Dinner is yucca again. I’m feeling things about seeing Sacti, but she isn’t there. I’m worried, but this is a hotel so I put it out of my mind.
This time Chinta comes back to the room with me. I smell the sex in the room, which leads me to the thought that I desperately want a shower. I shed my cultural costume with a little bit of no idea what I’m doing.
Chinta immediately fastens onto one of my nipples, and murmurs, “I’ve been waiting so long to get you out of that,” as I cradle her head. We end up tangled in bed together.
Now I really need a shower, and get out of bed and go to the bathroom. In this case it’s an actual bath room, not a “bathroom.” I mean that it has a bath, but not a toilet. That’s in a separate little closet. (It’s not galactic standard either, that’s caused some problems.) It’s also a bath room because it does not have a shower.
I’m going to have a bath. An actual bath. I know it’s bad for my microbiome, but I’ve been taking microbial showers for six months. A little bit of soap won’t hurt too much. Whatever, I need this.
Only… “How do I turn this on?” I call, perplexed.
Chinta comes in and shows me that there’s a lever to pull, instead of an old fashioned keypad. Or I guess the lever is old fashioned. I think it’s classy and antiquated at the same time. For a shit hotel it sure has a nice bathroom, but most of them do.
The water flows out of a wide slot on one side, and starts sloshing around in the tub. I’m naked, or I’d get nakeder, because that looks so nice. “What do I press to close the drain?”
“So the water will stay in the tub.”
“Water does not stay in tub. It goes out there,” She points to another slot, lower than the first, but six inches from the bottom of the tub.
“Can I get more water than that? To fill it up?”
“It does not fill. Water stays running.”
Seems like a waste, but I’m too used to a 500 gallon water allowance. I figure out how to dial the temperature up, and when it starts to really steam I step into the tub. I feel, as I always do, like there’s something more I have to take off. Chinta already got me as naked as she could, I remind myself. I lay my neck into the water, and it courses over my whole body. There’s a drain on the floor, or I’d turn the bath room into a pond.
Chinta gives a nod of satisfaction, then leaves.
A moment later she comes back with a chair, and sits down to talk. Right. That’s how women do things. What the hell are we going to talk about? “Tell me about growing up here.”
She tells me about growing up here. As a girl she was ditched by her fathers and sent to live with her grandmother, who was already getting a pension. Of course she had negotiated it as high as she could, knowing that she’d be the one to raise Chinta, but it still wasn’t enough. To supplement, her grandma worked in a sweatshop, assembling components for praxite televisions. Which meant that Chinta worked there as well. No one had the money to pay for childcare.
It gets worse. There are laws here against child labor. What that means in practice is the children who are forced (by convenient circumstances) to work anyway, don’t get paid for it. Chinta got meals at the workshop, which was good, because her grandmother couldn’t afford to feed her.
In the village outside the factory, where she lived, there were no schools. Educating girls is punishable with a death sentence. The women who set up the underground education system were literally putting their lives at risk to teach. For some time the government had been trying to keep women from accessing the Internet. When Chinta was 9 they gave up on that, swarmed under the number of illegal devices being smuggled onto the continent. It was the first real win for women’s rights, and it set up the revolution Chinta was leading now. With Internet, the education network could teach girls from inside their homes, without have to set up gathering places.
I’ve been really listening to her, which feels like a first. I guess when you are a woman, you kind of have to pay attention to what they say when they talk. This feels like the first time I’ve had a women’s conversation.
My wiring is playing hell.
Read an article on the ship, while I was reading things. When men talk they like to do things. Work on a car. Play a video game. Watch TV. I get that.
Women like to sit down and talk. While they just… look at each other.
My brain can’t do this, but I don’t want to break the mood, “You know what?” I think back to all the sex pill commercials I’ve seen with women in bathtubs. “I think I’m supposed to have a glass of wine with my bath.”
Chinta smiles, leaves the room, and a couple of minutes later comes back with a bottle and two wine glasses. “It’s human vintage,” she looks a little shy, “I bought it for special occasion.”
I lay my hand on hers, “This feels special enough to get drunk for.”
She works the cork out, pours and hands me a glass. My prunny fingers squish against it, and I sip. It tastes like garbage, so it’s probably a fine vintage. A dollar jug of wine is the best stuff you can get. People know they can charge you $300 for a glass of complete crap, as long as it comes from somewhere famous.
Despite this, I could totally get used to it.
Chinta watched videos of lectures while she worked, and did her homework at night. She read the Chokhan classics. She says their names, like everyone knows them. I don’t know them, but whatever. Then she read in Salc and Anduin, and Earth, and a dozen others. She learned English and Conc. She learned Trig and Kaluza theory. As she lists these things, it’s hard not to feel intimidated. But her English isn’t perfect, so I’ve got one up on her.
I sit up in the tub and find the “soap,” a handful of white, grainy powder. It’s not really soap, not in the human definition, anyway. It’s just a local root that absorbs grease, instead of dissolving it. Then it’s brown and disgusting and you rinse it off, and try not to imagine you’re hands are covered in shit.
“Is there shampoo?” I don’t use shampoo in a microbe shower, and I know it’s bad for my hair. But I want to feel my scalp get clean, dammit.
“What is that?”
“Special soap for my hair.”
Chinta runs into a cultural wall, “Why put soap in your hair?”
“My hair gets greasy if I don’t.”
She looks perplexed by this. I don’t think any Chokhan has enough hair to worry about that. Instead she picks up the bottle of and pours out a handful. “I will wash your hair.”
“I will wash your hair.”
Oh. Okay. “Just run the… soap” There’s a chokhan word for it that I don’t remember, but you wash with it, so it’s soap. “… through it, from front to back,” I turn in the tub and lean against the side. Chinta kneels, and starts working the soap into my hair. “Rub my scalp.”
She pauses, and then touches my shoulders.
“No,” I laugh, “The scalp is the skin under my hair.”
She laughs as well, and starts massaging my head.
Chinta’s mother was retired when she was seven, after having five children. One of them was another girl, who had died shortly after being born. Her mother had nothing to remember the baby by. No pictures, no grave, no ashes. I ask about the umbilical cord, but Chokhan don’t have one of those. I don’t ask anymore questions, because I’m not interested enough to get a zenobiology lesson. I’d rather listen to her story.
Her mother had been badly abused by Chinta’s… the Chokhan word doesn’t really translate. Fathers, sort of. She’d been beaten, and lashed. They do this thing here where they beat your wrists with a knotted rope until your carpels break and you can’t move your hands. So her mom couldn’t work in the factory. She stuck around for a couple of years, and when Chinta was 10 she wandered off into the forest to die. Apparently this is a traditional suicide for women.
Now everything is prunes, and I need to get out of the bath. Chinta stands aside while I get out. While I’m toweling myself off she hops in the tub. That would be pretty gross in an Earth bath.
She soaks for a it before she turns too, “Wash my hair now.”
I find some of the soap stuff. Her hair is thick, like string, but it’s kind of oily too. So I rub the stuff in and it browns up. I rub her scalp a bit, and I guess that feels okay ‘cause she lets out a groan.
Chinta saw started learning about the suffrage movement on other worlds. Earth, and Hanloa, and others. She became a teacher on the Internet for other girls. She started watching politics. She approached other women and started putting together a front.
Tinoct clears his throat from the doorway, I don’t know how long he’s been here. “There are police in the lobby. I think the proprietors would like us to leave through the back.
Rule on the ground, be ready to pack.
Rule of femininity, it takes way too long to pack.
I’m jamming stuff into my purse and trying to get my boots on. I never had this much stuff when I was a guy, did I? Of course I did. I just had actual pockets to put it in.
I’m still assembled in the two minutes it takes my suitcase to pack itself. Tinoct scouts the door, and we take off through a laundry room and down a fire escape. In the back alley is a waiting autocar, and we pile in and face each other while Tinoct says, < Airport. >
The car vrrrrrrms off.
“Sorry,” Tinoct says.
“Not the first time I’ve been sold out.”
“If the police ask questions Malek has to answer, or risk a search. We’d prefer he stays above the law or we can’t use him anymore.”
I still call it selling out, but whatever.
“We have a contact at the port who is willing to look the other way for…” He looks embarrassed, “Some time with ‘the human girl.’”
Bring it on.
Chinta is naked again, the sun is blistering again, and I’m soaking up the attention in the airport again. The bath really helped me get some self esteem together, and I’m ready to sexify it all up.
I file a fake flight plan at the desk, and the bmale behind it decides to be rude to mask his arousal. I should probably get used to that. I don’t have a photo ID for this face, and I do my best to explain that while he interrupts me. Eventually I get enough words in. Then he takes my picture, and glowers while I smile for the camera. Whoever authorizes the plan, in thirty minutes, is going to see my description on the all points, and then we’re all fucked.
He throws a tablet at me, and I sign the plan “Hugh Jorgan,” safe in the knowledge that no one here will get it. Some jokes transcend the fifth grade.
He yanks it back, saves it, and points me to the pilots lounge.
The flight plan is going to get sent to an operator to clear, and with the terrorism thing going, on everything is on lockdown. We go to the pilots lounge to meet the guy who’s going to fix that for us. I just hope I don’t have to suck dick to get off the ground.
Maybe I don’t know that. Maybe I’m feeling excited by it. Maybe that feeling worries me a little.
The lounge is appropriated in a very human style, intergalactic travelers have all come to expect the same interior design. There’s a z-level upstairs, and if I was alone I’d check it out. Comakh is sitting at the bar, and he waves me over to him the second I come through the door. Tinoct and Chinta go to sit in one of the couches. She gets on her knees when he gives the signal, and I find that still pisses me off.
Comakj young, I think. He’s amale, and slender, and has more hair than is normal, blond and shoulder length. He’s wearing a button down shirt, badge with his face on it, and weirdly fitting trousers.
I sidle up to the bar and sit, and order a bee—no a… a raspberry martini. I don’t know where they got the raspberry’s out here, but raspberry is my favorite. Martini is not my favorite, I’m just trying to cope with booze in a woman’s body. Especially when there’s someone to try and make appearances for.
Comakh reaches out to pay before the bartender turns away to find the liquor.
“Thank you,” I purr out for him, “that’s very sweet.”
Glass in front of me. Fast service. I take a sip and find out it’s not terrible, but it’s not anything I’ll drink again.
I drink, he drinks. He tells me about his job. He tells me about his car. He tells me about school. He mentions women’s rights, and he’s a little pro. “… Of course there have to be exceptions.”
Okay, fuck his guy. And I need him so I might. And I’m going to enjoy it, but I don’t care if he does.
I touch his arm, and touch my hair. I casually bump his leg with mine.
He asks what I do, and I say that I fly. He isn’t interested, of course. He wants an excuse to tell me about how important his job is. And he does.
His job is not very important, and he doesn’t really sell it.
“I do have a teensy problem,” I say, “I’m worried my flight plan isn’t going to pass. I’ve had some financial trouble.”
He pulls out a tablet, “Let me see if I can take care of that for you.”
He doesn’t run my picture though the image database, just hits a button and we’re clear.
“Now that I’ve done something for you, maybe you could do something for me?”
Dammit, I knew it.
“There’s a problem in my office and it could use a…” he brushes my hand, “… human perspective.”
“I think I can lend my talents.” How can I be excited with contempt. That doesn’t make any sense. The guy has the power to shut everything down, and if he does the look over my ship and I’m very arrested. So when he stands, I take his hand up, and follow him through a “Staff Only” door.
On the other side is a service hallway, and he quickly ducks into a side door, and leads me down into a boiler room. They probably aren’t boilers, I don’t know what they do, but it’s hot as a boiler room in here. “No one comes in here unless there’s a problem.”
“Is it the kind of problem you need help with?”
And he turns and starts to say something but just… stands there. Oh that’s so cute, he’s shy. My opinion turns around a little. Time to take some initiative. “I have a little problem too,” I say, and take a practice stalk toward him.
He starts to say something stupid, and I put a finger to his lips. I don’t think it’s a common gesture here, but he gets the body language.
I run my fingers down the lines of his shirt, and then down around his pants. Then I un-tuck his shirt and run my palms over his chest. My nipples are hardening, and the short jeans are feeling a little damp. When I unbuckle his pants he trembles a bit, and I use the opportunity to press my breasts into his chest. I give him a soft kiss, as I unzip, and dip my hands inside to take control.
He makes the same gesture that Tinoct uses to let Chinta sit, and I slap his hand, “Don’t think your going to get away with that with me.” I grab his cock in my fist, and give it a couple of strokes, “That’s not how you treat a lady.”
With something between a sigh and a whine, he nods.
“Good. Now I’ve got a little problem for you to help me with.” I give the trousers a tug and free his cock. “Oh,” there’s shock and longing in my voice, “I know just what I’m going to do with you.” It looks like it’s all sensitive skin, like a glans. His foreskin has lubed him up a lot, which just sweetens the deal.
Because here’s the thing: his dick is short, bulbous, and tapers in and then out again. Just like my butt plug.
I kneel, on my own terms. Just like last time the boots make it tough, and squatting feels just the right kind of dirty. I untie my shirt, and bra, and pinch a nipple. Gotta get him nice* and slick.*
He’s musky, and smells like supple skin. I put my lips to the time, and swish and flick with my tongue. He gasps, and then groans when I push his foreskin all the way down with my lips. His balls are huge, and I palm them, as I slurp up and down his dick.
While I go I unbutton my pants, and my mind is in overdrive imagining what’s coming. When I can’t hold back the anticipation any longer, I stand up, and lean onto some of the pipes on the wall and arch my back. The dukes can’t slide down very far when I splay my legs, but I don’t need them down too low. The thong is nuisance, I pull it to the side. I hear Comakh panting when he sees my little virgin asshole. I look over my shoulder and say, “Go slow.”
That was a mistake. I feel the tip of his penis on my button, he moves it around, but doesn’t go inside. I make a moan of frustration. I want that thing inside of me. I brace and bump back into the tip of his cock. Then harder. And he finally gets the point, and I feel my anus get spread open.
It’s nothing like the toy. The toy was ridged and metal. Toys and real life are stunningly different, and the chips all come down on real life. It’s incredible. The spreading hurts a bit, like stretching your mouth too wide, and there’s a pinch deep inside my guts. Whatever that pinch is, it bridges the gap between pleasure and pain, and hurts so good. When he pulls out it goes away, and I just want it back.
He isn’t in all the way yet, and going slow isn’t helping, but I’m moaning with just this little bit.
I’ve got my hands wrapped around the pipes, gripping them in lost ecstasy. I manage to say, “Harder,” through the little gasps that are coming out of my throat.
He starts to stroke deeper, and more urgently. When he goes out, I breath a little sigh, and when he pushes back in I let out a gasp. Then there’s a final push, and I feel my hole close over the base of his dick.
He pulls out to push back in, and I feel that tapered base pop out again. The pain when he does that makes my whole core tingle in pleasure. I’m getting fucked in the ass, by a stranger, in a dirty boiler room. I couldn’t be more turned on.
I get a wonderful surprise, as he starts thrusting in and out. His testicles (each the size of a golf ball) slam into my pussy from behind. The first time I feel a jump, and cry out in pleasure. It happens again on the next thrust and is enough to bring me straight to the edge. Time three, four, and five, I’m already orgasming, as his balls knock against my pussy, while he’s deep in my ass.
He’s still got some fight in him, and I clutch the pipes and start pounding back into him. I clench and unclench and feel my anus wrap around him and suck him in.
He’s not in control. I’m the one getting him off. His dick might be in me, but I’m the one whose going to make it spurt. Something about that should make me feel dirty. Instead I feel a sense of power.
I’m getting near again, I can feel my calves shake. I feel him ejaculate inside me. It’s a first, after Chinta’s weird dick. I feel flooded and warm, and even though it’s all inside the gooey feeling in my anus makes me feel decadant. Like ice cream on your wrist.
I’m close but I’m not there yet. He gasps as he pulses, bends over my back, and lays his arms on the pipes next to my hands. He tries to pull out but I’m not about to let that happen. I grab his forearms, hold him still, and jam my butt back on to his tool. A few moments later, when I cum, the satisfaction that I made him get me off, is almost as good as the orgasm.
He pulls out with a little tickle, and I can feel a little of his jism run over my perineum. Then I pull up my pants, clear my throat, say, “Glad I could help,” and find my own way out.
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