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Celon playfully whacks Crystaal’s rear end, to which she reacts with an annoyed threat. Inspired by a real incident that wasn’t remotely as libidinous as the drawing would indicate. Characters used with permission of their creators.
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The Wardroom
An erotic Empires interlude by Dave Bryant
Major characters and background created by Chris Grant and used with permission
Minor characters created by Dave Bryant
This work is copyright 1998 and is not in the public domain
Love doesn’t make the world go ’round.
Up and down a little, maybe. . . .—Jeff Stinley, Human comedian
En route to Kalindaa solar system
Several months before the Kalindaa Campaign
“Let’s go for a walk.”
Crystaal Noir’s eyes widened. Celon Delosi didn’t often suggest such idle activities. “Uh . . . okay. Any place in particular?”
The slightly shorter arctic fox shrugged easily. “Nah. How ’bout to the arboretum and back?”
The black cat woman wondered at Celon’s elaborately casual manner even as she adopted it herself. Just what kind of a scheme was cooking in that sandy-haired skull?
The stroll was a pleasant change of pace, and the arboretum was cool and quiet. Crystaal inhaled deeply of the smells of life and growth, letting them wash away the sterile scrubbed air of the Magellan’s corridors.
“Hi, Crys!” She jumped, startled, as a Thenn biosystems technician popped up from behind a bush, trowel in hand. Her love of color and scent had made her a familiar figure in the garden areas, and many of the staff knew her on sight.
“Here. You’ll like these—they’re from the latest shipment.” He handed her a small bouquet of brilliant flowers from the transplant pots strewn around the area he was planting.
The tall, lanky feline pointedly ignored Celon’s evident amusement as she accepted the blooms with an almost childlike delight, burying her nosepad in them. Their scent was light and spicy, with a smooth undertone. She sighed. “Mm. They are nice. I hope you’ve got a lot of them.” The Thenn flashed Crys a quick affirmative smile before returning to his work.
They wandered the peaceful, nearly deserted footpaths for a long while before Celon suggested that they move on. Their way back was by a different route, one that led down a broad corridor serving a set of wardrooms. These could be reserved for use by small groups of personnel for various purposes—meetings, discussion groups, classes, private parties, and so on. Crys noticed a couple of clusters of people apparently waiting for one or another of the rooms to become available.
Celon’s arm around her waist squeezed briefly. “Let’s take a breather, Pussycat.”
She gave him a dubious glance, but followed willingly enough as he located one that seemed not to be spoken for. Just as he opened the door and ushered her in, he looked past her down the hall. “You go on in. There’s somebody I’ve got to talk to. I’ll be back before you know it.” With that, he vanished.
She was left to examine the room’s odd setup. A chaise lounge stood at the far end, parallel to the wall behind it. Around it, at a distance of two and a half meters or so, was a semicircular row of chairs. She wondered if someone were going to give a reading, or put on a brief dramatic performance, later.
Since the chaise was the only piece of furniture more or less facing the door, and she was unwilling to disturb someone else’s arrangements, she ambled over and lay back on it bonelessly, keeping an eye out for Celon’s return.
Her eyes drooped shut as the minutes wore on and the white-furred man did not appear. After drifting in a near-doze for an unknown time, she awakened gradually and pleasantly to the feel of gentle hands moving across her body. Celon’s familiar scent of arousal wafted to her, sparking her own desire. Forgetting her surroundings momentarily, she offered no resistance when he slid her shirt up over her breasts and cupped them above the shelf bra, thumbing the nipples. She raised her arms over her head, letting her hands dangle over the chaise’s top. The upholstery’s texture reminded her abruptly of where they were. Her eyes popped open and she rolled her head to look around.
Kneeling next to her was a smiling Celon, already nude and very visibly aroused, his hands running down her torso. Beyond him, though, seated in the chairs and watching with varying degrees of quiet eagerness, was an audience of about a dozen—mostly men, but she could see a few women as well. Crystaal shot to a sitting position, dislodging the stroking hands.
“Wha-what the hell—! Celon, what’s going on?”
He spoke soothingly. “It’s all right, Pussycat. I know most of ’em, and you know the others. They’re okay, they won’t blab around. Just let yourself go, and we’ll put on a show for ’em. It’s not much different from the time you did a strip-dance on that table in Deck Eight, is it?”
Crystaal’s gray eyes swept the spectators again. Most of the faces were, in fact, familiar. Her perceptive, pattern-seeking mind realized something else: all of them were bi. On a ship of some two thousand to three thousand personnel, there were bound to be a hundred or more gays and bisexuals. In her experience, they tended to clique up because, enlightened as mainstream Centrality society (and its joint military) was, many of its member cultures—and the individuals thereof—were not as tolerant of “nonstandard” sexual preferences. So it was no surprise that, between the two of them, she and Celon probably knew all the “variants” on Magellan.
She blinked. Celon’s last statement made a twisted sort of sense, she admitted to herself, and the idea of performing for an audience had a certain perverse appeal. She nodded slowly, her stomach hollow with nervousness. “Okay.” She began to feel the expanding warmth of arousal within her.
The fox’s grin widened, and the watchers murmured encouragingly. He pulled her to her feet, standing her a couple of steps in front of the chaise. When she complied, he moved behind her and slid his hands up her sides from her waist, drawing her top with them. Her arms went up and back once more, bent at the elbows, and she ran her fingers through his cheek ruffs. The shirt came off smoothly, except for a brief moment caught on her chin, and Celon flipped it back over the chaise to land on the far side. Her nipples firmed in the cool air.
His hands fell again on her waist, this time sliding down. Her shorts, once past her hips, fell of their own accord, and she stepped out of them. Then she stubbed off her sandals, nudging them aside. She was now clad only in an almost gaudy neckerchief and her usual underwear, shelf bra and g-string, both a startling white against glossy black fur. The latter was tiny—a hint of pink skin showed through the thinning fur above the top.
Celon stepped closer, his white pelt contrasting with her dark one, put his arms around her, and nuzzled her neck. She felt his warm body against her, his erection pulsing at her buttock. She swished her tail and was rewarded with an answering shudder from his hips. A brief smile quirked her lips before she tipped her head back and let out a throaty sound as his tongue licked and stroked along her shoulder and up her neck, skipping past her scarf, to her jaw. He reached up to undo her bra’s front clasp, then began to knead her breasts gently.
Crystaal reached back and ran her hands up his sides, feeling his rough fur on the pads of her palms. When she could reach no further, she drew her hands away and hooked her thumbs in the g-string, shoving it quickly down as far as she could without bending. The scrap of cloth stopped just under her crotch, exposing her now obviously ready slit and the nub at its front to avid eyes. Her initial reluctance was gone, in its place a tingling anticipation as she gave in to her latent exhibitionism.
The only slightly more heavily built fox stepped away again. She shivered in excitement when his fingers brushed lightly over the short ebony fur on the insides of her thighs as he nudged the little panties far enough to let them fall. As they did, he whispered, “Kneel on the chaise, Pussycat.”
Again she obeyed as he moved to the far side of the seat. He pulled the bra down from her shoulders, letting her shrug the entangling straps off, then put a hand between her shoulder blades and pushed her torso forward. Her hands went out automatically to the top of the backrest, and he kept pushing until her back was nearly horizontal. Crystaal curled her tail up and over her spine invitingly. Celon bent down to rummage in a pocket of his discarded pants and she watched him curiously. Now what?
“Hmm?” she inquired lazily, stretching, showing off and trying to distract him. The white fox just grinned as he straightened, some colorful silk ribbons in his hand. These he tied around her wrists and ankles. Along with her neck scarf, she thought, they probably gave the whole scene a carnival air.
The fox disappeared from her peripheral vision. After a few moments, she felt his hands again, caressing her waist and moving down to make pleasure rounds on her flanks. Her eyes closed as she surrendered to the tactile sensations.
A squeak escaped her thin lips when his tongue abruptly touched her clitoris. He began to lap at it softly, almost agonizingly, occasionally probing into the rosy-tinted opening just above. She shivered and gasped, “Please. . . .” He answered with a low chuckle, then began to play with lips and tongue, sucking at the flesh of her button and slit rhythmically. Crys let out a small cry of pleasure at the expert massage, a disjointed thought running through her mind about the practice he’d probably had with some of his male friends.
The pleasure heightened, drawing all her attention. Her own squeaks and whimpers, the restless sounds and smells of the aroused spectators, the feel of the chaise’s upholstery and the cool ventilation airflow, faded as her world narrowed to the waves of sensation. She reached for the peak again and again, falling just short, the pleasure ebbing slightly as she gathered herself for another go. Finally, after an endless series of these tides, she burst through, her body stiffening suddenly as the warmth of a powerful orgasm flooded her body.
Drained, Crys slumped back to sit on her haunches and rest. Her breathing gradually became less ragged, and she could hear and smell the small crowd’s responsive mood. She glanced idly at them out of the corner of her eye. The women’s nipples and men’s erections were outlined against the fabric covering them; the girls’ thighs scissored in slow, erratic arcs while the men tended to pant and shift in their seats as if unable to get comfortable. A “loner” A’kii male Celon had once introduced to her lay on his hindbody awkwardly, his erection peeking out from between the side-sprawled hind legs.
When she’d caught her breath, Celon patted her just under the dock of her tail. She resumed her former position, but bent a little further forward than before. Her guess of his intent proved correct when she saw the fox step in front of her. His phallus looked slick and hard in the bright light, the pressure in it so great that it didn’t wobble noticeably as his hips moved. He was more than ready and, now in the spirit of things, she was more than willing.
He stopped within easy reach of her muzzle and ran his hands through her long, dark hair, waiting patiently. She eyed his shaft and touched her tongue to her lips briefly before arching her neck forward a little more to close the short distance remaining. She flicked out her rough red tongue to tease him for a moment, then she shifted her grip on the backrest, freeing a hand to cup and grip the thickly furred balls that dangled below. The wrist ribbons fluttered brightly as her hands moved. He drew in a breath and held it as she licked up and down his length, tasting the dampness of his natural lubrication.
Finally, Crys let go of Celon’s sac and delicately pulled his erection down until it pointed directly out from his pelvis. She washed the head with her tongue, feeling his body stiffen, before opening her mouth and slowly sliding its moderately large girth past her thin black lips. Her muzzle met the furry ring of vestigial sheath at the base and pushed a bit further, forcing another gasp out of him.
She paused again and focused once more. It would take a long time to bring him to orgasm, time enough to develop a jawbreaking ache unless she paced herself. When she was ready, she began to rock back and forth, using her wrists and knees as pivots, reducing the stress on her neck muscles. Her tongue snaked around and under the wetted warmth filling her mouth, caressing it in counterpoint to her strokes.
Crys tried to maintain a slow, steady rhythm, letting him slide from just the tip between her lips to the smell and feel of his thin pubic fur filling her nosepad, the head nearly into her throat. His hands roamed across her head and pointed, flicking ears, down to her shoulders, and across her upper back. His head went back, short, whistling breaths punctuating her long back-and-forth dives. She watched out of the tops of her eyes, enjoying the sight of his enraptured expression. Bit by bit, she speeded it up, adding a slight pressure and sucking with her lips, then reaching up once more to begin a gentle but firm juggling and tugging at his balls.
Her jaw was on fire, but the feel of his slick, hard shaft excited her and she was determined to succeed. Long, hard minutes later, he choked out something unintelligible, grabbing at her hair. She threw her whole body into the motion, seeking to draw the climax from him. He balanced a moment on the edge, then rewarded her with an explosive grunt. The taste and feel of the pungent streams of his coming surged into her mouth.
Fastidiously, she licked Celon’s still-hard phallus clean as he stepped away, then her lips as well. He knelt in front of her and touched his muzzle to hers. Their tongues flicked out and moved against each other, sharing their mingled flavors. When he stood again, she raised her head to watch and let the thick liquid slide down her throat.
A glass of water appeared in the fox’s snowy white hand, and she drank gratefully, washing the sticky residue from her mouth. As she enjoyed the cool drink, she was suddenly startled to feel the weight of his shoulders settle on her buttocks. She leaned around to see that he’d sat on the end of the chaise and was leaning against her body as a backrest. She brushed her tail across his face in mild protest, but he grabbed it and continued bantering and chuckling in a low voice with one of the watching men, a human. She shook her head and ignored them.
When her glass was empty, she put it down on the floor and looked back at Celon, giving her hips a wriggle to get his attention. He responded by reaching up to run a hand over her flank and finishing up whatever he’d been saying. He stood and turned to her. “Mm-hmm? And what do you want, dear Pussycat?”
Her voice low and rough from exertion and residual dryness, she growled, “You know damned well what I want, you bastard.”
The arctic fox laughed out loud and asked of the crowd rhetorically, “I don’t know. Should I give it to her?”
The laughing responses were unanimously affirmative. He nodded as if accepting the mandate of the people and knelt on the couch behind her, nudging her feet a bit further apart. He caressed her slowly, letting his warm hands move from cheek ruffs, over neck and shoulders, around to breasts and sides, down to waist and rear, then up to the base of her tail and up her back. As he leaned forward, she felt his tip just touch her exposed slit. She shut her eyes and ground her teeth, waiting.
At last he shuffled forward and she felt his heavy phallus slip into her from behind. Her gray eyes snapped open again, and his hands resumed their briefly interrupted journey. After a few uncertain moments, they fell into a slow tempo, rocking back and forth in time. He bent forward to play with her breasts as he thrust into her. She yowled softly, head drooping between steadying arms, as the heat of desire built again. She saw a white hand steal down to trace a finger across the point where his flesh met hers, seeking the source of her pleasure. When he found it, she moaned, then purred, as her back arched and her fingers dug into the upholstery. He continued to rub lightly as he pushed into her.
Crystaal could feel Celon’s warmth ebbing and flowing within her, his hips knocking against hers, bumping her farther and farther forward. With practiced skill, he kept her at an enjoyable plateau that did not submerge her in a haze of pleasure. Finally, her forearms braced along the backrest, she rested her cheek on its top, the wrist ribbons and neck scarf a splash of color around her face.
Her eyes opened a bit, and she surveyed the small audience. Their scents were strong, their actions stronger. She felt a sudden extra thrill tingle through her as she noticed that most of them had long since partially or fully stripped and were gently pleasuring themselves or one another, their eyes on her and the man pumping into her. She kept her eyes slitted, watching them surreptitiously, almost voyeuristically. The air was charged and heady, and several were already on the verge.
She felt another small jolt each time as one or another of the men climaxed visibly, onto themselves or their helper’s hand or face, or into that helper’s mouth; one exceptionally limber Wanni had suckled himself to completion. One of the women, a tiny Q’aab slouched on the edge of her seat, most of the fingers of one hand disappearing up into her, suddenly stiffened and let out a muffled bark. She glanced around quickly and appeared relieved that no one seemed to mind her demonstrativeness—some, in fact, looked appreciative. Crys’ mind wandered back to herself.
She stayed as she was, most of her attention now on the passage within her and the feel of Celon’s fingers and shaft on and in it. There would be no orgasm for her this time, but Crystaal didn’t much care; pleasure enough flowed through her as the fox quickened the pace. She braced herself more and more firmly as he reached an almost hammering pace, and crooned to him to let go and come within her. His short, sharp breaths became almost barks, and his body knotted and tensed. A few more powerfully insistent shoves brought him to the limit, and he let out a low, strangled howl, his back bowed, as he climaxed deep inside her.
Celon relaxed slowly, wilting forward to come to rest on the black-furred woman’s back. His white-furred arms went around her, hugging her to him as he nuzzled her back affectionately. They spent a couple of minutes in that position before he withdrew, causing her to shudder in pleasure. Both of them flopped gracelessly down on the chaise. He dangled his legs off the end, while she reclined on her back like an ancient imperial princess.
The same man who’d been talking with Celon before knelt next to him and spoke again in a near whisper. They conferred, nodding occasionally and glancing at other members of the relaxing audience. Crystaal looked on in mild curiosity, but felt too worn out to investigate. Her sloth was rewarded when the arctic fox hitched himself toward her on the lounge, lying down behind her and stroking her idly.
Her ear twitched as his muzzle brushed it. His light alto murmured, “You want to try something else?” When she turned her head with a puzzled frown, he went on to explain.
Crystaal’s response was ambivalent, and the hollowness returned to her stomach. “Now that’s really twisted, Snowball. I’m not sure. . . .” To herself, she added, That was fun, but dammit, I’m tired and this is really kinky.
He became more persuasive, using hands and body to add weight to his argument. Finally, after assurances of gentleness, she nodded. He stood and announced, “Okay, guys. It’s time for a little audience participation.”
After some confused shuffling, Celon presented her with his choices: Rikard, the Human he’d been speaking with, who was one of his other lovers; Ohchi, a cheery little mouse hedonist who was nominally straight, but didn’t seem to mind close contact with another male; and Aran, the renegade A’kii, whose sad tale Celon had privately related to her. Aran strongly preferred male sex partners, and had once been discovered with another boy by one of the squad-sisters with whom he was supposed to be mated. He narrowly escaped lynching and A’kii society to become a Centrality Army soldier.
While Rikard seemed intrigued and Ohchi was openly gleeful, Aran looked shy and dubious about the proceedings. The others, including Crystaal, reassured him, stroking his back and generally fussing over him until his nervous shivering subsided. Finally, he took a deep breath into his barrel-like body, and his ruddy erection firmed; he was ready.
The men escorted Crystaal back to the chaise with almost ceremonial pomp. There, she lay down with her head propped against the lowest part of the backrest and her hips raised by a couple of cushions someone had scavenged from a side closet. Another helper had moved one of the chairs from its place in the seating row and positioned it beyond the chaise’s backrest, facing the same direction.
When the cat had settled her long body and taken off her neckerchief, Celon nudged Rikard. “Kiss ’er.” The Human responded with a quizzical look, and the Vulpinaa elaborated. “She loves it. Go ahead—she’ll appreciate it.”
Rikard shrugged and knelt next to her. She smiled and put her hands on the sides of his head. He bent forward and touched his lips to hers, starting slow, then moving them apart and seeking her tongue with his. He was not expert, but he was competent, and she drowned in the Human caress she hadn’t enjoyed for nearly a year. Most of the compatible species’ lips were not thick or mobile enough to kiss; only with a Human partner was it possible at all.
When they came up for air, she sighed, grinned, and winked. She whispered, “I think the others are waiting,” and gave him a brief push on his smooth, bare chest.
The others helped Aran onto his perch, his hind legs straddling her shoulders, his forelegs on the chair. His nervous shuddering returned, and she reached up to pat his flanks. “It’s okay, pup. Don’t worry, just enjoy yourself.”
Rikard, meanwhile, swung a leg over her torso. He knelt over her chest just behind Aran and caressed him, tracing one finger down the canine’s sac and another along his moist shaft. Celon and Ohchi were laughing and moving around, contorting themselves into a difficult position between her legs.
When they proclaimed their readiness, Rikard and Crystaal guided Aran down. His long, but relatively thin, phallus bumped over her face and neck, leaving traces of natural lubricant in her pelt. After a moment of searching and a helping hand from Rikard, he found the woman’s mouth and hesitantly pushed forward. Crystaal closed her lips around him, tasting him and wondering again at the slightly different flavor of each man. She rested her hands on his hind legs, helping him steady his gentle thrusts into her.
Rikard let some of his weight onto her ribs just below her breasts, letting his length fit into her cleavage. He pressed his knees toward one another and cupped the sides of her breasts, pushing the round masses into a glossy, furry tunnel around him. Crys felt his shaft slip through her thick pelt as he too began to move, pacing himself to Aran’s steady motions. The coarse human hair of his groin tickled her breasts and nipples pleasantly as he rolled forward.
Celon and Ohchi had a little more trouble fitting themselves to her. The mouse patiently worked his moist, relatively small erection past Crystaal’s reluctant sphincter, finally allowing it to clamp tightly around his base, while Celon pressed into her still thoroughly wet slit. She figured that the shorter man must be clinging to the white-furred ringleader’s waist, letting him carry the momentum for both of them. Celon’s hands braced her hips to keep things on track.
Crystaal closed her eyes and lay passively, letting the men do most of the work, just letting herself pleasure and be pleasured by four men at once. Aran slid back and forth in her mouth, jerking reflexively as she swept and laved him with her tongue. Rikard shoved more insistently at her breasts, occasionally touching the base of her clavicle. The other two rubbed inside her pelvis, feeling each other’s strokes as well as their own. They seemed to fill her completely, the sensations almost painfully intense. She let go of Aran, her hands fisting and grabbing at the upholstery, occasionally catching at the ribbons still tied to her wrists.
Aran climaxed first, his youth and excitability giving him little staying power. The force of it made her realize that he’d probably been celibate for some time. It took him much longer to finish than she was accustomed to; by the time he finally withdrew almost hastily, her mouth overflowed. The fur of her muzzle was matted and trickles escaped her lips as she panted with excitement and breathlessness.
Ohchi finished shortly after, giving a sort of deflated whuff as she felt him come into her. He held on to Celon a while longer, going slowly limp and finally easing out with one of the larger man’s back strokes.
Celon’s and Rikard’s orgasms arrived almost simultaneously. Crystaal had raised her head a bit and watched as Rikard let go, further wetting the fur of her throat and face. Celon drove into her one last time and gasped, freezing for several seconds. She grabbed his wrists, holding him in place as the muscles inside her rippled in response, milking the last pleasure from him. When both men at last left her, she let out a long, low “Mmm”, letting the cool airstream eddy around her body.
Exhausted, she lay limp, eyes half-closed, her only movements the steady rise and fall of breathing and reflexive, almost diffident attempts of her tongue to clean up some of her face. There was general laughter and low-voiced talking around her, and occasional touches or caresses from various hands, as the audience and other participants savored the experience, then filed out by ones and twos.
When only Celon was left, he gave her the refilled water glass and tenderly swabbed at her with a cool, soaking washcloth, wiping her groin and crotch as well as her face and neck. He asked softly, “You okay, Pussycat?”
She nodded and rasped quietly, “Yeh. It was fun, Snowball, but I don’t think I wanna do it very often. . . .” Her voice gained a little strength as a momentary burst of anger gave way to affectionate mock annoyance. “You bastard. You had the whole thing planned, didn’t you?”
“Weelll . . . yeah, the first part. I reserved the room and told the others. But the last part—I only got the idea when Rikard said something in passing before you ’n’ I humped.” He glanced over his shoulder. “We better get dressed and take off pretty quick.”
“You’ll kill me yet, you . . . you. . . . Oh, never mind. Celon, if we have a few minutes . . . just hold me, okay?”
He nodded and leaned forward to gather her in his arms. Ω
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