Story 8: The Military Mind
After last week's spooky and downbeat story, The Military Mind is a riotous space-opera gang-bang. Set in a future where humankind is resisting alien invasion. Peyton is a trained psychic and new to war. She first has to undergo sexual bonding with the six-man squad of marines she is to work with.
Oh - first you might want to go read the earlier excerpt over at Tamsin Flowers' Supererotica
“Shit, man. Not fair.”
“Don’t be a dick, Hayes.”
“I just like to go first. It’s tighter, you know.”
“That’s because yours is like a cocktail sausage.”
Ignoring all this, Eriksen stepped forward and caught her by the cotton vest still bunched up at the top of her breastbone. There was no sign of pleasure on his face at having been chosen; if anything the blue-ice glare deepened.
“By the numbers, Private,” said Sergeant Jomoa dryly, wandering off a little to light another cigarette.
“Yes, Sarge.” Twisting the cloth until it pulled uncomfortably tight under her arms, he passed his other hand over her exposed breasts, petting and rubbing, petting and rubbing … and then breaking off to tug experimentally at her hard nipples before going back to stroking her. If he’d squeezed her roughly it would have just been a grab, but these caresses heightened her breasts’ sensitivity almost beyond bearing. Peyton couldn’t have hidden her response if she’d tried; the rush of sensation made her close her eyes and bite her lip, though that couldn’t stop the little breathy moans escaping.
“Oh fuck yeah,” murmured Hayes.
Then Eriksen trailed his fingers down her body, right into the soft and hairless split of her sex. Standing on tiptoe, it wasn’t particularly easy to open her legs wide enough for him, but obedience was ingrained. As his fingers slithered around in the copious wet he found and delved into her passage, her pussy tilted instinctively and ground into his palm. She’d never been touched by an actual man down there—but when he held her sex in his hand, it was like she was made to fit him.
It was almost enough to make her protest when he withdrew his fingers. But then he lifted them to his face and inhaled her bouquet, tasting one fingertip and then another.
“Ah, fuck,” said Rialto in the distance. “Real pussy. None of that machine shit.”
All the time Eriksen was watching her face, as if assessing her reaction to being played with. No, she thought—not assessing. Judging. No imprinting was needed to recognise the disapproval that burned in his cold eyes. She had a sudden panicky moment as she thought she’d picked the wrong man entirely.
So it took her by surprise when he swung her around by her shirt and sat her on top of the nearest foot-locker, pushed up her thighs—and then sank down to a crouch between them, burying his face in her open pussy. She lost her balance and tipped back with a cry, her head and shoulders flopping down onto the hard military mattress of the bed behind. The machines—the vids—the doctors—none of them had prepared her for this: the feeling of a man’s hot face between her thighs, the scour of his stubble, the hungry sucking play of his tongue. It was almost too much, just for that first moment, and she cried out and kicked, her legs finding no purchase on the air. But Eriksen grabbed her calves and pushed her legs right up and back, pinning her in place. And after that it wasn’t too much. She only wanted more.
“Shit, man,” Hayes complained. “Hurry up, my balls are blue here. Fuck that romance shit. Do it later.”
“What, after you’ve spunked all over it?” Rialto asked.
“Hey. Maybe he’d like a little gravy on his meat.”
Eriksen emerged for air, leaving Peyton bereft. “She has to come. That’s the point, isn’t it?” He had some sort of European accent.
Brannon grunted. “She’ll come. Look at her. She’s a real pslut.” He said it without rancour. “Just fuck her.”
The thing was, he was right and Peyton knew it, though she’d never been with a man before this day. EFORCE had trained her mind for psliding and her body, with equal thoroughness, for orgasmic response. Once aroused, she could be pushed into climax over and over again—until she was beyond satiation, until she was no longer able to think, until she was weeping with exhaustion between bouts, but burning for another one the moment it began again. It was what she was. How else was she to bond with her squad?
“Don’t take all day, Eriksen,” said Sergeant Jomoa mildly.
With a grunt, Eriksen heaved himself to his feet, though he looked down at Peyton as if she were a piece of meat. Only his massively stiff cock betrayed any emotion. Draping her heels over his shoulders, he muscled up against her pussy, slid one thumb over her clit and slipped his length inside her. He didn’t hurry. He didn’t push deep before he partly retreated, waited a moment and then slid in again just as slowly. It was as if he didn’t want to commit any other part of him than his cock to this enterprise.
But it was enough for Peyton. The slip of his thumbpad over her aching clit, the girth and pressure of his shaft—and then, the slight tightening of his jaw, the grimace of effort around his cold eyes. That was enough to tear the ripcord and let her first orgasm tumble out in a red silk explosion. She arched her back as it billowed through her, and wailed.
“There you go,” said Brannon.
For a few seconds Peyton simply soared on the pleasure. Then she started to hear it, like the sound of a radio gradually being tuned in to a clear station: broken snatches of a voice in her head.
—RIEL … UT THE … TIGH … WHAT IF SHE GO …?
It was Eriksen. She’d been told all about this moment, but the sensation was still eerie: In the moment of orgasm your mind will open to the person you are in congress with, and you will imprint upon him. She could hear his thoughts.
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2 comments:
I love it! Nicely done.
Thanks, Madeleine!
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