocks.
Good.
I got up off my knees slowly. The deck plating had left red marks on both of them, tiny indentations of cold metal that would bruise purple by morning. My bioluminescence had dimmed to a low amber, drifting under my skin like smoke. He didn't watch me stand. He was staring at the ceiling panels, blinking slowly, smiling at nothing.
There were cargo tie-downs bolted into the bulkhead by the galley lockers. Freighters are full of them. Straps, clips, webbing, everything a long-haul hauler needs to keep a shipment from killing somebody in a hard burn. I pulled two off the rack without a sound and walked back to him barefoot, keeping my weight on the balls of my feet.
He felt the strap go around his right wrist. His head turned, frowning, and that was when I looped it twice, cinched it, and clipped it to the hull ring anchored under the table's edge.
"Heather?"
"Shh." I took his left wrist and did the same, quick, practiced, the webbing biting snug against the bone. "Don't fight it."
"What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?"
He tested the right strap. The buckle held. The hull ring didn't give a millimeter. He looked from his wrist to my face, and I watched the confusion turn into something else, something that made his pulse jump in his throat.
"You've had me for two hours," I said. I knelt at his ankles and threaded the second strap through the floor ring. "You got your mouth, your hands, your cock. You got twelve orgasms out of me." I cinched his right ankle, then his left. "Now it's my turn."
"I, " he started, and stopped.
He was spread out now, arms up over his head, legs open wide, that long pale body stretched across the cold deck with his half-hard cock laid flat on his belly. The sweat on his chest caught the flicker of the lights. His balls rested heavy between his open thighs, still wet from my mouth.
I stood up and looked down at him. He was six inches taller than me and twice my weight, and he couldn't move an inch. I let the shirt slide off my shoulders and pool on the floor. I wanted him to see all of it, the bioluminescence crawling in red loops down my ribs, the hard points of my nipples, the wet shine between my legs.
"Look at you," I said. "Splayed out like an offering."
His throat worked. "That's a hell of a thing to say to a man."
"It's true, though."
He tested the left strap next, twisting his wrist against the webbing. The buckle didn't care. Neither did I.
"There's a spare shirt in my locker," I said. "But that would mean leaving the room, and I'm not leaving."
I bent down and peeled my own shirt off the floor, the long white one, still warm from my back. I folded it once, twice, into a wide strip. He watched me do it and understood. His jaw went tight, but he didn't say no. He didn't say anything at all.
"Close your eyes."
He did.
I laid the cloth over his eyes and knotted it behind his head, snug against the cheekbones. His dirty blond hair stuck up through the fabric in little tufts. I checked the knot twice and pulled it firm. He flinched, just slightly, and his breath came out slow and controlled, the way a man breathes when he's decided to keep his dignity.
"Can you see anything?"
"No."
"Good."
I sat back on my heels and looked at him. A fifty-four-year-old man tied spread-eagle to the deck of his own freighter, blindfolded with a navigator's shirt, hard enough that his cock had started to lift off his belly on its own. The overhead lights caught the slick shine at the tip.
I let him wait. Not long. Just long enough for his breathing to change, for the hard swallow to work down his throat. Then I put my mouth back on him.
He wasn't ready for how soft I started. I kissed the head, light, barely touching. Another kiss. Then my tongue flat on the slit, tasting the salt he'd already leaked. His hips jerked and the straps creaked.
"Fuck," he said.
I licked him slow, root to tip, one long wet line up the underside. Then again. His hands clenched above his head and the hull ring rattled against the bulkhead.
"You don't have to hold still," I said. "It won't help, but you don't have to."
"Christ, Heather."
I took him into my mouth and went down easy, an inch at a time, letting him feel every one. He filled my throat faster now that he was hard. I came up, breathing through my nose, and did it again. Slower. His thigh muscles were jumping under my palms.
My right hand was on the base of his shaft, working him in short, tight strokes. My left hand was just resting on his inner thigh. Warm skin, coarse hair, the muscle corded and tense. I let it drift.
I stroked down the inside of his leg, past the knee, and back up. He didn't think anything of it. His whole mind was in his cock, and I could feel it, a bright hot blur behind the wall of his thoughts, the only thing he had room for.
I brought my hand higher. I cupped his balls again, rolling them, wet and heavy in my fingers. He groaned around a mouthful of air.
Then I let my fingers slide below them.
There's a seam on a man's body, that soft strip of skin between the balls and the hole, and I found it with two fingertips. He twitched hard.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing."
"That's not nothing."
I kept my mouth on his cock and my fingers moving. Light circles, no pressure, just the flats of my fingers dragging in the wet I'd left there. His balls were slick from my mouth, so it was easy. Everything down there was easy right now.
I dragged my fingers lower, and I found the tight little knot of muscle at the bottom of him.
Every part of his body went rigid at once. The straps pulled taut. His heels scrabbled against the deck.
"Heather—"
"I know."
"I mean it, that's—"
"I said I know." I pulled my mouth off his cock, just an inch, so he could hear me clearly. "Breathe, Albert. I'm not going to hurt you."
He breathed. Ragged, through his nose, jaw grinding.
I pressed one fingertip against his hole and held it there. Nothing more. Just steady pressure, no push. He was so tight the tip of my finger barely dented him. I kept my mouth working him the whole time, slow, so he had something to hold on to, so the pleasure kept arriving while his brain argued with his body.
I took my finger away. He flinched like I'd slapped him, all that coiled tension snapping loose, his breath coming out in a rush.
"Easy," I said. "I'm not done."
I sat back on my heels and looked at him for a second. His chest was going up and down hard, wet with sweat, and his cock stood off his belly at an angle, slick and dark at the head. Bound wrists, bound ankles, the shirt knotted over his eyes. He couldn't see a thing. He could only wait.
So I made him wait.
I reached down between my own legs. I was still soaked from everything he'd done to me, and my fingers slid in easy, two of them, up to the second knuckle. I fucked myself with them slow, deliberately, listening to the wet sound of it in the quiet of the mess hall. My skin flared pink and red along my ribs.
He heard it. His head turned toward the noise.
"What are you doing?"
"Getting ready."
I pulled my fingers out coated, glistening, dripping down my wrist. I shuffled forward on my knees, back between his spread thighs.
"Ready for what?"
"For this."
I put two slick fingers back against his hole. He went rigid again, the same as before, every muscle in him locking up at once. But this time I was wet, and this time I didn't stop at the tip. I pushed.
Slow. A steady, patient pressure, one fingertip and then both, inching in past the ring of muscle while he hissed through his teeth.
"Heather, fuck, Heather—"
"Shh. Breathe out."
"I can't—"
"You can. Push like you're taking a shit. It helps."
"Jesus Christ."
But he did it. I felt him give, just a little, and my two fingers slid in to the first knuckle.
He made a sound I'd never heard him make. Not pain. Something underneath pain, further in, a long, low groan that came from his chest and rolled all the way down.
I stayed still and let him get used to it. My other hand wrapped around his cock, which was trembling now, the head pressed wet against his own stomach. I worked it slow, root to tip, while he breathed.
"I've been reading," I said.
He laughed. It came out cracked and unsteady. "You've been reading."
"In the ship's medical archive. Bored on night watch." I twisted my fingers gently, just enough to feel him grip. "Human males have a gland in here. The size of a walnut. The text calls it the prostate. Apparently it makes men do remarkable things."
"You are out of your goddamn mind."
"Probably."
I pushed deeper. Another inch, and then my knuckles were flush against his skin. His whole body arched off the deck, straps squealing against the hull rings, and his cock jumped in my fist hard enough to smear precome up his belly.
I curled my fingers forward, toward his stomach. Slow. Searching.
Then I found it.
It was a firm little swell, springy under my fingertips, maybe two inches in, and when I pressed it, Albert Penrose stopped being a man on a leash and became something else entirely. His spine snapped into a curve. His heels thudded the deck plate. He swore a blue streak at the ceiling, every word he knew, and then he swore some more.
"There it is," I said.
"Do that again. Do that again, do that again—"
I did it again.
I pressed and rubbed, small circles, steady, the way you'd work a knot out of a muscle. His cock was leaking in my hand, slick now, easy to stroke. I timed my fist to my fingers, one pump for every push inside him, and he couldn't decide which way to throw his hips. Up into my hand, or back onto my fingers. He tried both. He did both badly.
"Fuck," he gasped. "Fuck, I've never, nobody's ever—"
"I know."
"It's like you're in my whole body."
"I am, sort of." I curled my fingers again and pressed hard, and his voice broke off into a moan that shook the table legs. "Both hands on you, front and back. Nowhere to go."
He was panting, mouth open, blindfold wet at the edges with sweat. His wrists twisted in the webbing and got nowhere. I could feel him giving up the fight by degrees, the way his thighs opened wider on their own, the way his ass pushed back to meet my hand.
That was the part I wanted. Not the coming. The giving up.
I sped up. Three fingers now, slick and sliding, in and out of that tight hole while my other hand fisted his cock in time. The wet noise filled the room. His balls were drawn up tight against his body, heavy and full, and I could see them twitching every time my knuckles pushed in.
"How's it feel?"
"Like I'm going to die."
"Good die or bad die?"
He laughed, then choked on it. "Good. Fucking good."
"Say please."
"You're not serious."
I stopped both hands at once. Froze. His cock pulsed in my grip and nothing else moved.
He made a strangled noise. "Heather."
"Say please."
A long beat. His jaw worked. I could see him fighting it, fifty-four years of pride, of duty, of keeping his mouth shut and his feelings in the box. Then it cracked open.
"...Please."
"Please what?"
"Please keep doing that. Please, Heather. Please."
I started again. Harder than before. Fingers pumping into him, wrist flicking, my fist tight and fast on his cock, and he came apart under me like a cheap rivet. He came with a roar, ropes of it across his own chest and up his throat, and I kept my fingers moving inside him while he spilled, kept pressing that soft little gland until he was sobbing with it, until his cock twitched out one last clear drop and went limp in my hand.
I slid my fingers out slow. He gasped at the loss. Everything below his waist was shuddering.
I wiped my hand on his thigh and sat back.
"Now," I said, catching my breath. "We're going to talk about what you want. And you're going to answer me honestly, Albert, because I can feel every lie you tell from here."
He didn't answer. I watched his throat work around words he couldn't find and decided the talk could wait. It had waited two months. It could wait ten more minutes.
"So that's how it is," I said. "Fine. We'll do this the other way."
I stood up and walked around the table to his head. Bare feet on cold plating, bioluminescence dripping pink light down my ribs with every step. He heard me coming. His head turned toward the sound, blindfold still knotted tight, his bound arms framing his face on either side.
"Where are you going?"
"Nowhere. Stay still."
I knelt. The deck bit into my knees. His face was right there, tipped back between his own pinned wrists, mouth slightly open, chest still heaving. Sweat had run down into the cloth over his eyes and made it dark. I could smell him. Salt and coffee and the particular musk of a man who had just been emptied out on his own cargo deck.
I braced one hand on the table leg above his head and leaned over him. My hair fell out of my shoulder and pooled across his collar. He flinched at the weight of it.
"Heather—"
"Open your mouth."
He did. I lowered my right breast into it. Just the nipple and a little of the swollen underside, pressed warm against his lips, and I felt him go still under me like a startled animal.
"Suck," I said.
He sucked.
It wasn't tentative. Two hours of me and twelve orgasms had taken the caution out of him, and he took my nipple in and pulled hard, tongue flat and working, his whole body arching up off the deck to get closer. The drag of it went straight down through my chest and settled low in my belly. I gasped and put my free hand on the back of his head, holding him there through the blindfold.
"Good," I said. "Like that."
He grunted and sucked harder. His mouth was hot and sloppy, teeth grazing once, and the little shock of it made my hips jerk. My thighs were already slick. I could feel it, the ache between my legs gone wet and pulsing, empty and asking for something.
So I gave it something.
I slid my left hand down over my belly, through the sticky hair, and pushed two fingers into myself. No warming up. After the last hour I was loose and soaked and they went in easy, all the way to the knuckles, and my whole body knew the difference immediately. I rocked on my hand, kneading, palm pressed flat against my clit with every push.
"Oh, fuck," I breathed. "That's it. Keep sucking."
He did. He nursed at my breast like a man who'd forgotten how to do anything else, and every pull at my nipple echoed down in my cunt. My wrist moved faster. Wet sounds under his jaw and wet sounds under my hand, and the mess hall lights flickering above us, indifferent.
I shifted my weight and gave him the other breast. He found the nipple without being told, mouth fastening on it, and I moaned out loud and curled my fingers up inside myself. That first knot of feeling started low, the slow tightening, and I rode it with my palm, grinding, letting him watch the light of me even blind. Because he could feel it if nothing else. My whole chest was lit up red now, hot patterns racing down both arms, and the heat of it bled through my skin into his mouth.
"Hurts," he mumbled around my nipple.
"What does?"
"Hurts," he mumbled around my nipple. "Everything. The good kind."
His mouth stayed latched on me like he'd never let go. I rocked harder on my own fingers, palm grinding my clit, and felt the tightness climbing fast now, no patience left in it. My other hand fisted in his hair through the blindfold, holding his face to my breast.
"I'm close," I said. "Don't stop."
He didn't. He pulled at me with everything he had, and the squeeze of his mouth ran straight down my spine into my cunt. My wrist snapped fast, two fingers curled up inside myself, and the whole room lit up white behind my eyes. I came with a scream that tore out of me and bounced off every wall in the mess hall. My thighs shook. My hand kept moving through it, dragging it out, and the light under my skin flared so bright it threw red shadows across the deck.
Under me, against my hip, his cock jumped. Rock hard again, twitching up off his belly like it had a mind of its own. I felt the heat of it through my skin, that long thin spear standing straight up and swaying with every breath he took.
I pulled my hand out of myself and licked it clean. He was panting under me, blindfold dark with sweat, mouth still open where my nipple had been.
"Jesus," he said. "You came on my chest and I felt it in my teeth."
"Good."
I sat up, straddling his stomach, and looked down at him. Bound wrists, bound ankles, the shirt knotted over his eyes. His cock stood between my knees, slick and purple at the tip, curving up toward his own navel. He was completely helpless and completely ready.
"Albert," I said. "I'm going to climb on and ride you now. Are you listening?"
His throat moved. "Yeah."
"You keep your eyes on me the whole time. Understand?"
He frowned under the cloth. "I can't see anything."
That was fair. I reached down and pulled the knot loose. The white linen slid off his face, and his eyes came open slow, squinting up at the ceiling panels before they found me. Sweat in his lashes. Dirty blond hair flattened where the strap had pressed.
He blinked at me a few times, adjusting. Then he just looked. My red hair falling on both sides of him. My purple skin flickering with red light, patterns rolling down my ribs. My nipples still wet from his mouth.
"There you are," I said.
"Heather." His voice came out low and rough. "What do you want me to do?"
"Nothing. Don't do anything." I rose up on my knees over him. "Just watch."
I reached between us and took his cock in my hand. Still slick from the last hour, from his mouth and mine, from everything. I rubbed the head along my slit, just dragging it up and down, coating him, letting him feel how wet I was. His jaw went tight. His fingers flexed above his head against the webbing and got nowhere.
"Eyes on me," I said.
"On you."
I pressed the head against my entrance and held it there, feeling the stretch already starting. The curve of him was going to hit that spot. I knew it, my whole body knew it. I looked down at his face, at those blue eyes locked on mine, and I lowered myself.
He slid in slow. One long push, my body opening around him inch by inch, and my breath came out shaking. He was thicker than I remembered, or I was tighter than I'd been, and every ridge of him dragged on the way in. My cunt gripped him and refused to let go.
"Fuck," he whispered.
"Watch."
His eyes never left mine. I could feel him doing it, feel all that blocked-up attention finally pointed at one thing. No walls now. No polite nods. Just a man tied to a deck, watching me take every inch of him.
I bottomed out against his pelvis. My ass rested on his thighs. His balls were warm against my skin. I stayed there a second, rocking just a little, feeling him twitch against my walls, and his whole face went slack with it.
"Fuck, Heather, you're so tight."
"Your cock's still the same size," I said. "That's the difference."
I lifted up. Slow, dragging myself off him until only the head stayed inside, and I watched his eyes go wide. Then I dropped back down hard. His hips bucked up to meet me, and the straps creaked, and he grunted like I'd hit him in the chest.
"Stay still," I said. "You're strapped down for a reason."
He laughed. Then I rode him.
I set the pace slow at first, long strokes, grinding down on him every time he filled me. The curve of his cock pressed right up against that spot, and I circled my hips over him, chasing the pressure. His mouth hung open. His eyes stayed on mine, glassy and locked, and I could see him fighting to keep them there. He wanted to look at my tits bouncing. He wanted to look down at where we joined. But I'd told him, and he listened, because that was what I'd asked for and he was starting to understand what that cost him.
"Don't look away," I said.
"I'm not."
I leaned forward, still moving on him, and put my palms flat on his chest. He was hot under me, slick with sweat, his heart hammering against my right hand. I slid up and down his cock in shorter strokes now, hips rolling, and his eyes stayed glued to mine the whole time.
"Good," I said. "Keep them there."
His wrists twisted in the webbing, testing again, finding the same nothing. I liked that. Every few seconds his arms would pull and the straps would hold, and I'd feel the little jolt of it go through his stomach under my hands.
"Kiss me," I said.
He lifted his head as far as the deck would let him, straining up off the plating, and I bent to meet him. His mouth was dry and tasted like coffee and salt, but he kissed me like he meant it, tongue sliding in slow, no hurry left in him anywhere except his hips, which kept working up into me even when I wasn't moving.
I let him. Let him push up off the deck into me while I kissed him, in and out, shallow and rough. The curve of him dragged along my front wall every stroke. My breath stuttered into his mouth.
"Fuck," I whispered against his lips.
He bit my lower lip, gently, and I laughed.
Then I laid down on him.
I dropped my chest onto his, full weight, and it changed everything. The angle shifted so he was pressed flat against my clit, that long spear of him jammed deep and staying there. I couldn't bounce anymore. I could only grind, hips rolling in small circles, and grind was enough. Grind was more than enough.
He groaned under me. His mouth was right at my ear and I felt the sound more than heard it, a hot rumble against my neck.
"Don't stop," he said.
"I wasn't going to."
I kissed him again, deeper, and kept my hips moving. Up and down now, still pressed flat to his chest, my tits mashed against him, his bound hands up by my head. My hair fell on both sides of us like a red curtain and the mess hall lights flickered through it.
"Eyes open," I said, into his mouth.
They were. Blue and inches from mine, not blinking.
His hands flexed above my head, fingers opening and closing, wanting to hold my hips. Not getting to. I felt it through his skin, that strain, and it made me wetter. I bit his neck and he bucked up under me, hard, and I cried out against his throat.
I pushed myself up a little, not far, just enough to arch my back. Just enough to lift my chest off his. My nipples hung down over his face, hard and dark, swinging with every roll of my hips. He stared at them. Then he did the math.
He lifted his head off the deck as far as he could. Strained up, neck corded. His mouth caught my right nipple and latched on.
He sucked hard.
The pull went through me like a live wire. Straight from the tip of my breast down into my cunt, a tight bright line of heat, and I gasped and arched my back further, pushing more of myself into his mouth. He took it. Sucked harder, tongue working, teeth grazing just enough to make me see white.
"Oh fuck, Albert, yes, like that, keep doing that."
He did. He didn't stop. He sucked at me like he was starving and my breast was the only thing left on the ship. His cheeks hollowed. His throat worked. The wet drag of his mouth pulled and pulled and pulled, and every pull wound the coil tighter low in my belly.
I rode him through it. Short grinding strokes, my clit planted on his pelvis, my nipple in his teeth, and his hips shoving up to meet me every time I came down.
"Close," I panted. "I'm close."
He grunted around my nipple. Sucked harder. That was all the answer he had and it was all I needed.
I arched my back all the way and screamed.
It hit me like a hull breach. Sudden, total, my whole body locking up around him. My cunt clamped down on his cock so hard I felt him jerk inside me. Light exploded under my skin, red and gold, patterns flaring from my ribs to my throat to the tips of my fingers. I ground down on him through it, riding the whole thing out, my voice tearing out of me and bouncing off the metal walls.
When it let go of me I slumped.
I came down on his chest hard, breathing in ragged gulps, my cheek on his sternum. His cock was still inside me, still hard, twitching against my walls. His heart was slamming under my ear. His mouth had let go of my nipple, but his head was still tipped up, lips wet, jaw tight.
"You okay?" he said. Hoarse. Barely there.
"Shut up," I said.
I lay on him and listened to his heart slow down. My bioluminescence had gone soft, drifting pink and gold, dimming against the blue of his eyes. The deck was cold under his back. My knees had gone numb ages ago and I hadn't noticed.
He was still inside me. Still hard. And then his hips moved.
Not a twitch. A real thrust, up off the deck, driving deep. A jolt went through me and I lifted my head off his chest.
He did it again. Harder.
"Albert."
His jaw was tight. He didn't answer with words. He just fucked up into me from underneath, both hands straining above my head against the webbing, his heels braced on the deck plate.
I let him.
I stayed slumped on his chest and let him do the work. Every thrust shoved me up a little, tits dragging on his skin, and every pull brought me back down with a slap of wet skin. He couldn't get much leverage from flat on his back, but he got enough.
"Harder," I said.
He gave me harder. His hips lifted my whole body with the effort, and the straps creaked loud in the quiet, and the curve of him jammed up against that spot every single time. My cunt squeezed him and he grunted.
"You're still so fucking hard," I said. "How are you still hard."
"Don't know."
He didn't know. He couldn't know, he'd been coming for two hours straight and it hadn't taken a thing out of him. I shifted my knees wider and pushed back to meet him.
That was better. That let him get his whole length in the stroke, the slide from tip to root, wet and quick. I braced my hands on his shoulders and rode him down while he drove up.
"Fuck, Heather." His voice cracked. "Fuck, you're gonna wreck me."
"You asked for it."
"I didn't ask for anything."
Chapter excerpt truncated at the edge.