Grayson Sontang in Space - Chapter 1 - Part 2

Chapter 1 - Part 2

After five hours of sleep, one hour of faking sleep and four hours of fighting with the new exhaust valve for the hydrogen converter, the ship was finally powered up to full and blasting its way out of the Harmony system toward the nearest jump point. Grayson didn't want to give any nearby Feds a chance to catch up with her when their curiosity was piqued by a ship suddenly appearing on their energy monitors, especially since she hadn't turned its ID beacon on yet and had carefully parked it in an orbit far enough from their regular routes that it would be just a tiny blip on their mass detectors, so she was now pushing 20 gees to power out of the system. It didn't feel that high, given the compensation provided by the high-end gravitron field she'd installed. But it was damn uncomfortable for the five hours she rode it out before shutting down the engines and gliding the rest of the way to the jump.

The main screen at the front of the room was showing an actual view of the star field ahead of them. If one knew where to look, the wormhole would appear as a small, empty spot in space. She listened as Hal read off the activity around the wormhole only glancing at her console screens. Not surprisingly, traffic was very nominal, given that it was a backwater area of the galaxy. When the effects of the gee-force wore off, she ordered coffee from the computer, and went to the back of the command bridge where a dumbwaiter of sorts delivered her request, pausing only long enough to make use of the tiny relief station nearby before gulping down her second favorite beverage. She returned to the command console situated slightly above and behind the control console. This was her favorite spot in the whole ship, where she could see everything that was happening, inside and out, and it even stood in as a backup control console should the need arise. The curved front of the console held five screens capable of showing her any view of actual or simulated space around her, any readouts she might wish, feed from supralight internets. Anything and everything that mattered to her in her own personal realm of power.

Her legitimate cargo was frozen meat from Harmony's third planet. She'd already set her sights on a nearby system that was incapable of sustaining mammalian life much larger than a shrew, but too small a population to warrant freighter deliveries of what was considered a luxury. Like Harmony, it was out on the fringes and existed more for scientific research and as an early warning system for any alien populations taking an interest in the Federation. But that didn't mean they didn't like a good steak now and then. And they were extremely fond of Tantalean Brandy. It also was low on the Fed's priority list, giving Grayson a reasonably safe place to visit on a shakeout of her new ship.

She spent much of the glide time on a supralight connection with the Fed database, checking out the backstory that she'd built around how the ship was acquired and refurbished. It was true that she'd won the shell in a poker game, never mind that the pirate she won it from later decided she'd cheated somehow and demanded its return. Grayson had convinced him he really didn't want to pursue that line of inquiry. She'd made it up to him by getting him into another game where he might have had a decent chance of making up some of that loss, save he drank too much - again - and lost - again - and tried the same accusation of cheating - again. Only this time, it was against someone not as forgiving as Grayson. He'd ended up dead, though the fact was well-hidden. Still, it was convenient for Grayson because it made the backstory harder to check on, and even if they did eventually turn up a body, she'd been planets away with a solid alibi.

She also checked her own backstory. She'd only been Grayson Santang for some seven years. Shortly after she'd decided being a spacer and taking orders all day long wasn't the best career choice. Needing some seed money to go independent, she had been involved in an incident involving what was perceived as a theft by some parties. That had paid for a rickety piece of space junk that had gotten her back to Earth where hiding amidst the teaming swarms of people took hardly any effort at all. In addition, an engine flame out on the space junk had burned her hands which, while painful, took care of old fingerprints. She'd had cosmetic surgery on her eyes to give them a slightly Asian tilt, genetic modification to straighten and darken her hair, an adjustment to her larynx to deepen her voice. And lastly, expensive, delicate retinal surgery to fool at least perfunctory eye scans.

The hardest part of it all was hacking the Fed database to create a minimal personal history. Fortunately, minimal histories were the norm for earthborn individuals, and much easier to maintain than an intricate web of lies that would disintegrate into a tangled mess if even one thread broke. It was also nearly impossible to trace hacks originating from Earth. It took almost a year, between the physical changes and getting the junk ship space worthy, but she emerged from her new home planet as Grayson Sontang with a relatively immaculate history and no wants or warrants for theft. From there on, it was one determined step after another to arrive here, with a magnificent ship and a reputation that was respected, even if regarded with suspicion by the Fed.

"Hal, do you have a plot to the wormhole, yet."

"Plotted and adjusting for drift. Wormhole in approximately one hour, twenty-three minutes."

"Okay, let's adjust now, then I'm going to take a shower."

---

"Would you like me to take control for the adjustment?" the computer asked.

"No, I want more practice with the maneuvering system."

"You do realize I can perform faster, more accurately and at greatest fuel savings," the computer reminded her, none too subtly.

"Yes, I do know," she drawled. "I still want practice. Sue me. Give me the simulation."

She moved to the front console where the ship controls were. The simulation appeared on the floor to ceiling screen at the front of the bridge. On the console in front of her there were three screens ranged in a row. The left side was reporting various items of ship status. She only looked at it long enough to ascertain that all of the maneuvering systems were green. The right screen was showing a simulation of the immediate area of the wormhole. Her ship showed up as a dragon on the screen, tiny but distinguishable. The wormhole showed as a round vortex and in a corner of the screen she could see a freighter slowly accelerating away from the wormhole. That image, however, had a very two-dimensional appearance that wasn't really useful other than to see who might be in the vicinity. The third screen, directly in front of her had readouts of speed, latitude, longitude, declination and other critical data. She studied it for a moment, then looked at the big screen simulation. Simply stated, the objective was to line the wormhole up in the center of the screen then keep it there. For most pilots, that took numerous adjustments throughout the approach. Grayson wasn't most pilots, though. She had a gift for the feel of space drift, that law that said once you started moving in a certain direction and at a certain speed, you kept moving at that speed and in that direction. Forever. Or until one of two things happened. Either something pushed you in a different direction and/or at a different speed or something, usually way bigger and stronger than you, pulled you in a different direction and at an ever-increasing speed. Like a star. Or a black hole. Or a Fed ship with a tractor beam.

"Okay, smart ass, watch this," she told the computer.

"Who are you addressing?" Hal asked.

"You," she said, taking hold of the joy stick. With a gentle touch she had the ship lined up to the wormhole with no perceptible drift, save toward the jump spot and a tad faster than before. "Stuck it," she proclaimed. "Now I'm going to take that shower. Oh, and turn on our beacon right before we make the jump. Got it?"

---

Grayson was drifting into a parking orbit around the fourth planet of a red giant called Nova 6. She wasn't sure where the name originated, since the star obviously hadn't gone nova, but then she didn't really care, either. The planet was a blue-green gas giant, pretty to look at, but her actual target was its largest moon. That was where a small population had settled to study and 'mine' the gasses of the planet they orbited. The parking spot she had been assigned would keep her reasonably close to the moon for the time it would take to conclude her business. She would gradually drift from leading the moon in its orbit to following it, so the faster she took care of business, the shorter her shuttle trips would be. Of course, she couldn't do anything until customs arrived and approved of her cargo, so there was a lot of hurry up and wait involved in the trading business. Fortunately, this planet was eager for the meager trade that came its way and she only had to wait a few hours for fairly accommodating agents to give her meat custom stamps and issue her a two-week Trader's Visa, not that she had any intention of staying that long.

She had bots loading her freight shuttle, a bay and warehouse reserved in the space port, and was preparing to head down when Hal notified her that another ship had parked just ahead of them in orbit.

"What's the name on the ship, Hal," she asked, not too concerned but curious if it was a trader she knew.

"The ship is registered as Falling Star out of Orion Sector."

"Son of a bitch," Grayson swore. She ran back across to and around the central core to get to her bedroom.

"Is there a problem I should know about?" Hal asked, his disembodied voice following her through the ship.

"Just notify me of any traffic to or from that ship. Comm or vehicles."

"Acknowledged."

Grayson dashed into her bathroom and studied herself in the mirror. It certainly wasn't the first time she'd run into someone who had known her before she became Grayson Sontang. And this someone had more than a few aliases himself. He also had one hefty grudge against the person Grayson used to be. For all she knew, the ship had changed hands, she reminded herself. She schooled herself carefully. No more overreactions. That sort of thing could get you in trouble faster than pulling a blaster in a bar fight. But then she yanked open a drawer and started putting on makeup. A little extra disguise couldn't hurt.

An hour later, when Grayson's shuttle settled into its assigned slot, she was breathing a little easier. Customs still hadn't reached the new arrival, which meant he probably wouldn't begin unloading until tomorrow. Not that there was really a night and day on this moon. The occupied side always faced the gas giant, so there was a constant glow from the planet that was brighter when it was on the day side of the planet, but still bright on the night side as the gasses picked up and reflected light well beyond the horizons. Mind you, that day and night cycle set by the moon's orbit around the planet took some sixty standard days. Right now, the moon was on the night side, so it was cooler and dimmer. But the populace clung to a standard day schedule, and in the space port, that meant it was almost closing time for business and opening time for drinking.

Grayson used the warehouse bot to unload her shuttle in one trip, securing everything with extra attention and with a couple of spy cams, just to keep an eye on her property. Then she headed out to do some drinking and selling of contraband. As she was about to leave for the city, Hal informed her that Customs had been to the neighbor ship and apparently left satisfied. Before he finished that message, he was able to add that a runabout shuttle had left the ship and was headed for the spaceport. Grayson swore some more. She'd have to watch her drinking and be on her toes, just in case her rival had decided to do some bar hopping, too. No bar fights, she told herself sternly. No drawing unwanted attention.

On the Port Rail into the city, Grayson texted every meat wholesaler, inviting them to the warehouse in the morning to see her product and place orders. She also let Hal know that she would be staying moonside overnight. Once in the city, whereas she usually would have nosed around to find out if there was Tantalean Brandy on the planet at the moment, and what kind of price it might fetch - always directly proportional to how long they'd been without - she went straight to the one place she knew the proprietor might be able to raise the money to purchase her whole lot, if she gave him a good enough price.

Grayson was hit by the din the moment she walked into the One-legged Parrot. Oddly enough, there really was a one-legged parrot that presided over the place from a perch above the bar. He was always the loudest voice in the joint and for some reason, he had a particular fondness for Grayson. Or for the Tantalean Brandy she peddled. The moment he saw her, he screamed her name and launched himself above the heads of the crowd. Grayson quickly raised her leather clad arm for him to land on and helped steady him as he wobbled on his one leg. She scritched the back of his neck where she knew he liked it best and headed for the bar, ignoring the fact that the din had died to a murmur and spacers and flatlanders alike were clearing a path for her and the parrot, who was also known to have a vicious beak when pissed off. It wasn't the understated arrival she had hoped for, but at least she had Jersey's immediate attention. He was her hope for a quick divestiture of her brandy stock. And just maybe a bed for the night, too.

He met her at the counter with a glass of Rigelian rum, a specialty of the bar. That was heartening. If he had Tantalean Brandy, he would have served her that. The parrot hopped down from her arm onto the bar and helped itself to a hefty gulp of her rum. Grayson wouldn't have put up with that from any man, but she had a soft spot for the parrot. She let him get one more drink before she retrieved her glass and he climbed back up to his lookout perch.

"You're looking especially hot tonight," Jersey commented with a leer.

"It's called makeup," she drawled. "You got time for a sit-down?"

He put two fingers to his mouth and gave a sharp whistle. The parrot repeated it. A bartender farther down the counter turned and nodded. Jersey pulled a half-finished drink from under the counter and met her at the end of the bar. "This way," he said with a nod, leading her to a quieter corner of the huge space. He gave a toss of his head to two men who were sitting at a small table and they scurried away. Grayson sat in the corner, where she could keep an eye on the nearby patrons.

"Ya got more?" Jersey asked, taking a pull on his drink.

"It's the last of a lot. I'm looking to unload it all, cheap, so I can pick up something new."

"You used to come here first on you run," Jersey complained.

"I know, but I had some special equipment I needed to pick up. Other side of the fringe."

Jersey sighed. "What do you have left?"

"20 crates."

"Jeez, Sontang, you're killing me here. You spread that around, won't be enough to last a week."

"That's why I came here first. Offer it all to you, you decide who gets a share. How much to keep for yourself."

"I don't have that kind of money. Not to pay upfront."

She shrugged. "You find yourself some investors. Guys you trust. You dole it out nice and slow, command a high price, everyone gets rich, yeah?"

He played with his glass. "How much?"

"Sixty k. And I'll throw a sweetener into the pot. A night with me. But I have to know by morning. If you can't swing it, I need to find someone else. I don't have time to parse it out a bottle at a time."

He rubbed his face, then downed his drink. "I might know some people," he offered thoughtfully.

"Tell you what. You bring me some food, get on the comm, get commitments for forty-five k by tonight, I'll spend the night with you. Call it good will."

His eyes brightened. "These guys aren't exactly going to sign promissory notes."

"You trust them. I trust you."

"What the hell are you picking up that you're willing to dump it so fast and cheap."

"Not here. My next stop. But I can't peddle the brandy there. Come on. Time's wasting and I'm hungry. Yes or no?"

"Let me make some calls," he said, sounding grumpy but still giving her the once over as he left the table. A short time later, she was brought another rum and a plate of tavern fare. Edible but just barely.

An hour or so later, Jersey came back to her table. "I got forty-five k committed. And I got a guy interested in the last fifteen k, but he won't be liquid for several days. Hell, I could cover the rest myself if you give me a week. How long you gonna be here?"

"I don't know," she said with a shrug. "I got meat and my freezer crates aren't going to last much longer. I gotta move it fast. And I want to move the brandy with it. So much easier."

Jersey shrugged. "I'll keep at it. I gotta go for just a bit. Pick up five k tonight or the fool will gamble it away. We're still on, though, right?"

"Absolutely," she agreed. "I'll be waiting right here."

"Okay," he said warily, as if he didn't quite believe her. "Just don't give the stupid parrot any more to drink. He's unbearable with a hang-over."

"I remember," she said.

He headed out and she settled in to wait, her comm pad showing her utterly boring scenes of her warehouse, shuttle and the ship with the stupid bots scurrying around doing nothing. She wasn't sure what caused her to look up when 'he' entered the bar. There wasn't a change in the noise level. The parrot didn't scream and fly his way. But the moment she saw him, she knew without a doubt it was him. Owner of the Falling Star. Victim of one of her all time great cons. The man who swore he'd kill her if he ever saw her again. The Orionite who was not given to hyperbole. Or humor, most of the time. But maybe he had changed.

He headed straight to the bar, only peripherally aware of the crowd around him. That wasn't peculiar because the planet didn't get a lot of spacers and the flatlanders were mostly scientists and researchers and sober - of necessity - gas miners. It wasn't the sort of place you expected or worried about major bar fights breaking out, although some might suggest that Grayson's presence tended to change those odds, still disputes were usually isolated and quickly settled. She continued to study her comm pad, only glancing his way occasionally. He ordered a drink and had some sort of serious conversation with one of the remaining bartenders. When he turned to lean against the bar and survey the crowd, he seemed disappointed, like he'd hoped to speak with the owner. Like maybe he was trying to sell contraband. Like maybe Tantalean Brandy.

Grayson spoke low into her comm pad. "Hal, can you find out from customs what the Falling Star is carrying?"

"I will see if it has been posted yet," he replied.

Grayson felt rather than saw his eyes fall on her. She tucked her hair behind her ear. Let him see the eyes, the makeup. Let him not recognize her. But if he did... She slid a hand behind her back, as if scratching an itch and freed her laser pen.

Hal's voice came over the comm pad. "Customs has registered eight crates of natural fiber fabrics, two crates of retail packaged spices and herbs, thirty crates of assorted recreational sports equipment, ten crates of..."

Grayson didn't hear the rest. She didn't have to. She knew he was smuggling. No surprise there, but whatever he was smuggling, it was being hidden in the crates of sports equipment. There were lots of holes to tuck things like bottles of brandy into and no one would have particular expectations of what a crate of assorted recreational sports equipment should weigh. She did the calculations. He probably had at least thirty cases of brandy, one for each of the sports crates. Even if he had more, it would undoubtedly be in case lot quantities. If that was all he had, he would be demanding a premium price for it, assuming the market would be desperate. When he found out someone had brought in crates worth, at a fraction of the price, he'd go hyperdimensional.

She didn't dare look to see if he was still watching her. She had to get out, try to intercept Jersey before everything blew up. She slipped her comm pad in her bag and pushed her drink away as if done for the night. She had just stood up from the table, when he was there at her elbow, blocking her path to the door.

"Good evening," he said, his voice as smooth as ever. "I was hoping I might buy you a drink. My name is Phileas Fogg."

Grayson looked at him with incredulity. "I know," he said with a shrug. "My parents were huge fans of Jules Verne. Although frankly, I don't meet many people anymore who recognize the name. How refreshing. Now you simply must let me buy you a drink."

She shook her head, but then it suddenly dawned on her that if he was regaling her with stories of ballooning around the world, he wouldn't be out trying to sell whatever contraband he was peddling, and she was utterly convinced it was Tantalean Brandy. "Um, maybe just one," she murmured, hoping to sound shy. She wanted to ask how long he'd been Phileas Fogg. Maybe they could compare identity makeovers, she thought with a secret smirk. But he hadn't bothered with any of the cosmetic stuff as far as she could tell, so her past was probably far more criminally liable than his. Best avoid challenging anything about his past. She had far more to lose.

Grayson slid back into her seat and he settled across from her, studying her closely. When he'd known her before she'd been brash, outspoken, a spacer through and through. Actually, she still was, but she needed to distance herself from that persona. She was an Earther now. One of billions. So being picked out of a crowd would make her uncomfortable, nervous. Grayson ducked her head. "My name is Grayson Sontang," she said softly.

"Really? That name sounds familiar," he said, snapping his fingers at the bartender. "Are you a trader, then. I may have heard your name on the trading routes."

"Oh," she said. "I doubt it. I'm small time."

He shrugged. "In the trade, everybody talks about everybody. What's your ship?"

"The Breathless Dragon," she replied, wanting so badly to say it with all the pride she felt.

"Ah, yes. I saw where that was in port. Don't remember seeing it before though."

"It's been in dock, getting fixed up," she replied, bending the truth. One of Jersey's bartenders came bringing drinks and giving Grayson a puzzled look. She shook her head ever so slightly at him, trying to give him a sign not to say anything. Fortunately, bartenders were very good at picking up on unspoken communications. He simply nodded and set the drinks down.

"Ah," Fogg said, apparently going along with that explanation. "She's a good size for a singleton. What are you carrying?"

"Meat," Grayson confessed shyly.

"That's a good trade here," he said with encouragement. "But what were you going to pick up? You're not equipped for gases, are you?"

She shrugged. "I thought I might get some canistered gas for the next stop."

"That could work. Depends on where you're headed next."

He left the sentence open-ended, but like any trader, even a novice, Grayson evaded. "Not sure," she said.

He smiled knowingly. "Are you going back to your ship tonight? They're pretty rigid about flying under the influence here," he warned.

Grayson mentally rolled her eyes. Sure, he buys her a drink then tells her she shouldn't fly if she's been drinking. But what to answer? She wanted to keep him preoccupied as long as possible, rather than out trying to sell Tantalean Brandy or whatever he was peddling. On the other hand, she knew from experience that leading him to certain expectations then - so to speak - cutting and running, could have very nasty consequences. And if she survived, probably necessitate another identity change.

"I have tentative plans to meet someone later on," she explained. "And I need to be at my warehouse first thing in the morning."

"Well, if your 'tentative' plans fall through, I have a room at the Space Port Inn."

"Oh. Is your product on the ground?" she asked, trying to sound naïve and curious at the same time.

"Just samples," he answered with a smile, as if revealing some trader secret. "Less warehouse rental time."

"Oh, that's something to consider," she agreed.

"So, who are you meeting?" he asked, beginning to show impatience with the mindless banter.

"A flatlander," she confessed. "A possible buyer." She smiled shyly. "Have to keep the buyers happy."

He leaned toward her. "Honey, any meat jockey on this screwball moon is going to buy anything you got that they can afford. You don't have to fuck them to make the sale."

She couldn't help it. She narrowed her eyes at him. "And fucking you? What would that get me?"

He burst out laughing, slapping the table. "Now that's the Grayson Sontang I've heard rumors about. Queen of the bar fight, on at least one world. No such thing as a shy trader, Honey. You can drop that pretense." Grayson hated when he called her Honey. He hadn't changed that habit when he changed his name. It was just possibly one of the annoying things about him that had made her target him for the con in the first place. That and his ego. "Don't remember that ship connected with your name, though. Seems to me I'd heard you were running old junkers."

"I told you. It was in dock," she said with a shrug.

"Also heard you were smuggling."

"Don't believe every rumor you hear in a bar. Or any rumor, if it's a spacer bar."

"There is that. Still, when you hear the same rumor in a number of different systems, you get to wondering. I even heard you've been known to run a certain brandy."

"I'm running meat," she said with finality, gathering her bag and standing. "I need to catch up with my friend. It's been nice meeting you, Fogg."

Just as she headed for the door, Jersey walked back in. Grayson shook her head at him ever so slightly and continued for the door, as the parrot screeched his name and flew to greet him. Grayson rolled her eyes. She had hoped that Fogg might not realize that the owner he sought had just arrived, but the parrot made sure everybody in the bar knew. Still, she trusted Jersey to handle things discretely. He was still standing by the door, teasing the parrot on his shoulder as she brushed past him, whispering "Meet you upstairs."

---

By the time Jersey got upstairs to his apartment, Grayson was sprawled on his bed, eating chips from a bag she had found in his kitchen and watching a Xeno-soap on his monitor. Something to do with aliens with more limbs than common sense. But lots of what passed for sex. Or fighting. She wasn't sure which. Either way they seemed to enjoy it. She left them to it and followed him into the living room.

"Must be time to change my locks again," he muttered, pouring them both another glass of rum.

She shrugged. "Won't do you any good. So what was Fogg trying to sell you?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," he answered, raising his glass in a toast.

"Yes, actually, I would."

"Tantalean Brandy for less than your offer."

"Bull shit."

"It was worth a try," he conceded. "Actually, he was offering more like twice your price."

"What did you tell him?"

"I'm trying to remember how good you are in bed. If it's worth divulging all my haggling secrets."

"You know it is," she challenged.

He eyed her for a moment. "I told him I was cash poor, but I'd see what I could come up with and let him know tomorrow. Then I gave him the names of some places that would probably buy from him."

"Some places not part of your cartel?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Could be," he agreed cagily. "Listen, I'm not going to be able to come up with the sixty k by tomorrow and I have a suspicion you're going to want to blast out of here as soon as possible, given the competition. What can I do to convince you I'm good for the balance?"

Grayson sighed heavily. "First of all, never, ever, tell anybody I gave you a pass. Second, you need your people to get it all cleared out by early afternoon. I don't want any of it left when the last meat crates go out the door. Anything that does not move tomorrow goes on to the next system."

"Easy. I'll have the balance in your account within a week. And swear you'll be back as soon as possible with a full load and come to me before anyone else. I've created the cartel now. You bring us product, we'll be your one-stop-shop."

"Watch what you promise. I've got more room to carry on my new bird."

"Send me the info when you pick up. I'll have the money waiting. Now enough shop talk. Come here."

Grayson ran and leapt into his embrace, wrapping her legs around his waist. He staggered back a step or two, but he was a big man and she was almost elfin in size, if not attitude. "Here I am!" she exclaimed. "Use me."

He chuckled. "For this, I would have paid Fogg's price per bottle."

"Really?" she asked, her arms around his neck as she leaned back to peer at him.

"Hell, no!" He carried her into the bedroom and dumped her onto the bed. "Someone's going to be in big trouble if there are crumbs in the bed." Grayson looked at the monitor where the Xeno-soap was still playing. She tilted her head, then tilted it some more.

"Let do that," she said, pointing at the screen.

He glanced at it as he was removing his shirt, then strode over to the monitor and looked more closely. "I don't think I have the proper equipment."

"Oh, bother," she drawled in complaint, kneeling on the bed to remove her top. A few moments later, they were both naked and in a sixty-nine position, devouring each other like starving shipwreck victims. Grayson was on top, her fingers tickling his balls as her mouth plunged from head to base on his cock, moaning each time he reached the back of her throat, making him gasp against her clit and pussy lips in a most delightful way. He was clutching her thighs, trying to hold her still as his tongue worked feverishly on her clit and inside her cunt. They had an on-going game. Whoever made the other come first with their oral expertise got to be the one on top for round two. Grayson won. She always did. She was an expert at making men come undone under her ministrations - or wish they had the opportunity. Despite rumors to the contrary, she was very choosy, and it wasn't based on business relations or who might best advance her interests. The simple truth was, she was insatiable, and spending days or weeks at a time alone in space only fed that hunger. She chose her partners based on who could keep up with her, would leave her sated to endure the next dry spell, and she had an unerring radar for the best candidates.

Jersey was one of those. He might not have been the most handsome, having been in any number of bar brawls himself, but he had lasting power. She crawled off the bed and went to fetch their drinks, and by the time she got back, he was at full attention, laying on his back and waiting for her to climb aboard. With a squeal, she abandoned the drinks and leapt astride him, forcing him to catch her and orchestrate a somewhat controlled descent. She also admired his strength, though she still believed cunning and skill was more integral to survival. Despite the fact that she was supposed to be on top, in control; he grasped her waist and set the pace, so she had to settle for flexing her hips to be sure he hit all the right spots as he thrust up and pulled her down on his cock repeatedly until she was swearing loudly in a peculiar, hoarse way that bespoke her ecstatic pleasure. In the bar below, they could hear the parrot imitating her. In her more lucid moments, Grayson wondered if the patrons realized where the parrot had learned that particularly colorful, loud language. Jersey delivered two such orgasms to Grayson before he gave her back control and she rocked him to his own burst of colorful swearing. He was not as loud as Grayson, though, so either the parrot didn't hear him, or didn't feel he was worth imitating.

This time, they took enough of a break to catch their breaths and finish the rum before Jersey smacked Grayson on the rear. He was one of the few people that could get away with that, and that was primarily because that smack was always followed by him entering her from the rear and paying very particular and enthusiastic attention to her g-spot, caressing it with an infinite patience that would not have been possible earlier in the night. His fingers laced in her long black hair and his other arm looped under her belly to hold her firmly in place as she moaned under the onslaught of orgasm after orgasm. Even when she struggled to escape the overwhelming sensation, eviscerating him verbally with her most extensive vocabulary, he held on until she wound down to ragged gasps. That was his cue and he slammed into her until his own orgasm exploded, deep in her darkest cavern. He finally let her collapse beneath him and fell on top of her, all but covering her petite form. They remained that way until she muttered, "Get off me, you big oaf." He laughed and rolled away.

Almost an hour later, when heart rate and respiration had returned to normal and feeling had returned to limbs, Jersey said, "I want to see your new ship."

"Then come help me load your fucking brandy," she replied, though it was said in a kindly, well-sated way.

Continued in Chapter 2 - Part 1...

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