Chapter Thirty

“What the bloody hell was that?” Lt. Meyers asked as a loud bang – followed by a minor drop in air pressure – disturbed him from his post-coital repose. He pulled the sheet back and threw his legs over the side, waiting to hear some sort of alarm or call to duty stations sounded.

“What is it?” his Browncoat whore asked, sleepily curling up in the threadbare sheets.

“Hell if I know,” Meyers yawned. “Change in pressure. Felt like we blew an airlock or something . . .”

“It wasn’t that good,” she giggled, girlishly. She was a hard-looking woman, but she was randy and enthusiastic enough. Hard to believe she had been a real gun-toting soldier, once. Meyers laughed with her while he stood up and headed to the head.

“Probably some gorram pressure valve or somethin’,” he said lazily as he plied the stream around the stainless steel bowl. “This tub is so old . . .”

“Maybe it’s a prisoner uprising,” the whore said, her voice trilling with sarcasm. There hadn’t even been any good fights lately – much less any sign of rebellion in the cowed Browncoats. Meyers had to laugh about that.

“You think? Then you’d better hurry along, sweets, else you’ll be late . . .”

“No,” she replied, breezily from behind him, “I think I’m right where I’m supposed to be.” She kissed his neck while encircling his arms from behind him, her bare breasts pressed deliciously against his back. He sighed and relaxed – rutting with a whore in exchange for better rations wasn’t exactly like having a girlfriend, he knew, but she did provide a certain measure of comfort on this lonely post. He relaxed and turned his head for a kiss . . .

. . . only to be pressed firmly and suddenly up against the cold steel bulkhead. Off balance, he struggled to keep upright, but the whore’s nimble fingers, which had brought him such pleasure over the years, suddenly snapped a pair of plastic security restraints on his wrists. His own, he knew – they had used them at play before. That was one thing he enjoyed