CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sergeant Yvgeny Arbatov hitched up his uniform belt and stepped off the
lift as the doors slid open. Shouts echoed down the narrow corridor to his left
and he turned his head that way. Shouts and cries and a string of profanity
that would've made a Marine feel right at home. He'd been watching on the
monitor upstairs -- with the usual crowd -- but the ruckus was a lot louder down
here. She was a spoiled rich girl, claimed to be a niece, niece-in-law, of one
of the Council of Twelve. She sure seemed to have enough money for that to be
true -- iris implants, lab-toned body, one hell of a rack -- practically up
around her ears, and a dress that cost as much as he made in a month -- but that
wasn't his concern. She'd thought her new PCA, probably paid for by mommy and
daddy -- he shook his head at that, times had sure changed -- would be just the
thing to smuggle nodules of black-market euphorics in from Outer Pearl. Didn't
these kids know anything about scanners? Two of his people were in the Standby
room with her now, removing the nodules by hand and tagging them as evidence in
case this ever went to trial -- that was why she was causing such a commotion.
You had to do it by hand - the gel-caps were too soft and slippery for machine
retrieval, and if one burst the girl might absorb enough to overdose. On the
monitor screen he'd seen Jasch in her up past the elbow, grinning even as the
prisoner screamed and cursed at him and fought like a wildcat against her
restraints, looking for the last, slippery egg-shaped orbs; it was a good thing
the Department had ordered those shoulder-length rubber gloves. The girl was on
some sort of mind-altering substance, she was barely coherent, but she'd been
fighting from the first minute in custody and they hadn't had a chance to test
her yet.
"The more you fight us the longer this is gonna take," he heard Jasch
say faintly. Arbatov knew Jasch had to be grinning, he loved it when they
fought the search, that's why he never used a stun-rod, even on the most unruly
females. Jasch's enjoyment of his task wasn't completely professional, but as
long as there was a female officer in the room the arrestee had no legal
recourse. Of course, Shakiri Ono, Jasch's partner, wasn't much better. Rumor
had it she was a stud dahlia whose personal tastes were rougher than Jasch's.
Rumor, but with loads of circumstantial evidence to back it up: Ono's two pet
Danes were registered with the city's animal control office, and that bulge at
her crotch was so big it had its own gravity field. Plus, her live-in bottom, a
tiny blonde woman, reportedly had a number on her neck, although no one seemed
able to verify whether or not she was chattel.
The brightly lit main corridor of the Garshak City Jail stretched out in
front of him. Everything was pretty and white and gleaming and looked brand
new, and a visitor would never know that he was fifty feet below ground in
chambers carved into solid rock. He strode down the wide corridor, the tiled
floor as shiny as a mirror, and nodded as he passed Officer Benbrak, leading two
dejected-looking girls barely out of their teens toward the elevator.
Unlicensed treats, Arbatov guessed, caught in a routine sweep of FunTown.
Bubbly girls out on the town looking for a good time and, usually as an
afterthought, some quick UC's. Probably heading upstairs to be picked up by
their parents who, more likely than not, would do nothing. Perhaps buy the
girls licenses. Krikes. It seemed like they were getting younger and younger,
and he didn't think that was because he was getting older. It had to be due, in
part, to all the X-Cite-R people were taking. Since the government had
eliminated any and all restrictions on its sale everyone was taking the stuff,
especially kids. It didn't make much sense to him; when he was twenty-two, even
without jack sex was all he could think about.
His dark blue uniform with its gold accents was pressed and immaculate,
perfectly tailored to his thick body. His neck was beginning to thicken up, and
his hair was shot with grey, but his body was as fit as when he was twenty and
in the Academy. That said, he was still eligible to retire in five years, and
had been thinking about that a lot lately. Should he? But if he did, what the
hell would he do with himself?
It was late enough that the small waiting area outside the primary
security station was almost empty. Today's released prisoners had already been
serviced by the attendant Sisters upstairs and were long gone, and it was past
visiting hours. A bailbondsman he vaguely recognized, bored and working a
puzzle on his notebook, gave Arbatov a wave. A disheveled, dirty-faced woman in
a cheap spray-on dress with a hole torn in its side was nearly asleep in the
only other occupied chair, legs splayed wide. Her sex was visible to anyone in
the room that cared to look.
The security station was an elevated U set behind a clear wall of
ballistic Flex that would stop any projectile short of a runaway speeder. There
were three officers behind the raised console, which held the computer that
controlled and monitored all the cells via video, audio, thermal and motion
sensors, although the thermal and motion sensors were rarely used except in
emergencies; they were more backup systems than anything else.
Arbatov stepped up to the scanner and let it read his retinal print.
The heavy door buzzed and he pushed it open and stepped into what he thought of
as the jail's brain. The officers inside looked a little frazzled.
"Exciting night?" Arbatov said with a smile.
Corporal Toma shook his head. "That's got to be the biggest group of
DaneLovers we've ever hauled in," he marveled. "We only have two empty sleeper
units," he informed his supervisor, "and two barewalls." Barewalls were the
plain cells with no built-in restraining equipment for unruly prisoners.
"Hopefully the magistrate will allow most of them to bond out tomorrow."
Arbatov didn't respond for a minute, scanning the banks of sensors and
vidscreens. "Well, we've still got what, three, four empty holding cells?
They'll each hold ten people, easy. We should be okay unless some riots break
out." He eyed the screens showing occupied cells. "How about our unlucky
detainees? They still flying on Jack?" Jack was police slang for X-Cite-R.
"Like you wouldn't believe," Officer Keili said. Her blonde ponytail
whipped back and forth as she shook her head. "The 'Lovers must have improved
their recipe. The autodoc hit them with the regular antidote, but it still
looks like it's going to be hours before we can release them." Arbatov's gaze
slid from the vid screens to the front of her uniform blouse as she sat in her
swivel command chair. He admired the aggressive jut of her breasts briefly,
without being too obvious. At least she still had hers, that was good to see.
Some of the gung-ho stud-dahlias policework attracted had theirs hormonally
reduced to nothing but nipple. Of course, most of them had other optional
equipment installed elsewhere, too. Plugs, they were calling them now. It was
a wonder they still called themselves female. He'd heard some stories about
their afterwork get-togethers . . . .
"Yeah, well make sure the dicks come down and get statements before
they're released this time. It's hard to prosecute a kidnapping when the victim
never signed a statement or a complaint and isn't even onplanet anymore." Heads
had rolled over that fiasco.
"I swear the DaneLovers are the only reason danehumping isn't legal yet,
everyone's afraid it would be like giving drugs to a junkie," MColly Thurpid,
the third officer on duty, said. Arbatov still didn't know what to make of her.
Less that thirty-five years old, and barely five years out of the Academy, she'd
bounced back and forth between genders so many times her body'd gone totally
androgynous. Apparently there were enough men and women out there like MColly
that they'd garnered their own label -- Mergenders. Just one more bizarre twist
in a society and culture that was already spinning out of control, as far as he
was concerned. With no end in sight. Arbatov thought of MColly as a her,
because most of the time she'd been on the Force, including the last year and a
half or so, she'd sported breasts, but he didn't even want to hazard a guess as
to what her genitals might look like. He couldn't even remember from her file
what sex she'd been born into, not that it mattered nowadays. All it took was
one DNA unzipper and anyone could switch, although a lot more did than should,
if you asked him. Some people just didn't have the right bone structure, and
the Switch only affected soft tissue, or so he'd read. McColly, for her part,
looked better as a woman than a man.
"You itching to get a pet?" Toma asked MColly. He didn't think much of
her theory, or danehumpers.
"You ever had a Dane?" MColly shot right back. Her dark hair was cut
short on the sides and back, longer on the top and highlighted with blonde
streaks. She had plain, androgynous features and an unremarkable body under her
uniform, small breasts and narrow hips, but Arbatov suspected she was a dynamo
in bed. She just had that look. Word was that Anderson up in Traffic had had a
fling with her, but he wasn't talking.
"Of course not, it's . . . " he searched for words. "Well, it's
illegal, to begin with," he spluttered.
"And we all know why that is," MColly said with a wink to Keili.
"'After a Dane, all men are tame,'" she repeated the oft-heard phrase.
Arbatov pulled his popper out of its holster on his belt and locked it
into a SecurDrawer. "Alright," he said. "I'm going to wander down and see if
any of these corkbrains can form sentences yet."
"You want us to pop their bindings when you get there?" Keili asked him
with a mischievous grin.
Arbatov shot her an evil look and the trio laughed uproariously. The
sergeant opened the far door and started down the corridor.
"Good luck," Toma called out. "Try not to get any on you." More
laughter followed. "Bunch of comedians," Arbatov muttered. They
remote-opened Gate A for him, and then he was inside the jail itself.
First off the corridor to his right was the first bay of sleeper units,
and he stopped to look over their readouts. Little more than lockable drawers
for people, with a control panel on the door and a small window to view the
occupant, resting on a padded tray that slid out for easy access. Originally
designed to house violent prisoners, the sleeper units worked equally well on
the dozens of DaneLovers the Blues rounded up each month, buzzed on Jack.
Since they'd gassed the DaneLovers before transport, all that was
required when they arrived at the jail was loading them into their individual
sleepers. The officers had a mech specifically designed for that, so no one
threw out their back.
The units were built into the wall, stacked three high, sixty total
units inside each circular bay. Arbatov peered into one and saw its female
occupant sprawled on the pad, limbs askew. They'd keep them under, periodically
filling the units with gas, until they were sure the effects of the DaneLovers
home brew had worn off. The department had quickly learned that was the only
way to deal with large numbers of jacked-up 'Lovers. This drawer's occupant was
nude, as were most of the others, brought in straight from the "ceremony".
He peered into random sleepers; they'd nabbed a good-looking bunch of
'Lovers this time. One of the Corporals on the raiding party had told Arbatov
-- in confidence -- that he'd recognized one of the 'Lovers as sister to one of
the Council of Twelve. If the officer was right, the next few days would be
very interesting. Arbatov wouldn't be surprised to see laws quickly and quietly
passed decriminalizing Dane/Human relations, just to prevent further
embarrassments to this Councilmember's family, because once a DaneLover, always
a DaneLover -- his sister would be under a furry mount again in no time.
If only the 'Lovers didn't feel compelled to kidnap spacers. Except for
the abductions, Arbatov doubted whether the Blues would even bother with the
'Lovers, even though sex with the Danes was, technically, still illegal. Women
had been gloving Danes long before he was born, and would still be doing it long
after he was dead, with no ill effects ever mentioned. Hell, half the single
female officers on the force -- not just the dahlias, mind you -- had adopted
Danes they'd captured on raids. Don't try to tell him all they were doing with
their pets was playing fetch.
He left the sleeper bay and continued down the corridor, passing more
bays. The three officers in the security station watched his progress on the
monitors, and remote-opened Gate B when the sergeant reached it. These were the
more traditional cells, small square rooms with three plain walls, a bunk, a
sink, and a toilet. The fourth side appeared open to the corridor. The jail
used a variety of fields to keep the prisoners in their cells, even though it
looked like they'd be able to walk right out into the corridor.
The first cell was occupied by two drunken spacers, arrested for
fighting. He read the arresting officer's report on the screen set into the
wall beside the open doorway into the cell. One of the two men noticed Arbatov
and jumped off his bunk and began yelling. The sergeant just smiled -- he loved
this new sonic field. Even though there was nothing but open air between him
and the belligerent drunk he couldn't hear a word the man was yelling. A quick
tap on the monitor beside the door would fix that, but why change a good thing?
The field somehow disrupted the air molecules so that sound waves couldn't pass
through; he didn't know how it worked, only that it did, and didn't affect the
all-important milliwave field that kept the prisoners contained.
The sergeant stopped at the second cell and studied the screen detailing
the circumstances surrounding this man's presence in the jail. He was a spacer
too, registered at the Galandria Hotel, and had been onplanet less than two
days. Arbatov shut off all the fields and shielding and stepped into the cell.
"How are you doing this evening?"
Chris jerked and twisted his head around to look at Arbatov standing
above him, the faint trace of a smile on the sergeant's face. He was secured to
the lumpy bunk at wrists and ankles, as near as he could figure, although the
blanket covering him made it hard to tell for sure.
"Hey, let me go," he pleaded, thrashing against his bonds once again.
Even though the bindings were padded his wrists and ankles were beginning to get
sore. "I didn't do anything wrong. I got kidnapped! Why doesn't anyone listen
to me? Can't you just unstrap my arm, just for a minute? I promise I won't try
to escape."
Arbatov shook his head. "Can't do that. You've still got way too much
Jack in your bloodstream -- I untie you now and you'll spank yourself bloody.
Hell, the report says you've already been treated by the autodoc for friction
burns and joint fatigue." His levels were still nearly off the scale, and he'd
been in custody for close to six hours -- they had a blood monitor stuck in him
above his ankle that he hadn't even noticed yet.
"I won't, I promise. Please? Pleeease?" Chris pleaded. He twisted
around on the bunk, trying to get a better look at Arbatov. Above his groin the
blanket was tented by his straining erection. In response Arbatov stepped back
out into the corridor and Chris heard him briefly conferring with someone. He
stepped back into view shortly.
"Don't worry, you're not in trouble," Arbatov assured him. "We've seen
this kind of thing, unfortunately, many times before. But by law we can't
release you until your BXC drops below point one, and you're way over that.
It's going to be another five or six hours, at least." As the sergeant spoke
Chris was twisting around on the bunk, trying to get his organ within reach of
one of his immobilized arms, grunting with the effort.
"When it's safe to release you we'll find you some clothes and get a
statement from you about what happened, then someone will drop you back at your
hotel," Arbatov told him.
"I hope I'm not going to have to pay extra for this part of the vacation
package," Chris said through clenched teeth, trying to fight back the urge to
piston his hips up and down.
Arbatov laughed. "You've got the right attitude. Years from now you'll
look back on your little adventure fondly."
"Doesn't help me right now," Chris grunted. His cock felt like it was
on fire, his groin one giant center of aching, throbbing agony, yet if he got
free he knew the first thing he'd do is masturbate, the sergeant was right. He
was so tired he could barely talk, but there was no way he was going to fall
asleep. A white-smocked medico appeared in the corridor behind Arbatov and
cleared his throat. The sergeant talked to him a distance down the corridor.
"I was reviewing his file on the way down," the doctor told him, hefting
his notebook which displayed the report of Chris' rescue and the preliminary
auto-doc results. The sergeant had sent it to him on one of the in-house
channels, concerned about the unusually high levels of BXC in his blood. "You
were right to call me. Let me just examine him quickly." He produced a small
medical scanner and stepped into the cell.
"Good evening, I'm doctor Shugeti," he said to Chris. "You've had quite
a day, haven't you?" He pulled the blanket gently off Chris and bent low over
his groin to examine him. He pulled out the scanner's screen and slowly passed
it over Chris, studying the three-dimensional display of his internals.
"Hmm," the doctor said as he held the scanner over Chris' groin. It was
not a sound signifying all was well.
"What?" Chris said, but the doctor just ignored him and took a fresh
reading off the ankle monitor.
"Still almost point four," he said in surprise. "They've definitely
improved their formula," he told Arbatov. The doctor perched his behind on the
edge of the sink and crossed his arms as he looked at Chris.
"Do you want the good news or the bad news first?" he said with a smile.
"I don't want any news," Chris said.
"I understand completely," Shugeti said. "Well, to begin with, none of
the women you had relations with during your imprisonment seems to have given
you any diseases, so that's good. Of course, I haven't had to treat an STD in
what, close to five years, but you never know what you might pick up, especially
from women who favor sex with wild specimens. Plus, your hair will grow back,
although it might take a while.
"On the negative side," he went on, "that witch's brew of drugs they
poured down your throat has caused some damage. This latest concoction is much
stronger than I've seen before. All of your reproductive organs have been
permanently affected by this solution, but to just what extent I cannot yet say.
Everything's still so swollen that it'll take another day or two before I can
get an accurate reading, but I'm pretty sure your fertility will be affected."
"My fertility?"
"Yes. While your actual output, that is to say, your seminal fluid,
will be increased, your actual sperm count will be reduced -- that's a known
side-effect of long term use of X-Cite-R, and superdosing, as you've done,
exacerbates the problem. Again, I can't say by how much, it's too early, and
there are too many factors to consider. Also, you will find your sex drive
permanently increased to one degree or another. And until the chemicals leave
your system entirely, which could take up to a week, you'll experience what
could best be described as hot flashes. You'll feel hot, maybe get flushed, and
will experience an extreme sense of arousal. These will fade rather quickly, so
you needn't worry, but you should be aware of what's causing them. Are you
feeling uncomfortable now? Pain in the groin area?"
"Yes, quite a bit."
"I'm not surprised. The Breeder's Friend megadose you took has
turbocharged your reproductive system. Your body is producing seminal fluid at
such an accelerated rate that your vesicles and nearby structures are becoming
swollen with the stuff. That's good and bad news." He turned to Arbatov. "Are
there any Sisters still on the premises?"
"I think so."
"See if you can have one sent down here." Arbatov looked up at the
corner where he knew the cell's vid surveillance cam was, even though he
couldn't see it. The overhead speaker clicked on before he said anything.
"Already working on it, Sarge," MColly's voice said.
"He's going to have to be masturbated every half-hour or so to relieve
the pressure and prevent a rupture," Shugeti told Arbatov. He looked at Chris.
"That doesn't sound so bad now, does it?" He turned back to the sergeant. "At
least until his BXC drops below point two. I'll go meet the Sister, tell her
what's needed of her."
"I've got two others just like him down the hall," Arbatov reminded the
doctor.
"I better have a look at them too. Well, at least the Sister'll stay
busy," the medico said with a grin. With a nod at Chris he disappeared around
the corner.
Sister Cari Eugenia sat crosslegged on the floor of the anteroom, back
straight, head upright, eyes open but unseeing. The backs of her relaxed hands
rested on her knees. Her pulse was an even twenty-four beats a minute, her
respiration a steady six breaths in the same amount of time. To an observer she
appeared to be meditating, but in actuality she was performing her daily cloud
and pebble exercises while cleansing her mind and body of all extraneous thought
and emotion.
The cloud was a smooth white sphere three centimeters in diameter, so
light its weight could hardly be felt in an open palm. The pebble was a mere
centimeter across, a black sphere shiny as glass but with a greater density than
lead. They were just one of the secret tools of the Sisterhood, these designed
specifically to tone muscles while improving concentration.
Her body remained still as she did her exercises. They seemed so easy
now; she moved through them quickly and surely, not at all like that first day,
when she struggled just to tell them apart as they sat in her.
Rippling like waves on a beach, her internal muscles pressed the orbs
together and worked them up into the deepest corner of her vagina, then quickly
back down all the way to the mouth of her sex, nearly touching her labia. She
did fifty repetitions. She then clamped the pebble in place at the mouth of her
sex while working the cloud up and down the length of her highly trained
orifice. This was much easier than what she did next, holding the cloud in
place right at the opening of her sex while moving the small but weighty pebble
back and forth her entire cavity length fifty times. All the while her hands
remained relaxed and upturned on her knees, her face passive, pulse and
breathing unchanged.
The final exercise was the most difficult. Called the Scissors, it was
one of the basic tests a novice needed to master before becoming a Sister of
Mercy. With the orbs at opposite ends of her sex, she worked them together and
then apart, reversing their positions. She felt a slight click each time they
passed in her channel. She did this thirty times, slowly, then another twenty
times as fast as she could. Her vagina was approximately twenty-five
centimeters deep in her current physical state (larger when she was highly
aroused), and she could switch their positions inside herself in an even six
seconds, a better than average time.
A similar test, scissoring two heavy orbs of different colors, was the
final proof of an aspiring Sister's mastery of her own body, attempted only
after three days of fasting, prayer, and ritual masturbation. Successful
completion of it was required before any novice could don the robes. One blue
orb was placed on the tongue, one green one inserted into the rectum. The
novice had but ninety minutes to manuever them in opposing directions through
her body's digestive system. For Sister Cari the hardest part had been the
route upward from her stomach, but she'd completed the task in seventy-seven
minutes, spitting out the green orb a full ten minutes after she'd squeezed the
blue one out her anus. It had been her proudest moment, although she'd been
hoping to beat the record of forty-six minutes, set by the current FleshMother
Superior. She was one of four girls that day to take her vows. She barely
remembered the celebratory orgy afterwards, her head had been spinning so.
Her highly atttuned body detected the vibrations in the floor of someone
approaching on foot long before the knock came on the door. By then she had the
cloud and pebble inside a well-concealed pocket of her habit, and was standing
with her hands clasped together, facing the door. The exercises had left her
wet, as they always did. In other circumstances she might have succumbed to
temptation and clenched her muscles in a certain way, bringing on the pleasant
relief of orgasm, but she did not know what would be required of her and knew
she would perform her duties more enthusiastically if slightly aroused.
"It's not all bad news," Arbatov said. "The Council makes a habit of
giving people in your predicament a free pass to a pulatrita. To clear out your
pipes, get rid of any bad memories."
"Just how damn often does this happen?" Chris demanded, craning his head
around to glare at Arbatov. The sergeant had no intention of answering that
question.
Chris lay back and stared at the ceiling. The thought of venturing out
of his hotel again just to be nabbed by another crazy was highly unpleasant, and
he told Arbatov just that.
"Well then, just rent a bunch of 5-chips and stay in your room for the
rest of your layover," Arbatov told him.
"What the hell's a 5-chip?"
"A headchip. You know, five senses? A FeelReal, a feelie." He'd run
out of slang, and had no idea what the actual technical term might be.
"Feelies are legal here?" Chris said in shock.
"Why wouldn't they be?"
"Well they've been banned just about everywhere I've been, or severely
restricted. They say the technology's too dangerous, addictive, and open to too
much abuse."
"Sounds like a bunch of Daneshit to me. Addictive my ass. Those
pissant governments probably just didn't like the fact that their citizens were
having so much fun. Hell, maybe they had too high of an absentee rate and
blamed it on the chips. That I could see. But addictive? Crap. You know how
many Monnies have implants? Millions. If they were addictive we'd have heard
something about it by now, feelies are HUGE here. The technology's totally
wireless now, no more holes in the head or ugly helmets."
"I don't have an implant."
"Well, get one! Hell, they're getting cheaper every day, seems like. I
paid five grand for mine just six years ago, and now they're down under two."
"Two thousand? That's it? Yeow. Wait, you have an implant?"
"Sure. How else am I going to have sex with strange women without
pissing off the wife?" He gave a little smile.
"You've got sex feelies?"
"You've got to be kidding me. Seriously? Where are you from, New
Mantique? That's practically all they sell. My tastes are rather mundane, but
you should see some of the stuff they've got on the shelves, it's unbelievable."
"Haven't I had a rough enough week without you kicking me when I'm down?
You're making this up."
"I'm dead serious. After what you've been through, I don't blame you
for not wanting to leave your hotel. You ought to go get an implant."
"I'm only onplanet for another eight days."
"So what? It's an outpatient procedure now. Mostly automated. In and
out the same afternoon, with just a little bit of swelling and pain that's gone
in a day or so. You can use it as soon as you get home. Actually, they test it
out right there, before you leave, and then you can head straight to FeelLife.
That's a feelie rental chain," he explained. They both heard the rustle of
fabric and Arbatov turned around. The Sister smiled at him warmly and inclined
her head. She was rather short, perhaps thirty five years old. The bulky habit
could not conceal her trim figure, or the full breasts sitting high on her
chest.
"Sister," Arbatov said in greeting. He turned back to Chris, who was
staring at the nun in confusion. "I want to make sure you give a statement to
our detectives about your experience with the cult," Arbatov reminded him. "One
should be down here before you're released, but just in case . . ." Arbatov
nodded decisively, nodded again at the Sister, and headed back up the corridor
to the security station.
With all the chemicals still floating around in his bloodstream Chris
had a hard time paying attention, and had no idea what the nun was doing in his
cell, but he was embarrassed for her to see him naked as he was. Especially
with an erection. Surely she wasn't . . . . naahh.
"Sounds like you've had a rough couple of days," the nun said sweetly,
kneeling primly on the floor next to his bunk. She wore traditional black
robes, with a white headpiece that covered everything but her pretty face. He'd
never seen anything like it except in history texts. "I understand we need to
relieve some of the pressure building up in you. And I thought that was just an
expression!" she said with a laugh and a flash of white teeth. "I'm Sister
Cari," she told him.
"Sister--" he began, but didn't know what to say. His cock flew proudly
in her face, painfully, hugely erect.
"The doctor assumed I would do this manually," Sister Cari told him,
"but that was right after he finished telling me how sore and swollen you'd all
be." Still on her knees, she straightened up and leaned over him. "He agreed
this would be better." Without another word she opened her mouth and lowered it
over his throbbing shaft, engulfing his entire length without pause, like he was
only an inch long, not stopping until her nose was pressed against his mound.
Even though the autodoc had thoroughly cleansed him she could still taste the
lingering flavor of three -- no, four different women on his flesh. And he was
sore, she could tell that just by his body language, and the rawness of his
organ against her tongue. Tilting her head slightly, she made deliberate eye
contact with him, and began licking his balls, his cock still deep in her
throat. She began gently swallowing, the muscles of her throat moving like
waves on a beach.
"Gahh!" Chris gasped, exploding down her throat. It felt like his
orgasm lasted for days, spurt after spurt flying from his organ into Sister
Cari's unprotesting mouth. She sucked and swallowed, sucked and swallowed, a
grin just discernible on her features, eyes still locked on his.
"I could've just stood across the room and waved and you would've
popped," the nun said with a laugh when it was all over. She licked her lips,
checked to make sure she didn't have any on her chin, and stood up. "Maybe next
time I can actually be of some service." She picked up the blanket and spread
it over him -- the cells were a bit drafty. His cock stayed rock hard, tenting
the blanket again. The look on his face was one of utter shock and disbelief --
a common response among offworlders, she knew, when first meeting a Sister. The
monitor on his leg still read .36, she noticed. "See you in half an hour," she
said gaily, and went in search of the other unlucky spacers in need of her
services. She deliberately brought up some of his seed from deep in her throat
to savor on her experienced tongue. His seed had a strange aftertaste, most
likely from the chemicals Doctor Shugeti said were flowing through his body.
Not any more semen than usual, though -- the doc had mentioned the men might
have copious emissions, but that hadn't been the case, at least with this one.
She swallowed it again, interested to see if she was right in her supposition,
that the other drugged spacers' seed would have the same odd flavor. She
wondered if the drugs in their seed would have any effect on her; she'd be
eating quite a bit of it in the next few hours. She might have to write a paper
on it for the Sisterhood if it did.
The cool air flowing through the concealed access slits in her habit
felt good on her bare legs as she strode down the hall. Her firm breasts
bounced slightly as she walked, and reflexively, she made her nipples harden so
their movement against the rough cloth of her habit would feel more pleasurable.
She felt their weight on her chest, and smiled.
Sisters were not allowed to artificially alter their bodies. No
surgery, hormone treatments, genetic alteration, nothing. Instead they were
forced to learn how to master themselves with their minds. If there was
something about a Sister's body that she wished to change, the skills she'd been
taught gave her options women not of the Sisterhood could hardly imagine.
Sister Cari Eugenia had always been dissatisfied with the size of her breasts,
believing them too small, proportionately, for her body. Once she'd completed
her training, however, and taken her vows, the Sister realized she was no longer
a slave to her own body. With the tutoring of several elder Sisters, who helped
her refine her focus, she mastered the art of mentally manipulating her own body
chemistry. It had taken several months of intense concentration, long hours
every night before bed that left her drained, but her body was now all that she
wished it to be: smooth and soft and hairless below the neck, as a woman should
be, as well as free from a monthly cycle, although she could reverse that
anytime she wished, topped by large, firm breasts that to her mind were just the
right size for her frame. Once again she thanked God for all of his gifts,
large and small.
