3 comments/ 5870 views/ 4 favorites Moontender By: inkyscandal Author's Note: I'm taking risks here; new genre, my first female narrator, present tense, a more complex lead character, deeper metaphors, etc. All of which is to say I would love to hear your feedback on whether any of this works so I can learn from my mistakes. Please let me know. For fans of my previous work, I hope this short tale remains enjoyable. Don't worry, it is still erotica. Thanks and, as always, please enjoy! ***** 1. "Mela," I hear Commander Briggs squawk in my headset, "Since TJ's not here... you've got L-Sector." I nod and look down. There is no point in reacting otherwise. Everyone knows L-Sector is a fucking mess. "Anybody else got extra batt-packs, optics or armor," Briggs continues, "loan 'em to her. That is not a request." Silence. Every squad leader is on this channel for the meeting, but a chorus of crosstalk would be amateur. Silence means yes. Briggs moves on. I feel a nudge on the back of my boot. Without even looking I know it is Specter. I turn my head just enough to see him. Fuck. How does he do that? So much in just a face. He perceives my fear I'm sure, but I take no shame in that. Smarts are the only chops that count up here. Tough ain't enough. Briggs dishes out the rest of the assignments. Nothing compares to what he's just given me though, so I tune him out and try to visualize everything I need to do. Twelve men report to me, all with post-graduate degrees. Like me, most are on loan from military. I'm Navy; a career blue-water girl until five years ago when NASA called. Now I'm stuck way the hell up here, serving the longest sixteen months of my life. I made squad leader after only ninety days, but that's mostly because Briggs needs me. I crush at process. I crush at risk containment. I crush EE-repair. All priceless. Briggs knows I keep my squad alive. They know it too so they more than just abide; they adhere. To them I am Mother Mela. Top it all, I give good mike. By that I mean my radio voice is good. Back when 'Houston Center' still meant something, if they had actually let a woman on the microphone I would have owned that job. Of course, my parents weren't even born yet... but you get me. I'm not going to tell you what I look like. Simply appreciate, if you will, that on the South Pole of the Moon every woman is a goddess. The only more-desired women are those headed for Mars, but that level of scarcity requires a one way ticket. So no thanks. I intend to feel water again, on Earth I mean, someday. We don't get real water here. More like clarified pee. I used to be a fairly serious swimmer back home. State Finals, invitationals, that sort of thing. So water is a big deal. It gave me strength and endurance. Now lunar gravity helps too. The amount of gear I can hump up here would squash a man back home. I like that. But I miss it... the feel and sound of water. Immersion. Anyway, everybody swears up here. If you utter a sentence without at least one foul word, we check your tags to see if your mixture went rich. Not kidding. Equipment maintenance is 6 hours of everyone's day. That's required. And no days off unless you want to get injured. Our distance from Earth dictates everything: sleep cycles, work cycles, how we eat, how we defecate and, most obvious, how we breathe. Even though we're indoors, a thin plastic hoop runs under everyone's nose, leaking just the right amount of oxygen to bring our air up to an adequate mixture. Without it you get sleepy quick. Only a few spots in our station have healthy ambient air, such as the algae farms. Here in the tactical bubble it's stale no matter how hard we run the circulators. So you need the oxygen boost, which originates from a reclaimant system sewn between the layers of our coveralls. It runs on body heat, urine and CO2. It doesn't produce enough O2 to live on indefinitely, but it's enough to boost the mixture so we don't need to be helmeted indoors. You just have to remember to inhale through your nose. That's why we sometimes refer to our Earth-bound colleagues as mouth-breathers. Affectionately, of course... always affectionately. Back on point: Fucking L-Sector. Probably not going to sleep much between now and when we go external. The tractor tugs will all need to be checked, packed and charged. I'll have to scrounge for extra everything: derma-plasters, stims, supplements and maybe a new encryption key too. Probably 16 hours until we go external, then 20-30 hours down in the flats, separating fresh cargo from the wreckage of their delivery modules. Once the tugs are fully loaded we'll drag everything back up here to base. That's when I'll sleep. Hopefully. As soon as the meeting breaks up I spring for the ladder-tunnel that leads to my squad's LSS. That's a Life Support Sphere for you mouth-breathers. We call them bubbles. Other than Comm Center and the farms, bubbles are the only structures that are heated. Each squad has their own, dug into the high rim of the Shackleton Crater in a scattered array, connected to each other by long ladder-tunnels. From outside, the growing scale of our mountainside base is mostly hidden. There are a few spots where ladder-tubes break the surface to skirt some un-drillable mass, but otherwise the only above-ground features are the solar panels (eternally-lit at the rim's summit), the tractor hangar and three communications towers. Like everything, that architecture is all about risk containment and survivability. Individuals are allowed to die, mind you, but not the mission. At least that's the idea. So one or two LSSs might get taken out by a micro-meteor or an air leak, but the rest will be far enough away to survive. Everything here is architected like that: triple-redundant, modular, self-sustaining. Otherwise we'd all be dead rather than just some. Space is death, after all. As I bound along the tunnel using that queer step-step-hop we all adopt at one-sixth G, I switch my headset back to channel 12 and listen to my squad chattering amongst themselves. They don't know it yet, of course, and I can't help but imagine their reactions. Fucking L-sector. I exit the first tunnel and leap across a five-way junction into another. Forty meters into that tube, the lights flicker. I catch an overhead rung to get feet-forward and then skid to a stop. I look back. It's just Specter signaling me. He knows my channel, but clearly doesn't want go public. I check the time and wait. His knees dip as he lands beside me. When I look into his face I see them... the sad eyes. He peels off his bulky noise-cancelling headset and tosses it behind his back so it hangs by the cord. I roll my eyes but do the same. It's how we get offline. We move to one side of the tunnel together, into a nook between two structural ribs. I check both ways to make sure we are alone. The incessant mechanical and circulation noise is quieter here than in the bubbles, but still pretty loud when you're not accustomed to having your bare ears exposed. You don't want to be out here in the tunnels for long without a suit on. They run close to the surface and the walls are thin, so if the sun is behind the mountain you'll eventually freeze. Also the radiation is higher. But it's a place you can be alone. Specter squares-off with me and leans in close so I can hear. "You hafta sleep before you go external," he says, overcoming the ambient noise. I shake my head no. He grabs my wrist and pulls. "You do!" I glance over my shoulder, pretending to check for visitors, but he turns my face back to him with a finger. There's that look again. Goddamn it. I duck my head toward his ear and shout, "I don't have time!" He takes hold of my shoulders and gently shakes me. "Yes. You do!" I shrug him off and make a move as if to leave. He catches my hand. I let him hold on, but shout: "Is that all?" Of course this wounds him. So I get the sad eyes again. But whatever, right? I mean, I have a brick shithouse worth of mission-criticals right now and Specter just wants to make eyes at me. "I have some good spares for you," he says, "suit plates, batt-packs, stuff like that. I'll bring them later!" I nod. My mind is back on-task, checklists unfurling behind my eyes. Again I glance toward my bubble. "Also," he continues, "Mouse owes me a heater!" My eyes snap back to him and my brain staggers off-course. He squeezes my hand. I scowl at him, shouting: "Are you out of your mind?" His smile becomes a grin and then fades into something more complex. Something emotional. Something I seriously don't have time for. Shit. I shake my head. It's his turn to glance away. We check for visitors. Still just us. With sudden confidence he puts an arm around my waist and pulls me in. He speaks directly into my ear: "You need to sleep, Mela. Please!" "Bullshit, Spec." I answer him, letting my lips graze his ear. "Sleep is not on your mind." His hand slides up my back, pulling my whole body closer. We are cheek-to-cheek. "Yes it is. It's not the only thing, but... you can't go out there on nothing but stims. It's not safe." "Fuck you," I say, shoving free and adding fire to my voice. "Don't tell me how to do my job. I keep my guys safe, you got that?!" He raises both hands in surrender and mouths a 'sorry' at me. But it's no good. I'm already in my zone. I step out to the middle of the tunnel and fish for my headset. I can tell my face is still scowling by the tension across my brow. He puts both hands to his chest and wobbles his head like a worried parent. It's just a routine though; funny because he's five years younger than me. He wants me to laugh. I power-up my mic and stare down the tunnel toward my responsibilities. I don't want to give him the satisfaction of showing it but I do feel better. It's nice to be wanted. I look at him once more, long enough to see him wink. That gets me, pulls my cheeks into a thin smile. He laughs happily at this but of course I can't hear him anymore. Channel 12 is a-chatter with competing quotes from some childhood video game I probably never played. Still looking at Specter, I tap the top of my head with a flat hand. It means: 'I'm okay.' He gives me a thumbs-up. I grab a rung and launch myself toward my job. "Gentlemen of squad seven," I break-in using my most languid test pilot drawl, "this is your mother speaking. I am inbound. You have two minutes to put away the porn and get dressed." Of course with an opening like that my resident comedian, Stain, can't help himself. He squawks: "But I'm so close Mama! I'm so close, I'm... Ah! AAH! Ahhhhhhhhh..." I key my mute button and chuckle. There is quiet. I let them enjoy it. Two more minutes of blissful ignorance before I reach the bubble and drop that we're going to L-Sector. Two more minutes before they hate me. Because they will. 2. Our squad bubble is muggy with burned calories. Everyone is sweating. Gear lays strewn across the cots, torn-down, half-assembled or somewhere in between. Stuff we had thoroughly cleaned after our previous external is being ripped apart and cleaned again. Fucking lunar dust sticks to everything. It scratches too, like sandpaper on skin. So it ALL has to come out before we suit-up. It takes hours. Donations trickle in from other squads. Stain gets some new kneepads; the good kind that don't rotate outward as you move. Mickey-D scores a collapsible flare-shield big enough for three or four of us to hide under if the worst happens. Then Specter shows up hauling a stretch-net full of gear. Some of it looks brand new. The guys swarm him and start pulling boxes out like Christmas. Happy curses clog our channel. All I can do is look at him and nod. Anything more would invite suspicion. I keep one eye on Specter as he helps the guys sort through the gifts. He works his way from cot to cot, checking their prep levels. He's repeating what I've already done, but I don't mind. The more eyes the better. When he finally makes it over to my area, he slips a thin rectangular cartridge into my hand. It's a new encryption key, still sealed. Probably one of the last. I let my fingers linger on his palm and mouth: 'Thank you.' He lets me off with a shrug as if it is nothing even though it is everything. If our comms can't be hacked, the 'rogues' (that's the politically-correct term we have to use) will think twice before going kinetic. Fresh encryption is a Godsend. Now empty-handed, Specter turns to leave. He stays on our channel though, I realize, because as soon as there is a pause in the chatter he squawks a simple: "I'll be back." Meaning for me. Meaning he intends to rig up the damn heater Mouse owes him somewhere. Meaning he intends to bed me again... at least once... before I go external. Jesus Christ. Who does he think he is? And why... why-oh-why... do I find his stupid earnestness so disarming? 3. Hours have gone by. I'm fried, unclean and dry-eyed from the constant breeze of circ air. There is still much to do. Channel 12 squawks in everyone's ear: "Mother Mela, this is Specter. You copy?" Without breaking my rhythm I answer: "Copy." "Pixar 3-30 please." Ugh. Here we go. That's our little code for switching to another channel. '3-30' means we both switch 3 channels higher and listen for 30 seconds to see if it's quiet. If it's busy, we move up three more channels and repeat. In theory we could cycle through every frequency together without a word until we find a quiet one. "Wilco," I squawk, checking the time. Within a few minutes we are on Channel 24. It sounds vacant. "You there?" he breaks-in after the requisite thirty seconds. "Yes." "Slept any yet?" "'Course not." "Well... It's ready. Near the bottom of Farm 6. How soon can you get there?" I torment him by not answering for a dozen seconds or so. I check the time again. I think about the odds of getting caught and the routes I could take to get there. "Twenty minutes. Maybe twice that." "Okay," he answers, failing to sound nonchalant. "Remember: F6, at the bottom by the anchor tube." "I copy. Out." I switch back to channel 12. My guys are mostly quiet now, each in his own zone, getting ready or napping. Three of them are out at the tractor hangar, supervising the load-out. I should be focused on them, on the mission, on helping to pack the tractor tugs and tender, on running seal-and-purge drills... something! I'm too strung-out to sleep and too sweaty for what Specter wants. And now I feel guilty because I want it too. I consider flaking on him. It wouldn't be the first time. In fact it would be textbook Mela. Or that's what he'd say once he got over it. But twenty minutes later I'm halfway to him, having told my squad to get some rest and that I was leaving to scavenge-up a new encryption key. A white lie, but still. I find Specter right where he said he would be, in the horribly fragrant damp of Farm 6. "Charming place, Spec," I yell after peeling my headset off. "I didn't know you had a thing for algae!" He smiles. "Keep your pants on. We're not staying. Follow me!" "Wait! Who is this for? Me or you?" "Both!" Well at least he's honest. I roll my eyes but it's an admission of consent. He grins and leads me into the anchor-tube. For five minutes we crawl, hop and climb our way down a vertical shaft I've never been in before. The air gets drier the lower we go, but also colder. My skin is damp in the breeze. I start to shiver. "What the fuck, Spec?" I call after him. "Where does this thing go?" He looks back to reassure, then waves me on downward. We drop eight to ten ladder-rungs at a time, deeper and deeper underground. The ambient decibels roll off steeply. I realize I can hear the metallic 'ping' of our boots impacting each rung. It's a sound I haven't heard in ages. Jesus that's weird. I stop and check my tag, doubting the air quality. But it reads okay; still in the green zone. I look down and see Specter stopped below me. He's pointing sideways at something. I drop to his level and see a door. "What the hell is in there?" I ask incredulously. "A heater, a hammock and a shitload of seedstock." I shake my head and laugh while he queries-up a code on his forearm tablet and punches it into the lock. The light above the hatch goes from red to green. He slides it open and ducks in. Bright lights auto-activate inside. Out of curiosity more than anything else, I follow him in. He's done well, actually. It's cozy. The heater is one of the infamous "lost" ones, serial numbers filed off and no longer listed on any official inventory system. These things get passed around among the crew. One can only imagine the stories they'd tell. He shuts the hatch behind me, knocking the noise level to near zero. Only the soft hum of the heater remains. "God," I whisper. "Listen to that." He grins: "I know. Amazing, right?" "Real silence. My ears are freaking out." "Yeah. Just give it time. Your body will remember..." We exchange a steady look, confirming his subtext. "I don't want to know," I say several heartbeats later, "what you did to arrange this. I'm violating enough regs already just being here." He approaches and rests his palm against my face. His other hand reaches for my waist but I twist aside and frown, saying too loudly for the quiet, "I'm gross right now." He doesn't hesitate. Pulls me into his arms and latches his mouth onto my neck, just below my ear. God that's unfair! His stubble makes me tickle all the way down to my toes. He shouldn't be able to do that to me. My hands land on his shoulders, which are broader than mine and taller. Solid feeling; like the hands across my back now, bending me into his embrace. His lips find my ear, then my cheek. I know what's coming and I know I'm not ready for it. Not to be kissed. I work too hard on this mask to let it shatter so quickly. I tuck my chin and bore into his shoulder, letting him know. He slackens his hold on me a few degrees and whispers: "Yeah... s'alright." We stand there, simply holding each other and not talking. My forehead rests on his collar. I'm looking down at the confluence of our clothing. The novelty of quietness throbs in my ears. Inside my mind I feel an exchange of control begin; a tilting of levers that I would never allow if we were not alone. "It just... takes a while," I whisper. "I know," he answers softly. "I know." I feel him kiss the top of my head once. Then he rests there, maybe on his cheek - I can't tell. But he rocks us back and forth. The heater feels warm. The air around us is dry and clean and smells vaguely of bread. I close my eyes. Another minute passes, maybe more, before it hits me. Suddenly my throat clamps tight and my stomach drops out from under me, revealing a vacancy I've hidden for weeks. Terror rushes in. I dig my fingers into Specter and squeeze. My face knots shut, wringing out that most difficult tear. Behind it an entire sea awaits. And poof! Just like that I'm sobbing. My knees cave. Specter hangs on, keeping me close as we sink together to the floor. "It's okay, Mela," he whispers. "It's alright." "No... I miss it!" I blubber between gasps. My abdomen is in seizure, folding me into a ball within his arms. I don't want this constant fear. I don't want this command. I miss the salt air, the gulls and the slow boom-shush of surf. I want to be a child again, hiding in the folds of my mother's dress... still oblivious to our shared fragility. "Shhh," he repeats. "No," I croak. "Why is this... happening to me?" "It's not your fault. Everyone goes through it." "Not this late! I... I can't fake it anymore... I'm barely here." Moontender "You're not faking anything, Mela. You're the best we have." We sit on the floor, him rocking me like a baby. I don't care how clichéd we look. No one can see. "I have to go home Spec," I whine. "I'm just... I'm so broken." "No. You're Earth-sick. There's a difference." We stay like that for what feels like half an hour, until my tears dry and exhaustion overwhelms me. I'm vaguely aware of Specter lifting my body into the hammock and unbuckling my boots. He tucks a blanket around me and disconnects all but one of the overhead lights. Then he combs his fingers across my scalp and, as a final gesture, kisses my forehead. The hatch opens and shuts. He is gone. Sleep succeeds him, accepting me without reserve. 4. Something touches my ankle. I open my eyes. "Six and a half hours," Specter announces softly, anticipating my first question. "Jesus!" I croak, sitting up. "No, you're fine. I checked on your guys. They're good. And one of the tugs' charging cables wasn't working, so that's pushed your departure back another three hours." "You're lying." "No," he answers, checking his wrist. "You still have around seven hours." "I'm late anyway. I have to go." "Up to you, of course, but I did bring these..." He raises a mesh sack into my line of sight. Rations for two and wet-wipes. I'm on the verge of standing but stop and glance between him and the bag. You know you're far from home when wet-wipes are an instrument of seduction. "You need to eat anyway," he goads me. I sigh and ease back into the hammock, rubbing my eyes. "Fine. How long did you say I slept?" "Six and a bit." "Wow. I don't know when the last... time... I..." A yawn cuts me off. "No problem," he says, handing me an MRE and a fluid pouch, "Eat up." I accept the food. "You forgot the candlelight and wine, Romeo." "I'd suggest a little less sarcasm, actually. Unless you'd rather I share these precious wipes with someone else." I raise one eyebrow at him, now fully awake: "Oh really? That's interesting, Spec. I didn't realize you had so many admirers up here. It's a wonder it hasn't gone to your head." He grins in the dim light. The heater cycles on again. We eat without talking much. The quiet around us feels like a vacation. Infinite. Spiritual. As soon as I finish my MRE, I snatch the pack of wipes away from him. "Hey!" he protests. "Trust me. You don't want to know how dirty I am." "Uh... yeah I do." "Jesus. What are you, eighteen?" I stand and rip open the long Velcro flap covering my jumpsuit's front zipper. I pull the O2 hoop away from my face and in less than five seconds I'm down to my thermals. "Slow down," he protests. "I'm trying to savor this." "The food?" "No, this moment... when you get all naked and wild for me." "You're confusing reality with your dreams again. You might want to talk to Doc Modson about that." "Actually there're a couple dreams in particular I was hoping you and I could..." "Jesus you're... I'm pretty sure I don't want to know how I feature in your dreams these days." I peel my thermal top off over my head. Specter's eyes dip to my chest and remain. His jaw shifts sideways. I start scrubbing my bare skin with a wipe. "You do remember," I say slowly while rubbing the wet cloth all around my breasts, "That technically I outrank you." He smirks. "So, you want me to start calling you ma'am?" "Not unless you want very unfortunate things to start happening to you. No, I just... thought I'd better remind you since it's probably not appropriate for you to be staring at me so lasciviously." "Lasciviously? What are you, a fucking thesaurus?" I turn away to hide my grin and start scrubbing my neck and face. I close my eyes. It feels wonderful to be getting clean. "I guess we all have weaknesses," he says, suddenly over my shoulder. I feel his hands circle my ribcage from behind. He cups my boobs, whispering: "Why don't you let me help?" "I can manage, you freak." His hands move lower, teasing my waist then venturing beneath the elastic of my thermal pants. It's enough to make me shiver. My shoulders roll forward in a shrug, crowding my breasts together. "Hmm..." he purrs near my ear. "You should really let me help you." I say nothing. I can't admit what I want. I have to trust he knows. Silence means... His hands push down, sliding my thermals off my hips until they fall. I sense him sinking behind me, kissing his way down my spine all the way to my tailbone. Only my panties remain. More kisses land across my backside and down one thigh. His fingernails trace my calves, tickling behind my knees. Then they drag up the outside of my thighs. I reach around and clutch his hair while my other hand holds the hammock's rope for balance. He silently kisses each side of my butt, getting closer and closer to my center. I feel the straps of my underwear being pulled down. A gasp escapes my throat. It's the last sort of noise I should allow myself up here, but it comes out involuntarily, like a confession. "Wait..." I whisper, trying to reclaim some semblance of self-control. "No," he answers. "You stand still." I hear him yank a couple of new wipes from the container. I grab the hammock with both hands. He starts cleaning my legs from the knees down, eventually pulling my crumpled thermals and panties off over one foot at a time. Then he scrubs my feet. With a fresh wipe in each hand, he stands up behind me and tenderly cleanses my thighs and crotch. My eyes close. I suck my lower lip between my teeth. It's all I can do to keep my knees still. In less than a minute the stupid wipes are on the floor and Specter's dexterous hands are touching me directly. Pleasure blooms beneath his fingers in a guilty rush, radiating outwards. My neck goes slack, droops forward. Kisses land between my shoulder blades, amplifying my nakedness. His fingers attack softly, teasing my wetness out from within. "God... damnit," I whisper. "There's my Mela," he answers. "Now turn around and kiss me like you mean it." Cleansed at last, I spin and surge toward him - mouth parted, eyes closed. He catches my lips with his. Arms embrace me. I feel myself lifted above the floor and bent backward like a blade of grass. My fingers find the back of his head and scrape through his dark hair. His stubble prickles my lips while his tongue searches my mouth. A hand grabs my naked ass, pulling me even closer. All I can do is wrap my legs around him. There is firmness under his jumpsuit, pressing me right where it should. I am so ready that I ache. I shove a hand between us find the bottom of his zipper, yank it upward and reach inside to grasp his erection. He staggers as I fish him out through his thermals into the open, but he doesn't break our kiss. I do. "Fuck me Specter," I whisper, "right now." The look on his face is a mix of desperation and joy as he positions me above his cock. I lean back, hanging from his neck with my legs tight around him. He finds the angle we need and pushes upward, entering me gently at first. Then he thrusts harder, revealing a desperateness as acute as my own. It has been more than three weeks since we were last alone. I pull with my legs, conveying my urgency. His grip intensifies as his cock pushes in, getting deeper each time. "Yes!" I pant. My slipperiness proliferates between us; erasing the initial discomforts of sex. Specter senses the change and starts really fucking me. I answer his thrusts with my own, and before long I throw my head back and swear. In our collective eagerness we lose balance and tumble backward, bouncing off the empty hammock and falling apart in an awkward jumble of loose limbs. Of course we laugh. Nobody tells you this, but sex is difficult at one-sixth gravity. There's simply never enough traction. Luckily falling down doesn't hurt much. I hook my arms over the empty hammock, holding it across my back like sling. Specter stands and lifts my legs up around him again. Then he reinserts himself. I'm so wet that it's easy. He spears me with hungry abandon, driving me into the hammock. Over and over our bodies collide. I lean back and squeal. My breasts swing in mirrored circles atop my ribcage, reacting to his rhythm. My nipples are tingly and firm. They long to be touched. "Goddamn," he grunts hoarsely. "You are so fucking hot!" I don't answer. I'm not much of a talker during sex, but I raise my head just enough to see his expression. It's obvious he's in some sort of personal heaven. And that just lifts me higher. My pleasure breaks orbit, sailing completely free. Within another minute I've become ecstatic for release. I forget what I'm doing, let go of the hammock and clutch my own boobs. Thankfully Specter retains the presence of mind to ease his thrusts and avoids launching me across the room. Lingering in self-indulgent delirium, I close my eyes and let my hands roam. He takes charge of our union. Eventually I reach for his shoulders and pull myself up. We kiss but the fit of our bodies becomes awkward somehow, especially with his clothes still between us. So I put one foot down and then the other, dismounting in order to undress him. Together we get the job done quickly. Once he's completely naked I rise on tiptoe and kiss him again. Specter has a nice body; lean and relatively tall. His pale skin is snug around his muscles and bones and he has very sparse chest hair; a tempting specimen for sure. I reach down and touch his damp penis, delighted to recognize its subtle upward curve. He is maximally engorged. I cradle his cock and balls with one hand, stroking them against my stomach. "God," he mutters, "I would kill for a mattress right now." "Yeah," I whisper, "that would be nice but... come on." I get him to stand astride the hammock and then I crawl into it on all fours while he steadies me from behind. In no time he's inside me again, bumping my bottom. I curl my fingers around the edges of the hammock and push back against him, arching my back to help him get deeper. God that's nice! I can actually hear our bodies colliding. My wetness surges again. I breathe through my mouth, relishing the fullness he is giving me over and over again. He reaches around and rubs my clit while his cock continues its slippery intrusions. I feel him stretch my folds apart to expose my clitoris and then swirl a finger there, pushing its sensitive bump around. My arousal climbs like a windblown leaf, circling ever higher. I'm getting close. I can hear Specter grunting behind me. His cock feels deep now, like he's getting close too. Selfishly I hope he doesn't finish too soon. "Fuck!" I squeal. It's making me dizzy, all this arousal combined with the absence of my O2 tube. I bury my head into the hammock and concentrate on pleasure; on the sensations creating themselves within me. The slap, slap, slap of our sex gets louder. I can hear Specter's breathing. He is shaking me with each impact, pushing me into the hammock. I push back and savor it. His fingers keep moving. The slapping continues. God that sounds wet! A long moan escapes me. Heartbeats later my arousal achieves its boiling point. White-hot pleasure shoots outward, electrifying every erogenous zone from my neck to my toes. They all buzz with joy. Specter keeps going, shoving his erection into me. I brush his hand off my clit, now oversensitive there. He grips my waist and elaborates his thrusts, withdrawing almost completely between each one. He's doing this for himself now, aware that my arousal is already rolling from crest to crest with easy buoyancy. It feels marvelous. I'm floating on sex - no longer caring about anything else in the universe. He's made me normal again. Human and happy. Everything feels good. I hold my hips high, arching for him as far as possible and looking back. I want to grant him a memory of this, my wanton face. He deserves that. But his eyes convey some other, unnamed want. It's just a look but it scares right through me. He leans down close and pulls my head into a sideways kiss. Our tongues touch while one of his hands grabs my nearest breast. His thrusting grows more urgent, thumping against my ass. He stops kissing me in order to swear. His hands squeeze so hard it feels like punishment. I grit my teeth and take it, wanting exactly what's next. My fingers and toes scratch at the hammock, as if that might somehow make him cum harder or deeper. And there it is... fuck yes! Warm spurts tickling my insides. He yells out and then, at the apex of release, goes quiet, not even breathing as our hearts beat out their frantic rhythms. The flooding deepens. When I am completely brimmed a shiver runs through us both. Then he resumes, stirring his seed within me. We each moderate our movements though, wanting to linger in this rare impression, this exchange. Pure animals. Eventually I am first to break away. Lowering my backside off his softened cock, I roll over beneath him. He collapses with a sigh that sounds exhausted and spent. I welcome him, enjoying his smothering and post-coital warmth. I don't care about anything else right now, and that alone is worth everything. Minutes pass. The hammock's swaying fades to a stop, cradling us in silence. Specter's breathing becomes perfectly even. My life rushes back, besieging my brain with all the worries so recently expelled. "Spec," I whisper, "Wake up. I have to go." Reluctantly he shifts himself from me and stands. I swing my legs to one side and climb out. I hand him a wet-wipe and use two on myself. Once clean, we each pull on our underwear and thermals, then snug our O2 tubes back under our noses. Specter crawls back into the hammock. I step into my coveralls and pull my boots on. By the time I'm fully dressed and zipped up, he looks almost dead. "Hey," I say loudly. "I've gotta go." "Mm-hmm," he murmurs. "I'll be there... watch you go out." "Okay. Enjoy your nap." I pull my headset over my ears and power it on. The hum of the heater is replaced by crackling voices and static. I can't make out what anyone is saying. The reception is too weak down here. I turn away and open the hatch to leave. As I duck toward its opening I catch movement in the corner of my eye though. So I look back. Specter is up on one elbow, staring at me with no expression at all. Then his mouth moves to form three words. I snap my eyes away but not soon enough. Like a spear it hits; a parting gift gone very wrong. I can't look at him, only at the floor and then the door. I'm too frail for full gravity. My boots resist but I lurch forward and escape, managing to shut the hatch between us before regret arrives. Straight up I climb, blurring the rungs as fast as I can. Noise returns. *