THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

Galley draws back, breathing unsteadily. "What can— what if. What if I told you what to do to me. Would you do only what I told you? You wouldn't, um. Fuck. You wouldn't disagree."

He swallows, looks more resolute. Pulls Bel's hair more firmly. "You won't. You'll do as I say. Right?"

 

"Yes," you gasp, eyes dilated and a seed of fire in the pit of your stomach. "Oh yes, I'd like that." You bite your lip on a wicked half-smile, then let it bloom: "Let me show you how well I can follow instructions, precious."

 

"Sir," Galley snaps: not an agreement, but a correction. He pauses a second to see if his minder dings him for it but no, this is allowed. This is allowed. He grins triumphantly, and the bright rings of his mechanical eye glow brighter as his gaze turns inward, flipping through a dozen favorite porno scripts.

"On your knees, soldier," he reads off in a low, excited growl, pushing Bel gently away and nodding to the floor. "Show me what, uh. Haha. What else you can use that smart mouth of yours for."

 

"Yes sir," Bel says eagerly, complying -- but breaks character for a moment with a slightly worried look. "Before we begin, darling -- I don't like humiliation. Please don't call me names or, or stomp on me, okay? But I love to serve. Is that all right?"

 

Galley frowns confusedly. "Isn't all service humiliating?" he asks, clearly lost. "If you're respected it means you're the one that gets to give the orders..."

 

"Not at all," you smile up at him, and kiss his hand. "In regular life, I'm proud of being a competent subordinate, as well as being a good officer. I think I'm happiest in the middle like this, with a good Captain to serve and good crewmen under me. In concupiscent situations, well..." You have to laugh at yourself a little for blushing when things are this far along; why is talking things out always more embarrassing than doing them? "If you tell me what to do, I know what you want. And giving you what you want is what makes me happy. Because I pity you; because I like you."

You're a tiny bit nervous that he won't understand, or won't like it if he does, but mostly you just pity the hell out of him for the experiences that gave him that point of view.

 

Galley nods uncertainly. "Okay. Uh. Suck me off, Commander. If you please."

 

"With pleasure, sir," you purr.

Face hot and fingers trembling, you run your hands from his shoulders to his waist, looking for the closure of his uniform. He covers one of your hands with his and moves it, helping you find the edge. The black fabric peels aside to reveal his wiry chest and stomach, pale as clouds, his bony hips, his bulge still in the process of unsheathing -- "Oh," you say in surprise, licking your lips. He's a bit larger than you expected.

He shudders when you touch him, stomach hollowing. You watch his face as you take his bulge in hand and introduce just the tip to your lips and tongue. Deliriously turned-on as you are, you want to be ready to go at his pace. Whether he wants to stop and go back to making out, or shove the whole business down your throat right now.

 

"Not there," Galley decides, reaching down to pull the length of his bulge away, against his hip. He doesn't want to be reminded of the officers who acted like he'd grown the big stupid thing specifically for their satisfaction.

"Lower. Uh. Clean me up, I'm filthy." He gives a tentative leer. "Give the whole thing a good spit and polish, Commander."

 

He leers like he's trying out for the villain part in an amateur play, and it makes you feel absolutely melty with pity; he doesn't know how to boss anyone around, but he's going to give it the old Academy try just for you, you can't even handle how sweet that is. You kiss his thigh and hip in an excess of affection while he opens his uniform the necessary amount further.

He doesn't taste filthy. He tastes cleanly organic, not as salty as Erskin's fluids nor as bitter as your own. Knowing the concentration of pheromones is strongest here isn't the same as having your face between his thighs, your tongue exploring him -- it's making you feel crazy with happiness and want, dizzy with arousal. The little sounds he makes -- the way his hand tightens in your hair -- you introduce a blunt-nailed fingertip to the business, just toying with the rim of his nook, and his sharp gasp and twitch makes you squirm in response. You are probably going to come in your pants if this goes on much longer. You're okay with that.

 

Galley whines, trying to tilt his hips after the pressure of Bel's fingers, and goes from pulling his hair to a better, firmer grip on the base of one of his antlers. His other hand has gone from holding his bulge back to actively petting it.

"Good," he pants. "Yes, yeah, that's good. Go— more, do more. Now."

 

Eager to obey, you give him two fingers, slick and easy, and show him all the clever things your tongue can do. Your other hand is kneading his ass. His fluids are running down your chin, staining your shirt, and you don't care one bit. You love eating nook, you love to be told, you love to be praised, and you love Galley. This is heaven.

 

It isn't long before Galley is doing more breathless cursing than commanding. Abruptly he shudders, arches, and comes with a sizzling crackle of psionics that fluffs his short hair and sets all of Bel's longer hair sticking to everything in reach, like a tentacle monster.

"Enough, stop," he croaks, tremblingly pushing Bel away from his sopping nook. Then he sees the mess his fluids have made of the highblood's face and front and his eyes go wide.

"Oh. Wow." He runs a finger along Bel's dripping jaw. "Shit, that's hot. And gross. And hot. You're, uh. Are you okay?"

 

"Oh yes," you breathe, and lick your fingers. "About to come in my pants, though. Would you rather I do something else?"

 

"Oh, shit, yeah, I wanna see," Galley says. "I want to watch you." He sits up, a shaky elbow propped on the work surface, and regards Bel hungrily.

 

You strip off your spattered shirt and use it to wipe your face, then drop it. With clumsy fingers, you try to get your pants open, but zippers are beyond you right now. You captchalogue the rest of your clothes right off your body. The air hitting your writhing bulge makes you bite your lip on a moan.

Still on your knees, you prop your legs wider so he can watch what your hands are doing. The way he looks at you -- this is going to be a short show.

 

"Slower," Galley commands. "Make it last. You take your time with the Captain." He sounds a little jealous, but mostly droolingly appreciative of the picture Bel makes, kneeling naked before him. The glitter of his camera eye leaves very little doubt as to whether or not he's recording this. In high definition. From fifteen different angles.

 

"Because he hates it," you explain with a breathless laugh, "but I'll go slow for you if you like it. I -- hngh. I don't know if, if that will make me last though. I can still taste you. And. These are the fingers that were in you." Thinking about that while you work the same fingers into yourself is almost too much. You freeze, eyes scrunched shut and breath rapid, shuddering all over, teetering on the edge.

Think about unsexy things. Cargo inventory. Floor wax. Cheese and crackers. Calculate fuel burn for a course adjustment of nine degrees.

Control regained, you pry your eyes open and resume teasing yourself for his entertainment.

 

"Good," Galley says roughly, swallowing hard. "Look at you, you didn't. Fuck. You didn't come because I told you not to. You're insane. You're so hot. I want you to play with yourself for me forever. I'll change your job description. You can stay in here and be my favorite toy, Commander, and not have to do anything, ever, that requires putting pants back on. Is that— is that okay? Would you like that too?"

His hand is cupped over his slowly stirring bulge again. He doesn't exactly seem to notice, but his fingers curl back around the length. His thumb strokes the tip.

 

Glowing from his praise, panting now and with sweat beading on your face and chest, you gaze at him in utter adoration and give him an unsteady nod. "Oh precious, yes. That sounds like paradise."

His bulge is coiling slick through his fingers, and if you think about it doing that on your tongue you're going to lose it for real this time. You catch your own hand mirroring his and you whine softly. You're not to the point of begging yet, but nearly.