Authors: Vivian Vixen
KRAKEN (3 page)
5
When Aydra woke up, she was in a cell and covered with a single wool blanket, her head on a thin pillow. Her eyes fluttered open with ease. She was surprised to find them not crusted in cum.
“I cleaned you up,” said Erthur, who was sitting on a stool in front of her cell. “How are you feeling?”
Aydra pursed her lips. “I’m not, really, right now.”
He nodded. “Are you going to be okay?”
She wrapped the blanket around her and moved over closer to Erthur. “Listen. I’m worth a lot more to you all as a mechanic than I am as a sex slave.”
Erthur’s brows knitted in puzzlement. “What do you mean?”
“I wasn’t able to explain yesterday. If I had tried, they would have killed me,” she explained. “I did what I had to do to make it another day alive. But now…now I need your help.”
He shook his head. “What kind of help?”
“Find me something to fix. Something on this ship that I can fix from my cell,” said Aydra, pulling herself forward so her face was framed by the bars. “Something difficult. Impossible, even. Something your men haven’t been able to fix in years.”
His shake turned to a nod. “Okay.” He stood up. “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth.”
“Don’t be sorry,” she said. “Matter of fact, I wanted to thank you. For watching out for me.”
Erthur bit his lip nervously, turned, and walked out.
He returned with an old subspace radio—an industrial behemoth once manufactured by the Federation—that he brought down on a handtruck. He put it inside her cell with a screwdriver and a soldering kit.
“This thing’s been out for months. That’s why we’ve had to start doing raids until we can buy a new one,” Erthur explained. “If you can fix this, they’ll give you a contract. But you have to be done by tomorrow morning. If they see this, and if they figure out who gave it to you, we’re both dead.”
Aydra worked for hours, straight through the night. In the morning someone came down to get her for another “crew party.” He stopped when he saw the contraption in her cell.
“Fetch the Captain,” she ordered.
The Captain was called down and he inspected the radio. “My-my. You’re a lady of many talents aren’t you?”
“You can use my hands and my brain a lot more than you can use my body,” she said, refusing to acknowledge his statement.”
“Who gave this to you?” He eyed her intensely. “He needs to be punished.”
“Nobody gave it to me. It’s yours.”
“A loyal girl at that! You’ll do well.” He turned around to the other pirates. “Sorry boys! Change of plans! I’ll be needin’ one of you to grab me a contract for the lady.”
***
That was years ago now. She’d signed the contract and gone to work immediately. In many ways it was better than the legal work she’d done on the cargo craft. The Kraken was full of puzzles—parts jerry-rigged together from dozens and dozens of different ships. This was a challenge, a chance to become intimate with a working piece of machinery.
Now that her contract was up, she was being let off on Charon. The Captain pleaded with her to stay, but she wanted to try her luck at building a life of her own.
Charon came into view, the pyramidal city rising resplendent on the tiny surface. She descended with a group of men in a small ship, landing in the city center, on the floating markets six kilometers above the surface. No one was happy to see her leave. Least of all Erthur.
“Why don’t you come with me,” said Aydra. “Just make a break for it. They’ll never find you.”
Erthur laughed. “They’ll find me. I don’t have much time left on my contract anyway, it’s not worth the risk. I’ll come find you when I’m done.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Aydra looked deeply into his eyes. She didn’t know if she would ever actually see him again. The both leaned forward together, their lips meeting softly in the middle. His fingers held her face like the first time they met, protecting her, caring for her. The tips of their tongues danced lightly against each other as their mouths sought passion.
When the kiss broke she stepped back, blushing. “That was my first kiss.”
Erthur’s mouth gaped, wanting to say something worthy of the strange and beautiful moment, but Aydra interrupted with another, quick kiss, before turning and disappearing into the crowds of Charon.
THE END of Part One
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Io
Prologue
I live in a small, crowded city on a moon filled with small, crowded cities. No one comes here unless they have to, and it’s rare that anyone feels that need.
I dream of a crowded village on a warm coast. I dream of the smell of hot bread wafting through cobbled streets in the early morning. I dream of the tan, glistening flesh of a man I love rising out of the water as a wave crashes around him.
His body speaks of strength, of power in every taut fiber of every solid muscle that wraps him from head to toe. He comes to me on the beach and lays beside me, running his fingers through my hair, whispering our plans for the day. He kisses me—his lips and cheeks and chin are soft. He caresses my breast under my top. I reach below his waist and find him hard already. His fingers slip slowly down between my legs as his kisses trace a line over my jaw to my throat. He is strong, but gentle, and he knows exactly how to touch me. I gasp as his fingers work themselves in my wetness. We make love as the sun reaches its glory in the sky.
I dream these things because they do not exist where I am from.
My name is Cal and I breathe on Io. I will be dead by the time I am thirty, maybe thirty-five if my genes are good. The air here is scorched and soaked through with the poison that rises from an endless spread of factories.
This is a city of human refuse. No, not refuse. Something thrown away was probably important once, and, besides, one man’s trash is another’s treasure, as the saying goes. They recycle trash. No, we are worse than what we seem, a teeming mass of groaning flesh. We are worse because we are all needed, and we are all disposable.
I care for the men who come in after long shifts. Care for. That’s a strong way to put it. I give these men what they need to face another day—another day on a world where fucking seems as vital as food. Some will skip a meal for a second go. I’ve had men die while I was impaled on their weak erections.
There is no party district, there is no shopping center. There are no tourists. There will occasionally be inspectors and businessmen surrounded by what looks like an army. They have paper rolled in front of them to walk on as they stride through our filthy streets in sparkling shoes. I’ve seen the films from other worlds. I know what this place must seem like, and I don’t blame them.
Sometimes, I’ll get lucky and have an off-world customer. These men have lots of cash and strong, healthy cocks. They can fuck long and hard without having to hack on the carpet. And I get to go with them to The Hotel.
There is just one hotel in the city, The Hotel. It’s the only truly clean place I’ve ever seen, and they’re only staffed by a rotating team of off-worlders. There’s nothing I love more than a trip to The Hotel. It smells like heaven, or at least the closest thing I can imagine to it. The sheets are soft and all the bright whites and vivid colors set me off. I run into the shower as soon as I arrive and scorch my skin in the hot water, scraping the grime off with my finger nails.
The men always have a fresh set of lingerie and a brand new dress waiting for any girl they call on. It’s just good manners, I guess. After I say good night I always slip back into my city clothes and tuck the dress into a bag. I save every piece of nice clothing in a trunk in my room.
I’ve only ever had a few off-world guys. Maybe five—though they’re all regulars. You have to have a clean bill and an impeccable reputation to get an off-worlder. Even a top class gal, clean, with a perfect reputation, might only have two dozen under her belt by the end of her career. And those are the best—legends. Most girls never see one, except as they pass on the street, so I consider myself lucky. Well, talented, I guess.
All those nights have given me a taste for clean air, fresh food, soft clothes, and the knowledge of what a man can really be. I’ve seen films of other worlds, of Mars and Venus and Earth. I know of Europa and Ganymede, of the outpost on Charon. The men usually talk to me, share their thoughts on life out in the System. They compare Earth with Mars, and the relative merits of the moons of each. They talk about politicians and music which we know nothing about where I come from.
I dream often of the Mediterranean, the cradle of our civilization as we know it, the place where we fought to grow, where but for a misstep we’d still be back on Earth. I want to sleep on the beach there, lying next to a wealthy Earthman. I want to be taken back to The Hotel, and have him fall in love with me, sweep me up and carry me to the ship and take me back home. I’d love it if he’d do it walking me down the main brothel street, just so everyone could see—not to gloat, just so they might share in some excitement. But I’ll take being smuggled away in the sewers. It doesn’t matter to me.
1
The man on top of me has a full greasy beard and a cataract in one eye. He hasn’t bothered to take off his clothes, just pushed his pants down past his ass and flopped out his dick. It’s too cold this time of year to be naked unless you’re getting paid for it, but still I wish my johns would strip with me. Almost all the men who visit me are uncomfortable to behold. Their skin is dry, ashen, and often marred by scarring. Yet, on warmer days, when they find relief in peeling out of their sweat-soaked clothes, I find comfort in their touch. They climb on top of me, slide inside, and bury their faces in my hair—I can’t see their bodies, but I can feel them, their flesh on mine, their pulse racing, their humanity exposed. I ache for even the most aged, worn man to look at me with revolting lust, to cleave to me so I can be reminded of the passion and urging that makes us homo sapiens.
Now, all I feel is the roughness of his work-issued uniform—synthetic, practical fabric that can only serve to remind me of the baser drives that makes this moon the wretched cathedral of industry it is.
His breathing becomes shallower, his thrusts more purposeful. He’s getting closer, I can tell. Even through the heavy lubricant I used I can feel a few rough patches on his dick. I’ll have to add a few extra dabs of prophylactic ointment when he finishes. I’m running low, so I’ll have to make another exchange for more ointment tomorrow. A steady supply of black market anti-STI medications is how I stay fit for off-worlder business. It’s not cheap, but it keeps me in good company. Working for off-worlders is a catch-22. You have to be healthy enough to get a rich client, but you need a rich client to stay healthy.
I want this old man with his diseased dick out of me as soon as possible, so I start to squeeze him with the well-trained walls of my sex. I want him to cum fast so I can rub in the ointment and maybe catch a nap before my next client. I moan in his ear. There we go. He pushes his sad erection as deep inside me as he can, though that’s not saying much. I can only hope for one of the younger guys to visit me later and help me get off.
“Come on, baby, cum for me,” I moan in his ear. “You’ve been thinking about it all day, this sweet little whore pussy. Now cum inside me, baby.”
He speeds up, grunting. Not much longer now. His fragmentary teeth and raw gums press into my neck as he groans. I should be disgusted, but I’m not. I’m just numb to it all.
Without so much as a knock, the door to my room bursts open, slamming against the wall, shaking dust and soot from every surface. “Get off her, and get out!”
I focus my eyes on the husky figure filling the doorframe. It takes me a moment to realize it’s just the madam. The poor john has no idea why she’s barged in, but I have a clue.
His dick sags, inattentive as he turns his face to stare down the madam. “Ay! I paid my time! Get the fuck outta here!”
That was not the right things to say. His sad dick has just a moment to surge with its poisoned blood for a few more thrusts before the madam is upon his shoulders, tearing him off of me by the durable fabric of his shirt. “Dressed,” she barks at me. “Clean as you can! Be downstairs in three minutes.”
The john growls at her. “Get me another girl, or get me my money back. I was almost done, for fuck’s sake!”
The door slams behind them as they argue out in the hall. I jump out of the bed and scurry over to the bucket I have placed next to my sink. The madam’s urgency can only mean that I have an off-worlder caller and I’m as excited as can be.
The water that comes out of the faucet is colored with impurities, so I have a bucket filled where I let the sediment settle on the bottom. I soak a rag and use it to rub down my body, cleaning as well as I can my armpits and between my legs. I think about the dress I’ll wear and scrub my arms nice and hard. They’ll be on display and I want my porcelain flesh to glow.
I know that there’s a shower waiting for me at The Hotel, but the client can always turn you away when he first sees you, before you even make it to the room. The best thing to do is to look your best, like a girl from Venus.
I shampoo my hair and give my body a once-over with my makeshift washcloth before slipping into my nicest dress. It’s yellow, with a bare back and a cut that keeps close to my figure all the way down to my ankles. It’s not the easiest thing to move in, but it’s never failed to force an expression of surprise from my off-world clients. They’ve all heard the stories of the Ionian moon and the wretches that live there. They unhappily expect a girl in tatters and rags. Well, you don’t get repeat customers that way.
I’m putting the last touches on my hair when the madam barges in again.
“Cal, get your ass downstairs! They sent a goddam car for you.”
I foolishly pause what I’m doing to stare at her. “A car? Stop screwing around.”
“I’m not fucking kidding. They sent a car.”
This is unprecedented. Not just for me, or even for the girls in my brothel. I don’t know anyone on Io who’s been in a car unless it was part of their job. “Who’s the guy?”
The madam looks away. She doesn’t want to tell me, though I can’t piece together why not. “Just be downstairs.”
I slip into my heels, grab my bag, and totter out the door. A few of the girls help me down the stairs in my restrictive dress and soon enough I’m on the street, staring into the face of an aged chauffeur holding open the door of a shiny grey car. It’s an expensive car—I can tell from the films I’ve seen that this is not a vehicle designed for prostitutes, but rather politicians and businessmen. It sits there in the filth of the street, seemingly unreal, like it was drawn into a picture. As I step into the car I look down the avenue over the glistening, reflective hood. Everything is blackened. The sky is one endless haze. Nothing haunts these streets but grease and plastic tumbleweeds. There avenue is lined on each side with blocks of apartments—most have the top few stories caved in.
I don’t feel right sitting on this soft leather. I try not to move, to not shed my wretchedness on this pristine surface. Respect for wealth and beauty is the closest thing I have to religion.
It’s not long before the sound from the tires turns to a gentler hum as we ascend the smoothly paved road up the hill to The Hotel. It sits there, a world apart, a palace overlooking the city, shedding white light in a perfect circle around it.